Wicked Games They Play

Bruce likes them raw—two fresh faces, one bright blonde, one deep brunette, stripped down to the last scrap of lace. They stand waiting, legs parted, eyes wide and hungry. He tells them what to do, and they obey. The blonde drops first, mouth open, tongue already out, sliding her lips down his cock until her nose meets his skin. She holds there, drooling, while the brunette watches with her fingers buried between her own thighs. When Bruce nods, the brunette moves in, tongue tracing over the blonde’s stretched lips, sharing the taste, trading spit, both of them working him deeper. He wants more. He always does. The brunette turns, palms on the chaise, ass lifted and offered. The blonde spits on the tight ring, then works two wet fingers inside, stretching her open while Bruce strokes himself, slick with their mouths. When she pulls her fingers free, he replaces them, pushing his thick cock past that tight muscle. She takes him to the root in one slow thrust, mouth open in a silent cry. The blonde keeps licking—around his shaft, over the brunette’s stretched hole—until he pulls out and feeds his length back to her mouth. She swallows him wet and filthy, tasting every inch. He moves behind her next, bending her the same way, pushing into her ass while the brunette kneels in front to keep his cock shiny with spit. They trade places again and again, mouths, hands, holes, every motion dictated by his voice and his hands. The camera rolls, and neither of them looks away. They smile when he tells them to, moan when he orders it, come when he allows it. And they know this is only the beginning of what he’ll ask for.