She was still on her knees, lips stretched obscene around me, throat working in angry, sloppy, choking strokes when I felt the shift—her rhythm stuttering, faltering, like she'd hit her limit and was begging to break past it and reach the deepest parts of her throat.
I tightened my fingers in her hair—not guiding yet, just anchoring—and she moaned long and wrecked around my cock, the vibration ripping straight through my balls. We were way past polite.
I pulled her off with a loud, wet pop—thick silver strands of spit stretching from her swollen, abused lips to the glistening, spit-shiny head like obscene spiderwebs.
She gasped—ragged, desperate—chest heaving, eyes glassy and red-rimmed, mascara already carving black rivers down both cheeks in messy tracks. Beautiful, fucked-up disaster.
She did not look satisfied with her work yet.
"Up," I said, voice gravel.
