Carlos Bazuca
Best Of Latina Fever
Carlao Bazuca wasn’t in the mood for small talk. He dropped the sword like it owed him money, yanked open his trousers, and let the whole ridiculous thing flop out. The shopkeeper’s daughter’s eyes went wide as dinner plates; her lips curled into the kind of smirk you only learn from trouble. She wrapped both hands around it—barely got her fingers to meet—gave one slow pump and felt the heat pulse back. The thing was bigger than most tavern trophies, thick as her wrist, and still swelling like it had its own agenda. "Gods, what do you even feed this thing?" she laughed, leaning in so her breath brushed the slick head. A bead of clear shine winked at her. She licked it off, tasting salt and steel and something stupidly electric, then slid her tongue around the crown until he grunted like he’d been gut-punched. Her skirt hitched up. She swung a leg over the bench, pressed the fat tip against her and worked herself down inch by stubborn inch. Wet heat swallowed him. Every time she sank another stubborn fraction, the stretch made her curse and grin in the same breath. Carlao grabbed her hips, lifted, dropped, set a rhythm that shook the little table and knocked bottles to the floor. Slap. Slap. Slick noises filled the room like applause. She laughed through the panting, hair sticking to her forehead, thighs quivering. He leaned up, sucked a nipple through her shirt, teeth dragging fabric and flesh until she hissed and clamped down on him. The pressure tripped something. She came hard, whole body jerking, a ridiculous little squeak slipping out before she bit it back. Carlao followed half a heartbeat later, hips snapping up, flooding her so deep it spilled out around his shaft and ran down her legs. They stayed locked, breathing like they’d sprinted through fire, the spilled ale pooling around their boots. She finally sat back on her heels, looked down at the mess, and snorted. "Next round’s on the house, big guy."
Carlao Bazuca wasn’t in the mood for small talk. He dropped the sword like it owed him money, yanked open his trousers, and let the whole ridiculous thing flop out. The shopkeeper’s daughter’s eyes went wide as dinner plates; her lips curled into the kind of smirk you only learn from trouble. She wrapped both hands around it—barely got her fingers to meet—gave one slow pump and felt the heat pulse back. The thing was bigger than most tavern trophies, thick as her wrist, and still swelling like it had its own agenda. "Gods, what do you even feed this thing?" she laughed, leaning in so her breath brushed the slick head. A bead of clear shine winked at her. She licked it off, tasting salt and steel and something stupidly electric, then slid her tongue around the crown until he grunted like he’d been gut-punched. Her skirt hitched up. She swung a leg over the bench, pressed the fat tip against her and worked herself down inch by stubborn inch. Wet heat swallowed him. Every time she sank another stubborn fraction, the stretch made her curse and grin in the same breath. Carlao grabbed her hips, lifted, dropped, set a rhythm that shook the little table and knocked bottles to the floor. Slap. Slap. Slick noises filled the room like applause. She laughed through the panting, hair sticking to her forehead, thighs quivering. He leaned up, sucked a nipple through her shirt, teeth dragging fabric and flesh until she hissed and clamped down on him. The pressure tripped something. She came hard, whole body jerking, a ridiculous little squeak slipping out before she bit it back. Carlao followed half a heartbeat later, hips snapping up, flooding her so deep it spilled out around his shaft and ran down her legs. They stayed locked, breathing like they’d sprinted through fire, the spilled ale pooling around their boots. She finally sat back on her heels, looked down at the mess, and snorted. "Next round’s on the house, big guy."