Joanna Angel Loves Darling Danika

I’m blessed with a woman’s body on my tongue more nights than most men dare to hope for, yet Darling Danika still owns me. One glance at those hips crammed into high-waisted shorts and I go liquid. We dress like two sirens who fell out of a 1959 calendar, lipstick perfect, skirts short enough to scandalize chrome, and somewhere between the tail fins and the moonlit road she ends up bent over the warm hood, skirt bunched at her waist. I’m face-deep between her thighs before the engine has stopped ticking. Her scent hits first, clean, warm, and that fat pink slit parts under my tongue like it’s been waiting all night. Later I’m flat on the backseat leather, knees to my ears, my tits spilling out of a too-small bustier while Danika grinds against my mouth like she wants to brand my face with her cunt. I keep the taste long after we part. My lips are bruised and shining; I can still feel the ghost of her clit throbbing against my bottom lip. Whenever the smell of leather and gasoline rises, my pussy answers without thinking.