Natural tits belong to the first Tushy years: tagged from 2015 to September 2022 and never since, with 2018 the high point at 45 scenes. 170+ scenes, about 27% of the catalogue. Greg Lansky directed 89 of them, more than half. POV and landing strip are tagged on them nearly four times as often as in the catalogue.
Jayla doesn’t ask twice. She pushes her silk robe off one shoulder and the fabric slides down her back like it knows the order already. Her husband’s assistant is on his knees behind her, breathing shallow, palms flat on the marble counter. She keeps her heels on. He reaches for the tiny plug already seated between her cheeks and turns it, slow circles that drag heat straight to her cunt. She rocks back, a quiet command. He pulls the plug free, watches the hole tighten, then seals his mouth over it and pushes his tongue inside without another word. Jayla sighs through her teeth and spreads wider. The taste hits him hard—her, clean skin, faint lube, and the dark tang of where she wants him next. She reaches back, grabs his hair, keeps him there until her thighs start to shake. When she finally lets him up, her fingers are already at his belt. She takes his cock in both hands, strokes once, twice, then feeds him straight into her throat, spit running down her wrist. He groans against the sink. She swallows him deeper, nose pressed to his skin, then pulls off just long enough to glance up with wet lashes. “Back in my ass,” she says, voice low. He obeys. She turns, plants her palms, arches, and he pushes into the same slick hole his tongue just left. One long thrust, another, until the only sound is skin and the wet click of her throat when she reaches between her legs to rub her clit in tight circles. She comes first—quiet, full-body, thighs trembling around his wrist. He follows seconds later, pulling out at her sharp tap and feeding his cock back into her mouth while he pulses. She takes every drop, swallows, then licks him clean, slow and deliberate, like she’s got all night to decide what she wants next.
Jayla doesn’t ask twice. She pushes her silk robe off one shoulder and the fabric slides down her back like it knows the order already. Her husband’s assistant is on his knees behind her, breathing shallow, palms flat on the marble counter. She keeps her heels on. He reaches for the tiny plug already seated between her cheeks and turns it, slow circles that drag heat straight to her cunt. She rocks back, a quiet command. He pulls the plug free, watches the hole tighten, then seals his mouth over it and pushes his tongue inside without another word. Jayla sighs through her teeth and spreads wider. The taste hits him hard—her, clean skin, faint lube, and the dark tang of where she wants him next. She reaches back, grabs his hair, keeps him there until her thighs start to shake. When she finally lets him up, her fingers are already at his belt. She takes his cock in both hands, strokes once, twice, then feeds him straight into her throat, spit running down her wrist. He groans against the sink. She swallows him deeper, nose pressed to his skin, then pulls off just long enough to glance up with wet lashes. “Back in my ass,” she says, voice low. He obeys. She turns, plants her palms, arches, and he pushes into the same slick hole his tongue just left. One long thrust, another, until the only sound is skin and the wet click of her throat when she reaches between her legs to rub her clit in tight circles. She comes first—quiet, full-body, thighs trembling around his wrist. He follows seconds later, pulling out at her sharp tap and feeding his cock back into her mouth while he pulses. She takes every drop, swallows, then licks him clean, slow and deliberate, like she’s got all night to decide what she wants next.
