I expect the argument now. Or at least the denial. But no. As seems to be her style, Lola Turner shocks me when two pink-painted pointer fingers go to either side of that wet pussy and pull it open for my eyes to see. And then she takes it a step further, locking eyes with me and swiping a finger through her wet, from her entrance to where she circles her clit at the top, letting out a breathy noise. “Again,” I say, needing to see that again, to cement it in my mind until I die, a reel I’ll replay and jack off to until I’m senile.
