Anarchy Rising

Alby scoffs at rules the way most people do at church bingo. Rules cramp her style, so she ditched them years ago and never looked back. Right now she’s in the mood for Danny—tall, decent arms, zero clue what he just stepped into. She drags her chucks off and stretches bare feet that look as long as her attitude, then goes to work. She starts with her mouth, sliding him past lipstick so dark it could double as a blackout curtain, letting spit slick every inch she can reach. Her pussy follows, warm, wet, taking the whole length in one shove while her hips roll like she’s riding a bass drop. When she pulls him out again she traps his cock between her painted toes—black polish chipped just enough to look cool, not careless—squeezing and stroking until the slick glides start giving her something to smirk about. Danny’s already breathing like he climbed three flights. Alby’s not even winded. She tightens the arch of her foot, slips the head between two toes, twists, presses, releases. Every squeeze hits different nerve endings Danny didn’t know were in that particular zip code. When he finally comes he jerks like the floorboards moved, and Alby just grins, foot still lazily slick, toes lazily milking the last drops. Mission whatever-the-fuck accomplished.