Bianca Breeze

Bianca walks into the guitar shop just to grab one specific guitar—the custom cherry-red Les Paul with the black hardware she’s been eyeing for weeks. Then the bell rings over the door and everything changes. The salesman tells her she can’t afford it—some store policy—and Bianca’s whole vibe flips. Her eyes slide straight down to the bulge in his jeans. Two minutes later she’s got him pressed against the side of the counter, zipper down, fat dick already slick from her tongue. She works the head slow, then dives deeper, throat taking him like it’s nothing, spit dripping down her chin onto his balls. Every sloppy stroke of her hand keeps time with the needy pump of her mouth. The guy’s hands fist her hair while the rest of the shop stays quiet, oblivious. She pulls off only long enough to glance up. “Think you can knock that price down now?” The word yes comes out ragged. Bianca grins, goes back to work, and jacks him hard between her perfect soft fingers. When he busts, it shoots thick and hot over her knuckles and forearm, glistening on her skin. She wipes a streak along the guitar’s fretboard, marks her territory, then licks her fingers clean like a challenge. Price corrected. Job well done. Axe claimed.