You think filming ends when the camera stops? Think again. Karla Rose learned the hard way that my urges don’t clock out. She’d already changed into her boring-*** jeans and oversized shirt, smoking by the window like some indie movie cliché.
But I wasn’t done. I let her watch me stroke my **** slow and filthy until her ******* resolve crumbled. She dropped to her knees like the good **** she is, jeans grinding into the floor, those lips wrapping around me like she’d been starving for it. She sucked my **** until she gagged, then painted her tonsils with rope after rope of my load.
She left with my spit shining on her chin and regret in her eyes – should’ve known better than to think she could walk away from my set untouched.