The Banging Of Tory Lane And Angel Del Rey

Tory Lane hits like she owns the air in the room. Long legs. Dirty grin. She hooks two fingers under Angel Del Rey’s chin and tips her toward DSnoop, already thick and waiting. Angel’s lips part, soft, shining. Tory drops her voice, low and rough. "Watch me," she says. Then she takes him. Slow. Deep. Eyes locked on Angel the whole time. Angel’s breath catches. Her thighs tighten. Tory pulls off, spit on her lower lip, and shoves Angel forward like the girl’s already late for her own sin. DSnoop grabs a fistful of dark hair, angles his hips, and pushes inside her open mouth. Angel gags once. Tory slaps the side of her cheek, sharp. Not cruel. Just honest. "Relax your throat or stay on the floor." Angel blinks, lashes wet. She tries again. Slower this time. Throat learning the shape. Saliva runs down her neck, catches the light. DSnoop grunts, feeds her every inch, balls tight to her chin. Tory kneels close, whispers filth right into Angel’s ear—praise and dares tangled together. "That’s it, baby. Swallow the lesson." Angel’s eyes roll once, glossy. A thin string of spit connects her mouth to DSnoop’s skin when Tory drags her back for air. Then back in. Faster. Rougher. The kind of training that leaves your knees sore and your name remembered.