When Porn Stars Attack #02, Scene #01

She slaps both palms on the lens and grins like she owns the room. Shorthaired, shredded Krissy Lynn. Sweaty from sets, shorts riding high on that shelf of muscle. She tells you to stop staring before she makes you sorry. Then she turns, drops her shorts, and smacks that glistening ass straight at you until the camera shakes. You came for the workout. You stay for the lecture. The moment the dude steps in she’s already barking. Tells him to get on the bench, already tugging at his waistband while she orders the weights to shut up. That bench isn’t bolted, but it might as well be. She slams his back down, straddles, shoves the drenched crotch of those tiny shorts against his nose and keeps pushing till his legs shake. He gags. She laughs. Stuffs each stinking sole over his mouth next, wriggling toes so every rank fold gets painted across his tongue. She keeps talking—filthy, nonstop—about how nasty she is after cardio, how lucky he is to taste it, how she’ll break his neck between her thighs if he stops licking. She flips him over, pulls the black cock out, and slurps it raw, spit trailing down her chin. She buries his face again, wipes her crack with his beard, lets him feel the full heat before she stands and slams herself down in one thrust. Bench creaks. Metal clangs. The yoga ball is next; she rolls him onto it, rides his dick like a piston, spine curved, ass pounding. The rubber squeaks with every bounce. She demands he flex, slap her tits, anything to keep her going. When he finally fires off it’s messy—thick ropes across her sweaty chest. She scoops it up with two fingers, smears it on his tongue, and tells the mirror how fucking good it feels to win again.