Dope fueled trauma slut

Rian drags the smoke deep, eyes half-shut, neon flickering across her collarbone like she’s part of the Strip’s glow. Mike’s hand is already under her lace-fingers slow, teasing, just enough to make her hips buck. He loves this part: when she starts to lose it before she even starts. She pushes his hand away, stands up, peels off her jeans. The room smells like crystal and cheap perfume. Her ass-perfect, pale, round-looks even better in the half-light. She doesn’t say anything, just steps over the coffee table, plants one foot on the couch next to him, and lowers her pussy to his mouth. Not a request. A command. Mike eats like he’s starving. She tastes like meth and heat and that faint coppery tang she gets after she’s been with someone else. He loves it. Doesn’t ask. Doesn’t need to. She grinds down, fingers twisted in his hair, breath hitching-Fuck, yeah, right there-then pulls back, spins around so her ass hovers over his face. He spreads her cheeks, licks slow from clit to ass, and she moans like it’s the first time, even though she’s had tongues there a thousand times. He’s rock hard now, boxers soaked. She reaches back, frees him, spits on his dick, strokes once, twice-just to make him twitch-then sinks down. No condom. No talk. Just skin, sweat, and the wet sound of her riding him like it’s the last dick on earth. She leans forward, hands on his chest, nails digging. Tell me you’re fine with me sucking off the dealer tomorrow. Mike grins. I’ll even light his pipe for him. She laughs-wild, broken, beautiful-and rides faster. Her small tits bounce under lace. She reaches under, rubs her clit hard, like she’s trying to erase something. Maybe him. Maybe herself. Doesn’t matter. He grabs her hips, slams up into her, feels her clench- She taps his chest, once-her sign-but he doesn’t stop. Not this time. She wants to be taken. So he flips her. Face down, ass up, hair yanked back. Pushes in deep, one long stroke that makes her scream into the pillow. He fucks her like punishment. Like worship. Like nothing else exists. She comes hard-legs shaking, voice cracking-and when he finishes inside her, she just stays there, face buried, breathing like she’s crying. He pulls out slow, wipes his dick on her ass, walks to the kitchen. Comes back with two glasses, hands her one. Water. She sits up, hair in her face, wipes her mouth. You good? he asks. She smiles-crooked, real, tired. Always. Then she lights the pipe again. They don’t cuddle. They don’t talk about feelings. They just get high. And start over.