Kat Dior

Kat Dior struts in like sin on two legs—ass plump, tits doing push-ups against that flimsy top. She struts because she earns that stare. Kat folds her guy against the wall, palm on his chest, grin all teeth. "You don’t get this mouth for free," she purrs, then drops, slow, lips a tease of heat and spit. Tongue circles, kisses dig in, then she deepens till his knees buckle. Slow sucks, fast pumps, alternating like the little sadist she is. Every bob bumps him closer to ruin. She pauses, catches strings between her swollen lips, sneaks a filthy look up, just so the bastard knows she can shut his brain down with a suction cup smile and the slick sound of her throat swallowing him whole. Drops stream down her chin like winnings. The cock’s pulsing claim says she gave him an out-of-body jolt and took everything she wanted too.