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Story
Setting the Scene
The penthouse smelled of jasmine and amber, the air thick with anticipation. Beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, Kansas City’s neon skyline pulsed—electric pinks, blues, and purples painting the room in a feverish glow. I, Champagne Mula, EOA KC’s luxury companion, lounged on a black velvet chaise, my 5’1” frame draped in a crimson lace bodysuit that clung to my chubby curves.
The sheer fabric hugged my DDD bust, dark outlines teasing through the Qslace, my nipples hard as pebbles.
MqSy round, heavy backside sank into the plush velvet, the rose vine tattoo on my lower back begging to be traced. My dark brown curls, swept into a messy bun, spilled tendrils that tickled my neck, and my tongue piercing clicked as I sipped champagne, the bubbles sharp and sweet on my tongue.
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The Encounter Begins
My phone buzzed, lighting up with a notification—Marcus, my favorite paypig, had wired $15,000 for a few hours of my time. The thought of his cash—and his hungry eyes—sent a warm pulse through me, my skin tingling under the lace. I was ready, the thrill of making him quiver fueling my desire.
The door clicked open, and there he was: tall, chiseled, in a tailored charcoal suit. His cologne—sandalwood, bergamot, and leather—wrapped around me, and I inhaled deeply, my brown eyes glinting as my diamond stud caught the neon light. “Well, Marcus,” I purred, my voice dripping with seduction, “you’re ready to make this night sing.”
The Heat Intensifies
I slid off the chaise, my chunky hips swaying, the lace riding up to reveal my curves, the heart tattoo on my forearm pulsing. My bare feet sank into the plush carpet, my silver hoops swaying. I pushed him onto the king-sized bed, licking my lips, my thighs pressing against his hips as I straddled him, my weight sinking into him.
“I’m here to make you lose it,” I whispered, my breath hot against his ear, my tongue piercing grazing his lobe, sending a shiver through him. His hands reached for me, but I pinned his wrists above his head, my glossy red nails digging in. “Not yet,” I teased, my switch energy flaring—I was in control tonight.
The Climax
I slid down his body, my nails trailing over his shirt, buttons popping as I tore it open, exposing his taut chest, his musk mixing with cologne. His trousers hit the floor, revealing a thick, eager pulse that twitched under my gaze, already glistening.
“Ten inches is my record,” I said, licking my lips, my piercing glinting as I hovered over him, “but this will feel so good.” I took him slow and wet, my lips stretching, the piercing teasing as I worked him deep.
His groans were raw, vibrating through me, making my pulse quicken. I worked him, spit trailing, my eyes locked on his as he gripped the sheets, knuckles white.
“Bed,” I growled, crawling up to give him the view he’d paid for. I arched my back, my curves high—doggy style was my throne, and I owned it.
The rose vine tattoo bloomed as I moved, the lace barely covering my heat, my scent mingling with the jasmine. I claimed my pleasure, the sound echoing, my skin jiggling under my palm.
My fingers found my sweet spot, circling fast, the wet rhythm blending with his drive.
My release hit like a wave, soaking us, my voice raw, echoing off the ceilings. The musky scent filled the air. “Keep going,” I panted, my body trembling but insatiable.
He flipped me onto my back, spreading my legs, the moon tattoo on my thigh flexing as I hooked him closer. “Taste me,” I urged, breathless. He tore the bodysuit, revealing my pink gem, its sparkle a filthy secret.
His lips explored, hot and wet, the pressure pushing me over the edge.
Another wave hit, my moans shaking, as we moved for hours, the city’s lights painting our skin—pink across my cheeks, blue across my curves.
My tongue pierced teased his skin between rounds, cool against his heat. I lost count of my peaks—each wetter, the air thick with passion and champagne.
It wasn’t my 14-hour record, but it was close, my body trembling, the lace bodysuit shredded on the floor.
“Send more,” I panted, dreaming of cash sticking to my skin, another peak rising.
When we collapsed, my curls sweaty, my nose stud glinting, his taste lingered. I traced my heart tattoo on his chest with a red nail, leaning in.
“Next time, bring a girl,” I whispered, my FMF fantasy burning. “I’ll make you both alive.” Champagne Mula, Kansas City’s luxury dream, is more than a name—it’s a wildfire.
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