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Hope is the blonde everyone looks at twice. She’s barely legal, tight and bright. Her husband’s the only one who gets to touch. Tonight he sets the camera on the dresser and tells her to start. She goes down like she means it, taking him deep until her throat works around him. Saliva runs down his shaft and drips onto the floor. He groans, pushes her head farther, and she gags just enough to make her eyes water. When he’s ready, she kneels up, sticks out her tongue, and takes the thick ropes across her lips, her chin, one sticky line cutting across her cheek. She smiles, cheeks flushed, a little drunk on it, and the frame holds on that messy smile while the lens keeps rolling.