Magna Cum Laude

She fucking did it. Emily finished school, diplomas in both hands, tits out of that long black gown. Her folks must’ve been clapping behind her while she was already thinking about the real celebration. They handed over the keys to a fresh Tahoe spot three bedrooms, terrace staring at blue water, sleek kitchen, and a pond full of glossy fish she’ll never bother naming. You can already taste how expensive that place looks. No chance you’re living like a royal tourist, though. The only view she cares about is your cock sliding across her tongue, and the second that gown hits the floor you forget every lake or jet-ski you ever swore you needed. Slow turn, little grin, skirt tugged down the curve of her ass just enough that lace disappears into soft skin. Her tits fill your palms, nipples stiff, mouth already begging for length. She licks once, slow and cocky, slides you deeper until the tip nudges past the soft heat of her throat. Laugh in her ears—girl never even sees the lake from inside, on her knees, wrist twisting, jaw open, slick, spitting, pulling you right back in. Sounds have nowhere to run except the empty rooms she plans on christening. Parked two cool days ahead, and every one you’ll spend either fisting her hair or pinned under her, cuffs carved deep on your thighs, until cum splashes the walls and bath towels, and the porch still looks idiotic wearing nothing but her sticky fingerprints. I guess you’ll have two rows of windows facing each other that say “every night, every screen free” loudly when all said and done, maybe bigger smiles around the ski lease board short than well-lipstick-gallery boring citation says hurry. Comeback kiss-mark lockdown.