Joyce Oliveira – I Am Wearing No Panties – Brazzers

Title: “Sinners and Saints: A Brazilian Score”

In the sultry heat of Rio de Janeiro, Joyce Oliveira finds herself in a position that would make a priest faint. The Brazilian babe, with her luscious curves and cascading raven locks, stands before her confession booth, a wicked smirk playing on her full, pouty lips. Under the fluorescent green glow of her tiny thong, her round, plump rear jiggles enticingly as she turns to flash a peek at the priest hidden behind the screen.

“Father, forgive me, for I have sinned,” she purrs in her thick, decadent accent. “It has been… oh, let me think… two days since my last anal confession.” The confession slides off her tongue like honey, dripping with sinful promise.

Meanwhile, in the confines of the booth, the priest abruptly spills his own sins, his massive bulge straining against the confines of his cassock. Joyce cackles, just loud enough to be heard through the thin partition. “My, my, Father, it seems you too have a confession to make. Perhaps we should switch places – I do believe your guilt would confess quite nicely under my… Holy Touch.” Her eyes sparkle wickedly as she licks her plump lower lip.

With a flick of her wrist, the Brazilian vixen undoes her tiny greenbra and “BOOM!” – out They bounce, two perfect handfuls of caramel-sweet flesh, tipped with pert, dusky nipples. Joyce giggles at the priest’s scandalized gasp. She knows she punishes and beckons in equal parts, but right now, she’s aching for a triple saint’s bit of punishment in her back alley- between her prim cheeks sits a rose garden just waiting for pruning.

She bends over the blockade between confessions, giving a commanding view of the goods she’s laying down – a round of chocolate ass so plush and plentiful, her tiny thong weaves a defiant thread of fight. Joyce groans in deep concentration, applying herself to the task of removing said thread. “So much… underwear for one sinner to bear,” she purred. The green cotton gave way and with a triumphant wink, she yanked it down, baring her bare bottom to, well, everything.

Her Brazilian booty is so ample, it needs not thong, panties, briefs, or boxers – alone, it stands tall, ripe and ready to be ravished. Joyce reaches back, pulling the illicit Valentine’s Day crescent to the side, and moans as she reveals the deepest, darkest hole in the den – her plugged posterior. The delicate brown bud sits right on the forward edge of ecstasy’s pivot, preened to perfection.

From behind the wooden wall, she hears a captivating clatter, like the chain of a statutory padlock being drawn. “Father,” Joyce croons, “I hear tell you’re single-handedly unbinding your faux-a-flock… why don’t you bless me with your holiest of blessings? I promise to confess sins upon sins via my… vermicelli… ahem,Mount Saint Chestnut. It’s smooth sailing from there…”

She feels the silver amens of his zipper storm front row of her dressing room, a warm gush of clammy promise blows across the back of her követkeos. Her plump pears quiver as the ritual fingers the high-production protocols – and without prelude or permission, penetrates.

“My Lord!” the Brazilian beauty cries, plundering to her core as his anointing rains down in the holiest of holy water. “May I be saved!” Joyce keens, fingertips abrading on radius of religion that have bested her, through fallen arches and unto ecstasy’s highest high. The Priest has her unraveling from the inside out.

When he finally mercies, Joyce’s confines rake with knowing confessions – release, relief, redemption all flaw the flooring in equal parts. The confessional curtain is drawn true and a jaded green thong is passed over the booth barriers with a silent benediction.

The Brazilian beauty winks, twirls it around one finger, and tucks it in the recesses of her neckline. “Keep the faith, Father… and I’ll keep the sin.” Joyce Oliveira emerges from the confessional, her jeans re-strung beetle-browed ay her hips and a secret holy water Augustine orb in her grasp.

She cackles into the euphoric of Rio. The day is saved, but sin remains – for the city, for the holy, for the ardent, insatiable Joyce Oliveira, it is a never-ending sermon of fun. We’ve all got to confess our sins somehow, priests especially. “Until next Sunday, Father,” she calls out mockingly knowing the clergy’s erection is a fervent secret held for her attendance again. Joyce winks, a knowing smile on her lips adequate to undo even the most chaste of robes.