Make It Right

Gal Ritchie pulls up to the door with her thighs still humming from the road. Chris Diamond answers half-dressed. She steps in, drops the package, and takes his belt instead. The leather bites across her ass in one clean stripe. He bends her over the kitchen table and her skirt hikes high, dark bush flashing. She opens his fly and sucks him deep, spit running down her chin while her hips rock back for another slap. His hand grips her hair, steering her throat until she gags and smiles around the stretch. When she stands, he spins her, palms on the wood, and drives in hard. Every thrust lands with a wet slap; her bush grazes his skin on the downstroke. He pulls free at the edge, strokes once, and paints her tongue. She swallows, licks the last bead from his tip, then grabs her clipboard like nothing happened. Job complete. Tension handled.