Glenn King's Maneaters: Lauren Phillips

Lauren Phillips stood over him, six feet of redheaded power in boots built to crush. She seized Jack by the throat and drove him down to his knees like she’d done it a thousand times. With a single flex she dropped her full ass onto his face, smearing it across his mouth and nose. He took one long, desperate sniff of the woman who now owned every breath. She ground harder, smothering him until he squirmed, then peeled off the boots and held them to his nose. The leather reek of her feet hit him like a slap. She shoved him flat, then used her bare soles to grind his face into the floor, the ball of her foot pressing his cheek like he was filth. “Pathetic,” she spat, loud enough for both him and the camera. “You came here thinking you could handle this? Look at you.” She curled her toes over his lips, force-fed him the taste, rode the flicker of shame across his face. Every moan she ripped out of him echoed in his own ears, half-choked, half-worshipful. She stood, towering, and dropped her weight straight onto his mouth, ass swallowing his nose. Beneath her his cries stayed muffled and useless; each gasping plea only pushed her down harder. Then she lifted just enough to yank her thong aside, pressing her bare asshole to his tongue, ordering him to clean it while she rocked her hips like he was furniture built for her pleasure. Finally she stayed seated, full weight pressing again, jerked his straining cock with cruel rhythm, and told the lens, “You’re next, loser.” Her strokes sped up, and when he erupted she laughed, never lifting an inch off his face.