Enemy

Rebel plants her mouth on Small Hands the second the door clicks shut. No prelude. No soft words. She drags him to the couch and strips him where he stands, tongue already working the head of his cock before his belt hits the floor. He’s still trying to tell her they could stay friends when she swallows him to the root. The message is clear—friends don’t do this. She turns, peels her thong aside, and sinks onto his face. Her hips roll slow and mean while her lips never leave his shaft. Every wet, filthy sound fills the room as she rides his tongue and sucks like she owns him. Rebel stays in control, thighs clamped, palm flat on his chest, dictating pace. When she’s slick enough she climbs off, spins, and bends over the arm of the couch. Small Hands takes the cue, grips her hips, and drives in deep. Doggy feels rougher than either of them expected—bodies slapping, her fingers clawing leather. Rebel meets every thrust, pushing back until his rhythm breaks. She stays the dominant one even on her knees, voice low and dirty, demanding he give her everything he’s got and still hold back nothing. Enemy rules apply. No mercy. No friendship. Just heat, sweat, and the sound of skin meeting skin until they’re both spent.