You've been waiting for this. The camera placed just so — close enough that you can see every tremor, every glisten, every desperate clench of my body responding to his touch. I'm laid back for you, knees drawn up, my natural bush on full display. No performance. No fakeness. Just me: a woman who knows exactly what she needs, and exactly how to make you ache for it. His fingers work me slowly. Stroking. Teasing. Building that pressure you know so well — the one that tightens low in your belly when you're almost there, almost too late. But here's my secret: I needed to piss before we even started. I held it. For you. To feel that delicious edge where pleasure and desperation blur into something frantic, something honest. You see it happen. The moment control slips. A spurt — hot, sudden, mine — cutting through the tease as I cry out, as my cunt pulses and squeezes and finally, finally lets go in waves you can almost taste through the screen. I made a mess. I don't care.
