Missa Mars

Missa flipped her hours when she took that bar gig, so her "playtime" hits around the same moment most of the city's taps are getting shut off. Most nights that left her circling back to an empty bed and itchy as hell. Then a coworker let her in on a secret: around-the-clock glory hole a few blocks from the strip that never asked questions and never slept. Easy fix. She makes her pit-stop now like clockwork—dip in, get wrecked, clock out, go home. Tonight, though, whatever answered her knock was stupidly thick. The second the head poked through she knew her pussy wasn't walking away unchanged. She tried to throat it anyway; no dice. Couldn’t get past her own two fists clamped around the shaft. Still, she worked it till the guy’s knees wobbled, swallowed every drop, and strutted out with the tiniest limp and a filthy grin.