"In The Mouth of Misty" A Quickie from RETRO Audioerotica
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After the lights died down and the last flashbulbs faded at the Adult Anthrotainment Expo Summer '86, Misty Meadows wasn’t in any hurry to bask in applause. Her victory felt best pressed up against real muscle—her own silver statue still glinting in the corner as she stalked Jackson Tower straight into the private greenroom. No cameras, just tile, sunlight bleeding through the blinds, and the kind of anticipation you only get from two all-stars still high on their wins. Jackson was already standing, heavy and dark against the white tile, every bit the stallion his fans worshipped, already swelling with anticipation as Misty sauntered over, gold bikini barely clinging to her powerful curves, every step announcing she wasn’t done performing.
She dropped to a squat between his hooves, her silver mane trailing over a broad, freckled shoulder, sunglasses pushed up just enough to catch his eye. He was massive, the kind of endowment that made legends—and Misty had every intention of putting her trophy-winning skills to use. She started with slow, almost lazy licks, tracing the ridges and veins with her tongue, lips parted and soft, savoring the taste. Jackson grunted, hips twitching, a fist tangling in her snowy mane, but Misty kept the pace slow, dragging it out, drawing a drop of precum to the tip just to flick it away with a practiced curl of her tongue.
Her hand squeezed his thigh, feeling every flex as she sank her muzzle down, swallowing him inch by inch, her lips sealing around the thick, ebony shaft. The room filled with wet, obscene sounds, spit trailing from her lips as she began to bob her head, faster now—no hesitation, no mercy, only a relentless, hungry rhythm that showed why she owned every stage she set hoof on. Her other hand massaged his heavy balls, rolling them with a care that bordered on worship, making Jackson gasp, then curse, then buck hard against her grip.
Jackson’s other hand found her shoulder, squeezing tight as his hips met her snout, his voice low and hoarse, telling her how filthy she was, how perfect. Misty smiled around his girth, letting him feel the vibration as she moaned, the sound sending shocks up his spine. She didn’t stop for air—she didn’t need to. This was her element: her throat, her tongue, the deep guttural gulp as she forced him deeper, letting her snout flatten against his belly with each stroke.
She pulled back with a gasp, spit glistening on her lips, and pressed her massive, milk-heavy breasts together, trapping his length between them. She worked him with the same skill she’d shown on stage, jiggling, bouncing, squeezing his cock with pillowy white fur, every bounce sending shivers through him. She licked and sucked at the head each time it popped free, her tongue broad, her eyes locked on his. Jackson couldn’t hold back. His voice broke, muscles tensed, and his hips stuttered forward—her cue.
She took him back in her mouth just as he burst, thick, hot ropes flooding her tongue, Misty swallowing greedily, gulp after gulp, not spilling a drop, her throat working until every last twitch faded. When he was finished, she looked up, eyes glinting behind gold-rimmed lenses, a smear of satisfaction on her lips, the taste of his “award-winning” appreciation still fresh as she licked him clean.
She didn’t need applause. The look on his face—the dazed, spent, awed silence—said everything. The real show always happened after the curtains closed, and Misty Meadows, dripping with sweat and cum, knew she’d just given an encore for the ages.