Cole Conners

Cole Conners walks in like she owns the place, Latina fire and athletic build, dark hair loose, eyes daring anyone to take charge. She starts giving orders. The machines shut that down fast. A thick toy works deep into her ass, the motor hammering steady until her hips jerk and she bites back the first moan. Fingers slide in next, stretching her wider, knuckles pressing until she soaks the bench beneath her. She tries to talk, but every thrust steals the words. The question hangs as liquid sprays from her in hard pulses—squirting, or the last bit of control slipping away. By the end she is silent, mouth slack, muscles twitching, too far gone to keep going. Cole Conners, 2004.