Need A Towel?

Madison Summers gets the final blow—her boyfriend walks. Jessie Saint, her ride-or-die who kisses girls the same way she says hello, leans in to soothe. Soothing slides into something hotter. She works Madison with teasing words and lingering looks, but Madison parries—papers pile, grades drop, the whole script. Jessie pads off, says bathroom, finds the real problem instead: stepbrother James Angel slicked in sweat from iron. Steam already rising from his shower when she lifts his towel, teeth biting her lip at what hides underneath. He steps out, nude, hard, nothing in his hands except the fury of being caught bare. That’s all the opening Jessie needs. She sinks onto that thick shaft, wet and wanting, the wet slap loud against the tile. Madison walks in on the slide, the creak of springs, the greedy gulp of her best friend on her own blood. She should have stormed. Instead Jessie starts selling the dick like a secret hit—every throbbing inch, the stretch, the ache of getting split open and forgetting last week’s boyfriend pain. Lips on lips again. Tongues war. Madison peels cotton like regret and lines the blunt head between her thighs. She hisses loud when the thick girth disappears—curses, praises, requests. Jessie climbs onto James’ face, rocking slick heat across his mouth while Madison rides raw. Another turn, another stretch: Jessie takes her seat, then James spins Madison onto knees and mounts from behind. Doggy strokes drag grunt after grunt from Madison until her pulse skips. Jessie’s fingers circle Madison’s throat, light choke, dirty talk, and James hammers until the furnace in his balls erupts—pulse after pulse unloading creamy seed where he shouldn’t, buried to the hilt in his little stepsister. Her walls flutter around the flood. Silence. Madison stays impaled, breathing wrecked, sure she won’t remember anything else tonight but the heavy warmth swelling inside her.