Making Mandy Wet

Met this girl named Mandy from Florida out on the trail. She picked LA and liked the weather, but kept griping about missing pool weather from home. The shade kept her talking. She stretched her calves against a tree trunk, and I noticed the sweat sticking her tank to her back. When she said "I wish this town just had more pools," I laughed and told her my building did, then offered to let her crash the gate. She showed up twenty minutes later with a beach towel over her shoulder and nothing else besides those tiny black bottoms. Inside my apartment, though, nobody bothered the pool. Mandy dropped the towel on the kitchen tile and pulled her top off right there, tits still warm from the hike. She got to her knees on the floor like we had an appointment, spit-slick lips stretched around me in a rush. When I flipped her onto the couch she was already wet enough to take me straight away, hips rocking with every thrust. She kept moaning half-sentences about how good it felt and how deep I was. Her legs locked hard when I finally blew my load right against her cervix—thick ropes shot up inside that tight little hole till it started leaking down her thigh. We never even dipped a toe outside.