Banging A British Gal

I'm not naming names, but girls with accents flip the right switch. Throw in Gál's deadly-damned nipples and my pants suddenly need their own zip code. She walked in already wet, tongue out, legs open, and no one had touched her yet. I grabbed two fistfuls of that hair and fed her what she begged for until her throat fluttered around every inch. The second she let me in her pussy the whole ride got loud—little velvet walls squeezing like they meant it. She soaked the sheets, begged for seconds, and grinned when I pumped her full, cream dripping out every time she clenched.