Desiree Moore & Olivia Winters

It’s exhausting trying to find good help. Desire Moore was already late with the nail polish, and lateness reads like a slap to me. She might see a timid girl who obeys, but she’s learning that I answer disrespect with discipline, the kind she ends up begging for. I made her strip and bury her tongue between my legs until her jaw ached and her face shone with my juices. Then I straddled her face so she could taste what she did to me. Her pale pussy was dripping onto the sheets; I pushed two fingers in and felt her clench like she’d been waiting all day. Toys came next—thick, unrelenting, filling every slick hole until she trembled. She thought she could slip away once her cunt was spent, but I wasn’t finished. I worked a long black strap-on into her ass, inch by slow inch, until her rim gave and stretched wide around the shaft. The wet, hungry sound of her stretched hole beat in time with her cries, louder with every thrust. By the time I was done, her cheeks were spread and twitching, every nerve ringing. Next visit I’ll tape that mouth shut before I take what I want.