Draven Couldn't Find His Pants

Madeline Marlowe stood in black pantyhose, a skirt hitched way up, tank top stretched tight across heavy tits. Draven Navarro and Johnny Hill sprawled naked on the sofa, lips locked, tongues deep, breathing hard. Madeline tilted her head. “We still hitting that bar?” Draven mumbled against Johnny’s mouth, “Pants are fucking gone.” She peeled the skirt down, dropped to her knees, took Johnny first—thick, already slick—while Draven shoved his tongue past her nylons and split her open from behind. She gasped, braced her palms on the couch cushion, and they switched without a word, Draven driving straight into her ass while Johnny fed her his cock. The sofa slammed the wall. She clawed fabric, took every inch raw, spit and sweat flying, breath punching out of her in short filthy bursts until the three of them locked together, shaking, spent, laughing low in the dark.