A Creampie For Kylie

Kylie Rocket grins like the cat that caught the canary whenever cock tales come up. Girl holds nothing back. Swaps stories about nights that turn into double-digit body counts, voice going all husky, hands waving like she's conducting some filthy orchestra. Story time gets cut short, though. Charles Dera decides her mouth needs better things to do. They swap places: sofa cushions dip under knees, clothes hit the rug in half-second heaps. He drives in hard enough that her breath catches in her throat, then settles into a rhythm that rocks her whole body. Short, slick sounds fill the room. When he finishes, he stays buried deep, pulsing heat right up against her cervix. She closes her eyes, smiles at the ceiling, and the scene fades on the last slow drip down her thigh.