Forgiving My Bully

Bella Rolland stretched out in her living room, bare legs thrown over the arm of the couch. A knock broke the quiet. Charlotte Sins stood on the welcome mat, ten years of rust hanging between them. "I owe you an apology," Charlotte said. "Anything you want." Bella studied her, lips curling. She grabbed Charlotte's wrist, yanked her inside, and let the door slam shut. Charlotte lay back on the couch, thighs parted. Bella sank to her knees and dragged her tongue slowly along Charlotte's slit, each stroke thicker, hungrier, until Charlotte soaked her chin. She stood, peeled her top off, and swung a heavy breast against Charlotte's cunt, the wet slide loud in the small room. Charlotte gasped, hips lifting to meet the soft grind. Bella kicked her jeans free. Skin on skin, hips locked, they rubbed hard—clits brushing, slick spreading, the heat sharper than words. Minutes later Bella climbed over Charlotte's mouth, grinding down until pleasure lanced through her in tight, greedy pulses. She stepped into a strap-on, harness snug around her waist. The silicone head nudged Charlotte open, then sank deep. Bella fucked her steady—long, firm strokes punctuated by the slap of skin. Charlotte clung to every thrust. Footsteps approached. Brooklyn Gray wandered in with a laundry basket, froze. Bella didn't slow; her hips snapped harder, driving the length in until Charlotte shuddered. Brooklyn cleared her throat, dropped towels into the machine, and kept working. Bella didn't look away. She just kept using what she was owed, finishing what she started, the wet sound of every stroke louder than the washing machine's faint whir.