I Could Eat Your Feet

Danny Steele made his debut, a Midwestern stud built like trouble who’d never gone pro before, and they handed him petite nineteen-year-old Clara Trinity. After the quick talk, he peeled off everything except the See HIM shorts and let her stare at the thick bulge that was already straining the fabric. She tugged them down, popped his stiff cock straight into her mouth for a taste, then grabbed the lube and slicked every ridge on his six-pack, every curve of muscle, and finally that throbbing shaft. Clara buried her face in his pits, licked the salt from each one, then crushed her lips against his. When she dropped to her knees again she yanked off his socks, sniffed between his toes, and poured a slow ribbon of honey over them. She licked every sticky drop away, then told him to spread wide so she could bury her tongue in his ass for the first time. She rimmed him deep, gave him a sloppy rusty trombone, and flipped him upside-down for more while he was in reverse piledriver. They swapped spit and spit-coated cock before she climbed on top—amazon at first, then grinding cowgirl, switching to front and back piledriver that split her open on every stroke. Danny dropped to all fours for round two of ass play; Clara fingered and licked him until his hole was slick and shiny. Finally he spun her around, planted her on hands and knees, and pounded her doggystyle until his load blasted across her face in thick, messy ropes—caught from two angles so you don’t miss a drop. They rinsed off in the shower, trading grins under the spray.