Britany O'Connell

The stupid change machine spat my cash back like a bad tip. Perfect. The manager handled the situation, some young Black guy with heavy arms and easy hands. While he counted out quarters I got to thinking — change machine wouldn’t swallow a dollar, but his dick might chew through me just fine. Dropped the hint. He blinked, smirked. Next thing, jeans around my ankles, hoodie hiked up. First inch stretched my lips open; second made my throat flutter; the rest still wouldn’t fit. My MILF cunt was next. He slid in, bottomed out on my cervix in two strokes. Felt like I was getting punched from the inside in all the right spots. I came twice before he started really going — big, savage beats that rattled the car seat behind me. When he pulled out I felt the air hit wet skin, then his load flew like somebody popped the cap on a shaken bottle: hot ropes slapping my belly, tits, chin, one thick streak even landing on the windshield. Kid shot like a starter’s pistol. Almost asked him to reload inside next time so I could walk out with something permanent dripping down my thigh. Ruth’d probably want pics.