Dana Dearmond

Dana DeArmond laughs low in her throat while she plants her knees on either side of the idiot’s head. Her bare cunt hovers a breath above his mouth, the heat and scent of it making the poor bastard’s dick twitch uselessly under the coffee-table glass. She rolls her hips in lazy circles, lets a single drop fall onto his lips, then pulls away with a smirk. That’s all the mercy he gets. When she’s finished teasing, she snaps her fingers and the two men step in—tall, black, inked from shoulder to wrist. The first one fists her red hair and feeds her his cock until her throat clicks; the second one spreads her ass and drives straight in, no warm-up, just the blunt push that knocks the air from her lungs. She groans around the dick in her mouth and pushes back, hungry for every inch. The cuck’s view is nothing but black cotton and the muffled sound of skin slapping skin. She tells him he’s useless, a warm hole for her heels, a waste of air, and every filthy word makes her clench tighter around the cock splitting her open. When the first man finishes, he paints thick stripes across her tits, her belly, the small of her back. The second one pulls out and adds his own load to the mess. Only then does Dana peel the panties off the cuck’s face and shove his mouth against her cum-slick skin, ordering him to lick every drop or she’ll leave him there all night.