She has needs too

She is still on her knees, mouth stretched wide around the thick, spit-slick shaft of your cock, working you with long, greedy strokes. Saliva runs in shiny trails down to the base where her fist is wrapped tight; every wet pull of her lips draws another muffled sound of pure hunger from her throat. Her eyes are glassy, half-lidded, fixed upward on your face whenever she can manage it. The front of her little shorts is visibly soaked now, the dark patch spreading wider every time she shifts her thighs together.

You let her keep going for another minute—let her feel the weight of you on her tongue, the way your cock keeps throbbing harder the more spit she works up—then you ease her back with a light pressure on the back of her head. She comes off with a wet, reluctant pop, a thick strand of saliva still connecting her swollen lower lip to the flushed head. She is panting, cheeks flushed dark, chin shiny.

For a second she just stares at the heavy, glistening length of you, chest rising and falling fast. Then the words tumble out, soft and urgent and stripped of every last scrap of the attitude she walked in with.

“Please… please put it in me.”

Her voice cracks on the last word. She shifts on her knees, thighs pressing tight, then spreading a little as if she can’t decide which feels worse. One hand stays wrapped loosely around the base of your cock; the other drops between her own legs, pressing hard against the soaked crotch of her shorts.

“I’m so wet,” she whispers, almost ashamed of how true it is. “My snatch is fucking dripping. I’ve been soaked since you made me pickup the clothes. Please—just put it in. I need it. I need that big cock inside me.”

She leans forward again, pressing her cheek against the slick shaft, nuzzling the length while she keeps begging in a low, breathless rush.

“I’ll be so good. I’ll take it however you want. Just… please. Push it into my wet little snatch. Stretch me open. I don’t care if it hurts at first—I want to feel every thick inch. Please…”

Her hips rock helplessly against her own hand. The wet spot on her shorts has grown dark enough to shine. She looks up at you with wide, pleading eyes, lips parted, still tasting you on her tongue, and the last of her resistance is gone. She is right there on the floor of your room, openly begging for the cock she has been staring at and stroking and sucking all morning.

The house is still quiet. No one is coming up the stairs. She is waiting—trembling, soaked, desperate—for whatever you decide to give her next.