Backstage with Bellina

Bellina’s just crossed twenty, and the party girl in her still has the engine running. Every night is a chance, every stranger a possibility. James Brossman lives for nights like this, when young women step out of their heels and into his bed without the usual questions. They barely trade names before the clothes come off. Bellina kneels on the rumpled sheets, knees wide, hips rocking against her own hand. She keeps her eyes on him, lips parted, fingers slick as she rubs slow circles over her clit. He watches, hard already, stroking himself in lazy pulls. No talking. She drops her shoulders, pushes two fingers inside, then three, hips lifting off the mattress to take them deeper. He moves closer, feeds his cock past her open mouth, and she takes him greedily, tongue flat against the underside, spit shining on her chin. When he pulls free, she flips onto her back, spreads herself open. He sinks into her in one hard stroke, her cunt wet and tight around him. They fuck like it’s a single, drawn-out breath—hard, fast, bodies slapping, Bellina’s nails digging into his shoulders. She comes first, voice raw, legs shaking. He follows, pulling out just in time, stripes of come landing hot across her stomach. They stay like that a moment, breathing, skin cooling. Then she smiles, reaches for her phone, already thinking about the next party.