Biker Boobs

Farrah Paws stood at the door, heart hammering against her ribs. She knew the price of entry. Alison Tyler ran the crew and her rules cut clean. So Farrah crossed the room and dropped to her knees. Alison sat legs spread, boots planted, cunt already slick under the open zipper of her leathers. Farrah pressed her mouth to those heavy tits first, lips closing around a thick nipple, sucking hard until she heard the low growl of approval above her. She dragged her tongue down the ink on Alison’s ribs, over the swell of her belly, tasting salt and smoke. When her face finally pressed between those thighs she licked broad and slow, then zeroed in on the swollen clit, flicking fast, then slow, listening for each sharp exhale. Two fingers slipped inside—tight heat clenching around them—and Farrah pumped deep, curling on every stroke, wrist twisting. She pumped harder when Alison’s hand fisted her hair and dragged her mouth closer. The rhythm turned raw; Farrah’s chin wet, her own thighs pressing together. She kept working until Alison’s thighs locked around her head and the first hot pulse hit her tongue, cunt squeezing hard around the fingers still buried knuckle-deep. Farrah didn’t pull out until the shakes stopped. Only then did she look up, lips shiny, waiting for the single nod that meant she’d earned her place in the pack.