India Summer

India Summer’s one of those MILFs who could make a monk confess. Long dark hair, body tight as a drum—nothing about her says “mom next door.” Those lips though? Built for sin, wet, full, and already curling into a wicked little smirk. She drops to her knees, takes one lazy look up, and the guy’s pulse slams into overdrive. She doesn’t wait for permission. Tongue flat, mouth open, she drags that slick heat from the base all the way to the tip, then swallows him in a slow, greedy glide. Before his brain catches up she’s taken another inch, another, until his balls nudge her chin. One slick palm rolls and cups while her throat does its little “welcome home” ripple around the crown. “Sit,” she says, muffled around the meat. He drops like he’s been hit by lightning. She pops off just long enough to command, “Stand.” He stands. She sinks him straight back in, deeper this time, until mascara starts running and spit strings off her chin. She’s steering the whole show—pacing every thrust, pulling off when he gets close, nudging him right back to the edge like she owns the map. When she finally lets him pop, it’s because she damn well feels like it. She keeps the head trapped between those perfect lips while the first heavy pulse floods her tongue, lets the rest coat her mouth until it leaks out the corners, then gives his balls one last fond squeeze like thanks-for-playing. Super-MILF just booked another satisfied client.