She picked up the phone on the third ring, voice already shaky with need. “Smut Busters, this is Lena. What’s your blockage?”
“Everything,” I said, pacing my bedroom in nothing but a soaked pair of panties. “My toys are dead, my fingers aren’t enough, and I’m about to lose my goddamn mind.”
Lena laughed, low and knowing. “Address. We’ll send our best. He’ll be there in twenty. Name’s Jax.”
The line went dead. Twenty minutes later a knock rattled my door. I opened it and there he was—tall, broad, jeans already strained at the zipper, carrying a black duffel like he meant business.
“Jax,” he said, stepping inside without waiting. “Heard you’re backed up. Let’s clear that pipe.”
He didn’t waste time with small talk. The duffel hit the floor and his hands were on me, yanking my panties down my thighs. “Dripping already. Good. Means we skip the warm-up.” Two thick fingers slid straight into my cunt, curling hard against my front wall. I gasped and grabbed his shoulders.
“Fuck—harder.”
He pumped them fast, thumb grinding my clit with every stroke. “You called the right crew. We don’t do gentle.” His free hand unzipped his jeans and freed his cock—thick, veined, already leaking. He pushed me onto the bed, spread my legs, and replaced his fingers with his mouth, tongue fucking me deep while he stroked himself.
I came in under a minute, thighs shaking around his head. He didn’t stop. He licked through it, sucking my swollen clit until I was begging.
“Condom or raw?” he asked, voice muffled against my pussy.
“Raw. I want to feel every inch when you bust me open.”
He stood, kicked his jeans off, and climbed over me. One thrust and he was buried to the hilt, stretching me wide. He fucked like he was on the clock—deep, relentless, hips snapping. The wet slap of skin filled the room.
“Talk to me,” I panted. “Tell me what you’re doing.”
“Busting that tight little cunt,” he growled, pounding harder. “Gonna flood it so you’re leaking for days. You called Smut Busters, baby—you get the full service.” He flipped me onto my stomach, yanked my hips up, and drove back in. One hand reached under to rub my clit in tight circles while the other pressed between my shoulder blades, pinning me.
I came again, screaming into the mattress. He kept going, using my spasming pussy until his rhythm stuttered. “Gonna fill you,” he warned, then slammed deep and unloaded, hot pulses flooding me. He stayed inside, grinding through the aftershocks, making sure every drop stayed put.
When he finally pulled out, he scooped the mess with two fingers and pushed it back in. “Can’t have any blockage left. Round two’s in the shower.”
He hauled me up, carried me to the bathroom, and bent me over the sink. The water hadn’t even heated before he was inside me again, slower this time but just as filthy, narrating every thrust.
“Look at that cum dripping down your thighs. We’re not done till you’re empty and I’m empty.”
By the third round—me riding him on the living-room floor, his hands guiding my hips while he told me exactly how many times he was going to make me squirt—I was wrecked, sore, and finally satisfied. He left the duffel on the table.
“Call again when it builds back up. We’re twenty-four seven.”
The door clicked shut. I lay there, thighs sticky, already wondering how soon I could dial again. Smut Busters didn’t just clear the blockage—they left you craving the next call.
