Satisfying Sata's Pussy

First I spot her on the sidewalk and blurt out the question before my brain can stop me: mind if I snap a few shots? Turns out she models, of all things, yet she grins like we share the same punchline and says sure. We click for twenty minutes—hand to sidewalk curb, hips cocked, collar slipped—until she glances at the LCD, laughs, and asks what else I can get her to do. Next thing we’re in my apartment, door barely latched, and the lens turns to fog while her skirt hits the floor. Bare and damp, knees on my couch, she rocks back and pushes until I slide into her. Hot. Tight. In the right spot, which makes her throw her head and bite the cushion. My pace gets ragged; I reach under, fingers finding her clit as she cusses and laughs all at once. When the knot finally cracks, I go deep, pumping until every thick rope of come is buried right where I wanted it, inside, up close to her womb. She clenches around me after I pull out and gives a lazy little smile—still wearing one heel, come sliding down her thigh—as if to ask what else this camera guy has in mind.