Ski Mask Bandit

Korra slips through the dark like a raccoon with bills to pay, ski mask snug on her face. One door left open, one bare foot over the threshold, and suddenly she's elbow-deep in someone's silverware drawer—your classic break-and-enter mixed with high hopes. Then the homeowners flip the lights. Charlotte and Dillon stand there, beer in hand, jaw on the floor. Charlotte rips off the mask and everything goes from felony to flirting. Korra's pretty face plus one slow drop of her waistband is apparently enough to reroute everyone's evening plans. Boom—there it is, thick and ready, and the two homeowners hit the floor like they're clocking in for a very happy second job. Her cock bobs across noses and lips. Eyes glaze, cheeks hollow. When things start heating up she lifts the backs of those bathrobes, checks out the goods, and slides right into Dillon like the mattress already agreed to the rent. It's great, but the kitchen tile isn't getting friendlier, so they hustle into the bedroom and toss her onto the bed. Now the night belongs to nobody's calendar but theirs.