Curtain Call

She waits behind velvet, body already alive. The crowd fills the dark. Her hips roll to the slow drums and her fingers tease the hem of her gown. The satin clings, slips, shows more skin with every beat. A spotlight hits and every eye locks on the slick shine of her inner thigh. She drops into a split, crawls forward, runs her tongue across her bottom lip, then swallows a gasp as the fabric parts and the audience sees the dark bush she keeps trimmed but never bare. The last note crashes. Lights die. Curtains drop. Backstage she pulls him close before the applause even fades. Alex Jones. Hard. Ready. She takes him into her mouth in one greedy motion, throat stretching around every inch. Her nose brushes his stomach, eyes watering, spit dripping down her chin onto the silk still hanging from her waist. He grabs her hair, fucks the heat of her throat in hard thrusts until she gags, pulls off gasping, then dives back down again. Deep, wet, relentless. She bends over the vanity. He drives in from behind, strokes long and raw, the wet slap of skin echoing off mirror glass. Her bush brushes his balls on every thrust. When he cums she stays locked tight, hips rolling, milking every drop until it leaks out around his cock. Only then does she smile, swipe a finger through the mess, and taste it like the final bow.