Backstage of Pizza with extras

The door opens. She stands there again—blonde hair loose, tits barely held by a thin top. One slice left from last night sits cold on the counter. This time she doesn't reach for cash. Her fingers curl around my belt instead, pulling me inside. She drops to her knees without a word. My cock is already hard. She wraps both hands around it, strokes slow, then takes me deep. Spit runs down her chin onto those heavy breasts. She looks up, smiling, and pushes her tits together around my shaft, sliding them up and down while her tongue flicks the head each time it peeks out. When I can't hold it she leans back, opens her mouth, and takes the load across her tongue and cleavage. She swallows, wipes the rest across her skin, and stands.