That number rises steady at the corner of the screen; fans, followers, eager little pervs. Patiently waiting. Numbers swell like an erection. Street corner, screen corner, her corner. The anticipation of detached contact. Satisfying, hang-up free but never for free. Alone with the whirring of the machine, lube in hand, the other fingering the board.
Full red lips glossed; they look like they suck good – they do. She’ll do anything here, a feast for the eyes only. Credit Card at the ready, palms sweaty. There’s nothing more stupid than a man with an erection. Stream.
© Natasha Sinclair