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Tiffany’s Point of View
The lounge smelled of spilled beer soaked into old wood, and of fresh lemon polish fighting a losing battle against twelve men’s spent seed cooling in the air like incense from a blasphemous altar.
I stared at her pussy, my nostrils flaring, my throat almost burning from the smell of raw sex emanating from her.
A single lamp glowed amber in the lounge corner, throwing long shadows across the sectional sofa where Sophie lay sprawled. Her thighs were spread wide open by my hands cupping her knees, the ruined, wrinkled lip tips of her cunt still fluttering with tiny aftershocks, all glossy and crimson from overuse. Her stretched pink hole looked succulent, glistening with a thick, milky frosting that oozed in slow, deliberate pulses.