Psychotic Anal Power Exchange

Angela White looks like money walking on legs, and she knows it. She storms in wearing one of those fuck-me suits that costs more than Owen makes in a month. "Do the goddamn laundry," she snaps, tossing a basket at his feet like she's throwing scraps to a dog. He's inked up like a graffiti wall, skinny as hell, built to take orders. The moment she leaves, he's on his knees, face buried in her dirty panties like they're holy relics. He doesn't hear her come home early. By the time her heels click across the floor he's got his cock in one hand and her crusted underwear in the other. She smiles like she just caught him jerking off in church. "What do we have here?" Angela peels off her jacket, lets those massive tits breathe. She dumps the rest of her laundry over him—silk, lace, evidence of every man she's probably fucked while he pays the bills. She slaps him with a bra, stuffs a thong in his mouth, then swings one heavy breast across his face till he can't see straight. She sucks him like she's trying to pull out his soul. Slaps his cock against her tongue, then plants her dripping pussy on his mouth till his jaw cracks. Owen rips her pantyhose wide open and buries his tongue in her ass like he's starving. She moans, low and mean, tells him to prove himself. He spanks her till the skin blooms pink, then fucks her so hard she forgets her own name. When she finally gives up that perfect ass, he takes it raw. She howls with every thrust, tongue hanging out, mascara running, breathing through his grip on her throat. Ass to mouth, back again, sweat and spit and slick all mixing together while she rides his face like it's the last chair in a game of musical chairs. He finally paints her tongue white. She swallows like she's doing him a favor. Then they kiss, slow, almost sweet, like they're both pretending they didn't just wreck each other.