Miranda Miller

Starts like harmless fun, the kind of joke a bride-to-be’s best friend would make. “It’s for her bachelorette gift, for Christ’s sake!” Miranda laughs her way past the register and straight into the interracial aisle, eyes getting bigger every step. “Are those things real?” she blurts, cheeks burning while her thighs squeeze together. Two minutes later she’s locked inside a dark booth, skirt already hitched up, feeding dollar bills into a box just to see what happens next. Then an arm thicker than her bicep slides out of the glory hole, middle finger curling like it already knows she’ll suck it. That fat digit slides across her tongue, curls behind her teeth, and drags her closer. Moments after that the rest appears—jet-black, veined, heavy as a pipe—and Miranda’s on her knees without thinking twice. She spits, gags, drools down her chin while the cock slides past her tonsils and still keeps coming. The stranger’s other hand snakes through, finds her slick cunt, works two fingers in and pumps like he’s already pissed off at the G-spot. By the time that monster cock bottoms out in her pussy through the hole in the wall, Miranda’s twenty-one-year-old body is bouncing like it belongs to him. He doesn’t ask; he just fucks, balls slapping the plywood until her womb is painted white. She walks out with soaked panties glued between her cheeks, another thick load oozing down her thigh every time she steps, and a wicked little smirk that says “maybe I’ll come back tomorrow.”