Say it in Russian

Crystal Rush locks eyes with her buddy, that smoking-hot Russian, and goes straight for the throat. She drops to her knees, yanks his pants down, and swallows every thick inch like she’s starving for it. Tongue swirling, cheeks hollowed, she works the head, slides down the shaft, and hums low when she feels him throb against her tonsils. Spit runs down her chin while she strokes what won’t fit, her free hand cupping his balls and rolling them. She gags on purpose, laughs with her mouth full, and picks up the pace. He groans, hips jerking, and then he’s unloading heavy ropes across her face—string after string painting her lips, cheeks, and lashes while she keeps milking him, licking the last drops off her bottom lip with a satisfied smirk.