Scarlett Hampton

Renters kept the bills paid these days, so rules were rules. In Scarlett's house you stayed dressed in the hallways and kitchen—no exceptions, no matter who got off on bending them. One afternoon she rounded the corner and found the tenant sprawled on the couch in nothing but skivvies, the outline of a thick cock pressed heavy against thin cotton. If the old lady next door caught sight of that, Mom would go nuclear. Scarlett hissed at him to cover up, glancing at the swelling lump, wondering what kind of tight, dark curve waited underneath. He glared, then yanked the waistband down. His cock sprang free—thick, veined, shining at the tip. Scarlett's mouth went slack, a thin string of spit already collecting on her lower lip. The man grinned like he read every wet thought. "Well? What you gonna do with it?" Truth hit hard and fast. "I need it in my mouth," she answered, voice shaking. She dropped to her knees, tongue flattening along the underside, tracing the heavy veins before sliding her lips over the swollen head. Saliva spilled down the shaft as she worked deeper, throat relaxing, spit glistening on brown skin. The whole time her thighs rubbed together, slick dripping onto the hardwood. He hauled her up, bent her over the arm of the sofa, and drove in raw. Her cunt stretched around every inch, gasping, clenching like she was made to sit on that shaft. She rocked back to meet each thrust, tits swinging, breath knocked out of her with every slap of his hips. The orgasm that rolled through her left her glassy-eyed and grinning. Later, curled on the couch with his come leaking down her leg, Scarlett knew the secret the rules had been hiding: she was hooked on black cock, and the need wasn't going anywhere.