Edge a Stud, Ride a Cowboy

Sophia knows the ropes. Coal doesn’t. He’s pinned to a crate, wrists strapped, while she circles him in nothing but skin and a smile, brushing her fingers so close he strains for her. One heartbeat later she swings a leg over his lap, teeth scraping denim, hips rolling until the denim darkens. She peels it down, takes him deep, and the first wet pull of her throat turns his breath ragged. He asks; she laughs, pulls off, leaves him throbbing in open air. Flat on his back now, arms and ankles spread, Coal watches her crawl over him. Her tits drag across his chest, then her bare cunt finds his cock and slides. A vibrator hums to life between them. She grinds, slick and relentless, backing off every time his hips jerk. When she drops her mouth again she takes him to the root, holds, swallows around him until the word “please” scrapes out of his throat. She swings upright, lines him up, sinks down in one long, greedy drop. Cowgirl rhythm—hard, punishing—each bounce a fresh denial. Sweat shines on her tits; every slap of skin says he’ll come when she decides. He begs louder. She rides faster, then rips away, fists his cock, pumps once, twice, three times, until the hot spill finally breaks across her fingers and he’s left shaking, spent, and still begging for more.