...through the door you see her first: stocking-clad knees on the red couch, hair in a messy bun like she didn’t expect company. Blue fabric straining over his shoulders as he grips them tight, but it’s her who’s in control—kneeling between his legs with that wet mouth already working him deep. Tongue swirling around veins before she pulls back just enough to gag, spit dripping down his shaft while one hand cups his balls and the other reaches behind to squeeze her own tits like she can’t decide which feels better.
