Wet Sloppy blowjob

Mia’s devil horns bobbed as she took me deeper, spit already coating my shaft and dripping down over her fingers where they gripped the base. She didn’t ease into it—she went straight for messy, sucking hard enough that wet, obscene sounds filled the tiny bathroom. Every few strokes she pulled off to let a thick strand of saliva stretch from her lower lip to my swollen head, then she dove back down, tongue swirling and cheeks hollowing like she wanted to ruin me for anyone else.

“Fuck, your girlfriend’s never done this for you, has she?” she mumbled around the head, voice thick with spit. She stroked me fast with one hand while her tongue flicked under the ridge. “I bet Sarah’s mouth feels nothing like this. Mine’s wetter. Hotter. I’m not afraid to get nasty.”

She proved it by forcing herself lower until her nose brushed my stomach, gagging once before pulling back with a cough that left even more drool running down my balls. She didn’t wipe it away. Instead she smeared it over my cock with both hands, jerking me in long, sloppy strokes while she looked up, mascara already starting to run.

“Tell me the truth,” she said, licking a slow stripe from base to tip again. “Is Sarah better at sucking cock than this? Or does my throat feel fucking incredible right now?” She didn’t wait for an answer. She swallowed me again, noisier this time, throat working around the head while more spit poured out around her lips and down her chin.

Mia pulled off just long enough to gasp, “Her mouth’s never felt this good, has it? Say it. Say my mouth is better.” Then she went right back down, sucking with loud, wet pulls that made my knees shake. Every time she came up for air she asked another question, voice hoarse: “Does Sarah gag like this? Does she let it get this messy? Does she beg you to fuck her throat the way I’m about to?”

She opened wide, stuck her tongue out flat, and let me thrust between her lips while she held eye contact, drool pouring down her neck and onto her exposed tits. Every few pumps she’d pull back, strings of spit connecting us, and taunt me again. “Admit it. My mouth is ruining you for her. You’re never gonna feel the same after this sloppy fucking throat.”

Her hands never stopped moving—stroking, twisting, spreading the mess—while her mouth worked me over like she was trying to make every memory of Sarah’s blowjobs feel inadequate by comparison. The whole conversation from earlier, every comparison she’d made, every little dig at my girlfriend, had been leading exactly here: Mia on her knees, turning the locked bathroom into a filthy, spit-soaked confessional where she wanted me to say out loud that her mouth was better.