I am a Wisp on the wind.
I shudder as I sink down on to the rigid cock standing proudly from a thatch of dark blond curls, the plum-shaped crown an angry red underneath its latex sheath as it weeps pre-cum. The walls of my pussy ripple and clench over the shaft, and I release a pleasured sigh as my ass meets his thighs.
I am a Wisp on the wind.
It’s a familiar motto I often chant to myself, allowing me to detach my mind from my actions. I’m no longer Disa Mariah Aloft, a simple pastry chef living with her best friend in SoCal. Instead, I’m The Wisp, and I’m the last face that many will see in their lifetime.
I am a Wisp on the wind.
My body moves in a sinuous motion as I chant my motto to myself in my head, using the rhythm to dicktate—hahaha—the movement of my hips as I rock and grind down on the man beneath me.
The man I’m here to kill.