Baked Lust In Elmhurst

You pull up to Lucky Anne's. She answers in this little skirt and top, sweet smile, holding a plate of warm cookies. But your brain's already downstairs—nothing else registers except that tight, wet slit she's got tucked under there. You want your face in it, tongue working deep, spreading her open till she's dripping down your chin. Forget dessert. You're staring straight at the only cookie that matters.