Vic Voss The New World of SwapTech chapter 6 by deleted_user

Vic’s hand shot out faster than Hal’s—old reflexes honed from decades of snatching the last dinner roll at the buffet. He snatched the TVT Remote from the arm of Marge’s chair before she could protest again.

“Hey—!” Marge started.

“Too slow,” Vic rasped, already aiming. On screen, the commercial break had ended. The news desk was back. Mark the anchor was wrapping a sports segment, tossing to weather with his usual cheesy grin.

“And now, let’s check in with Kaitlyn Voss for your forecast. Kaitlyn?”

The camera cut smoothly to the weather set. Kaitlyn stood poised in front of the green screen, smiling that bright, professional smile, one hand resting lightly on the curved desk. The navy dress clung in all the right places under the hot studio lights. Rain icons swirled behind her like digital confetti.

Vic lined up the crosshairs dead-center on her chest—right where the V-neck dipped—and pressed the big red ACTIVATE button.

Whump.

Vic’s body hit the couch like a sack of potatoes. In the same instant, Kaitlyn Voss blinked under the blazing studio lights and felt eighty-five years of bad knees, clogged arteries, and chronic heartburn vanish in a heartbeat.

Vic looked down.

Two perfect, firm breasts rose and fell with his breathing, straining against the navy dress like they were trying to escape. The weight of them was immediate, constant, impossible to ignore. Every inhale tugged the fabric tighter across his nipples (hard, sensitive, rubbing deliciously against lace). His ponytail brushed the back of his neck; long, silky hair that smelled like coconut and television money. The heels forced his ass out, back arched, thighs pressed together under the tight skirt. And between those thighs… nothing. Just smooth heat, a slick pulse that throbbed every time the dress shifted.

“Holy fucking hell,” Vic whispered, and Kaitlyn’s polished news-voice came out husky, breathy, pornographic.

The red light on the camera was already off. The floor director gave him a thumbs-up and turned away.

Vic took one experimental step. The click of the heel echoed. His hips rolled without permission, ass swaying like it had a goddamn mind of its own. The motion sent a ripple straight to his clit (Jesus Christ, he had a clit) and his knees nearly buckled. A hot gush of wetness soaked the thin panties. He bit down on Kaitlyn’s plush lower lip to keep from moaning out loud.

Crew members passed him in the hallway, nodding, smiling. “Great job tonight, Kait.” “Looking killer in that dress, Voss.” Every pair of eyes dragged over his body like hands. Vic felt each stare land on his tits, his waist, the curve of his ass. His nipples stiffened harder. The ache between his legs turned sharp, needy, fucking humiliating.

He made it to the green room on autopilot, legs trembling. Locked the door. Leaned back against it and finally let his hands move.

First the tits (big, heavy, perfect). He cupped them through the dress, thumbs brushing the hard peaks. A jolt shot straight to his pussy and he groaned, low and filthy. The sound that came out of Kaitlyn’s throat was pure sex. He squeezed harder, rolled the nipples between manicured fingers, hips jerking forward like he could fuck the air.

“Fuck… fuck…” he panted, sliding one hand down the flat stomach, under the hem of the dress. The skirt was too tight; he had to hike it up to his hips, exposing smooth thighs and the lacy edge of panties already soaked through.

He shoved the fabric aside and touched himself for the first time.

Two fingers slid through slick, swollen folds and Vic damn near came on the spot. Kaitlyn’s pussy was hot, tight, dripping. His clit was a hard little button begging for pressure. He circled it once, twice, thighs shaking, and had to slap his other hand over his mouth to muffle the desperate whine that tore out of him.

He was dripping down his own legs. He could smell himself (sweet, musky, turned-on woman). His hips bucked into his hand like they had a mind of their own. Two fingers pushed inside easily (so easily) and he fucked himself hard, palm grinding against his clit, chasing the pressure that was building fast and unstoppable.

“God, oh God, I’m—fuck—I’m gonna—”

He came with Kaitlyn’s perfect mouth open in a silent scream, pussy clenching around his fingers, thighs clamping shut, whole body shaking so hard the ponytail whipped across his back. Juices ran down his wrist. He sagged against the door, chest heaving, tits bouncing with every ragged breath.

When the aftershocks finally faded, Vic stared at his reflection in the makeup mirror across the room: flushed cheeks, smeared lipstick, green eyes blown black with lust. Kaitlyn Voss looked like she’d just been fucked six ways from Sunday.

And Vic wanted more.

Back in the common room, Hal and Marge stared at the television, mouths open. The local news had cut to commercial, but the hallway camera (some behind-the-scenes feed that accidentally stayed live online) had caught everything: Kaitlyn stumbling into the green room, locking the door, the unmistakable sounds that followed.

Hal swallowed hard. “He… he’s really in there.”

Marge clutched the remote, face scarlet. “He’s going to get that poor girl fired. Or arrested. Or both.”

On the little screen of her phone (where she’d pulled up the station’s live stream), Kaitlyn emerged from the green room minutes later. Hair fixed, lipstick touched up, dress smoothed down. But she walked differently now (slower, hips rolling like she owned the hallway, a secret smile playing on swollen lips).

She looked directly into a security camera as if she knew they were watching.

And winked.