Backstage with Netu

Netu doesn’t give an inch. She stands in the harsh backstage light with her red hair wild and her mouth already curved into something wicked. Csoky and Zack step forward, cocks heavy in their fists, and she sizes them up like she’s deciding whether they’re worth the trouble. They reach for her and she slips away, only to come back smiling, fingertips grazing their shafts, daring them to do better. She drops to her knees with no warning. One hand wraps around Csoky’s length and the other teases Zack, slow strokes that never settle into a rhythm she’ll let them keep. When Zack tries to push deeper she pulls off, tongue flicking the head instead, eyes bright with that little spark that says she’s the one running the show. Csoky grits his teeth, hips twitching, but Netu only laughs under her breath and switches, mouth closing around him while her fingers keep working Zack at the same lazy, infuriating pace. They try to crowd her, to hold her head, to set a tempo, and she lets them—until she wants to change it. She rises, turns, bends, offering herself, then darts forward again before they can take full advantage. Sweat starts to bead on their skin. She keeps smiling, cheeks flushed, that red hair sticking to her temples. Every time they think they’ve caught up, she slips the leash, makes them chase, keeps them hard and aching until the moment she finally decides they’ve earned a little more.