My hand rests on the overflowing trashcan. A warm juicy rubber drapes over another, cold but very wet.
He could have tidied up the place.
His calloused finger starts at my tailbone, teases my pucker and I gasp, traces down into my wetness and paints my clit. His cock resolves, stabs my hip.
His arm appears like a crane on the Manhattan skyline, dips toward the nightstand and retrieves a shrinking ribbon of foil pouches. I swallow.
A sweet rip.
Unfurling latex crackles.
“Again?” I whisper.
I spread my legs and jack up my hips.
Cleanliness is overrated.