Jada Fire & Rio Mariah

I thought I ran the show. I’d buried my tongue in plenty of cunts and always came out on top—until Jada Fire. She didn’t want my worship; she wanted my surrender. The woman tied me down with her eyes before she ever touched me. She grabbed my hair and fucked my throat on that thick black strap until it clacked against my teeth, drool sliding down my chin. I’d never taken a face-fucking that rough, not even back in Rio where they like it mean. Every slam made my cunt drip hotter and thicker down my thighs. She spun me around, bent me over, and spanked each cheek until the skin sang and my hips bucked on their own. Then she spread me and drove straight up my ass—my tight Brazilian exit taken like it owed her money—grit cracking between my molars while I begged with my body. The stretch turned to full, filthy bliss and I came so hard I saw white. Days later my pulse still kicks like I’m back on that mattress, holes sore, pride crushed, and every nerve waiting for round two.