Kinky JOI: Worship Chanel Preston's Breasts

You've come here to kneel for Chanel Preston. Her dungeon swallows you whole. She decides what gets touched, what gets tasted, what gets denied. Eyes on her heels first. Trace those endless legs, but hands stay dead at your sides. Already hard? Good. Too bad you can't do shit about it. She drags her palms up smooth thighs, cups the fake tits straining her sheer top. Rolls them together so they jiggle and press tight. You ache to jerk, but she hasn't said yes. Not yet. She toys with the neckline, peels the fabric lower, asks if you want to see. Her tits bulge, ready to spill. Only when they do—pink nipples staring you down—does she let you rub over your pants, nothing underneath. Feel that ache build. She flicks her own nipples, tells you to slip inside your waistband and grip. You stroke in time with her fingers. Mouth watering. You picture burying your face between those tits, suffocating on warm skin. She clocks your hand speeding up. Snaps that you hold it—no coming till she says. You're filthy for wanting to paint her chest, but she owns the trigger. She laughs, cruel little sound, then barks the order: "Cum for me. Jerk that cock till you fucking explode." Good boy.