September Reign's After-Work Activity

September Reign's new gig's a soul-sucker. Stiff suits, stiff attitude, stiff all damn day. Every week though she plants one filthy little secret under those corporate threads. A micro skirt or crotchless lace that whispers walk away, get laid. The Glory Hole's perfect cause it's zero trace. Just a dark stall and all the fat strangers she can milk. This cock? Heavy, thick, practically drooling through the hole. September grins like she just found the winning ticket. Slow circles with her tongue, a two-finger grip squeezing the base till the head's fat and shiny. She drags it out till her thighs are shaking. Panties drop, she spins, lines up, sinks back until he's buried, her ass clapping the partition. Eyes half-closed, hips rolling deep like she's starving for it. Just when the guy starts to buck she peels off, spits on him, strokes faster and talks real low. "Give it, baby, paint me." The blast hits hot—ropes over her lips, across her cheek, sliding in her hair. She licks the tip clean, fixes her blazer, and strolls out gleaming. The parking-lot cameras know that sticky glow by now.