DJ DEV: The Dick Equipped Venus
The sound of the beats pounding in the club were oppressive. Bodies writhed against one another in a euphoric mess of chemicals, sweat, and primal noise and at the center of it all was DEV.
The short-haired blonde held one half of the headphones to her right ear while the other hand flew between a series of dials, faders, the laptop keyboard and the turntables; keeping the soundtrack for the semi-dressed orgy running.
There was a different kind of music being made in that DJ booth though. A wet schlickschlickschlick of mouth on prick. It was for this exact reason that DEV wore a skirt. Cute scene girls, dub-step sluts, and everyone in between wanted to request a song from the hottest DJ around and she wanted them to have something to remember her by.
The music dropped and the crowd was filled with a few seconds of silence before the beat ramped back up as DEV delivered her own personal signature. A thick, wet autograph that no one would see down a party-lush's throat. A little nudge with the knee got the cougher off of her body and in an instant she was back to the music.
The music never stopped
The sound of the beats pounding in the club were oppressive. Bodies writhed against one another in a euphoric mess of chemicals, sweat, and primal noise and at the center of it all was DEV.
The short-haired blonde held one half of the headphones to her right ear while the other hand flew between a series of dials, faders, the laptop keyboard and the turntables; keeping the soundtrack for the semi-dressed orgy running.
There was a different kind of music being made in that DJ booth though. A wet schlickschlickschlick of mouth on prick. It was for this exact reason that DEV wore a skirt. Cute scene girls, dub-step sluts, and everyone in between wanted to request a song from the hottest DJ around and she wanted them to have something to remember her by.
The music dropped and the crowd was filled with a few seconds of silence before the beat ramped back up as DEV delivered her own personal signature. A thick, wet autograph that no one would see down a party-lush's throat. A little nudge with the knee got the cougher off of her body and in an instant she was back to the music.
The music never stopped