Poison Ivy’s affinity for foliage is well known, but she is, after all, still a woman. Sometimes she craves some meat in her diet. A fat, hard, juicy cock is what she needs and any thuggish brute that it’s attached to will do. She calls a repair service and, after asking some bewildering questions as to the physique of the man they’ll send out, gives her address and waits. As the clueless laborer enters the abode, he is first struck by the ravishing redhead approaching him in high heels and a curve-hugging, green gown. The second thing that hits him is a dose of Ivy’s mind-control pheromones. Helplessly enamored by the sexy siren, he doesn’t need to be told what to do. Her clothes come off faster than the Flash when he raced Superman (everyone knows he won), her green panties stuffed unceremoniously in her mouth. She lets the simpleton’s primal instincts take over and enjoys the hard fucking that she so desperately needed. Poison Ivy smiles in satisfaction as her ample ass gets coated in a hot flood of special sauce, but then looks at the man to see that he is clearly no longer under her spell. He never was. A rare medical condition renders him immune to her powerful pollen, her only influence being her tight, wet holes. She’s just like any other slut to him, and since she is now covered in his nut, he says, “Later, Bitch.” and leaves her sticky and alone.

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