Brat's Automatic Milker

She keeps the brat locked down and under her cunt, every thrust a promise and a threat. She rides him close, pussy lips hugging his shaft, then pulls away just enough to make him buck and beg. “Please fuck me, please fuck me.” Her voice is sugar over steel. He’s strapped so tight the cuffs creak; a second pair of hands—hers and mine—alternate strokes, pump after pump, wringing every pulse from him. Blonde hair sticks to her cheek; black strands fall across his chest as she leans in, grinning. We trade places without missing a beat. He splashes hot and fast, again, and again, and again, until the sheets are slick and his head lolls. We aren’t stopping. The goal is simple: drain him dry.