Can't Contain Myself

There you are, mooning over a polaroid of your own bald pussy like it’s got stock tips. Don Diego’s sorry ass decides to crash the party. One peek at the thirsty little tableau and his pants are tight, his better judgment is gone, and he’s zero-to-horny in half a heartbeat. He yanks your clothes off like they owe him money. Next thing, he’s got your legs slung open and his tongue is doing all the talking—swiping quick circles around your clit, kneading your folds, hot breath steaming you up. Your back twitches, you moan, and he takes the cue: first missionary, all body weight and quick thrusts, then he spins you onto his lap so you can ride, sweaty and sloppy. You bounce until the rhythm shorts out, his hips stutter, and he spills hot, thick ropes right across your belly and tits like abstract art on sale.