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This woman, this India Summer, is in fever in such an achingly sustained excruciating heavy way that she actually controls to radiate wags of it out like some primal pheromone that makes the air kind of raw and you commence to perceive hazy and dull. She’s kneading her hips together endlessly, endlessly trying to make the waiting go swifter but it doesn’t help it just makes it worse and you realize you’ve stopped whatever you were doing and now you’re even a lil bit freaked out too. Nothing can satiate her. Her cunny clothespins down so rock-hard on a pound stick that I can’t pull it out with two hands, and using a trio sole pillar for leverage. She will actually glide across the floor first-ever before it comes out. If you tried to pound her, she could hold you hostage. I don’t even know if it would be a fine idea to attempt to pound her because she might shovel the blood rearwards into your heart the wrong way and kill you or something. When she comes, the contractions kick the giant stiff rubber cock, arching it nearly in half. I’m blessed I determined to use the strait-jacket and padded box for the shoot out of unspoiled luck because it was all sincerely useful as opposed to being a wish setting so she doesn’t unwrap pummels or tear bolts thru the schlong of my normal set in some riot of orgasmic violence.