Jordan Blue

Jordan Blue’s kid thought he could stiff me and my boys for five grand. We tracked his punk ass down with Ice Cold and Justin Long, put the fear in him, and made him take us home. His mom, Jordan Blue, walked in on us in the middle of the mix. She dropped straight to her knees when she saw the long, fat cocks swinging between us—three feet combined of prime black meat—and begged us not to touch her boy. We didn’t ask for rent in cash. She earned it with her throat, taking every inch balls-deep, gagging on one dick while two more smeared spit and precum across her pretty face. The same mouth that kissed him goodnight now drooled all over our shafts like a depraved set of holes. On all fours in the living room, she got her cougar pussy pounded into the rug while she drooled and snorted on another cock jammed into her throat, and somewhere in the corner her boy got a front-row seat to the show. We ran through that pussy nonstop—hard, fast, and filthy—for more than an hour, switching places, stretching both holes, and painting her face with thick ropes until mascara ran down her chin and spit stretched from our balls to her tongue. She came screaming twice without anyone touching her clit, loud enough that he still hears it every time he begs Mom for gas money. Lesson learned: never owe a crew that collects in pussy instead of cash.