January Week 2: Friday--Mr. Baker...Snow White: Bake cums inside Leah Doggy (Suspicion: +5)

“Don’t—ugh! Make a mess!” Leah choked out, her hands white-knuckled on the comforter as Mr. Baker pounded her from behind. “Just cum inside me.” Her voice was ragged, nearly collapsing under the weight of her shame and exhaustion. She hated the idea of his seed painting her face, hated the video evidence of it even more. This was bad enough without a pearly “money shot” for all posterity—or for Jonathan to possibly find evidence of.

Baker snorted, breath gone feral.

“Anything for my princess,” he groaned, his grip on her hips so tight she’d probably wear the outline of his fingers for days. She could hear the video camera’s motor whir, the lens adjusting, refocusing, immortalizing every sound and tremor of her humiliation.

He was driving his cock as deep as it could go, and she felt him empty himself in a molten rush that left her gasping. He made a sound—it started as a moan, then crescendoed into something almost like a sob, before collapsing into harsh, satisfied panting.

Baker stayed inside her for a long moment one hand kneading her ass, almost absentmindedly now. The camera continued to record, the lens blinking red, the focus so tight she could hear every sticky, humiliating sound as he finally slid out of her. The sudden emptiness was a shock. She could feel his cum dribbling down her thighs, even before she dared to shift her knees.

“You want a copy for yourself?” Baker asked as he began to clean himself up.

Leah shook her head, mute. Her hands shook as she flattened out the skirt and tried to regain some semblance of dignity. She looked around for some tissues and cleaned herself up as best as she could as she changed into her regular clothes.

“Well, thanks for being a good sport Leah. I gotta admit.” he said glad she had put the costume on. “Have a good weekend Leah.” he said absentmindedly as he prepared the cameras he used to take home to “edit” them to his own liking.

“I’ve gotta go.” she said trying to hold it all together and noting the time. Jonathan would be home by now.

She slung her bag over her shoulder and tried to walk out of the classroom with her head held high, but it was hard when every step was a sticky, uncomfortable reminder of what she’d just given up. The sun was setting, blood-orange through the dirty glass of the parking lot. She tried to breathe in the fresh air, but it only made her acutely aware of the stale, animal smell she carried with her.

She drove home in silence, the radio turned off. Every time she shifted in the car seat, she could feel the evidence of what had happened, and she wondered—would Jonathan notice? Would he know? Would he smell the other man on her skin, or would he just be relieved that she was home, that she was still his?