The Star Player

Bridgette B's gunning for the interview that could skyrocket her reporting gig with Rob Piper, the star baller who's got the whole league buzzing. But the cocky dude lays it out: no massage, no chat. She's thrown, staring down her one big break, realizing she's gotta play his game to snag it. Hands on his shoulders, she starts rubbing him down right there in the dim room, firing off questions like a pro. He cuts her off mid-sentence—'Hold up, where's the oil? This ain't no dry rub.' She blinks, gets it, and pours that slick stuff all over his ripped back, working her fingers deep into those muscles. Keeps probing with her interview lines, but he's tossing back grunts and one-syllable bullshit. Frustrated as hell, she eyes the bulge straining his shorts and lays it on the line: 'If I handle that hard-on, you gonna give me the full scoop to launch my career?' He locks eyes, smirks, and commands, 'Ditch the bra and panties, babe.' Star player's done yapping; he just wants the real action. 'Clock's ticking,' he adds with a grin, 'you gotta jet home soon, right?' She nods, admits he's spot on, and amps it up—wraps her hand around his throbbing cock and dives in, sucking like it's her last meal. Married or not, she's never tasted prime athlete meat like this monster, and damn, she loves it, gagging as she forces every inch down her throat until tears streak her cheeks. He grabs her hips, pulls her up, and flips them into a steamy 69, his tongue lashing her wet pussy while he smacks that juicy ass red. No more games—he bends her over, rams her from behind with brutal thrusts that make her scream, then yanks out and blasts his hot load all over her pretty face. Finally satisfied, he spills the beans, handing her the career-defining interview she's been chasing.