Dr. Thrust Deepwood, once the toast of New York's elite, now roller-skates down Broadway in a pinwheel hat, his fall from grace as spectacular as it was inevitable. But let us rewind the clock, dear reader, to when our good doctor's libido led him down a path of delicious debauchery.
With her razor-sharp wit and cultural prowess, Olive Chomsky was a feast for the mind. Her body, while pleasing, failed to ignite the inferno of lust that raged within Thrust's loins. Enter Candy Honeypot, a goddess of carnal delights whose every curve begged to be explored.
Thrust's nights became a frenzied ballet of lies and lust. He'd rush from Olive's intellectual embraces to Candy's eager thighs, his cock straining against his trousers with each step. In Candy's boudoir, he'd lose himself in a tangle of limbs and moans.
"Fuck me, doctor," Candy would purr, her voice a syrupy drawl that made Thrust's balls tighten. "Show me what those surgeon's hands can do."
And oh, how he showed her. His fingers, so skilled with a scalpel, now traced the contours of her dripping pussy. He'd spread her lips, revealing the glistening pink within, before diving in with his tongue. Candy's back would arch, her tits bouncing as she ground against his face.
"Oh god, oh god, oh god," she'd chant, her IQ dropping with each lick of his talented tongue.
Meanwhile, poor Olive waited at home, unaware that her lover's face was buried in another woman's cunt. When Thrust returned, reeking of sex and shame, he'd fumble through excuses before half-heartedly fucking Olive, his mind still full of Candy's bouncing tits and tight ass.