Harley Quinn...Jilling Herself Off

The booty shorts were around her knees. Two pale fingers buried in her twat. The pale hair tied up in pigtails, the tips died blue and red. White greasepaint, dark circles under her eyes. Breasts squeezed into a front-zippered red and black boob tube that served as a good distraction during heists. Vintage Doc Martens scuffed and bloodstained.

Lois Lane and Harley Quinn were so wrapped up in each other that they never even heard the Clown Princess of Crime come into the room. Now, as Ivy focused her efforts on rewiring the reporter's brain to her asshole, Harley stood by the door, discreetly pumping her fingers into her pussy.

Oh Pammy, Harley thought as her heart ached. Why you gotta step out on me with her?

Tears welled in the villain's eyes. A soporific haze of pollen and spores hung heavy in the air. Lois Lane moaned like a bitch in heat as her body and brain were rewired. From her vantage near the door, Harley could see the violet eyes roll up in their sockets, the dribbles of milk that puddled around her tits, the way her girlfriend's tongue buried itself so deep into that ass, that gaped so wide and easily.

F-fucking cheating cunt! Harley tried to find that spot of rage inside of her, the anger and betrayal that would let her just barge in and break up this act of wanton infidelity.

Well, sort of infidelity. Harley had always considered herself exclusive with Ivy, but they hadn't actually talked about it. Or gotten married. Nothing official.

God dammit, when you suck on a woman's toes and drink tequila out of her pussy and masturbate while sniffing her used underwear, that's supposed to mean commitment! Harley thought bitterly.

Yet she couldn't deny that watching her bestie/love of her life reduce the Daily Planet's greatest reporter to a quivering fuckpuddle with just a rimjob was the hottest thing she had seen all week.

"Oh Pammy," Harley whispered. "Why won't you lick my ass like that?"