Bust A Move

Moving day kicked off right. Sadie Pop scored this sweet new place, only the bill came due quick. She had nothing. The mover, Filthy Rich, trips over an expensive-ass statue and snaps it. Dead silence. He eyes her, tells her they can “work something out.” She points at the bathroom. Go shower. When he walks out, towel low, she’s stark naked and soaking up the afternoon sun—tiny tits catching light, hips zero padding. He gets on his stomach. Oil hits his back. She climbs on, glides those perfect tits down his spine, kneading kinks from days on his feet. Oil sneaks between his thighs and slicks his balls—her fingers deliberate, wicked. More oil drips across her slim frame; she slides the full length of her oiled pussy along his crack, chasing one last knot. He asks for the cock special. She grins, tells him to flip. Slippery little hands stroke him from root to head, tits slapping heavy on the shaft as she works. Flip again—she spins, sits, lines that throbbing dick between her cheeks, and grinds wet slit to fat head until they’re both breathing hard. She spins back, swallows him down, lips sloppy, slow-lick then deep-throat fever. Slick and urgent, she swings a leg over, sinks her cunt to the base, works him in reverse cowgirl so hard the couch squeaks. Rich jacks her hips, flips her onto all fours, slams in from behind. Missionary finishes it—he pins one wrist, knots his fist in her hair, drills until he pulls out and paints her slit with thick, hot ropes. They breathe together, oil shining on everything.