Checking The Pipe Of The Plumber

Kenna spots Nathan packing up his wrench and figures, what the hell. Her husband's idea of foreplay is a ten-second pat on the ass, so she’s been drier than the Nevada desert. Pipe’s fixed on the sink, but hers sure as shit still leaks, and Nathan’s the handyman who’s about to find out. She steps in close, palm already sliding up his thigh. "Let me thank you properly," she says, voice low, almost joking, but her fingers already clawing his belt open. Pants drop. His cock springs free, heavy, half-hard, rising by the second. Kenna drops to her knees on the cold tile, wraps both hands around him, gives one firm stroke, and takes the whole length into her mouth like she’s been thinking about this since he walked through the door. Tongue flat, cheeks hollow, she works him to the back of her throat in a single hungry slide. Spit runs down her chin, drips onto her tits, but she doesn’t care; she just wants the weight, the taste, the stretch of a cock that actually knows what it’s doing. Nathan groans. Kenna moans around him like she’s the one getting the favor, and she keeps sucking—wet, filthy, wetter—while the echo of dripping faucet joins the sound of her own sloppy bobs. She won’t stop until she’s swallowed what her useless husband never could give her.