Yellow Kitty and Crimson Ninja

She says she’s straight. Keeps it quiet, keeps her face hidden. Yellow Kitty shows up wearing a mask and not much else—smooth skin, tight ass, curves that pull the eye like a magnet. The Ninja doesn’t buy the story. He wants to peel the lie off her the way he strips clothes, slow, deliberate, until nothing’s left but shaking breath and wet skin. He pins her wrists, leans in close, and lets his weight sink between her thighs. She fights the hold, but he’s stronger, quicker, used to breaking holds in the ring and bending them in bed. His fingers slide down, part her, work her open while she twists and swears she doesn’t like it. Her cunt tells another story—slick, tight, pulsing around two thick digits that curl hard and steady until her back arches off the mat. When she’s dripping and cursing under her breath, he flips her. Face down. Ass up. He spits on her hole, works the spit in with his thumb, then lines his cock up and pushes. She grunts, tries to crawl forward, but he grabs a fistful of that black hair and drags her back onto every inch. The stretch burns. He doesn’t care. He fucks like he’s still in the ring—deep, relentless, hips snapping until her thighs tremble and her voice breaks into raw little sounds she can’t swallow. He stays inside her while he leans down and growls that straight girls don’t cum this hard. She comes anyway, clenching around him, hole fluttering, mouth open against the mat. He keeps going until he’s ready, then pulls out and finishes across her lower back, hot streaks marking skin that still shakes.