Chaired

Oliver stands at the glass, cock aching behind his pants, while Mona runs the room like she owns every inch of skin inside it. Lulu, Scarlit, Destiny, and Marica move when she points, kneel when she says kneel. A blonde head dips between Marica’s spread thighs, a brunette tongue drags over Scarlit’s dark nipples, and Mona’s fingers never stop moving—guiding, teasing, taking what she wants. Each girl gets a turn under her mouth or her hand. Moans hit the glass and slide off it. Oliver’s breath fogs a circle he keeps wiping away so he can watch Mona’s tongue push deeper into Lulu, watch Destiny grind on Marica’s fingers, watch every slick slide and wet sound. Mona glances at him once, lips shiny, eyes sharp, then turns back to her girls like the glass isn’t even there. He stays hard the whole time, leaking for any scrap she might toss his way later—maybe her spit, maybe her fist, maybe nothing at all. The tension in his gut coils tighter with every muffled cry that reaches him through the pane.