The Right Type

Violet steps into the house knowing they think the worst of her. Mother is all polite smiles and sharp edges. His father never shows. Violet stands there in her little black dress while the older woman judges the length of the hem. Minutes drag. When Oliver finally comes downstairs he doesn’t waste time with words. He catches Violet in the hallway, presses her back against the wall and slides his hand under the dress like he owns every inch of her. She opens her mouth on his neck instead of saying hello. They drift upstairs. He sits on the bed, Violet kneels between his knees, pulls his cock out and takes it slow. Her tongue circles the head, then she dips lower and sucks each ball while her hand strokes the shaft. Spit runs down her chin onto the carpet. Oliver leans back, lets her work. When he’s hard enough he turns her around, bends her over the edge of the mattress and spreads her open. He licks her pussy first, then slides his tongue higher, wetting her asshole until she pushes back against his mouth. One long, steady push and he’s inside her ass, stretching her open inch by inch. Violet breathes through it, fingers gripping the sheets. He fucks her deep and slow, the kind of rhythm that makes her thighs shake. When he’s close he stays buried, empties himself inside her, pulse after pulse. He pulls out and watches his cum leak out of her stretched hole, thick and white against her dark hair. They stay like that a moment, skin hot, breathing hard, the house still quiet downstairs.