Teaching Sheala

Some clever hand at fashion must have stitched a suit for this exact act. Sheala and her teacher Betty Stylle wear the proof tonight. What catches the eye faster than the glossy fabric is Betty’s slim wrist vanishing inside Sheala’s drenched cunt right up to the bone. Each thrust comes out wetter than the last. Sheala’s thighs shake, then lock, and the rush hits—sharp, sudden, impossible to muffle. One moment her breath snags, the next her whole frame bows under the crest. Betty leans closer, knuckles turning, coaxing another, louder spill from the same swollen place. The room fills with the liquid slap of skin and slick, and Sheala keeps coming like the night has nowhere else to be.