Missing: Part Six

Lara’s already knee-deep in trouble when she pounds on Anita’s door. It flies open and out steps that sugary southern act Anita loves to hide behind. Lara spills everything—Cindy’s gone, the whole squad’s nothing but a pile of lust-drunk lesbians—and she can’t stop herself from adding, "I’m one too." Anita smirks. Time to spike the tea. One swallow and the world tilts. Anita’s real laugh cracks through the fake accent, high and unhinged, while Lara’s knees buckle. She wakes in a slick tangle of naked, writhing women, bodies locked, tongues working, every inch sticky and ready. Anita struts above them, monologuing about power and essence, but her voice cracks when Lara doesn’t fold. Holloway gets the honors first—buries her face in Lara’s dripping cunt, licks like she owns it. Right when Lara’s clit starts to throb, she clamps down, denies herself the orgasm, flips Holloway on her back, and sucks the ginger dry until the redhead shakes and blanks out. Anita screeches, throws two blondes at her instead. Kenna and August climb in—full lips, soft tits, hot cunts—but Lara turns the tables, fingers and tongues flying until both women leave puddles and can’t even lift their heads. The rest of the missing squad lines up—Cindy Allen, Agent Klein, one sweaty set of thighs after another. Lara keeps the same mean rhythm: make them wet, make them beg, drain every last drop from quivering pussies until they’re limp and empty. Last up is Anita herself—pale skin gleaming, nipples tight, soaking folds offered like the grand prize. She drops down, ready to ride, but something flickers on the horizon. MANTIS might still swoop in, snatch the final lick, and rob Anita of the singular dominant climax she’s plotted for months. Or maybe Anita finally pins Lara down and drinks the last, richest cream straight from the source. Either way, the sheets are already wrecked.