Eliza Ibarra

She barely had the ink dry on her eighteenth before she started slipping into bars after hours. Most nights the fake in her bra stayed tucked away because those who still asked usually got a quick twenty slid across the bar top and played dumb. Then she found a joint where the big tall fucker pouring drinks wouldn’t take the bribe or the sideways smile. He muttered that someone as young-looking as her probably didn’t belong there, but she barely heard him. Curiosity, maybe lube, carried her down the short hallway to the bathrooms where two neat circles punched into cheap drywall stared back at her. On her knees, face pressed close, the first answer she got was a fat slab of black meat swinging through the hole and bopping against her lips. Later that dumb bartender would swear she’d look scared; in truth her cheeks stretched wide and swallowed every inch without a cough. Pussy already throbbing in beat with her own heartbeat, she spun on one heel the second she heard the other dick slide through. One fat length disappeared down her throat, the other got spat on, stroked, guided straight inside that tight wet hole she ground back against like she’d never had real dick before. Each push made her ass clap. When the stranger on the right started pumping spunk straight into her cunt she just moaned louder, soaking his balls, then crawled to the second oozing prick and finished it by swabbing her tongue along the underside until ropes of cum splattered her tonsils. Bottom lip glazed, pussy leaking, she wiped the evidence off her chin with a giggle and finally stepped back out past the wise-ass bartender, grinning like she’d prove him wrong every night she could sneak away.