Bella Starr

Bella Starr walks in on those long legs, tall heels clicking like a warning shot. Corset cinched tight, blonde hair spilling over bare shoulders, she sizes up the machine with a smirk and zero patience. One switch and she’s already gasping, her body betraying her fast. The first thrust hits deep; her ass clenches, takes it, opens. She doesn’t pace herself. She never does. Just rides the piston until her thighs shake and she folds forward, coming hard enough to see white. They reset her. She’s dripping before the second round even starts, nipples pulled into the suckers, milk beading fast, running warm down the front of the corset. She laughs once, short and filthy, then moans again as the next thrust slams home.