Joclyn Stone

Manuel was my ride or die when we cooked up that aspirin hustle—pretending it was steroids, fleecing some dope before they noticed the bottle. We had this chunky mark on the line when Joclyn Stone—yeah, his mom—burst in on the play. She dragged us back to the crib, slapped cuffs on me like I half expected. Cops move slow in this city, so Joclyn got frisky with an idea—take me apart right in front of her son. She drops to her knees, lips stretch around the fat black pipe I was about to hammer her with, wide as the jar we sold as roids. Manuel just watches, face red, while I rail his momma, chains rattling, every thick stroke pushing her thick ass cheeks apart. She moans like a cat in heat as I bottom out, balls slapping, her wet cunt clinging. Her nails dig in the rug, spit dripping from her chin, and every time I thrust the cuffs clink, reminding everyone who’s driving. Her pussy grips hard and I unload deep, flooding her until it leaks down her thighs, all while her boy sits there—stuck watching his momma get split wide open by my dick.