Jazmine Cashmire

Man… Jazmine had me begging to impress her. I wanted that assistant gig bad, so she grilled me on every skill under the sun. Every time I said nope she just smirked harder. Then she ran out of patience and told me strip—no more questions. Said if I couldn’t answer her verbally, I’d better show her physically. Best decision she ever made. I dropped trou and climbed onto her like I owned the damn couch, pumping with the kind of swagger that made her bite the cushions. Rhythm switched between long, grinding strokes and quick, sharp snaps—never let her guess what came next. One minute we’re kissing like we’re starving, the next I’m balls-deep whispering filthy play-by-play while she claws the leather. She tried playing boss for the first two minutes. After that she was just a sopping, moaning mess whose only job title was “cock-drunk.” By the time we finished, the audition was over and so was any doubt: I left her desk, her thighs, and her mind a dripping, satisfied wreck. Bow down, indeed.