Tinder Nightmare

She should’ve left well enough alone. Anna had swiped right on raw muscle and a cocky grin, but Charlotte saw trouble the second Xander walked through the door. One shove later and he was gone, the lock thrown hard behind him. Anna laughed it off, already texting for another ride. Morning light told a colder story. The apartment sat empty. No purse, no phone, no note. Charlotte grabbed keys and ran. She never made it two blocks. A van door slid open, a fist grabbed her hair, and the world went black. When she came to, Anna knelt beside her—both of them stripped, wrists bound to pipes in some concrete basement that smelled like motor oil and sweat. Xander watched from the doorway, shirtless, thick cock already half-hard, enjoying the way their eyes widened. He took his time. Forced Charlotte to watch while he fed his heavy length between Anna’s lips, pushing until the blonde’s throat fluttered around him. Anna gagged, drool sliding down her chin, but he held her there, hips rolling slow, deliberate. Every thrust made her athletic body shake; every moan from her throat only tightened his grip on her hair. Charlotte fought the ropes until her shoulders burned. He let her watch every inch disappear, then pulled free, spit-slick, and turned to her with the same cold grin he’d worn at the apartment. "Your turn," he said, and the night stretched long ahead of them.