True Intentions

Paris is trouble and she knows it. At nineteen she’s already fucked her way through half the faculty and still she can’t keep her legs shut. Her parents ship her off to a shrink. The guy’s older, salt-and-pepper, calm. She shows up in a short skirt with a plug already warming her ass. She doesn’t hide it. She uncrosses her legs on purpose, lets him see the base peeking between her cheeks whenever she shifts. He watches without hurry. The session starts the way they always do, but her questions turn filthy fast—does he ever fuck patients, has he thought about bending one over his desk? He stays quiet until she stands, peels the skirt down, and plants her palms on the couch. The plug glints. He slides it out, slow, feels how slick she is from just the pressure. Paris moans, pushes back. He opens his belt, feeds her his cock, and she takes it greedy, spit sliding down her chin. When he bends her over the armrest she’s already dripping. He fucks her in steady strokes while she rocks back to meet every thrust. She rides him next, facing him, knees sinking into the cushions, ass bouncing on his lap until her thighs shake. Her blonde hair sticks to her face, mouth open, eyes locked on his. He pulls out at the last second and paints her tongue, watches her swallow like it’s a prize she’s earned.