No Good Deed

Tommy Pistol thumbs a desert road like he owns it. Chanel Camryn pulls over, smiles, offers water and a seat. He climbs in smiling right back. Inside her place he drops the mask. One rough command and she peels off her clothes, every strip slow and hateful. He jams his dick down her throat before she can finish a sentence. Spit trails her chin. He shoves her to the floor, cock still stretching her mouth, makes her crawl like a dog on a leash of meat. She slips, gags, earns a vicious slap of throat. He flings her onto the mattress, spreads her cheeks, checks how tight that hole is. Satisfied, he drags her back to her knees and keeps feeding her until she goes limp and quiet. Arm around her neck now, breath hot in her ear, he promises he’s nowhere near done. Rope bites into her wrists. Kneeling, spread, tied to the bedframe, Chanel begs while Tommy licks her open—first her cunt, then the darker pucker. She whines. He steps on the back of her skull, plants his dick to the root, and the bed creaks under each slam. He spits, hooks her mouth, tongues her ass again. Then he climbs on, drives into that clenched hole like he’s drilling for oil. Later she’s hogtied on her spine, legs splayed, and he swaps holes—pussy first, then asshole again—until her pleas turn into fake moans. Hitachi buzzes her clit raw while his cock pistons the tight ring open. Finally he pulls out, paints her tear-streaked face with hot stripes, leaves her twitching in rope and come.