Up Close with Little Puck

Little Puck rocks a pink-and-white getup that frames those tits like a push-up bra that actually wants you to look. Isiah jumps right in and asks where her name came from. She grins, tells him it’s the trouble-making fairy from A Midsummer Night’s Dream, nothing to do with frozen pucks on ice. Then she spills what actually gets her wet: she loves catching a thick, warm whiff of certain body parts. Says the kink kicked off one hot, sweaty summer when a girlfriend kept rubbing her just-showered pits against Puck’s face, turning her pussy electric. From that day on she chased that mix of musk and skin like a hound on a scent trail. When talk swings to solo time she doesn’t hedge—plain plastic vibrator, rim of the head pressed right under her clit, and two fingers curling deep until her thighs shake. Toys still scratch the itch, but she craves warm skin even more. Nipples get her loud, a firm squeeze right on the edge of pain. Lower down, she melts if someone slips a wet tongue right behind her ear and then trails teeth down her neck. Isiah listens close, stores every word for later, because that ‘later’ has already started—his hands are already sliding down, and Puck’s breathing heavier with every inch.