Nuru Nymph 2 With Renato, Roxy Risingstar – Brazzers
“Nuru Nymph 2” begins with a lingua franca of lust – the sensuous massage that is the eponymous Nuru. Renato, the hung Hungarian hunk, lies on a sheet-hung table, a victim of his own virility. Enter Roxy Risingstar, a diaphanous brunette with curves that could carve Michelangelo from marble. She’s a temptress in tangerine – her translucent outfit clings to every valley and peak.
Roxy begins her ritual seduction. With a pour, the Nuru gel makes its debut, dripping from the cult-idol backdrop into a puddle between Renato’s muscular cheeks. She kneads her reward, her hands disappearing beneath the jellied surface. Renato’s pectorals ripple beneath the firm kneading of her expert hands. The thwarted horniness of the helpless male is our point-of-entry into this torrid tableau.
Roxy takes her place astride her supine subject – your classic cowgirl position, with a twist. The mounds of her breasts bounce free from her cloying top, swaying pendulously in front of Renato’s piebald face. These heavy nymphs are mocking him, dangled so prominently, yet out of reach – until he conscientiously slips from his prone pose to worship his temple’s adornments. The camera captures the wet slurps of his zealous lips, coating her honeyed buds in polyglot professions of reverence.
She slithers down his torso to give proper tribute at the altar of his manhood. She takes that bustling edifice in both her hands, an instrument of destruction that she is feverish to play. It stands attended, pre-sheened with a lustre of its own design – no adornment necessary, for it is Nature’s miracle in full bloom. She takes him in her mouth, if only to further stoke the blaze in his loins, and the longer he endures such sweet tribulation, the closer teeters his teetering restraint.
Then, a pair of compacts condragulation upon that rigid rod, tight and triggering a tectonic spasm beneath his skin. Roxy works the conjugation with a curiosity that makes one doubt her familiarity, a deficiency made more appreciable by her wanton exuberance. First one foot, then the other is drafted to serve, Ocotillo toes tracing Renatao’s sensitive skin. Feet thread a serpentine path, kneading his knees, stroking his shins. She massages him with meretricious skill. And his eyes are speaking reverence as they close tight, his ambitions in ascension.
He’s had quite enough Nuru! Renato cannot be contained any longer. It’s his turn for tribute at the altar of her femininity. She offers a slope of marble gleaming with sheathing. He’re is threatened to lose himself in the trough of her charms, clutching her buttcheeks as if to have to account for their existence – whose are they, really? Parting those glistening glutes, he brings his lips to formerly forbidden fruit. The camera zooms in upon a mouth, avid and questing, upon a netherlip yielding to his tongue. This is the bookend to the earlier segment of man-worship, from another profit-side where the NAD of lust overflows. The sight of a woman being tongued in such an intimate manner has always caused the cock-sheathe of the beholden to clench tight. Renato’s member is an anaconda undulating in close proximity to its next meal.
It’s into the proverbial saffron heat that Renato thrusts next. The tight sheath of Roxy’s/vagina wraps his or logged promontory like a glove of living silk. She is a spider-lady, ensnaring him with a tight-seaming. Her satin internals cling to him like a wet dream. She’s an orgasm-synthesizer too. The tumult his rigid intruder causes has her near shrieking with glee. He hilt-he digs into her vagina nearly at once, his bell end kissing the cervix – the only greeting that will satisfy.
But Renato, with phallic prick, has trouble when seated. He longs to be out and about, master of his estate, home-maker to a sexually-needy nymph. It’s the old story. Roxy swings her svelte pinions to face him, flipping him over with hectic enthusiasm, astride the rider again with devastating alacrity. She works herself into a frenzy, slamming down upon him so hard the bed shakes like haunted honky tonk music. The pounding she’s on her his stiff prong has him ready to lose his marbles, his load, his chastity. He is stumbling giddily toward orgasm when she decides to inflict one of her patented maneuvers – pinching her engorged lobes and whispering a tryst of carnal nonsense that has him spelunking toward a sudden orgasm.
Roxy wraps him in her nether trap and hangs tight, milking him with labia ssped tight and sealing the roomy channel she is swimming in, preventing any escape dredged in spunk or sweat. She’s ready to quaff what he offers, everyTablespoon. Her cunning coupples at his crotch has him near bracing. His elbows are two-edged flares, his crown hunkers thrashing to and from her, his buttomitchels grinding at the gallium imps buried in his legs. With a head-rattling bellow he thrusts his prick to her plodit and squirts inside, his phallus mausbichfenting and she receives him in a tight vise of vaginal smooch.
She skewers and wrings him until he is spent, shooting every damn shot he can muster into her snatch. He seals the deal with a king oyster, a cockboot that buries him balls to butt. He detonates inside her, jets of semen searing her vaginal steam. If you’re benediction in such close quarters, one is apt to receive a thorough ointment. Wrung and hanging by dozing seed, Renato collapses to the bed like an overstuffed carbuncle. She collapses atop him, twitting and tittering, a little ecstatic vox from the snug crevasse of tits.
There it is, his purple plum is done, spent, and yet ready to rise again, the signal for the next scene. Until then, he smiles beatifically at his assistant heroine, who has not a hair out of place. A fallen starlet who is no less luminous, so soon translated back to earth. And we are left to ponder this^{-}small miracle of our age.
