She drops to her knees right there on the concrete floor.
No hesitation. No "are you sure." Just MJ, looking up at me through her lashes with those green eyes, her fingers already at my zipper.
The concrete's not exactly comfortable—no rug, no cushion, just hard floor and the faint smell of old cardboard—but she doesn't seem to care.
She never does when she's this fucking horny.
She unzips me slowly, deliberately, the sound almost loud in the cramped quiet of the storage room. Her eyes stay on mine the whole time. She's always been like that.
Performative in the best way—like she wants me to watch every filthy second of how much she loves having my cock in her hands.
I feel the fabric fall loose, and then her fingers wrap around my thick shaft.
She doesn't rush. Just holds my hard cock for a second, thumb tracing a lazy, slick circle around the swollen head, feeling how heavy and throbbing I am in her palm. Then she strokes—once, twice, slow and easy—and tilts her head like she's appraising her favorite toy.
"I still can't get used to the fact that you pack this drake in your pants every day, Thrustmore." Her voice is breathy, half-laughing, half-awed.
"Like… how the fuck do you even walk around without breaking something? This big fat cock should come with hazard tape."
I smirk down at her. "Practice. And a lot of very uncomfortable jeans."
She laughs, a low, dirty sound, and leans in—pressing a single wet kiss to the leaking tip before dragging her tongue in one long, sloppy stripe from base to head. All while keeping her eyes locked on mine.
I feel my jaw tighten.
She catches that and grins wider.
"Look at you," she murmurs, her thumb still working slick circles over the head while her other hand strokes lazily below, spreading my pre-cum down the shaft. "Already this fucking hard just from kissing. Should I be flattered, or should I be worried you're gonna blow your load the second my lips wrap around this monster?"
"Your fault for wearing that red lace bra," I say, voice rougher than I intended. "And these matching red lace panties I can already see are soaked through."
"Oh, so now it's the lingerie's fault?" She gives me a slow, twisting pump. "Not my mouth? Not the way I look up at you like I'm about to swallow your cock whole?"
"Your mouth hasn't even done anything yet. It just runs constantly, if that counts." I reply mockingly.
That's how we are, bantering and having these talks with each other, right before jumping at each other the next second.
She snorts—actually snorts—then goes back to it, kissing along the side, tracing a thick vein with the tip of her tongue, squeezing lightly at the base. Her red hair's still in that loose ponytail, a few strands falling across her cheek. She looks good like this.
Too fucking good.
She presses another open-mouthed kiss to the tip and looks up at me with this wicked little half-smile.
When she finally takes my cock in, it's slow.
She opens wide, eases forward, and the wet heat of her mouth hits me like a drug. Her cheeks hollow as she finds her rhythm—not rushing, just savoring every thick inch like she's got all the time in the world and intends to use every second of it.
One hand wraps around what won't fit, stroking in time with her mouth. The other grips my thigh, nails digging in, steadying herself as she starts to bob.
I exhale through my nose, long and controlled.
She hums around my cock—this low, filthy, vibrating moan that shoots straight to my balls—and I feel my hand move to her hair without really deciding to. Not pushing. Just resting there, fingers threading through the red strands.
She goes deeper.
There's a sound—wet, messy, unmistakably filthy—and she doesn't try to hide it.
That's one of the things about MJ. She doesn't fake shame she doesn't feel. She's here because she wants my cock down her throat, and the gagging, slurping sounds are just part of the show.
She pulls back to the tip, a thick string of spit and pre-cum connecting her swollen lips to my glistening head, then takes me in again, slower this time, all the way until I feel the tight squeeze of her throat. Her eyes water just slightly. She doesn't break eye contact.
My fingers tighten in her hair.
She makes a soft, choked moan—part gag, part needy hum—and I feel it everywhere.
She pulls off again, catching her breath, spit dripping down her chin, and looks up at me with this expression that's somewhere between smug and challenging. "You're gonna cum so fucking fast if you keep looking at me like you want to fuck my face, Thrustmore."
"What can I say, your fault for being such a good cocksucker."
She grins. "Flattery will get you everywhere, Tiger."
Then she goes back down, and this time she means business.
The pace picks up. No more teasing, no more eye-contact games—she's focused now, working my cock with everything she's got.
Head bobbing fast, hand stroking the base in tight twists, throat opening for me on every downstroke. Wet, obscene slurps and gags fill the small space. The dim bulb above us swings faintly, casting shifting shadows across the shelves.
I keep one hand in her hair, the other braced against a shelf behind me.
Minutes passed as the pressure started to build. I can feel it in my balls.
"MJ—" I start, half-warning, half just groaning her name.
She looks up.
Green eyes, filled with lust. Cheeks flushed. Lips stretched wide around my thick cock.
She doesn't stop.
I cum hard. My whole body locks up, heat exploding down my shaft. My hand fists in her hair.
She takes it all. Every thick pulse. Doesn't pull back, doesn't flinch—just swallows greedily, throat working, milking my cock dry.
Ding!
The system's notification for stacking the points.
I ignore it.
MJ pulls back slowly, tongue swirling one last filthy circle around my sensitive cockhead before letting me slip free.
She wipes the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand, grinning like she just conquered something.
"So," she says, perfectly casual, like she didn't just swallow every drop of my cum, "how was—"
The door handle rattles.
We both freeze.
Three sharp knocks.
Then Danny's voice, muffled through the wood but unmistakably whiny: "MJ? You okay in there? Need help with those boxes?"
MJ goes completely still. She's still on her knees, lips shiny with spit and traces of my cum, cheeks flushed, staring at the door with dead eyes.
Then she slowly pulls the rest of the way off—a thin string of cum and spit breaking—and sits back on her heels.
She wipes her lip again, very deliberately. Then she looks at the door like she wants to set it on fire.
"I'm gonna kill him someday," she whispers, her voice flat with genuine irritation. "He just keeps fucking interrupting."
I'm still a little breathless, cock softening but still slick, but I manage a low chuckle. "Persistent little shit."
Another knock. "Seriously, everything alright in there?"
MJ closes her eyes. Takes a breath.
Her expression is the single most done-with-everything face I have ever seen on a human being. If eye rolls made a sound, this one would've shaken the shelves.
I look at her. Something occurs to me.
"Take off your panties."
She blinks. Looks up at me. "We can't fuck in here, Tiger. Dust's all around—"
"Who said anything about fucking?"
She holds my gaze for a second, reading my face. Then, slowly, that done-with-everything expression shifts into wicked delight.
She reaches under her skirt, hooks her thumbs into the red lace panties—matching the bra, sheer and already drenched dark at the crotch—and slides them down her legs in one smooth motion.
Steps out of them. Holds the soaked scrap up for a second—letting me see how dripping wet she got just from sucking my cock—then tosses them onto a nearby box.
I grab her thighs and lift.
She gasps, her hands flying to my shoulders for balance as her feet leave the ground. With all my strength, she weighs nothing.
For just a second, she's laughing, surprised, her legs instinctively wrapping around my waist.
Then I'm carrying her across the few feet to the door—the very door Danny's been standing on the other side of—and I set her back against it.
She realizes instantly.
Her eyes go wide, then narrow, then fill with this slow, filthy understanding.
I hook her thighs over my shoulders.
Her upper back stays braced against the door as her entire lower half comes up to my level—her bare, glistening pussy right at my mouth, skirt bunched at her hips, red lace bra still peeking out from her half-unbuttoned shirt.
She looks down at me from above with an expression that is equal parts disbelief and absolute delight.
I look up at her.
"Be loud," I growl.
And I don't build up to it. No teasing, I go in flat and direct—tongue long and firm against her dripping slit, one slow, filthy lick from her soaked entrance all the way up to her swollen clit—and she makes a loud, broken sound immediately, her hands slamming back against the door to steady herself.
"Fuck—yes—eat my pussy, Tiger—fuck—"
I do it again. Then I settle on her clit—slow circles first, faster, then a hard flicking pattern I know makes her lose her mind.
Two of my fingers slide into her tight, wet heat, curling up to rub that spongy spot while my tongue lashes her clit without mercy.
"Oh my go—" she moans, loud, shameless. "Right there—fuck—suck my clit harder—make me come all over your face—let that little bastard Danny hear exactly what he'll never get—"
Outside, the knocking stops.
Silence.
I don't let up—if anything, I go harder, sucking her clit into my mouth, fingers pumping faster, curling deeper. Her thighs clamp around my head like she's trying to crush me.
"Yes—yes—fuck—he's probably listening to you tongue-fucking my soaked pussy—oh god—harder—don't stop—make me squirt on your tongue—"
She laughs breathlessly, the sound cracking into a filthy moan halfway through. "He's running—I can hear him running—poor baby can't handle knowing I'm getting eaten out better than he'll ever dream—"
One hand yanks the cup of her red lace bra aside. Her fingers find her own nipple, pinching and twisting hard, and the high, desperate whine she makes is obscene.
Her thighs start trembling violently.
I can feel it—the way her pussy clenches around my fingers, the way her hips lose rhythm, grinding desperately against my face. Her breathing turns ragged, sharp little punched-out moans between each exhale.
Her back arches off the door, thighs lock around my ears, and she comes with a loud, choked cry—half-muffled because she bites down on her own forearm, but still loud enough to echo through the wood.
Her pussy pulses, clenching, flooding my mouth and fingers with every shuddering wave.
Ding!
Another notification, which I ignored again.
I ease her through it, slowing my tongue, letting the aftershocks ripple until she's whimpering, oversensitive.
I finally lowered her legs from my shoulders. She slides back down to the floor slowly, knees soft, hands clutching my arms to stay upright.
She's flushed all the way down her chest, lips swollen, thighs slick with her own cum.
She laughs while trying to breathe.
"You really keep me up in the air…" She shakes her head slightly. "Literally, this time."
I wipe my mouth—chin shiny with her juices—and smirk. "Had to make sure Danny got the message."
"Oh, he got it." She's still catching her breath. "He got it, he processed it, and he's currently somewhere in Manhattan repressing it." She pauses. "Same time next shift?"
"Count on it."
She fixes her bra, straightens her skirt, and smooths her shirt. Looks down at the red lace panties still sitting on top of a box of napkins—damp trophy.
And she takes it.
I check the hallway through a crack in the door. Empty. Danny's long gone—probably stress-eating a muffin at the counter and questioning every life choice that led him here.
I glance back at MJ, who's leaning against the shelf again, picking her ponytail out and retying it as if nothing happened.
"I'll head out first," she says, casual as anything. "Give it two minutes."
"Yeah."
She slips out, pulling the door almost closed behind her.
I lean back against the shelf in the quiet. The storage room feels emptier now.
Let's see how many points I earned.
.....
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