Katie Jordan
Web Exclusive - Scene 1520 Kara Price Katie Jordan
What The Fuck! Big Tits, Bitches and Ass!, Scene #03
Helpful Massage
The woman looks like a magazine come to life—high cheekbones, pouty lips, and legs that go on and on under that slinky black dress. Katie Jordin smiles as if she already knows how the night ends. Her eyes lock onto yours, dark and teasing, daring you to guess what she wants next. A single finger slides down the plunging neckline of her dress, tracing the curve of her breast until the fabric dips low enough to flash the hard tip of a nipple. She bites her lower lip when your eyes follow that slow trail, then lets the hand keep moving. At her waist she gives the dress a sharp tug; silk whispers over silk and falls from her hips. The cloth pools at her feet, leaving her bare in nothing but heels and a glossy sheen of anticipation. Soft light skims the taut line of her stomach, the swell of her ass, the neat strip of trimmed hair between her thighs. She turns, slow and deliberate, so you can see it all from every angle—those pert breasts tipped with dusty pink, the delicate arch of her back that ends where her cheeks round out, smooth and firm. A hand slips between her legs, parting them just enough for fingers to glide over slick folds. She drags two of them up and down the seam, coating them until they shine, then lifts them to her mouth, sucking with a wet sound that makes your pulse throb. Eyes never leaving yours, she lowers herself to the edge of the bed, spreads wider, and lets those same fingers push inside—slow, shallow, then deeper, curling like she’s stroking every nerve at once. A low moan slips out, the sound breathy and raw. She pumps once, twice, hips rocking in time, skin goose-bumped and fever-hot. You can hear the faint, rhythmic smack of skin meeting skin every time her wrist snaps. When her thumb finds her clit she circles it fast, breath catching in her throat, thighs trembling. The scent of her—clean, salty-sweet—hangs thick in the air. Her free hand kneads one breast, pinching the nipple until it stands out stiff and flushed. Legs beginning to shake, she rides her hand harder, chasing that sharp crest. Then her mouth parts on a broken cry, body locking, pulse fluttering around her own fingers as the orgasm rolls through her, slick and electric. She keeps stroking through the aftershocks, drawing them out until her legs finally go slack and she falls back onto the sheets, chest heaving, a satisfied, wicked little smile still curving her lips.
The woman looks like a magazine come to life—high cheekbones, pouty lips, and legs that go on and on under that slinky black dress. Katie Jordin smiles as if she already knows how the night ends. Her eyes lock onto yours, dark and teasing, daring you to guess what she wants next. A single finger slides down the plunging neckline of her dress, tracing the curve of her breast until the fabric dips low enough to flash the hard tip of a nipple. She bites her lower lip when your eyes follow that slow trail, then lets the hand keep moving. At her waist she gives the dress a sharp tug; silk whispers over silk and falls from her hips. The cloth pools at her feet, leaving her bare in nothing but heels and a glossy sheen of anticipation. Soft light skims the taut line of her stomach, the swell of her ass, the neat strip of trimmed hair between her thighs. She turns, slow and deliberate, so you can see it all from every angle—those pert breasts tipped with dusty pink, the delicate arch of her back that ends where her cheeks round out, smooth and firm. A hand slips between her legs, parting them just enough for fingers to glide over slick folds. She drags two of them up and down the seam, coating them until they shine, then lifts them to her mouth, sucking with a wet sound that makes your pulse throb. Eyes never leaving yours, she lowers herself to the edge of the bed, spreads wider, and lets those same fingers push inside—slow, shallow, then deeper, curling like she’s stroking every nerve at once. A low moan slips out, the sound breathy and raw. She pumps once, twice, hips rocking in time, skin goose-bumped and fever-hot. You can hear the faint, rhythmic smack of skin meeting skin every time her wrist snaps. When her thumb finds her clit she circles it fast, breath catching in her throat, thighs trembling. The scent of her—clean, salty-sweet—hangs thick in the air. Her free hand kneads one breast, pinching the nipple until it stands out stiff and flushed. Legs beginning to shake, she rides her hand harder, chasing that sharp crest. Then her mouth parts on a broken cry, body locking, pulse fluttering around her own fingers as the orgasm rolls through her, slick and electric. She keeps stroking through the aftershocks, drawing them out until her legs finally go slack and she falls back onto the sheets, chest heaving, a satisfied, wicked little smile still curving her lips.