Masked

Jamaal had Meadow on all fours. He was in a ski mask, and there was an iPad filming the action on a tripod. Meadow felt wet and wanton and hungry as always, but there was a particular edge to her on film, where she trash talked her white boy followers, talked him up, praising him as a God among men.

He'd never fucked on camera before -- at first, it was offputting, but as he learned to put the camera out of his mind, his talent for drilling the winsome porn starlet became clear. He finished with a superb facial, absolutely coating Meadow's face in his thick cream.

After, Meadow got a bottle of wine, joining Jamaal on the bed. She'd cleaned up, uploaded the raw footage, and was in a perky mood.

"You sure ain't no one gonna identify me?" Jamaal asked hesitantly.

"No birthmarks, no face, I don't think so baby," Meadow said, kissing him passionately. "You could do this for a living, you know." Jamaal's brow furrowed.

"What do you mean?" he asked hesitantly.

"I mean, my handsome Mr. King ... if you were to leave all this behind ... which is being a professional athlete, to be sure ... you could be a star. Think about it: you could be on the bench, and once you start getting a bunch of DNPs, it's hard to get back into the rotation. Or, the two of us ... we could go to LA. Leave all the bullshit behind. And you could slay all the hot porn stars out there with this big beautiful cock, and you could be a star of a different type. Just something to think about."