Poppie arrived at the old mansion party in full 1950s glory—polka-dot swing dress hugging her thick curves, seamed stockings whispering with every step, red lipstick perfect, victory rolls gleaming under the chandelier. The invite said “vintage attire only,” but she knew what it really meant: a room full of suited men and pearl-clutching wives ready to drop the act.
She started sweet, sipping martinis and laughing at bad jokes, but by midnight the air was thick with sin. A tall stranger in a fedora pulled her into the library, hiking her skirt and ripping her nylons at the seam. “Filthy cow,” he growled, slapping her plump ass before slamming in raw, her big tits bouncing free from the low neckline. Poppie moaned thanks, begging for more—”Breed me, daddy, fill this vintage slut up.” He did, pumping deep until it leaked down her thighs, mixing with the oil she’d rubbed into her skin earlier.
Word spread. Next was the couple from upstairs—she on her knees servicing the wife while the husband took her from behind, calling her a “fat-titted cum-dump” as he added his load. Then the group in the parlor: passed around like a party favor, stockings torn to shreds, panties dangling from one ankle, lipstick kisses smeared across cocks and cunts alike. Each creampie made her drip more, belly swelling with fake promise, pussy clenching greedily around every thrust. By dawn, she was sprawled on the velvet chaise, thighs sticky, makeup ruined, purring with satisfaction. Sweet when she wanted, wicked when she needed—and tonight, she’d been gloriously, unapologetically wicked.