Double Teamed

Nomad thinks he’s got the game wired when two club girls buy his lines. He’s wrong. Sativa and Gwen take him home like meat on a hook. The door barely closes and the whips come out. They string him up, wrists wide, ankles spread, and let the leather land until his skin burns and his mouth begs. Every crack makes them laugh harder. They flip him, bend him, cram his mouth full while the other drives a strap-on deep. The slick sound fills the room and their taunts cut sharper than the belt—how stupid he was, how easy. Sweat runs down his chest. His cock stays iron-hard and useless. They take turns riding it just to get off, not to give him anything. When they’re done they jerk him over their hands and shove every drop back down his throat, holding his jaw until he swallows. He came for a score. He left owned.