The plush rug was a swamp of her juices, the soundproof glass streaked with her spray, the mic stand rattling in the booth, the walls scarred with our sin.
Her naked body was a blazing relic—breasts bouncing, nipples bruised to a raw violet, thighs slick with a glossy flood, ass a crimson map of my handprints, her pussy a gushing wreck, lips swollen to ruin, juices dripping in obscene torrents.
My cock was still entombed in her, the molten, strangling heat of her walls a relentless chokehold, the Halo a cataclysmic scream in my veins. Her orgasms were a relentless storm, her moans a primal liturgy—
"YEEEAAAH—UNGH—PETER—MY LOVE!"
I never stopped, pounding her like a rabid animal in the booth, her ass arched high, pussy lips dragged inside-out with every brutal stroke, spraying hot, clear arcs of girl-cum that splattered the glass and dripped from the ceiling mic while it recorded every filthy, guttural wail she ripped out of her throat.
