Anger

Angela bolts from work, rattled by the raw sex dreams that started the night she met them. She needs Maitland. Maitland finds her first. Angela backs up, voice tight. "Who the fuck are you?" Maitland grabs her wrist, says nothing, and drags her down a narrow alley. There, under a buzzing streetlamp, Owen and Small Hands already have Brooklyn on her knees. Brooklyn's tongue slides over Owen's cock, spit dripping, while Small Hands grips her hair and pushes deeper. Brooklyn swallows to the root without gagging, throat working, bush dark between spread thighs. Angela watches, pulse hammering, as Brooklyn takes both men—mouth full, eyes glassy. Maitland keeps her pinned in the shadows, breath hot against her ear. Every wet sound carries down the alley. Brooklyn's lips stretch, cheeks hollow, then she pulls off with a gasp and goes right back down. No one speaks. Just the sound of skin and breath and the low growl from Owen as he shoves forward again. Angela's fingers dig into Maitland's arm. She can't look away.