Service Day: L.A. Meat

The Pope drags Derrick Pierce into the house like a fresh carcass. Kaos and Grace snap to the end of their chains, drooling, yanking hard enough to bruise their throats just to taste his boots. He plants his feet and lets them lap at leather until spit runs in strings. When he finally unzips, the two slaves lunge, gagging each other for first taste, metal cuffs clinking like teeth. He feeds them his cock in turns, smearing their faces together, letting them fight for every inch. Soon they’re bent, wrists cinched behind their backs, asses up and spread. Derrick works them open—one girl, then the other—while The Pope paces and corrects with the crop. Every thrust is answered by a whip crack, every whimper turned into a louder, wetter moan. Their tits swing heavy beneath them, marked already, nipples tight and sore. He pounds until their holes are sloppy, until the floor is slick with what leaks out. Only then does he let them come: raw, shaking, throats raw from begging. They take his load across flushed skin and open mouths, proof that good meat earns its bruises.