Her knees dig into the wood. Soft thighs clamp around his waist. She starts slow—rolling her hips, letting him fill her inch by inch. Then she takes control. Leaning back, hands planted on his thighs, she rides him like she owns the bench. Tits bounce in rhythm, nipples hard against the cool evening air. He grips her hips, fingers pressing into soft flesh, trying to slow her down but she won’t let him. The bench creaks under their weight, a steady rhythm matching the slap of skin. When she finally collapses forward, breathless, her blonde hair sticks to her sweaty neck. He flips her onto her back, pinning her wrists above her head as he pounds into her one last time. The city lights blur around them, but neither of them notices.
