Backstage with Candy

I hadn't seen Candy in months when she texted that she was coming back early. She was supposed to be somewhere on Lake Balaton with the band, singing her heart out every night, but she caught the train back for a few hours just to see me. By the time she arrived she still smelled like tour—cheap perfume and smoke, hair stiff from too much hairspray. She tossed her bag inside the door and stood there in a little black dress that barely covered her thighs. The neckline plunged low. Her nipples were hard through the fabric before I even touched her. I pulled the dress off over her head. No bra, just pale tits and the faintest bite marks on her left one from whoever she fucked last on the road. I licked one, then the other, sucking until she hissed. She opened my belt with practiced fingers, shoved my trousers down, wrapped her warm palm around my cock and gave it two long strokes like she was tuning a guitar. Then she turned, palms flat against the wall, ass pushed back. I slid into her slick cunt in one stroke and she pushed harder, taking every inch. The sound of skin on skin filled the room. She reached between her legs to rub her clit in tight circles until her thighs started shaking. I grabbed her hips and fucked her faster. Her moans came low and broken. When I pushed two fingers into her mouth she sucked them greedily, drooling down her chin, eyes half-closed. I bent her lower until her cheek pressed the wall and drove in deep. She came hard, cunt pulsing around my cock, a strangled cry leaving her throat. I kept thrusting through it until I spilled inside her, hips stuttering, pulse roaring in my ears. We stayed like that for a moment, breathing, my come leaking down the inside of her thigh.