Sexy Scoundrel Gets Straightened Out

Savana Styles pushed through the door like it owed her money. The house looked like a fucking bomb went off, and Ivy Jones was the one lighting the fuses again. Third time that month. Savana had the kind of rage that burned slow, then boiled over. She stormed straight for Ivy's room, ready to rip her a new one. Instead she got an eyeful: Ivy sprawled on the bed, legs wide, yanking on her clit like it owed her rent. Savana's patience snapped. She crossed the room in three long strides, grabbed Ivy by the throat and shoved her backward. Ivy gasped. Savana slid two fingers into her cunt, hooked hard, kept her pinned. "You hear me now?" Ivy nodded quick. Savana didn't give a fuck if she understood. She dropped to her knees, spread Ivy's cheeks, and drove her tongue straight into that tight puckered hole. She licked in long, angry strokes, spit running down Ivy's crack. Every flick said clean up your shit. Ivy squirmed, half trying to pull away, half grinding back. The lick session got meaner—Savana buried her face, nose deep, tongue fucking the hole until Ivy shook. Then came the strap. Thick, black, veined. Savana buckled in like she was going to war. One shove, the toy split Ivy open. No warm-up, just pounding. Each thrust slammed Ivy's shoulders into the headboard. Ivy clawed the sheets, mouth open in a silent scream. Savana fucked like she wanted to rearrange guts, hips snapping like pistons. Sweat streaked both bodies, wet slaps echoing off the walls. When Savana finally yanked out, strings of lube and girl-slick stretched between them. Ivy lay panting, hole twitching. Savana stood over her, sweat cooling, strap glistening. "Mess this place again and I'll find something bigger," she growled. Ivy didn't answer. She just stared at the ceiling, legs shaking. Neither of them knew if a lesson stuck, but the scream-filled fuck had already made the cleanup worth it.