Sol's fingers tightened in her frizzy, unkempt hair, using the leverage to hold Evara in place as she bobbed her head. The sight was maddening—the "lazy" widow of the tribe, known for her lethargy and complaints, was currently working his cock with a frantic, starving desperation that betrayed years of repressed hunger.
"Suck," Sol commanded, his voice a ragged growl. He thrust shallowly, feeling the wet heat of her throat constrict around the head of his penis.
Evara didn't pull away. Her nostrils flared, inhaling the scent of his arousal, and she made a muffled, defiant sound against his flesh. She wasn't submitting out of fear; she was submitting out of greed. Her hands, calloused from years of gripping rough tools (or avoiding them), clawed at his thighs, her nails digging into the muscle not to push him away, but to anchor herself.
