Garage Girl

Vanda knows her way around a muscle car. She has the legs for it—long, bare, stretched out on the hood while the Mustang gleams under the lights. She tugs her shorts aside, already wet, and reaches back to pull herself open for the guy behind her. He slides in deep, the thick head stretching her ass, and her moan bounces off the concrete walls. She grips the fender with one hand and takes every inch, her tight ring gripping him on the pull-out. Her mouth finds him next. She drops to her knees on the cold floor, lips wrapping around his shaft, tongue working fast, eyes looking up while spit trails down her chin. When she turns again, she wants it harder. He gives it to her—hard, fast, relentless—until her legs shake and she’s babbling his name into the metal. The last thrust ends across her face: thick ropes landing on her lips and tongue while the Mustang sits polished and forgotten behind them.