Red Confession: Milly’s Feverish Night Before the Mission

The hotel room in Villahermosa drips with humidity. Fans whirl hot air. I stand before the mirror, Milly now. Copper hair tousled boyish, brows thin, lips pale glossed. Skirt flares above knees, nylon stockings hug thighs, lace panties cradle my throbbing cock tucked tight. Padded bra pushes fake cleavage. Boots mid-heel, ready to sway. Heart hammers. Skin slick. Raïssa on the terrace, cigarette smoke curling. I step out. Night pulses below, bass thumps. She turns. Eyes devour me. ‘Milly, sublime.’ Her voice husky. Top loose, no bra, nipples peak through. Camo shorts ride high on bronze thighs. Pulse races. She stubs the cig. Grabs my wrist. Pulls me inside. Door slams. Heat explodes. Her breath on my neck. Fingers trace my jaw, down throat, chain necklace cool against fevered skin. ‘One last taste before Curtis.’ Lips crash. Tongues tangle. Salty, urgent. Hands roam. She squeezes my ass under skirt, plugs shifts inside, vibrations hum low. Cock strains cache-sexe. Knees buckle. She pushes me to bed. Skirt flips up. Fingers hook panties. ‘Feel it, Milly.’ Whispers hot. Circles my hole, plug buzzes harder via app. I gasp. Hips buck. Sweat beads. Heart thuds wild. Her thigh presses my bulge. Grind. Need consumes. ‘Fuck me first.’ I beg. Eyes lock, black fire. She smirks. Dangerous. Possessive. Fingers plunge, lube slick from earlier. Stretch. Burn. Bliss. Body arches. Urgency claws. Now. Take me.