Snatched Up

Avery’s got this fantasy she can’t shake. She texts Tommy Pistol to make it real. He waits until she’s home and resting, then kicks the door, hauls her out of bed. Next thing she knows she’s tied on a concrete floor, knees aching, throat exposed. Tommy slaps her hard across the cheek, shoves thick fingers past her lips, testing how deep she’ll go. When her mouth’s raw he feeds her his cock, pushing until spit runs down her chin and her eyes water. He moves around, lays stripes across her tits and ass with the flogger, then jams his fingers into her cunt until she’s dripping down her thighs. Later she’s fixed to a low crate, one leg hoisted high, the other bent tight under her. Her pussy hangs open. Tommy fingers her again, licks her swollen clit, then drives his cock in deep—balls deep—switching between hand and shaft until his whole fist disappears inside her. He crops every inch of skin he can reach while she comes on his wrist. Finally he flips her so her head hangs off the edge, slides back into her throat, and presses the Hitachi to her clit. He keeps fisting, fucking, and buzzing until her legs shake and he paints her face with thick ropes of cum.