Catching Kiki At The Right Time

Kiki Cali woke up with that electric itch under her skin, all soft edges and dirty thoughts. She slipped into the frilliest thing she owned—pastel ribbons, tiny skirt that barely covered her ass—and grabbed her wand. The low hum filled the room as she pressed it between her legs, breath catching quick. Just as her thighs started shaking, the door creaked. Tommy Pistol stepped in, casserole pan dangling from one hand, catching her mid-moan with her panties shoved aside and the wand working circles over slick, swollen skin. For a second, nobody moved. Then her grin went wicked. She spread her knees wider instead of hiding. Tommy set the pan down without breaking eye contact, crossed the room, and dropped to his knees between hers. His tongue replaced the toy, rough and hungry, and Kiki's giggle melted into a gasp. She tangled both hands in his hair, hips rolling greedy, skirt bunched at her waist. He stood, yanked his belt open, and slammed into her while she was still pulsing from the first orgasm. The couch squeaked under the rhythm—fast, filthy, no hesitation. He flipped her, bent her over the armrest, and drove deeper, one hand gripping her ponytail like reins. Kiki clawed the cushions, begging louder with every thrust, skirt flipped up, panties ruined around one ankle. When she came again, it hit so hard her knees buckled. Tommy followed right after, burying himself to the hilt with a low groan, heat flooding deep inside her. They stayed locked together, breathing rough, the smell of sex thick in the air. Outside, a car door slammed. Neither of them cared.