Pre-Folsom Party: part two

The party picks back up like it never stopped. Josh has pynki tied and ready. Hot wax hits skin and she jerks, wrists flexing against the rope. Each drip leaves a stinging trail, red welts already rising. She takes it, breath ragged, chest flushed. The guests stay close, watching every twitch. Nearby, knees hit the floor hard. A line of women work their mouths on whoever steps forward, lips stretched, spit shining on skin. Someone moans, another chokes, and it keeps going. No one asks twice. The furniture gets claimed fast—couches, tables, the arm of a chair. Bodies grind and slap, hands gripping hips or hair. Asphyxia has Ash open on the mat. Her fist sinks in slow, then deeper, wrist twisting. Ash's face goes slack, eyes glassy. Each thrust pulls another sound from her until she collapses, legs shaking, drooling on the floor. A guest moves in on Stefanos. Her hand slides up his chest, fingers curling in his shirt. He doesn't rush it. He just watches her, letting the tension stretch, then pulls her in close. The room keeps moving around them, every surface occupied, every breath sharp and thick.