Rikki Six
Busty Cocksucker Showdown
Rikki Six and Noelle Easton on a Sunday-Funday
2 Girls 1 Guy
Rikki Six crashed the business with nothing but nerve and tits that could stop traffic. Her 34DD petite frame cuts through every room like a knife. She drops on her knees in front of him, grips his shaft tight, spits on the swollen head, and works her lips down until her nose presses into his belly. Her throat contracts around the intrusion—gagging, slurping, spit running over her chin—but she won’t pull off. She comes up coughing, mascara streaking, then dives right back down again. He fists that honey-blonde hair and pounds into her mouth like it owes him rent. She moans around every thrust, fingers busy between her own thighs. When he drags her up and bends her over the desk, she arches her back, spreads herself open, and takes the first brutal thrust with a choked cry that sounds more like gratitude than pain. Sweat-slick skin slaps against skin while the city lights flicker through the blinds. She claws the edge of the desk, knuckles white, and pushes back to meet every punishing stroke until her legs shake and she leaves a wet streak down the inside of her thigh. He finally pulls out, yanks her down, and paints her parted lips, the thick ropes catching on her tongue and lashes. Rikki licks them off slow, smirking, every inch of her glowing like the award still hot in her hands.
Rikki Six crashed the business with nothing but nerve and tits that could stop traffic. Her 34DD petite frame cuts through every room like a knife. She drops on her knees in front of him, grips his shaft tight, spits on the swollen head, and works her lips down until her nose presses into his belly. Her throat contracts around the intrusion—gagging, slurping, spit running over her chin—but she won’t pull off. She comes up coughing, mascara streaking, then dives right back down again. He fists that honey-blonde hair and pounds into her mouth like it owes him rent. She moans around every thrust, fingers busy between her own thighs. When he drags her up and bends her over the desk, she arches her back, spreads herself open, and takes the first brutal thrust with a choked cry that sounds more like gratitude than pain. Sweat-slick skin slaps against skin while the city lights flicker through the blinds. She claws the edge of the desk, knuckles white, and pushes back to meet every punishing stroke until her legs shake and she leaves a wet streak down the inside of her thigh. He finally pulls out, yanks her down, and paints her parted lips, the thick ropes catching on her tongue and lashes. Rikki licks them off slow, smirking, every inch of her glowing like the award still hot in her hands.