Joanna Loves Jenna Haze

I strip Jenna Haze out of her girl-next-door cotton until the fabric pools at her heels, her nipples already tight in the cool air. She laughs, then moans when my mouth lands on her breast. I tug the faded denim shorts down next and find her bare beneath them—slick, swollen, ready. The camera loves how her hips tilt forward, hunting the pressure of my fingers. I thrust two inside and she bites her lip hard enough to leave marks. Her thighs tremble, but she stays upright, legs braced wide like a rocker who knows the stage lights love every wet sound. I drop to my knees and tongue her clit in tight circles until she grips my hair and grinds, cursing softly. When she comes her legs buckle, the metal-studded belt I’ve thrown around her waist jangling with every sharp spasm. I spin her toward the mirror, bend her over, and slide my cock between her cheeks, coating myself in the shine she left on my tongue. One slow push and I’m inside her; the mirror fogs with her breath. I pound harder, metal clicking against the glass. Jenna braces on her elbows, pushing back to meet every stroke, eyes locked on her own reflection. She clenches around me, swearing again, and I grab the fresh set of fishnets I shoved halfway down her thighs, using them like reins until my rhythm falters and I flood her. We stay locked together, breathing hard, her makeup smudged, my name still wet on her lips.