The air in the dimly lit San Telmo loft was thick with the scent of sweat, cheap Malbec, and lust. Camila, her olive skin gleaming under the single exposed bulb, arched her back off the crumpled sheets of the floor mattress, her full, natural tits swaying heavily as she rode Santiago’s face. His stubble scraped her inner thighs, his tongue fucking deep into her dripping cunt with a rhythm that matched the distant pulse of cumbia from the street below.

“¡Más duro, pendejo!” she moaned, her fingers tightening in his dark, sweat-damp curls. “Lámeme toda…”

Santiago, a mechanic with hands calloused from engine grease, gripped her wide hips, his thumbs digging into the soft flesh as he devoured her. He pulled back, his chin slick with her arousal. “You taste like salt and sin, puta,” he growled, flipping her onto her stomach with a rough, practiced move.

Camila gasped, her face pressed into the pillow that smelled of him—cigarettes and leather. She felt the broad, blunt head of his cock nudge against her already-stretched entrance. He didn’t ask. He never did. With one brutal, claiming thrust, he sheathed himself to the hilt in her tight, wet heat.

“¡Sí! ¡Así!” she screamed, the sound swallowed by the pillow.

This was their ritual. Every Friday night after he closed the garage, he’d come to her loft, still smelling of oil and metal. There were no tender kisses, no whispered sweet nothings. Just this—a raw, physical conversation of slapping skin, guttural commands, and the creaking of the cheap bed frame.

Santiago’s pace was punishing, each drive of his hips jolting her body forward. One of his hands fisted in her long, black hair, yanking her head back. The other reached around, his rough fingers finding her swollen clit, rubbing rough, tight circles.

“You’re my good little whore, aren’t you?” he snarled in her ear, his breath hot. “This filthy cunt takes my cock so well. You dream about it all week, don’t you?”

“Sí, papi, sí… solo tu polla…” she babbled, her mind fracturing, her body coiling tighter and tighter. She was close, so close, the pressure building like a storm over the Pampas.

“Not yet,” he commanded, suddenly stilling deep inside her, making her whimper with frustration. He pulled out, the sudden emptiness a shock. “On your knees. Mouth open.”

Camila scrambled to obey, kneeling before him on the threadbare rug. His cock, glistening with her juices, stood thick and angry-red in front of her face. She looked up at him, her dark eyes wide and submissive. He slapped it against her cheek, leaving a wet streak.

“Clean it.”

She leaned forward, her pink tongue lapping from his heavy balls up the throbbing vein on the underside to the slick, leaking tip. She took him into her mouth, hollowing her cheeks, her head bobbing furiously as he guided her with that same fist in her hair.

“Te voy a llenar esa boquita sucia,” he groaned, his hips beginning to piston. She tasted herself, salty and musky, mixed with his unique pre-cum. The sounds were obscene—wet gags, choked moans, his ragged curses in Spanish.

He pulled out just before erupting, jets of hot cum painting her face—stripes across her forehead, her closed eyelids, her parted lips. She kept her mouth open, catching the last few spurts on her tongue, swallowing his bitter seed with a shudder.

He collapsed back onto the mattress, spent. Camila, her face a sticky, debauched mess, crawled up his body. She didn’t wipe it off. She knew he liked to see it. She curled against his side, her head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat slow.

Outside, Buenos Aires hummed with nightlife. In here, there was only the smell of sex and the silent understanding that next Friday, the garage would close, and he would come back. And she would be waiting, naked on the mattress, ready to have her filthy cunt and screaming mouth used all over again. https://www.sexy-cindy.com/hot/argentina-naked-porn