Backstage with Donna Bell

She drops to her knees the second the door clicks shut, lips stretched wide around the lawyer’s cock, spit shining at the corner of her mouth. I walk in on it. No shock. Just heat. I step behind her, shove her skirt up, and drive straight into her ass—no warm-up, no mercy. She gags around him and moans around me, caught between two thrusts. Blonde hair swinging, mascara running, still taking every inch. We use her like that until her throat is slick and her hole is wrecked, and when we finish she swallows one load while the other leaks down her thigh. That’s the divorce we sealed.