Side Hustle

Work feels like the best kind of sin when you’re doing chores in your underwear with Cherrie Blaze. Tight white singlets cling to her like second skin, thin enough to show every tight little nipple, shorts cut so high you can see ass cheek every time she bends. She’s rubbing circles on the glass with her tits mashed against it, steam rising where her breath hits the pane. Soon she’s grinding back into me, mouths hot, teeth grazing lips, both of us leaving slick prints on the window. Fingers hook under elastic, shorts are shoved down, bare skin sticky with sweat. We’re on the living-room rug, legs hooked over shoulders, tongues buried deep and wet—loud, slurping, no pretense of quiet. When I get on all fours she spreads me open, rimming circles until I’m shaking, then slides a finger inside, then two, working them knuckle-deep while she licks everything she just opened. Outside the house traffic keeps moving; inside the air tastes like sex and glass cleaner.