Cuckholdresss girlfriend

The convertible’s top stays up – Zoyà refuses to let wind ruin her $300 blowout – as she lounges in the passenger seat, clawed feet propped on your dashboard. Her tail flicks against your shoulder like a metronome set to “bankruptcy.” She’s already texting the bull who’ll wreck her later, rhinestone case clicking as she narrates your doom.

“Turn up the AC, ATM,” she purrs, smearing black cherry gloss across lips that’ll stain Trevor’s collar by dusk. “Gotta stay frosty for when he rips this…” —she pulls at the strap of her crimson La Perla bra— “His forearms could crush walnuts, baby. Your scrawny ass? More like… almond milk.”

Her phone pings. She giggles, shoving it under your nose – a shirtless gym mirror selfie, Trevor’s biceps straining against his tank top. “See how he flexes? That’s organic muscle, none of your soyboy protein shakes. He’s why you’re buying me those crotchless Margiela leggings – gonna let him audit this ass in your backseat.” She licks the screen.

The mall looms ahead. Zoyà arches, stretching her dress seams to near-bursting. “Park near Neiman’s,” she commands, snapping a selfie with your iPhone. “Trevor’s already timing how long it takes you to cry when he returns me.” Her laugh pierces the AC. “Don’t forget – film horizontal when he repossesses your girlfriend. ” She blows a kiss to the camera,