Mira’s breath hitched—panic and need warring in her eyes as she lifted her head just enough to look at .
"Please..." she whispered, so quiet the wind almost stole it. "Don’t... don’t make cum yet... I’ll... I’ll soak through everything... they’ll see..."
I grinned—slow, filthy—then angled the jetpack into a gentle dive, letting gravity and vibration do the work.
"Too late, baby girl."
The thrusters pulsed once—harder—sending a deep thrum straight to her clit.
Mira’s eyes rolled back. Her thighs clamped vise-tight. A broken, high-pitched moan tore from her throat—lost to the wind but unmistakable to the three of us.
She ca—hard, sudden—hips jerking wildly against , pussy spasming through denim, soaking my pants in hot, gushing waves. Her tits heaved against my chest; tears of overstimulation pricked her lashes.
Lisa and Angela both laughed—soft, cruel, delighted—pressing closer, grinding their own aching bodies against as we soared.
We reached the location where everyone was....
I landed the jetpack in a soft puff of sand and blue exhaust, touching down about fifty yards from the main cluster of tents and the smoldering fire pit that marked the survivors’ base. The thrusters cut out with a low whine, leaving only the crash of distant waves and the sudden, heavy silence of everyone staring.
Mira was still strapped tight against —thighs locked around my waist, tits crushed to my chest, belt cinched so snug she couldn’t have pulled away if she wanted to. But the mont my boots hit sand, she stiffened.
Her new jeans were completely ruined: a dark, unmistakable wet patch spreading from crotch to mid-thigh, the denim soaked through with her own squirt from that mid-flight orgasm. The fabric clung obscenely to her pussy lips, outlining every swollen fold, and the sharp, musky scent of her arousal hung thick in the air around us—impossible to miss.
She lifted her head from my neck, cheeks blazing crimson, and shot the most annoyed, mortified glare I’d ever seen from her. Her eyes were glassy with leftover pleasure and fresh humiliation.
"How am I supposed to go et them like this...?" she hissed under her breath, voice trembling. "It’s all your fault... even the sll... you... You made co so hard I soaked everything... they’re gonna sll before they even see my face..."
Angela and Lisa both chuckled—low, wicked, delighted—still tucked under my arms like they owned the mont.
Angela leaned in, lips brushing my ear. "She’s dripping down her legs, husband. Look at that dark spot... It’s practically shining in the sun."
Lisa’s hand slid down to squeeze Mira’s ass through the wet denim. "Poor little wife. Flew in riding his cock like a jetpack slut and now she’s gonna walk up to her family reeking of fresh cum and squirt."
Mira whimpered—half protest, half helpless arousal—hips twitching once against before she could stop herself.
I smirked, and bought a new pair of jeans from Supermarket Store, dark jeans materialized in my hand—sa fit as before, snug but decent.
"Here, baby girl," I said, voice low and teasing. "Fresh pair. No panties again, though. You know why."
Mira glanced around frantically—sand dunes, scattered rocks, the curve of the beach hiding us from direct line-of-sight to the camp. No one close enough to see.
I unclipped the belt with a soft click. She slid down my body slowly—tits dragging, pussy grinding one last filthy ti against my bulge—until her feet hit sand. Her legs wobbled; I steadied her with a hand on her hip.
"Don’t worry," I murmured. "Nobody’s here."
She scoffed—annoyed, flustered—but her fingers were already fumbling with the button of her soaked jeans. She peeled them down with difficulty—the wet denim clinging stubbornly to her thighs like it didn’t want to let go.
A fresh trickle of her slick ran down her inner leg as she stepped out of them; the scent hit harder—thick, feminine, unmistakably post-orgasm.
No panties underneath, just like I’d left her earlier. Her pussy was still swollen, lips dark and glistening in the daylight, clit peeking out like it was begging for more attention.
She gasped softly as the cool air kissed her bare cunt—then hurried into the new jeans, shimmying them up with little hops that made her tits bounce under the t-shirt.
The fresh denim hugged her ass perfectly—dry now, but the way she walked told every seam was rubbing against her sensitive folds and tender asshole. She zipped up, smoothed her hands down the front, then shot another glare that was more pout than anger.
"Happy now?" she muttered.
I just grinned, slinging an arm around her waist and pulling her close. Angela and Lisa fell in on either side—Angela’s sundress fluttering in the breeze, Lisa’s cropped tank clinging to her sweat-damp skin.
We walked the last stretch together—four of us, marked, flushed, reeking faintly of cave sex and jetpack vibration orgasms—toward the cluster of tents and weary faces.
The camp went dead quiet the mont they saw us.
gan was still in charge—standing tallest near the fire pit, her once-crisp cop uniform now faded, dirt-streaked, sleeves rolled up to show tanned forearms. Exhaustion carved lines around her eyes, but her posture was still rigid, authoritative.
The others were scattered around her: Jack (Mira’s husband), Bill (her son), Hailey, Nicole, Paul, and a few more survivors—all of them looking thinner, more hollowed-out than when we’d left. Hope had worn thin here.
As soon as our shadows fell across the sand, conversation died. Heads turned.
Jack’s eyes flicked up—then imdiately away, jaw clenched so tight I could see the muscle jump. He stared at the horizon as it owed him money. Bill mirrored him—shoulders hunched, turning his back, refusing to look at his mother or at .
Nicole hesitated—eyes wide, locked on Mira. Her lower lip trembled; she took half a step forward, then stopped, like she didn’t know whether to run to her mom or hide.
Mira didn’t even glance at Jack or Bill.
Her gaze went straight to Nicole—soft, aching, maternal despite everything. She limped forward—still sore, still tender between her legs—and closed the distance without hesitation. When she reached her daughter, Mira pulled Nicole into a fierce, trembling hug, burying her face in the girl’s hair.
"I’m here," Mira whispered, voice cracking. "I’m okay. We’re okay."
Nicole clung back—silent at first, then a small sob escaped. "Mom... you’re... you’re really here..."
gan stepped closer to —boots crunching sand—stopping just out of arm’s reach. Her eyes swept over us: in the center, Angela and Lisa flanking like bodyguards, Mira hugging Nicole a few feet away. She took in the flushed faces, the way Angela’s dress rode too high, the faint damp spot still visible on Mira’s new jeans if you looked close enough, the unmistakable scent that clung to all three won.
I nodded once—calm, respectful.
"Officer gan."
She nodded back—slow, asured—but her gaze lingered on a beat longer than necessary.
"You’re back," she said, voice rough from disuse and dust.
User Comments
0 comments from readers