The Return Of Mia

After five years apart, Mia and Manuel slammed back together. The second the door clicked shut, she shoved his pants down and took his cock in both hands like she was trying to bruise it. He threw her over the desk, yanked her dress above her hips, and spread her until the tight pink hole winked open. No warm-up, no mercy. He sank into her ass in one long push that made her thighs shake. She hissed, pushed back anyway, asking for more. He fucked her like he hated the time they lost, brutal strokes pulling her open, shoving back in so fast her feet left the floor. When he yanked her upright she dropped straight onto his face, grinding her slick pussy over his tongue while his cock stayed buried to the root. She rode like she wanted to smother him, mouth falling open, eyes rolled white. He slapped her ass raw until her cheeks were welted, then pulled out, fed the length straight from her stretched hole back down her throat. She gagged but swallowed, spit and lube dripping down her chin. Every new angle was filthier than the last—her legs in a split, hole gaping every time he withdrew; bent double on the couch, asshole quivering around the thick head before he drilled back in. He used her, hard, constant, dragging her from climax to climax until she screamed herself hoarse. Five years compressed into sweat, grunts, and the wet slap of bodies trying to erase every second they’d spent apart.