The Price of Freedom

Bill picked the wrong woman to cross, no doubt about it. Now he's trussed to a chair in Stevie's lair, ropes cutting into his arms and legs, while the crime boss smirks down at him. Silver pistol still warm, she presses it beneath his chin and tilts his head up, letting him drink in the way her tight red dress hugs every curve, how the neckline dips so low you could park a car between those tits. Mess with Stevie and you end up her plaything—or a corpse. Bill is betting on the former. Worst that could happen is he becomes her personal fuck-toy tonight, and the lady knows what she's doing. She drops into his lap, knees planted on either side of his thighs, hem riding up till lacy black panties brush the front of his slacks. Her free hand slides between them, finds the thick, aching cock already pushing against the zipper, and squeezes hard enough to make him grunt. That wicked grin promises she's nowhere near done with him. She unzips, pulls him free, strokes once—long, slow, deliberate—while the barrel of the gun slides down his throat. The head of her strap-on nudges his opening; she already had it greased up when she dragged him inside. With one impatient shove she takes him all the way to the hilt, hips snapping forward, buried balls-deep while she keeps that gun at his jaw. Every thrust pounds against the chair, rattling it, rattling him, her tits bouncing inches from his face, nipples hard against the thin fabric. She rides him without mercy, bouncing, sweating, laughing every time he tries to muffle a moan against her cleavage. At the peak she clamps her free hand over his mouth, keeps him quiet while she squeezes and clenches around that thick shaft, drenching both of them before he finally spills hot and helpless inside her. End scene, a twitchy little smile on Stevie's lips, like a cat finishing its cream.