Naomi S
Rocco's Abbondanza #03, Scene #04
Joel. That’s the name on the lease, anyway. The apartment is half-dark, just the blue spill from a TV nobody’s watching. She’s on the floorboards, knees wide, back arched so her ass is aimed square at his hips. The silicone plug stretches her open—eight, nine inches of glossy purple, already slick with the lube they left sitting out like a dare. She rocks back against it slow at first, then faster, teeth caught on her bottom lip. He’s behind her, pants down to his ankles, watching the way her skin dips and spreads every time the toy bottoms out. She reaches back, grabs the base, and fucks herself in little thrusts that get a wet, filthy sound every time. He steps closer, hand stroking himself, and nudges the tip against the same stretched ring. She laughs under her breath—surprised at herself—and pushes back until the blunt head presses beside the plug. A wet pop and he’s sliding in next to it, the burn turning into a tight, overwhelming squeeze. They both freeze for a second, breathing, then move—tiny, careful rocks, half-grins, the TV flickering over skin and sweat and that lopsided grin of hers that says she can’t believe she’s doing this and also, yeah, she absolutely can.
Joel. That’s the name on the lease, anyway. The apartment is half-dark, just the blue spill from a TV nobody’s watching. She’s on the floorboards, knees wide, back arched so her ass is aimed square at his hips. The silicone plug stretches her open—eight, nine inches of glossy purple, already slick with the lube they left sitting out like a dare. She rocks back against it slow at first, then faster, teeth caught on her bottom lip. He’s behind her, pants down to his ankles, watching the way her skin dips and spreads every time the toy bottoms out. She reaches back, grabs the base, and fucks herself in little thrusts that get a wet, filthy sound every time. He steps closer, hand stroking himself, and nudges the tip against the same stretched ring. She laughs under her breath—surprised at herself—and pushes back until the blunt head presses beside the plug. A wet pop and he’s sliding in next to it, the burn turning into a tight, overwhelming squeeze. They both freeze for a second, breathing, then move—tiny, careful rocks, half-grins, the TV flickering over skin and sweat and that lopsided grin of hers that says she can’t believe she’s doing this and also, yeah, she absolutely can.