Fetish fantasy

We all picture our dream job different, but not many wake up and say, Yeah, today I’m getting fisted by Dora on camera for strangers who wandered in from breakfast. Still, here we are. Right now Dora, suntan and smirk, has me bent just so the cam catches everything. One slick push, her wrist pops in like it belongs, and I grin around the full-body shudder that rolls right down my thighs. She twists, knuckles drag, then draws back a fistful of lube and shoves straight into me again, fist on the in-stroke and exit that leaves me stretched and gasping. When she switches to the thick ribbed dildo with the glans you could plot coordinates on, every bright vein bumps over my slick rim in slow teasing passes. In. Slide-pause. Out. I drip down her forearm like dessert gone rogue, yet the laugh still bubbles out of me because nothing says “living the dream” quite like being knuckle-deep, moans bouncing off the ceiling while the door stays shamelessly shut on that quiet nine-to-five sunrise the rest of the block’s caught in.