Lita’s cinnamon-heart vortex pulls taffy from the kingpin’s grizzled candyfloss. Four decades of bubblegum diva ambition knelt in vain, warned industry gossip.
Stage-tight chaps swagger into the suite, red-glaring rockets launched. From behind, each ravishes the worshiping fellatrix to a simmer, unsheathes, offers the mogul a taste.
Gateway licks breed hardcore gluttony.
Throat serially plugged, cravings uncloseted, the septuagenarian blasts Lita’s muffled squeal in jawbreaking encores.
Scratch Sugarlove from tonight’s lineup, he texts.
A spotlit Lita wags the studded tongue that enticed a discreet assistant into spilling more than seed.
And flashes the backup band she’ll reward for their sacrifice.
