Anita Toro

Anita's feet got away from her and now there's a red-wine stain spreading across Mark's off-white carpet like some fuck-you painting. She's got that wide-eyed, oh-shit stare, you know the one, mouth open, phone still in one hand, the bottle tilting in the other. Mark takes one look, curses, then turns his eyes on the twenty-year-old exchange student in the tiny skirt and half-buttoned blouse standing in the mess. "The hell did you do?" Her red lips twist like she just swallowed a joke, and the next second she's stepping over the spot, dropping to her knees right in the middle of that stain. Takes him slow with both hands first, pulls his dick out without saying a word. Swirl of tongue, sloppy because that’s the plan, like she figured giving him a good blowjob beats paying for new carpet any day. From there it turns hands-free and glossy—thick spit dripping off her chin every time she drops lower, making a mess of her own shirt. She does this cute little nose-wrinkle halfway down, like his size forces that face every time. Still cool about it, open gag, spit pooling in the carpet fibers next to the red wine. Looks straight up at him with her tongue flat under the head, pulls back only long enough to smirk and say, "Bet you'd rather fuck my throat anyway than clean this up, sir." Goes deep on the next swallow because she means it.