The 'Research' Folder

Hailey Rose and Max Fills hunch over two laptops, slogging through a Napoleon project for college. Max still can't tell you the difference between the Nile and a bathtub ring, so Hailey carries the load. She tosses in that Josephine got shafted, hard. Max is mid-nod when his phone buzzes—an on-call fire at work. He books it, swearing he'll be quick. Hailey shrugs and carries on. Ten minutes later her screen stalls, so she flips to Max's machine. One look at his 'Research' folder and history takes a nap. Folders open into raw clips: big tits bouncing, sticky thighs spread, hungry mouths busy. The wet throb between her own legs surprises her. Five, ten more seconds of chaste watching and she's climbing the wall. Jeans unzip, her right hand dives knuckles-deep. Knees draw up. The little Motorola buzz caught glass and moans in equal measure. Max walks in, door wide, problem already handled—mistake. Ha. He sees Hailey knuckles in slit, head rolling, nipples straining the tank like she's competing with the ladies onscreen. The click has them both forgetting resumes and essay length counts. He bites back the smile and let it raw up anyway. Pants lost fast. Hailey swings her thighs around his neck like ropes. He spits, slides; Hailey sighs wet. They crank rules out the window and just go—two frantic assholes riding it like fairground hounds. Screens flicker, volumes drop; skin sings louder than commentary on French policy maybe ever will.