Alexis Fawx

Alexis Fawx teaches yoga and keeps plenty of clients on the schedule. None of them make her wet like Jax does. The dude's pure muscle, thick, dark and cocky in every way, and right now he needs mobility to push past his current level. She tells him his giant quads and hamstrings are choking each other and she'll fix that. The lie comes easy when she's picturing how far she can spread herself open first. Her ring finger glints in the studio light while she peels off her leggings in one smooth roll, white panties already damp. Married doesn't matter; the last time her husband's dick impressed her, Bush was still president. Right now she just wants one thing: Jax's monster BBC punching her guts until she gushes. She wets her palm, wraps him base to tip, then swallows the head like it's breakfast. The stretch is delicious; tears tickle the corners of her eyes, but she doesn't stop. Nose buried in his abs, she gags and keeps going. She climbs him next. Legs locked around his waist, pussy drenched, and he spears her with one hard thrust. Her walls pulse hard, slick sounds slapping each time his heavy balls smack her ass. First squirt hits the mat. Second leaves her thighs shaking. Third sprays the mirror when he shifts angle and drills straight up into that spongy spot that makes her see white. He finally drops her to her knees, grabs her hair, and fucks her face raw, throat bulging every time he slams home. She chokes, drools, eyes watering, loving every sloppy inch. When he roars and floods her mouth she tips her face up so the thick ropes paint her cheeks, her tongue, and drip from her chin onto her tits. Door clicks open. "Honey, I'm home!"