You Can Tell Me Anything

Lucky Fate slumped at the kitchen island and blurted the whole break-up story to Lola Pearl. Lola sipped her coffee, listening without interrupting. Then she set the cup down like it annoyed her, walked around the counter, and planted a hand on his shoulder. "Looks like you need a pickup," she said, half smile already forming. She tugged his shorts down and the heavy cock sprang out, half-hard and already impressive. Lola dropped to her knees on the cool tile, gave it a quick once-over like she was sizing up a toaster repair, then opened her lips and sank straight down. The head squeezed past her tongue and filled her mouth; she kept sliding until her throat fluttered around the thick base and her nose bumped his stomach. "Fuck, that’s big even on a Tuesday," she thought, already letting out a wet snort. She pulled up slowly, spit stringing, gave the swollen head a lazy swirl, then dropped again. Both hands worked the shaft in a firm rhythm while she bobbed—sloppy, noisy, determined. Lucky groaned, hips twitching, and she steadied him with one palm on his belly. Lola didn’t let go until his balls tightened and he flooded her throat in thick pulses; she swallowed every rope with soft little gulps, like chugging water after yard work. When she finally pulled off, chin shiny, she gave him one last chaste kiss right on the tip. "There. Cheer on the house." She stood, wiped her mouth on the inside of her wrist, and padded off to grab her coffee like it was no big deal.