I Just Want His BBC

Jada never cared for these parties. Suits flashing their latest prize like a Rolex. She keeps a smile on, shakes a few hands, then slips out. Tonight she stays. A producer with real pull pulls her aside, slips her a card, and she reads between the lines. An hour later she is on her knees. She takes Cash’s heavy black cock in her hand, strokes once, then leans in and sucks each full ball. Saliva drips from her lower lip while she works both orbs in turn. The trimmed bush above her clit brushes her own thighs as she shifts lower, drags her tongue along the thick shaft, then swallows the head with one practiced motion. She bobs slow, lips stretched tight, spit shining his length. Cash groans and holds her hair; she keeps the rhythm, eyes watering, nose brushing skin. Every wet sound fills the quiet room. She comes up for air, strings of saliva still connect her mouth to him. Then she drops back down, working the balls again, tongue rolling, cheeks hollowed. He throbs against her tongue. She never breaks eye contact. She came here to leave her mark on this deal, and every stroke of her tongue shows she means business.