On The Market

Dillion Harper's pushing this fancy house like her commission depends on it, and today it probably does. Everybody ignores her dressed-up living room, spotless kitchen, new paint smell—then he walks in. Jean. Calm voice, easy grin, makes the place feel smaller the second he steps inside. He asks for the bedroom first. That tiny smirk tells her he's not here to pick out backsplash tile. She tries to keep it professional while he sizes her up instead of the square footage, but his “I’ll buy it today if you give me something better than counters” lands like a dropped match. She waffles for about six seconds—cheating, check, her boyfriend, yeah yeah—until he pulls out the checkbook and adds the spark, sixty seconds to decide how much her boyfriend means versus seven figures in their contract tomorrow. Broke her resolve, and fast. Papers shuffle across the coffee table. She locks the front door and then melts to her knees before the ink’s dry. Jean’s cock feels bigger once it’s in her fist; she works it up and down her cheek, letting it heavy-slap across her lips just because it makes a filthy sound. Saliva ropes drip from the tip, splatter her chin, drip onto her tits. She coughs around it, jaw sore already, balls smeared across her tongue because the bastard teases her about saying thanks for the multi-million house. He pulls her up by the hair, flips her on the couch arm, pulls her panties only halfway down. Tongue for a second, deep. Fuck the foreplay—his fingers replace his mouth like he’s ready to fill. Thick digits drive in while Dillion haunches her hips back for more. Slick enough, she climbs on, back to him, sinks to the balls in one slow plunge that leaves her swearing. Ride pressure snaps up her spine; soon she’s greeding, screaming, then full-body wet where it squirts over his stomach, her knees shaking. Cuz he asked, she slides off dirty all the way and drains every droplet she just gave him, eyes blinking hazy at her streak of slut-fueled sale closing.