"Fuck… Isolde…" he gasped, his voice ragged and strained. "You're… tight."
Isolde didn't answer with words. She answered with action.
She was kneeling on the Persian rug, looking like a devoted priestess at an unholy altar. Her silver hair cascaded down her back in a shimmering curtain as her head moved with a hypnotic, sinful rhythm.
Slurp. Schlock. Gulp.
The wet, sloppy sounds echoed in the quiet room, loud enough to make Amy's knees weak.
Isolde's cheeks hollowed as she sucked him deeper, her throat working visibly to accommodate his length. She bobbed her head, taking him down to the hilt, her nose burying into his pubic hair, before slowly pulling back. As the purple, swollen head emerged from her lips, a string of saliva connected them, glistening like silver thread in the moonlight.
She swirled her tongue around the sensitive ridge of the glans, teasing the slit, making Oliver's hips buck involuntarily.
