The Interrogation

Michael Vegas cracks open the hotel door and the redhead slams him backward with one open hand. Lights out. He wakes in a concrete dungeon, naked, wrists zip-tied to a cheap chair, black cloth over his eyes. His girlfriend’s name rings in his ears like a siren and then Edyn Blair’s voice slices through the dark: cold, flat, final. She kicks his knees apart. “You stick that dick in anything that opens its legs,” she hisses. “Let’s see if the fuss is worth it.” She plants her bare cunt over his mouth. “Use your fingers; they’re the only part of you that still belongs to you.” His tongue works on automatic, licking cunt like survival. When he gasps for air she shoves her hips lower, grinding until his chin is slick. She slides down, takes his stiff cock to the root, bobs once, twice, then rips the blindfold away so he can watch her eyes while she sucks the taste of every other woman off him. “Say it.” “I’m a piece of shit.” His voice breaks. Edyn purrs like she’s proud. She swings around, reverse-cowgirl on his lap, sinking onto his raw dick without a hand to guide her. “You move, I walk.” He obeys, thrusting upward in short, desperate punches while she keeps her weight centered and her cunt clenched. Every slick descent is a reminder: her pleasure, not his. She turns, forces him chest-down on the seat, spreads him. Her tongue spears his asshole, filthy and thorough, while his cock jerks untouched against the wood. He begs. She laughs. When she finally unchains his wrists she stays behind him, hand tight on his throat. “Fuck me like you fuck them,” she orders. He straightens her over the chair and rams in from behind, the wet slap of bodies echoing off concrete until his balls seize. He pulls out too late; thick ropes paint her cheeks, her parted lips, the tip of her tongue as she drags the last drops out of him.