Breaking The Doll Part 2: Not A Whore

She’s a filthy sight in that tiny pink number. Marisol and I work fast, yanking our doll face-down, cinching the ropes till its spine bows and its ankles kiss the backs of its hands. Hogtied tight. Its cock hangs out, fat and already leaking. I wrap my fingers around it and start pumping, slow then brutal, twisting on the upstroke. Under the gag the moans turn frantic. Marisol just laughs, leaning in so her tits smother the side of its face. “Look at it twitch,” she says. I keep the rhythm cruel and steady. The head swells, shiny, every vein standing out now. The blonde thing strains against the ropes, big tits mashed into the mattress, but there’s nowhere to go. I pick up speed, slick skin sliding through my fist, squeezing harder at the base every time I reach the crown. “Come on, doll,” I growl. “Show us how quick a whore like you breaks.” Its hips jerk once, twice—then it explodes, ropes of cum splattering the sheets while the muffled screams keep coming. We don’t stop stroking until the last weak spurt dribbles over my knuckles. Marisol wipes the mess across its cheek. “Not a whore, huh?” she sneers. The doll just whimpers, still twitching in the ropes.