All Grown Up

Bobbi Starr made it. She's got the agent, the buzz, the whole career waiting to claim her. But tonight she's still ours. We don't ask. We take. Elbows slammed together behind her back, she drops fast and hard, body jerking every time the machine rams deeper. The gag stretches her jaw wide, turning every moan into something wet and strangled. Her mouth is open for both of us—wet, willing, used. She comes fast, again, the kind of orgasms that leave her shaking, drooling down her chin, mascara streaked. We keep her there. On the floor. Legs spread. Machine still pounding. One cock in her throat, the other waiting its turn. She isn't too cute for this. She's perfect for it.