Page 25 of Toxic B!tch
I smirk, leaning in to whisper in his ear, "Threats… I like that." I giggle softly, sliding down from his hold, watching the way his gaze follows me with a hunger that makes my skin tingle.
Dropping to my knees in front of him, I look up through my lashes, and run my hands up his thighs, hooking my fingers into the waistband of his joggers. His breathing grows heavier, his eyes intent on me.
I tug his joggers down, my eyes never leaving his. He sucks in a breath, his hands moving to steady himself against the wall. I savor the moment, dragging it out, letting the tension build as I take in every detail of him—the way his jaw clenches, the rise and fall of his chest, the way his eyes seem to darken with each passing second.
Finally, my prize is before me, thick and ready, and I can't resist the thrill that courses through me. Starting at the base, I lean forward, my tongue darting out to trace a line up his length, feeling the warmth of him under my touch. I hear a low growl escape his throat and my pussy dampens. The sound of it is intoxicating, and I can’t help but smile, knowing I’m the one bringing him to this point.
When I reach the tip, I swirl my tongue around it slowly, savoring every reaction. His breathing is ragged, and I can feelhis body tense under my touch. His hands find their way into my hair, his fingers threading through it, holding on tightly as if he’s grounding himself.
“Indigo…” he breathes, his voice barely more than a whisper. The need in his tone sends warmth flooding through me, a heady rush that only makes me want him more. I look up at him, locking eyes, and there’s an intensity there that makes everything else—the funhouse, the carnival, the world outside—fade into nothing. Right now, it’s just us, lost in this perfect, private moment.
I wrap my lips around his thick cock and take him deeper, working him slowly, savoring every reaction, every groan, every tensed muscle. His fingers tighten in my hair, and I know he’s trying to hold back, to keep control, but I’m not about to make it easy for him. I pick up my pace, letting him feel exactly what he does to me, showing him just how much I want him.
He lets out a low, shuddering breath, and I know he’s close. His hand tightens in my hair and I hum around him from the sting of him pulling at the roots.
“You’re going to be the death of me,” he murmurs, his voice rough.
I pull off his cock so I can reply. “Good. Because I’m not done with you yet.”
Using my front teeth, I graze his swollen mushroom head. He hisses, but I quickly kiss away the pain and take him into the back of my throat.
I bob up and down on his shaft, letting him slide to the back of my throat until my nose touches his groin. Holding him there, I cup his balls with my right hand and squeeze.
With a loud groan, Malik’s dick twitches, and I know he’s going to come. I pull back and lap at his tip, while stroking him quickly with my other hand.
“Fuck, baby,” he sighs and his whole body quakes as rope after rope of his hot cum covers my tongue and lips.
I savor the taste of him, sharp and slightly bitter, before I swallow every drop he gives me.
His hand moves from my hair to my shoulder, pulling me up gently, his eyes burning with an intensity that leaves me breathless.
“You’re not a good girl,” he whispers, his voice rough as he pulls me to him, capturing my mouth in a kiss.
I smile against his lips, whispering, “Never claimed to be. Now let's go win something squishy and then I want to ride that cock.”
Malik pulls up his pants, and this time it’s him who’s practically dragging me through the last part of the funhouse.
The exit looms ahead, a flashing sign above us blinking wildly in the dim light as we step out. The disorienting funhouse mirrors and the dizzying maze of colors finally fade, and the cool night breeze hits me like a breath of fresh air.
"Tell me what you want me to win," he demands, his voice clear and firm.
I scan the carnival booths, all the colorful prizes hanging from ropes and stacked behind the counters. A sea of stuffed animals and inflatable toys surrounds me. But one catches my eye—small and unique. A cute little plague doctor stuffed toy, its tiny mask and long beak drawing me in. I need it.
"That one!" I point.
Malik smirks, nodding. "Done."
We make our way toward the game. It's one of those carnival booths with a ring toss—a flimsy plastic hoop, and a stack of glass bottles lined up on a counter. The kind where winning feels like a complete fluke. The game operator, a man with a few missing teeth, flashes us a crooked grin.
"Two tries for five bucks," he tells us, his voice raspy. "You gotta land that ring on one of the bottles. It's harder than it looks."
Malik hands over the five-dollar bill without hesitation, rolling up his sleeves. He takes the first ring and flicks his wrist, sending it flying toward a bottle. It misses by a good few inches, landing on the counter with a soft thud.
The second ring arcs through the air—closer, but still no cigar.
“Better luck next time,” the operator says, barely concealing a grin.
Malik doesn’t flinch. He pulls out another five, hands it over, and gets ready for the next round.
