Blow Job Brunch

The guests filed in like any other Sunday brunch, name tags on the table and coffee already poured. Five minutes in, the house slaves dropped their robes and started fucking right there on the hardwood. One girl bent over the buffet, her hands cuffed behind her, the other straddling a guest’s lap and taking his cock to the root. The diners watched the display, then copied it. A woman in pearls pushed her husband to his knees; seconds later she had his face buried between her thighs while her wrists were zip-tied to the chair. The patio door opened and shut with the steady rhythm of bodies moving between stations: a brunette in ankle cuffs taking cock down her throat, a blonde in nipple clamps bent over the arm of a sofa getting pounded from behind. Mouths stayed busy. Some guests stayed dressed, flies open, hands guiding eager lips, while others stripped and joined the fray. By the time the croissants cooled, every chair was occupied, every table surface was slick, and the room had settled into the long, steady grind of an afternoon orgy.