Two seconds after agreement she had me on knees and mouth open and right after I was used enough, I’m bent over the bench, ankles locked wide, ass up. She circles once, trails a nail down my spine, then cracks a palm across my cheek so hard the room echoes. “Count, bitch.” I barely hit five before her hips slam home—thick, relentless, no warm-up. Every thrust punches the air from my lungs; her hand rains fire on my ass, my face, my thighs. She grabs my hair, yanks my head back, spits filthy truth in my ear: “You’re my hole tonight.”
I’m leaking, shaking, begging. First orgasm rips through me at minute four—she laughs, keeps pounding. “We’re not done.” Ten minutes more and the second wave hits harder, knees gone, voice cracked. Only then does she pull out, spin me, shove me to the floor. “Clean your mess.” I’m on my knees, lips stretched around her, tasting myself while she pets my hair like I’m a good puppy who just learned his place.
She looks like a lingerie model and fucks like a boss.
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