Backstage Bumpin'

Veruca James showed up and I made my move. Found her in the cramped backstage area, that battered suitcase still zipped at her feet. Up close the heat came off her skin in waves, black hair spilling down her shoulders, pupils already wide with something reckless. I locked the door. She didn’t stop me. Her bra hit the floor first; dark nipples tightened the second the cooler air touched them. I bent her against the makeup table. The mirror gave me everything back: her flushed throat, lips parted around short little breaths, thighs parting wider every time my hand slid between them. Two fingers inside her and she clenched like she’d been waiting. Wet, slick, muscles fluttering. She watched her own mouth fall open. My belt hit the floor next. I pushed into her in one thrust that sent a tremor straight through her arms braced on the table. Her pussy gripped hard, greedy. Every drag back out pulled slick strings down her inner thighs. I kept the rhythm tight: short, deep, punishing. One palm full of her ass, the other tangled in that dark hair, pulling her head back so she had to watch us fuck in the mirror. The table legs squeaked with every slam. She came biting her forearm, cunt pulsing around me, heels sliding on the concrete. I didn’t slow. Fucked her straight through it until another tremor hit and her legs gave. Only then did I let go, pulling out just far enough to stripe her ass and lower back with hot ropes, watching her flinch each time they landed.