Filthy Fu*ck Dreams
She came quick and dirty at seventy miles per hour, thighs quaking, juices soaking seat leather with a faint squelch masked by road noise.
Pulling into the driveway of her picket-fence colonial lights off, husband snoring inside Helen paused, mirror check revealing the evidence: lipstick smeared, hair tousled wild, hickeys purpling throat under pearls, mascara tracks like war paint.
The bad girl grinned back, unrepentant. She slipped inside quiet as sin, heels dangling from fingers, padding upstairs to the master bath. Door locked, shower hissed scalding but first, the ritual mirror stare. Clothes shed slow, revealing the map of domination: red welts striping ass like barcodes, finger-bruise
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