Alena Croft

Alena's day runs on the same script. When that twitch between her legs kicks up she doesn't bother fighting it. Today she ducks into the glory-hole lounge, pink dress buttoned to the collar like it's Sunday brunch, only she plans on stuffing her mouth with a stranger instead. The booth smells of cheap cleaner and horniness. She picks a movie at random, hitches her dress to her hips, taps the wall with her heel, and waits. A cock shoves through the hole almost elbow-to-elbow long, thick as her wrist, meat-dark where it meets the wall. Alena grins, plants a lipstick ring near the base and works her lips down until her nose bumps plywood. When her jaw starts to ache she pulls back, wipes spit on her wrist and braces against the opposite wall. Time to tell hubby. She dials. "Baby, the head's like a fist," she pants, feeding the monster into her cunt. Her breath hitches, then catches again as the fat shaft parts her. "Filling my insides. Feels like it'll come out my throat." Between slick slaps and her wet squeals she narrates the whole mess; his voice comes back low and steady, promising her later plans for every drop she brings home. The talk pushes her over. Pussy clenches hard, slick splattering thighs, dress, the dusty floor. Off the phone, Alena backs harder. She rocks, grinds, and finishes the job with both hands stroking the shaft. The anonymous guy grunts once and blasts. Rope after hot rope splatters her pink cotton until her fingers slide in the mess. She scoops it on her tongue, swirls, swallows half, leaves the rest soaking the fabric. Proof positive for her man waiting at home.