Cici Rhodes

Cici Rhodes stared at the busted pipe under her sink, ass up, red hair falling over her shoulders. Mr. Powers wiped his hands and muttered about another job lined up. She stood, looked him square in the eye, then grabbed his belt. Not gentle. She dragged his fly down and wrapped both hands around him, knuckles brushing warm skin. "Payment’s good today, honey." She dropped to her knees and swallowed him to the root without a blink. His knees damn near buckled. The wet sounds she made belonged on video, deep and hungry and wet enough to echo off the tiles. Every time she pulled back, a shine of spit stretched between lip and head. She didn’t breathe; she inhaled him like he owed her something. He braced one palm on the countertop, free hand gripping her soft red hair while his repair bag sat forgotten by the door. She worked him messy and greedy, cheeks hollowing, tongue chasing every vein, until that last stubborn job felt miles away.