Bush League #10 - Scene 4

Tommy’s neighborhood is under fire—literally. Mandatory evacuation order dropped, ash raining down like some apocalyptic Netflix episode. But there’s no grabbing the go-bag while Olive Glass is right there, bush on full display. Thick dark tufts crown her pussy like a hairy little trophy, wet already. He drops to his knees, shoves his nose straight into that wiry thicket, and gobbles her up—loud, wet, cartoon-level enthusiasm—while the orange glow brightens outside the window. Flames sprint up the ridge but the only blaze he cares about starts right between her legs. Tongue drags flat through slick hair, curling at the clit, then dips lower to slurp like he’s racing a stopwatch. Olive’s hips twitch. Little punches of laughter leave her as a moan punches back in. Smoke’s drifting through the screen, edging the air, but Tommy’s dick strains against his zipper like it’s got marching orders of its own. Clothes gone in two frantic yanks, he lines up and sinks into that juicy, snagged slit. Every thrust tugs dark curls back and forth across him; she coats every inch, cream and heat and faint itch from hair. Olive rocks into him, one knee hooked high, as the sting of sweat in the crack of her ass and the coal smell rolling off the hill mix into some ridiculous sensory cocktail. He chases it harder—short fast strokes that turn long, deep, horny slams. Her tits bounce between them; each smack rings out just as another pop of flame whips up the canyon behind the house. Tommy wedges a thumb into her fluffy lips, spreads her, watches his cock emerge shiny, then punches back home. The slap-sound of wet hair against his pelvis makes him grin like a lunatic high on chaos. Close. Olive’s breathing turns ragged; she curses first, fists twisting in the sheets, comes loud enough to drown the fire sirens in the valley. Tommy follows straight after, hips hitching, grunting while his cock jerks and empties—thick jets fountaining straight into that soaked, cum-covered bush. He pulls back and watches the creamy mess cooling in the open air, strings dangling like dangling fire-hoses nobody bothered to shut off. Siren pitch rises beyond the windows. Half-dressed, bare feet slapping tile, they’re gone—smoke, spunk, and a hairy, well-fucked mop all left smoldering behind them.