She felt the hot rush of jissom in her face. slugged down draughts of his joy juice.

Quaffed come into her tam-turn.

Inside her stomach, the jissom boiled.

Her snatch was a patch of hot oils.

Arturo wiggled his pecker.

A few snaggles of jizz traced the angle of her nose. Constance gnawed nuggets.

Played with his hose.

“So they got hostages in-where?” Arturo paused. “No hay problem, man.”

He wrapped his legs about Constance’s face. Brought her head up underneath his rump.

She sucked his asshole ravenously. Eating out anus about the crinkled rim.

His body jumped like a trout.

Constance’s fingers wormed in and out.

Her fingers hooked into the cranny of his fanny. Thumb banged on the outer edge of his asshole.

Corked right in.

“Awk! That’s a zinger,” Arturo stuttered, pulsing his buns. “Tell you what to do, though, man. Invite that father-fucking prime minister over for dinner.

Find out what he really, really likes. Then maybe you can take him aside. Get him addicted to drugs or little girls. You become his supplier, and, man- you be in like Flynn.”

Constance thumbed his bung as his ballocks bounced in her face.

She lapped the seam between his ass and his scrotum. Snapped teeth at his testicles.

Blew up his bottom until his legs spasmed weakly. Flailing her own clit maniacally.

Constance’s face was straining in the agony of her incipient orgasm.

Screaming clit touched off a frenzy from her toes to her brain.

Come rained from her cunny.

Pussy puled for attention.

Purring pussy, hungering for birdmeat. Mewing, stewing, fretting like a kitten.

Constance slashed her legs apart.

Rutted up into the air at his face.

Displaying widespread labia.

Pink, open lips.