Erotic Theater #02, Scene #08

Angela White busts in looking like trouble in heels. Bitchy. Bossy. And stacked in all the right ways. Owen's already on edge—home all day, tattoos crawling up his arms, skinny frame twitching. She dumps a basket of stolen panties on him. "Do the laundry," she snaps, then leaves him to it like he's less than furniture. He does what any sick fuck would do. Buries his face in warm, worn lace. Sniffs. Strokes. Throbs. Hours of it. And when she walks in and sees what he's doing—well, she doesn't kick him out. She peels off that skin-tight dress and buries him in tits, satin, scent. Her ass cheeks swallow half his head. He gasps. She grins. She slaps his cock, sucks it until he grunts, then plants her cunt on his face. He tears her stockings open with his teeth, tongue-fucking her filthy hole like he's starving for it. She moans—deep, low, nasty—and tells him, "Make that fucking asshole yours." He does. He spanks her red, chokes her sweet, and shoves his cock in her ass like he's trying to break her. She takes it howling, face down, drooling. Begs for it raw. He pulls out, shoves it in her mouth, then back in again. She sits on his face while he tongue-fucks her gaping hole. Ass. Tits. Spit. Sweat. All of it. He finishes across her tongue. She swallows every drop, then kisses him slow, deep, like she owns him now. And maybe she does.