Tag: money fucking

Bitchy Teen Squirts For Your Wallet

Belle 1844-332-2639 X 444

Hello, again fuckboy loser. You know, I enjoy busting the banks of virgin weirdos who can’t actually attack any pussy in the real world, but what makes me wet, like really fucking drenched, is wrecking the big, bad boss’s wallet. The man. You know, the guy everyone has always wanted to be. Handsome, talented, cutthroat in business but the biggest gentleman you’ll ever meet. That guy. He’s the one I love to drain.

Both his balls and his wallet. And that guy, his wallet is always thick. Bottomless pockets for me to dig into. Fuck, I’m getting wet just telling you about it. The best part is that I don’t even have to be nice to him when I take it because he knows he needs me. He wants to let go of that all-American charm for a few hours, and the only way he can do it is by making this bitchy teen squirt while fucking his wallet.

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Phonesex with Felicity 1844-332-2639 x 270

I’ve grown bored with my day-to-day routine. Wake up, get ready for the day, drop my son off at school, and then wait. I wait for school to be over; I wait for my husband to get home. Rinse and repeat. I’m just bored. And what’s a bored housewife to do? Get my real estate license! It shouldn’t be that hard to sell a house, right?

I mean, I’m a pretty girl, and I know how to give a home tour. So I drove to my local broker’s office and told him I was interested in going down this path and was hoping he could guide me. He gave me once over and stood up from his desk. “I have a showing in ten minutes; I’ll take you along. You can be my real sexy estate assistant.”

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Bad Bitch Belle 844-332-2639 Ext 444

From the moment we met, it was inevitable. We both knew you’d become my cash slave. The cards were stacked against you. I’m a manipulative, beautiful little bitch, and your inability to control your little prick makes it impossible for you to keep your wallet closed.

The only value you possess is in your wallet, and you know it, which makes it easier for both of us. There is no pretending that I like you or that I’d ever be into you. No, you know better. You aren’t that stupid. Yet, you invite me on your lap, stuffing twenties, fifties, and the occasional hundred-dollar bill into my bra, and I wiggle against you so we both get what we want.

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