Ella Brawen
Medical Care, part 1
Teaching Ella Brawen
Ella Brawen moves like something small and dangerous. Five-two, one-ten, she still takes the room like she owns it. Red hair hangs down her back in thick ropes, and every step pulls the fabric of her skirt across the curve of her ass. She fucks the way she looks—like she’s trying to leave teeth marks. When she climbs on top she doesn’t ask. She braces small hands on your chest and sinks down hard, swallowing cock until her cunt bottoms out and her breath catches. Then she rides. Short, brutal strokes. Her thighs quiver but never slow. The muscles in her stomach flex every time she drops, and the wet slap of skin fills the space between you. Sweat gathers at the small of her back; you watch the droplets roll into the cleft of her ass before she leans forward and grinds. She keeps her eyes open. Green, direct, daring you to blink first. She spits on your chest, smears it with her palm, then leans down and licks the same place. Her teeth catch your nipple. She doesn’t bite—yet. She holds it between her lips until you feel the edge of pain and want more. When she wants it rough she turns around without warning. Ass in the air, spine curved, she reaches back and spreads herself so you can see every inch: tight pink cunt glistening, the tight star of her asshole already flexing like she’s daring you to touch it. She doesn’t moan; she growls, low and throaty, and when you push in she pushes back until her ass cheeks slap against your hips. Her hands fist the sheets. Her voice is breath and smoke. “Harder,” she says, and the word cracks like a whip. You give it to her. She takes it. Every thrust knocks another sharp sound out of her throat, yet she never looks away. Even when she comes—legs shaking, cunt pulsing around your cock—she stares over her shoulder and smiles like she just won. Afterward she stays where she is, breathing hard, skin flushed. The red hair sticks to her neck. She reaches back, trails one finger through the mess between her legs, then brings it to her mouth and sucks it clean. She tastes like salt and need and something sharp you can’t name. She doesn’t ask if you’re done. She knows she isn’t.
Ella Brawen moves like something small and dangerous. Five-two, one-ten, she still takes the room like she owns it. Red hair hangs down her back in thick ropes, and every step pulls the fabric of her skirt across the curve of her ass. She fucks the way she looks—like she’s trying to leave teeth marks. When she climbs on top she doesn’t ask. She braces small hands on your chest and sinks down hard, swallowing cock until her cunt bottoms out and her breath catches. Then she rides. Short, brutal strokes. Her thighs quiver but never slow. The muscles in her stomach flex every time she drops, and the wet slap of skin fills the space between you. Sweat gathers at the small of her back; you watch the droplets roll into the cleft of her ass before she leans forward and grinds. She keeps her eyes open. Green, direct, daring you to blink first. She spits on your chest, smears it with her palm, then leans down and licks the same place. Her teeth catch your nipple. She doesn’t bite—yet. She holds it between her lips until you feel the edge of pain and want more. When she wants it rough she turns around without warning. Ass in the air, spine curved, she reaches back and spreads herself so you can see every inch: tight pink cunt glistening, the tight star of her asshole already flexing like she’s daring you to touch it. She doesn’t moan; she growls, low and throaty, and when you push in she pushes back until her ass cheeks slap against your hips. Her hands fist the sheets. Her voice is breath and smoke. “Harder,” she says, and the word cracks like a whip. You give it to her. She takes it. Every thrust knocks another sharp sound out of her throat, yet she never looks away. Even when she comes—legs shaking, cunt pulsing around your cock—she stares over her shoulder and smiles like she just won. Afterward she stays where she is, breathing hard, skin flushed. The red hair sticks to her neck. She reaches back, trails one finger through the mess between her legs, then brings it to her mouth and sucks it clean. She tastes like salt and need and something sharp you can’t name. She doesn’t ask if you’re done. She knows she isn’t.