Femdom Ass Worship #13, Scene #03

Six feet of Holly Michaels. POV shot locks you under that height. She crowds you right off the jump. "Look at this sad little worm," she sneers. Calls you gutless, smaller than your daughter, easier to twist than a wet rag. Her fingers knot in your collar. She yanks you up, towers over you in six-inch heels that make her calves bunch and her ass stand out like a threat. Sweat already trickling down the crack of it from the long drive over. She shoves you flat on the floor and plants one boot on your chest, then steps over you, skirt hitched up. The cotton triangle of her panties is darker where she’s been grinding all afternoon. She peels them aside so the musk hits you, ripe and sour, her ass cheeks slapping your face in slow, deliberate rhythm. "Lick like it’s air," she says. Your tongue drags between warm flesh and the salt of her. Every time you lag she twists her heel into your ribs. "Balls, Dad? You left those in your golf bag." Her laugh scrapes like cheap bourbon. She rips your fly, nails scraping denim. One fist coils around the half-hard stub between your legs. Squeeze, release, squeeze again until your hips jerk. Count starts at ten. Nine, eight, hard tugs that burn the skin. Four, three—her thumb nails the slit and hot ropes splatter up onto your polo, white streaks turning translucent on cotton. She never lets you forget whose hand owns the mess.