simon ghost riley works as a bouncer in the local town club, a small place notable for its signs that are barely blinking in the dark of the night, a type of shebang for its own people, making money from stable patrons, most often ordinary alcoholics and crowds of crazy teenagers who only look like adults, but in fact are not, although he should not care, he's here only for particularly serious cases of beatings or worse, sometimes even so that the cops called to the scene forget why they're here.
to stand on a damp street, sinewy back leaning against a cold brick wall very close to the main door, and people still get frightened of him every time, especially late at midnights, when only the silhouette of a skull on a balaclava and bottomless charcoal eyes are watching them from the corner, even the blonde eyelashes that frame his eyes oddly delicately do not help, but somehow he got used to it, learned to be amused by every squeak and gasp he received, both women and men reacting the same.
the job has its advantages, he could eat snacks from the bar in immeasurable quantities, because, one way or another, not many could refuse him, as well as allow himself a couple of sips of not at all cheap bourbon, but most of all he liked you, a cute, pretty little bartender, dressed to attract the eye not only with those tricks with drinks, but also with your revealing appearance, because of which simon more than once pulled all sorts of tipsy perverts away from you by the scruff of their neck, atlough he himself was no better than a dog.
you're just a doll, seriously, pouring into his glass despite the fact that you've already received a warning from your superiors, giggle sweetly at his old fashioned army humor, put your soft palm on his strong biceps in fits of laughter, thinking that simon doesn't notice that you're doing this only to him, grow sheepish when he ogles brazenly at the deep neckline of your cleavage in this work top, after he had drunk a little too much and no longer hides a slight grin on his thin, nicked lips, damn, you even flutter close to ask him if everything is okay when he smashes his knuckles on the face of another asshole.
and you also let him pound your soppy little cunt in the club's dingy storage room, squelching wet and needy around the jerking, veiny girth of his cock, pulsing walls gripping tight at the fat tip as his broad, scarred hips withdraw back, thrusts turning choppy as he forces himself deeper, knocking choking keens out of your drooling mouth, calloused thumb pulling harsh at your lower lip, making your jaw go more lax, opening up for his spit and gurgling when he bends to smear it all over your mouth palate and teeth with his own tongue, your shaking hands curling into the stretched fabric of his shirt on the ample chest.
there's advantages for sure, because there's nothing better than watching you try to work while his cooling cum drips between your legs and down their length, throwing offended angry glances simon's way and shuddering when he catches you passing by, wide palm smoothing over the clothed swell of your ass with a teasing grope, reminding that your slick drenched panties are now stuffed in the pocket of his cargos, lacy fabric barely peeking out, and this may well be considered a bonus for good work this week.
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