House Flip-Her

Casey and Ravyn flip houses for a living—cheap bones, new finishes, bigger profits. Now Casey wants the next one badly. She pulls the car onto a gravel drive and nods at the sagging porch. Ravyn stares at the listing photos on her phone and shakes her head. "Needs more than paint," she mutters. Casey studies the lean of Ravyn’s lips and decides argument won’t land. She turns the engine off, steps out, circles to the trunk. The strap is already fastened beneath her loose trousers, the silicon cock set in its o-ring, cool against skin. When she leans across the passenger seat to kiss Ravyn, her hips press forward; the toy nudges Ravyn’s thigh through denim. "I know another way to sell it," Casey says. She unbuttons Ravyn’s jeans in two quick tugs. The zip hisses down. She drops to the driver seat floor, drags Ravyn’s pants to her ankles, settles between parted knees. Tongue first—long, slow laps that leave Ravyn wet and twitching. Then Casey rises, shoves the seat back, and guides the blunt head between slick folds. One steady thrust and half the length disappears; a second and her hips meet Ravyn’s heat. Ravyn grips the dashboard, breath hitching on each stroke. The car rocks. Casey keeps a firm rhythm—short, deep, relentless—until Ravyn’s protest about square footage turns into a low, repeated yes. Sweat beads at Casey’s collar. She smiles against Ravyn’s throat. When they finish, Ravyn’s sigh fogs the windshield. She wipes it with the heel of her hand, studies the house again, and nods once. "Make the offer," she says.