House Arrest

She moves through the quiet house like a caged cat. Freya hates the ankle bracelet, the curfew, the walls closing in. One morning the boredom snaps and she opens the front door for Dwayne, the man the system sent to keep tabs. He steps inside, locks it behind him, and the silence turns heavy. She drops to her knees in the hallway. His cock is thick, dark, already stiff. Freya takes it deep, lips stretched, nose pressed to the coarse hair at the base until her eyes water. Spit runs down her chin while she works him, bush brushing the carpet. He lets her gag, then pulls her up and bends her over the kitchen table. One hard thrust and he’s buried inside her, hips slapping loud against her ass. She grips the edge and pushes back, taking every inch. Later he lies on the living-room rug. Freya climbs onto his face, thighs spread wide, grinding down until his tongue finds her clit. Her bush tickles his nose as she rocks, moaning while he licks her slick and swollen. When her legs shake she swings around, drops onto him again, riding until he can’t hold it. He pulls out, strokes once, twice, and paints her open mouth and flushed cheeks with thick ropes. She smiles, licking the corner of her lips, ankle bracelet glinting in the afternoon light.