Fuckhole

Kenna sizes him up over the rim of her glass. Oliver twists the ring on his finger while his pilot’s cap sits on the next stool like a warning he keeps ignoring. His overnight bag already looks like it wants to bolt. She drains her drink and stands. At the apartment the hall light hits metal. CoCo’s wrists and ankles are locked open in a spreader bar, naked, mouth parted, eyes half-lidded with anticipation. Kenna peels off her coat, steps behind the bound girl, and fists a handful of blonde hair. CoCo’s throat opens without protest. Kenna feeds Oliver’s cock straight down, watching tears streak black mascara. The brunette never blinks. She holds CoCo’s head steady while Oliver thrusts, deep, deliberate, balls slapping the girl’s chin. Spit trails down CoCo’s neck and pools on her collarbone. When Oliver’s breath hitches, Kenna drags him free, strings of saliva stretching between CoCo’s swollen lips and the head of his cock. The girl coughs once, already leaning forward for more. Kenna pushes Oliver onto the couch, then lowers CoCo’s open mouth onto him again, using the spreader bar like handles. She climbs over CoCo’s face, sits on the girl’s tongue, grinding while Oliver’s shaft disappears and reappears, shiny with spit. The only sounds are wet suction, the faint creak of leather cuffs, and Kenna’s low, filthy encouragement. Oliver grips the armrest, ring finger white-knuckled. Kenna leans in, lips at his ear. "She’s your layover," she whispers. "Use her." CoCo gags on cue, throat fluttering, eyes watering, and the brunette smiles like the night is still young.