Trina Michaels gets picked up in a parking lot

Trina spotted that damn suit leaning on his shiny car outside the liquor store. Thirty-eight, thick in all the right spots, couldn't shake the feeling that life owed her a break. He rolled the window down, asked if she ever thought about modeling. Said he'd pay cash up front. She was wearing that little sundress with the straps barely hanging on—tits practically spilling out when she bent to check her phone. Two minutes later she climbed in. The studio was really just a motel room with blackout curtains. Trina kicked off her heels, peeled the dress over her head, didn't bother with modesty. He didn't ask. She didn't wait. She dropped to her knees on the thin carpet and fished his cock out, spit on it, took it straight down her throat until her mascara ran. He grabbed her by that honey-blonde ponytail, fucked her face until she gagged. She stood up, bent over the motel dresser, spread her cheeks with both hands and told him to stop wasting time. He slid into her soaked pussy in one hard thrust, then yanked her back by the hips and started hammering. Every slap of skin echoed off the shitty walls. He pulled out, swapped holes without asking, buried himself to the balls in her ass while Trina bit her own wrist to keep from screaming. She came with her tits mashed against cold wood, ass stretched wide, mascara streaks down her cheeks and a stranger's cum leaking out of both holes. He slapped a couple hundred on the dresser, told her he'd call her again. She was still catching her breath when he left.