Savannah James

Let's be real, soccer games drag like a bad sermon, and the only reason anyone shows up is because their kid guilt-tripped them. Still, those soccer sidelines give the best seats for staring at tits and fresh-trimmed hair. Take Savannah James. Her own game is already on the screen saver, kid's team sinking, no fight left in them. Then some divorced dad strolls up, lays out the plain truth—single-mom pussy like hers deserves a halftime special—and she doesn't even blink. Two minutes later the goalpost is in their rearview and they're bent over the seat of his truck. He peels off her leggings like gift wrap and those cheeks bloom: round, firm, shaped from too many hours out in the sun cheering. He drops right there, tonguing her ass until she's cursing his name. Once he's jaw-deep she starts swallowing him without a word, one hand behind her head, the other already slick between her legs. Her throat tightens around his cock; her cunt drips off her knuckles. She moans into his balls like she's starving. When the dicking happens it's rough, all the way to the slick base every stroke, windows fogging, suspension squeaking. He finishes with a flood. Thick spunk ropes down her tongue, coats her throat, and every white drop adds 'second helping' to her dinner plans. Next game, her kid asks if she's thirsty and Savannah just smiles, licks her teeth, and decides the bench might not be so boring after all.