Ivy Is A Nymphomaniac

She had that look like she hunted with her cunt. Ivy Wolfe showed up, already wet between the legs. She wanted meat. Real meat. Someone pointed her toward the only place worth going, so she knocked—hard—and when the door opened, she didn’t wait for hello. She grabbed what she came for like her mouth was already measuring it. Thick. Heavy. Hot in her palm. She sank to her knees on someone else’s floor, head tilting, jaw working before her tongue even touched skin. Every stroke of her lips dragged like a promise that she'd swallow deeper than most. She moaned around it, the kind of noise that said she needed this more than she needed air. Saliva dripped down her chin, her hand squeezed, her eyes never blinked. All sharp edges and wet hunger. This wasn’t cute. It was feral. She used every muscle she had, from her throat to her hips grinding against nothing but the floor, rubbing off the heat built between her thighs. She wanted to feel used and kept taking it until her makeup ran and her knees bruised. Every thrust down her throat made her cunt twitch, made her smirk, hungry, eyes glassy. When she finally pulled off for air, strings of spit still connected her lips to the tip. She grinned like she'd just fucked the city and wanted seconds. By the end she was soaked through and shivering, jaw sore, mouth wrecked, and still reaching for more.