Strip Club Domme

She walks like she owns every man in the room. Colombian curves and a stare that says kneel before I ask twice. He slides a bill across the rail and she laughs, slow and low, then pushes him back onto the couch like he’s furniture. She plants that heavy ass right on his face, smothering him until he can’t remember his own name. Every grind drags a little more cash out of his wallet and a little more fight out of his body. When she’s bored with his mouth, she plants both bare feet over his nose and mouth, toes flexing, letting him breathe nothing but her. Then it’s back to the ass again—thick, smooth, rolling over his tongue while she counts twenties like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Finally she leans forward, letting that long, dark hair fall across his throbbing cock, stroking him slow and cruel until he spills for her. No mercy, no refunds, just another broke worshipper who’ll crawl back tomorrow.