Lois Spreads Her Pussy

It might have been the booze talking. Or maybe it was just that Lois Lane realized how wet she was. Here she was, trapped in the stall with this uncouth, filthy dickgirl after sucking so many cocks at the bar...the reporter felt nasty in more ways than one.

Pants still around her knees, she turned herself over and laid her breasts against the toilet seat. Reached back and grabbed her pussy lips and spread them until they touched her thighs. Knowing that she was showing the shiny, wet pink hole to this swinging dick, almost begging to be destroyed.

"No gloves," the dickgirl said as she slapped her meaty prick against the reporter's pussy. "You got anything I can catch, slut?"

A shiver went through Lois Lane's body at the word. Her head began to swim, breath hot in her mouth. The toilet seat was sticky against her ass.

"No," Lois said. "I'm clean."

That was apparently all the nameless shemale needed to hear. She squatted down, the head of her cock pressed against the reporter's pussy. Hands gripped Lois Lane's shoulders, pressing her into place.

"Not for long."

There was nothing slow or gently about it. No prelude or foreplay. One moment, the hard, swollen head of the cock was at the entrance to the pussy that Lois Lane was holding open—and the next, the balls were slapping at her cunt, the cock a hair's breadth from the mouth of her womb.

Pressing Lois Lane down against the toilet seat, the dickgirl began to pump her cock out of the reporter's cunt fast and hard. Lois could barely focus on anything except the hard, driving fuck that was stretching her pussy faster than she could register, the fingers digging into her shoulders hard to keep the reporter from wiggling as the nuts slapped into her labia.

Grunts and moans filled the bathroom. Even through the booze, Lois could feel the head of the cock scraping against her pussy like it was carving out a new channel. It was rough, a bit painful, and the dickgirl humping her was moving like an animal, punching her dick in so deep and hard with no concern for Lois Lane's pleasure whatever...it was like a romance novel; all the raging prick fucking her needed was a handlebar mustache and a bodice to rip. She was the **** that had haunted Lois Lane's wet dreams, the faceless form of masculine desire that deep down Lois Lane had always dreamed of taking her just like that, face down in a filthy toilet with the taste of cum and tequila on the reporter's breath...

It was perfect.

Then it got better.

"I'm gonna blow my load, slut. Where do you want it?"