Extradition: Part Three

Agent Sarah Vandella’s grilling this Mexican hooker named Kat Dior, trying to crack the case on what the hell happened to Senator Adams’ daughter, Abella Adams. The trouble is Kat watched said daughter riding the notorious cartel kingpin La Luna himself. Nine days on, that scumbag’s left hand man, Tori, tossed Kat in a trunk and stowed her away in this stink-pit safe house, and neither the agent nor anyone else knows its location. The senator’s kid could be swinging halfway to Taiwan by now. Word drops that they’re planning to extradite Kat back to Uncle Sam, and her eyes get heavy; everyone knows a witness who talks about La Luna gets measured for a cheap coffin before the border even warms. So the nude prostitute drops the last card she has: her pussy, hoping the greedy cop will bite. Sarah snaps and calls Kat a dyke, shuts that nonsense down instantly. For a heartbeat. Then she stares at the very clean intel the woman gave her on Tori—evidence, rock-solid—and figures, ‘What’s it hurt to take a thank-you lay?’ She palms Kat’s heavy tits, rolling them like juicy melons, and Kat murmurs something low and filthy: say the word and the best orgasm a straight fed ever tasted will tumble right down her own legs. Sarah meets those liquid, chocolate-pool eyes of Kat’s, thinks twice, then pops the cuffs open. Nothing sweet in this interrogation shit-hole, just a metal chair and sweat stink; Kat’s pale brown body makes the air spark with it. Sarah launches her tongue into Kat’s mouth, trousers hit the floor, and before a belt buckle finishes clapping Kat’s sucking lips find Sarah’s broad tits—nipples bloom straight against Kat’s taste-buds. Soon Sarah’s folding the prisoner, ass in the sky, licking slow stripes around that pretty star while fingers edge through the dark hair between her legs. Kat’s voice drops an octave, head lolling onto concrete, greedy mouth already inching back for more. Sarah spreads her heavier thighs, rolls their pussies together until slick, slides fingers inside Kat like she’s casing pearls, flicks sweet spots until warm spurts coat wrist to elbow. She licks it off her knuckles and sits right on the girl’s cunt-watering tongue, grinding until the storm washes down them both and leaves her knees wobbling. Knees as steady as she can, she barks commands—Kat climbs over, drops that sopping snatch on Sarah’s hungry mouth, comes on cue, letting creamy juice coat chins and necks. Still drip-shaking, Agent Vandella bites her lip then cages the exhaustion in her gaze. One thing’s certain: she might just swipe the cuffs off the hook before any Brazilian rancher nicks them for keeps.