Misty Stone

Misty Stone knows glory holes inside out. She's clocked enough time in the arcade to know exactly when some white guy slips in for a lunch break quickie. Right now the manager lets slip that the booths are packed with perverts, and she ditches the inventory stack fast. Boots squeak on linoleum as she hustles down the hallway, presses her ear to door four, catches the solo action, and hops into five. Soon as the cock pokes through, she bends, and the stranger's fingers dive straight into her slick hole, knuckle-deep, pumping fast. She grinds back, slick juice running down her thigh. A minute later she's on her knees, lips wrapped tight around that thick white dick, tongue swiping the head clean before she stands, spins, and pushes her bare cunt back until every inch disappears. He slams her hard, skin slapping, the stall rocking. She looks over her shoulder, low voice steady, “You can cum in me, just don’t finish on my face—I gotta clock back in.” He grunts, unloads deep, and Misty walks back to the floor with warm cum leaking slow from her shaved pussy, every step a filthy reminder of the quickie she just took.