Best Of Kenna James

The video cuts to Kenna on her back. Her girlfriend’s tongue splits her open, slow and greedy. Soft little gasps spill from her mouth while two fingers sink in and curl. Her cunt clenches, lips parting around each stroke like she wants it burned into her skin. Lotion-slick thighs begin to tremble. The weight above her presses down and her legs spread wider, giving everything up. Wet, obscene sounds fill the room with every thrust. Another scene. Kenna kneels at the edge of the bed, her breasts swaying while her hips move back to meet a strap-on that keeps disappearing inside her. Every thrust hits deep; she arches, spine curving like a bow, mouth open around a silent cry. Her fingers clutch the sheets until her knuckles pale. Sweat gleams at the small of her back as the strokes grow harder. She looks back over her shoulder—eyes glassy, lips wet—and offers herself up again. Skin slaps skin. She moans louder when a hand grips her hair and pulls, the line of her throat taut and elegant in the low light. Every push pins her harder to the mattress, cunt swollen and dripping, body given over to whoever claims it next.