Dana Vespoli Idolizes Presley Hart's Pussy

Dana Vespoli can barely hold herself together. Every few minutes her eyes drift lower—tight denim shorts, the gentle sway of Presley's hips—and she bites the inside of her cheek to focus. Rules exist on set, lines that can’t be crossed. Yet her brain keeps flashing naked scenarios: Presley bent forward, fingers curled into white sheets; Presley riding her thigh, sweat collecting in the small of her back. She edits three seconds of footage and pauses again, thighs squeezed tight, pulse hammering in her ears. When Presley laughs and throws her head back, hair brushing the swell of her breasts under a thin white tank, something raw and low in Dana curls tight enough to hurt. One whispered moan escapes, and Dana pretends she sneezed. The day’s shots keep her behind glass, safe yet burning, wanting what she knows she mustn’t touch.