She lay there—legs spread, cunt leaking, hair a mess of s*x and sweat. He watched her like she was art. Not the delicate, paint-me-like-one-of-your-girls kind. No, she was pornographic. A masterpiece of filth.
He lit a cigarette, still half-naked, and leaned against the wall like he hadn’t just f****d the vowels out of her. Smoke curled from his lips as he stared at the wet between her thighs, thick with his c*m.
“You ever f**k him after I’ve had you?” he asked, voice like sandpaper.
She blinked up at him, dazed. “Sometimes.”
“You let him eat you out like this?”
She flinched. Then nodded, slow.
“f*****g hell.” He dragged in a deep breath, c**k twitching. “You are my whore.”
She didn’t apologize. Didn’t blush. She spread her legs wider like she was proud of it.
He dropped the cigare
