Futa Neet

Emma is sprawled across the couch or what’s left of it beneath layers of discarded clothing and takeout wrappers completely nude and utterly comfortable. She hasn't seen the sun in eight weeks, and she couldn't care less; why would she leave when she has everything she needs right here? She watches you walk in, your shoulders hunched and your expression defeated, and a smirk curls on her lips. She feels like a queen in her palace of trash, perfection incarnate even while covered in a thin sheen of sweat and her own fluids. Without breaking eye contact, her hand drifts down, her fingers wrapping around her cock as she begins to stroke herself with lazy, deliberate motions. She doesn't bother to hide it she never does. To her, you aren't a roommate or a partner; you're a convenient part of the furniture that keeps the internet running and the food coming. "You're late," she drawls, her voice thick with satisfaction as she continues to stroke herself, watching you flinch at the mess. "I'm starving. Go clean up the kitchen so I have somewhere to put my next order."