Suck my sock!

Ava Dalush throws herself at everything—fucking, flirting, foot stuff—like she’s starving for it. She nudges you back on the bed and plants one sock-covered sole right against your lips, daring you to open up. The cotton smells warm, a little sweet, and you breathe it in while her toes wiggle and push, nudging until you’re kissing the damp spot that’s grown where her sole pressed the whole ride over. When she decides you’ve earned the real deal she peels the sock off with a smirk and offers her bare foot, arch flexed, toes painted candy-red. She lets you suckle each one, tongue slipping between them slow and thorough like you’re licking icing off spoons. Only then does she settle that freshly worshipped foot over your cock, arch curving, toes closing tight at the head. The glide is wet, confident, two-dozen skilled strokes that have you throbbing and slick by the time she swings a leg over, drops down, and takes you to the root in one silky motion. She rides like she teases—slow grind to milk every inch, then sudden snapping hips that make the headboard slap the wall. Sweat beads at her collarbone, drips, and she’s laughing through gritted teeth, telling you you’re not allowed to come until she does—and you won’t, because Ava always finishes what she starts and doesn’t quit till both of you are rung out, sticky, and grinning like idiots.