Playing In Selina's Sandbox

The beach was just an excuse. The second Selina Batenz locked eyes with me, I knew I was cooked. Long brown hair, blue eyes sharper than a broken bottle—she had the look of someone who stole your wallet and left a thank-you note. Five minutes later we were back at my place, naked, slamming around under a shower stream that barely kept up. She got down and swallowed me like she’d been taking notes, nails scoring the backs of my thighs just hard enough to hurt sweet. We staggered out dripping and headed for the couch. She folded like a dollar bill, ankles on my shoulders, taking every inch while the old springs squealed complaints. Wet, slick, clamp-tight; every thrust sounded like applause. I’d pound fast and she’d cry yes, I’d slow down and she’d grin like she owned the patent on pleasure. When I finally blew it, the mess painted her freshly-used cunt in thick ropes. She stretched, laughed, winked, and asked if the mini-bar had whipped cream. Vacation? Yeah, it just upgraded from PG-13 to NC-17.