Chapter 571: Dominate Reyna (r-18) She stopped at my table, leaning against the chair opposite me, not sitting. The posture was one of lazy confidence. "Well, look what the cat dragged in," she said, her voice a low purr that vibrated through the floor. "I was wondering when you’d get tired of playing with your little rich girls and come see a real woman." "I was just taking care of some business," I said, taking a sip of the water she had brought me earlier. "An apology, of sorts." Her eyes sharpened, a flicker of curiosity cutting through the seductive haze. "Apology, huh? Those are my favorite kind. They involve so much... groveling." "This one involved more building," I said. "Building what?" "An empire," I replied simply. She stared at me for a long moment, seeing past the handsome face and the expensive clothes, seeing the truth hidden in my eyes. Then a slow, wicked smile spread across her lips. "Good," she said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "I like empires. And I love helping men who build them... unwind." She walked around to my side of the table, her hand resting on my shoulder, her fingers digging in gently. "So, Peter. Tell Reyna all about it while she makes you a real drink." *** The lock snapped shut like a rifle bolt sliding home, trapping us in the humid, little cave of her studio room. The air was thick with lust: stale merlot, the sweat-slick vanilla of her perfume, and the raw, cunt-heavy musk that had been simmering between her thighs since last call. The single overhead bulb buzzed like a trapped fly, spilling a light the color of old piss over a landscape of carnage. Sheets were twisted like someone had been fucked into another dimension and fled. A peach on the nightstand. Bras and thongs hemorrhaged from an overturned laundry basket; one crimson garter lay coiled on the floorboards like a used, black condom. She spun, her cheeks already ablaze with a shame she wore like war paint. "Fuck, sorry, it’s a goddamn pigsty in here." A stiletto skittered across the floorboards. "I’m not this nasty, I swear, shift bled into overtime, then the fucking subway—" I stayed planted, my pulse a jackhammer against my ribs, the water glass I was still holding dripping cold condensation down my wrist. "Don’t you tidy up for me." A low, wet laugh barked from her lips. "Bullshit. I’m not having you thinking I live like this." She bent at the waist, her ass flaring, a perfect heart-shaped target. The bodysuit rode so deep between her cheeks the seam simply vanished, swallowed by the slick, swollen lips I could smell from here. Her fingers snagged a scrap of emerald lace from the basket. It was obscene, tiny and intimate, the crotch a darker, soaked-through green where her cunt had wept all night. She froze, her body going still as she lifted it. A single, glistening thread of her slick stretched, catching the harsh light. The scent slammed into me then—a physical blow. Pure, filthy her: hot pussy, salt, the sour-sweet stink of a long shift grinding against denim. Her eyes, dark and fathomless, locked on mine, her pupils blown black with hunger. "Can’t have you eyeballing these little presents, can I?" She prowled closer, her hips rolling like she was already riding my cock, the lace dangling from two fingers like a hypnotist’s charm. "Wore them last night. Every time I bent for a bottle, I felt myself drip into them. Thought about you and that big fucking monster between your legs splitting me open on this very bar top." She pressed the delicate lace to her own face, inhaled hard enough to make her chest heave, her eyelids fluttering shut. A guttural, "Fuck, my scent is still in them. Fuuuuck," rumbled out of her chest. Then, in a move that sent a jolt straight to my cock, she shoved the soaked gusset right under my nose. I sucked in a lungful, my chest on fire. The fabric was still body-warm, tacky with the remnants of her cream. I tasted her without even using my tongue: thick, tangy, the exact flavor of a cunt that’s been throbbing for hours. She crushed her body against me, her tits mashing soft and heavy against my chest, her nipples like hard bullets through the thin suit. The gold cross pendant was a cold, sharp point between us. Her mouth grazed my ear, her voice a filthy, intoxicating whisper. "Tell me, baby... you wanna keep huffing yesterday’s sloppy seconds..." Her hips ground forward, the rough denim of her jeans rasping against my trapped cock, "...or should I peel off the pair I am wearing that I’ve been marinating in since last call? The ones soaked through with fresh cunt, just begging for your face?" She yanked the emerald lace from my mouth with a wet schlick, strings of my spit and her dried cream stretching and snapping, splattering across my lips. Then she shoved them under her own nose, flaring her nostrils wide and dragging in a lungful so deep her entire body trembled. A low, animal growl vibrated in her throat. "Jesus, I reek like a back-alley whore. Smell that? That’s my pussy after I finger-fucked myself in the bathroom stall, three times, knuckles dripping, thinking about you fucking me open against the sink." She smeared the gusset across her own mouth, painting her lips glossy with her own dried cum, then licked it with long, sloppy stripes, her tongue curling as she moaned like she was eating her own cunt. The sound was wet, viscous, her saliva mixing with the crusty flakes until the lace glistened fresh and obscene. She stepped in so close, her thigh shoving between mine, and ground her cunt directly against my rock-hard cock. The heat was brutal, a burning furnace radiating through the two layers of soaked fabric, her swollen lips parting around the ridge of my shaft, the seam of her jeans rasping against my zipper with every vicious roll of her hips. I could feel her frantic pulse throbbing there, a wet, desperate heartbeat against my own flesh. "Feel that?" she hissed, her voice raw, ragged. "That’s the pair I’ve been creaming in since I saw you walk in. Soaked through. Glued to my slit. I’ve been dripping like a broken faucet every time you looked at me, baby. Every. Fucking. Time." She hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her jeans, yanking them down just enough to flash the black lace of the pair she wore now. They were drenched, translucent, clinging to her puffy, swollen lips like wet tissue paper. A bead of clear, fresh slick rolled down her inner thigh, thick and heavy as honey, catching the light before splattering on the floorboards. The smell hit me next: hot, tangy, the exact stink of a live, thriving cunt mixed with the faint copper of her sweat. "These are ruined," she growled, a predator admiring her kill. "I’ve been creaming so hard the crotch is crunchy with it. Smell." With a brutal, single motion, she ripped the black panties down her thighs. The fabric peeled away from her cunt with a wet, sucking schlorp. They were sopping, heavy with her, the crotch a dark, glistening swamp. She balled them up—hot, dripping, reeking of fresh, potent pussy—and slapped them hard against my face. I inhaled, my lungs burning with the raw, primal scent. She smeared them across my mouth, my nose, my cheeks, until I was coated in her—a slick, sticky war paint of her most intimate essence. "Open, my love," she barked, her voice dripping with venom and honey. I did. She stuffed the black lace into my mouth, crotch-first, the fresh, hot slick flooding my tongue in a gush. I moaned, choking on the taste, the fabric crunchy in places with her dried lust and slimy in others with the new. My own cock leaked a dark, wet spot through my jeans. The taste was an explosion: thick, tangy, the exact flavor of her cunt after hours of edging herself under the bar while thinking of me. "That’s tonight’s load," she whispered, her voice a filthy caress against my ear. "That’s what I’ve been saving for you. Now, you keep those in your teeth while I ride your fucking face till I drown you."