Tori Cummings Maid

Walked into my room and froze. The maid's still bent over the bed, that little uniform hugging every curve like it was painted on. She turns, smirks, knows exactly what's on my mind. No complaints from her when I drop my key card and walk over—matter of fact, she drops the duster and arches her back like she was waiting for it. Her hands are already tugging at my belt before the door swings shut, lips parted, eyes dark with that 'bring it' energy. Next thing I know, she's on her knees between the rumpled sheets, mouth hot and greedy, taking me so deep her mascara smears. The uniform comes undone one button at a time, her tits spilling free, nipples hard when I roll them between my fingers. She begs me not to be gentle, so I pin her wrists above her head and fuck her until the headboard's slamming the wall, her moans bouncing off the hotel paintings like some dirty soundtrack. By the time she's dripping and shaking, the room service bill's got a hell of a tip attached to it.