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Itâs a manâs right to be served and pleased by women fuck toys. It knows itâs place is beneath and under a man. Even a random man is above the fuck toy in everything.
Serving men gives it a purpose and fills it with happiness, a slap across the face is like a kiss for the dumb fuck toys.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Qualityâ Free Actions
Free to watch ⢠No registration required ⢠HD streaming
I don't think your safe word is "ghlk ghlk ghlk" but your throat feels too good to pullout now so just try and stay conscious, it's cuter when you put up a fight <3
Real men know what they want, and they take it. Good girls understand their role: to please, to entice, and to serve. They know that their bodies are their greatest assets, and they use them to captivate and control. Look at her, confident and alluring, knowing exactly what men desire. Her curves, her smile, her willingness to display herselfâall tools to ensnare and satisfy. In a world where strength and dominance reign, good girls are the ultimate prize. They know their place, and they embrace it with open arms and a seductive gaze. So, let her flaunt what she's got, let her tease and entice, because that's what good girls do. They please their men, and in doing so, they secure their place in the natural order. Because that's the way it should be: men on top, women on their knees, and the world in perfect harmony.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Qualityâ Free Actions
Free to watch ⢠No registration required ⢠HD streaming
Your thumb scrolls down, down, down. The light from the phone screen is a blue square on your face. You kick your legs a little under the throw blanket, a restless twitch that does nothing. The apartment is quiet except for the hum of the fridge. You are so, so bored.
You don't hear him come in. One second you're alone, the next he's there. Heâs already unbuckling his belt. The sound of leather pulling through loops is loud in the quiet room.
"Babe, it's Throat Fuck Thursday."
The statement hangs in the air. You lower your phone. You can see him better now. The smirk on his face. The way his jeans are already unbuttoned, the zipper halfway down.
"You can't just stick your cock in my face and expect me to open wide because you said 'It's Throat Fuck Thursday...'"
You say it, and you're half-laughing, but the laugh dies when he steps toward the couch and grabs you. His hand is on the back of your neck before you can finish your protest. His thumb presses into the spot just under your skull, right where your spine meets your head. Itâs a pressure you know well. Your head tilts back automatically, a puppet on a string he loves to pull. Your phone clatters to the floor. You don't care.
He shoves his jeans down his thighs. And then it's out. Itâs right there, inches from your mouth. The head is slick and dark, a drop of pre-cum shining in the lamplight. You look from it to his eyes. Theyâre dark, hungry.
His thumb presses harder. Your mouth falls open with a soft sigh.
He nudges forward. The tip of him presses against your lips, slick and warm. You donât move. You just watch him, your heart kicking up a notch. He pushes a little more, parting your lips. You taste him. Salt and musk. His fingers tighten on your neck, not hard, just firm.
He pushes in.
Your throat clenches instantly and you start to gag, but he doesn't stop. He moves slow. So slow. Inching past your teeth, sliding over your tongue. His other hand comes up to cup your jaw, holding you steady. You canât look away from his face. His eyes are half-closed, his own breath coming faster now.
He pulls back until just the head is inside your mouth, then pushes forward again. Deeper this time. The thick ridge of his cock hits the back of your throat and you buck against his hand. Tears prick your eyes. You canât breathe anymore, your whole world narrowing down to this single, overwhelming sensation. The feeling of being filled. Stuffed. Used.
He sets the pace. A slow, punishing slide in and out. His hips rock with the movement. Your hands come up and paw at his thighs, gripping him. You need to hold onto something, and he's all there is.
He goes deeper.
Your whole body tenses. Your toes curl. Heâs pushing past the point of comfort, pushing into that place that makes your brain short-circuit. You start to whine â high and thin. He groans, a low sound deep in his chest. Thatâs what he wanted. That sound.
"More."
He grips the back of your head with both hands now, fingers tangling in your hair, and fucking shoves.
No more slow slide. No more teasing. He bottoms out against the back of your throat. Your vision whites out at the edges. A choked, strangled noise is all you can make, a sound trapped behind the thick root of him. Your body arches off the couch, trying to escape, but his hands hold you fast. You are pinned.
He pulls back just enough for you to half-catch a breath before he slams into you again. And again. In. Out. In. Out. Fucking your face, his hips snapping forward with a force that makes your head rock back. Your jaw aches. Tears stream freely down your temples, soaking into your hair. A thick string of drool, mixed with his slickness, connects your chin to his shaft.
Your brain is gone. There are no thoughts. Just the relentless pounding. The pressure. The burn. The desperate, animal need for air. Your hands claw at his legs, your nails digging into his thighs. Youâre just barely holding on.
"ghlk~mmph~nnnghâ"
Oh, he liked that sound too. His pace gets faster, choppier. You feel the pulse at the base of his cock, a heavy throb against your tongue. You know whatâs coming. Your eyes widen.
He drives in one last time, impossibly deep, and holds you there. His whole body goes rigid. His fingers tighten into fists in your hair, yanking your head forward onto him.
A hot, thick flood shoots down your throat. The first pump fills your mouth, but you rush to swallow it. Then the second. The third. It keeps coming. You canât breathe. You canât do anything but take it. Your throat muscles contract on their own, trying to swallow, trying to make room.
He stays buried inside you until the last pulse fades, his breath coming in ragged pants against your cheek. Then, slowly, he pulls out.
The air that rushes into your lungs burns. You collapse back against the couch cushions, coughing, sputtering. Your throat is raw, your face is a mess of tears and spit, and the taste of him coats your entire mouth.
You blink up at him. Heâs still there, looking down on you. His cock is slick and glistening. He reaches out and wipes a tear from your cheek with his thumb.
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