Vicky
Real Bushy Beavers #04
Flashy Babe caught my eye right away—leather that hugged every curve and short enough to flash a little cheek when she sat down. She crossed one leg over the other, swinging her boot like she was keeping time to music nobody else could hear. By the time she smirked at me I’d already leaned in and bought her a round, then another. Somewhere between drink three and drink four we spilled out into the alley behind the bar. The neon from the street signs bounced off wet pavement and every eyelash was drenched in glitter. One second her palm was tracing the zipper of my jacket, the next it was sliding under my shirt while her teeth nipped at my earlobe. We didn’t make it far. She hoisted herself onto a stack of wooden crates, tugged me between her knees, and hooked the heel of her boot behind my back. Her skirt rode up, no panties under it, and I sank two fingers straight into her. She was already slick, clenching around them, biting her lower lip to keep the moans small. I curled my fingers once, twice, got rewarded with a husky laugh and a quick “fuck yes, like that.” She tugged my belt open with one hand, wrapped her fist around me, and guided me in before I could catch my breath. The first thrust slammed the crate against the bricks; the second knocked glitter loose from her lashes. She rode every stroke like the crates were a throne, nails digging half-moons in my shoulders while she told me to keep my hand right where it was—thumb circling her clit, two fingers still buried inside her alongside my cock. The tighter she squeezed the faster we went, breathless curses mixing with wet sounds and the scrape of boots on stone. When she came it was with a sharp, sudden laugh, walls fluttering hard enough to pull me over the edge. We stayed there a moment, half-dressed and still throbbing, before she patted my cheek, hopped down, and smoothed her skirt like nothing had happened at all. “Same time tomorrow?” she asked, already walking toward the street.
Flashy Babe caught my eye right away—leather that hugged every curve and short enough to flash a little cheek when she sat down. She crossed one leg over the other, swinging her boot like she was keeping time to music nobody else could hear. By the time she smirked at me I’d already leaned in and bought her a round, then another. Somewhere between drink three and drink four we spilled out into the alley behind the bar. The neon from the street signs bounced off wet pavement and every eyelash was drenched in glitter. One second her palm was tracing the zipper of my jacket, the next it was sliding under my shirt while her teeth nipped at my earlobe. We didn’t make it far. She hoisted herself onto a stack of wooden crates, tugged me between her knees, and hooked the heel of her boot behind my back. Her skirt rode up, no panties under it, and I sank two fingers straight into her. She was already slick, clenching around them, biting her lower lip to keep the moans small. I curled my fingers once, twice, got rewarded with a husky laugh and a quick “fuck yes, like that.” She tugged my belt open with one hand, wrapped her fist around me, and guided me in before I could catch my breath. The first thrust slammed the crate against the bricks; the second knocked glitter loose from her lashes. She rode every stroke like the crates were a throne, nails digging half-moons in my shoulders while she told me to keep my hand right where it was—thumb circling her clit, two fingers still buried inside her alongside my cock. The tighter she squeezed the faster we went, breathless curses mixing with wet sounds and the scrape of boots on stone. When she came it was with a sharp, sudden laugh, walls fluttering hard enough to pull me over the edge. We stayed there a moment, half-dressed and still throbbing, before she patted my cheek, hopped down, and smoothed her skirt like nothing had happened at all. “Same time tomorrow?” she asked, already walking toward the street.