Sam Shows Why He Belongs In The Fraternity

Sam knows the rules. No tape, no brothers. He meets Tory in the basement rec room—cheap lights, leather couch, empty keg. She wears a skirt the size of a belt and nothing underneath. “Camera’s rolling,” she says. He grabs her waist, spins her around, bends her over the pool table. Her hands claw the felt. He pushes inside without asking. Hard. Fast. The first stroke knocks a breath out of her. He sets the rhythm like a fight, hips slamming, balls slapping. Sweat drips off his chin onto her back. She arches, cursing, and takes it deeper every time he buries himself to the root. He reaches under, fingers her clit in tight circles, not gentle, and her knees buckle but she doesn’t fall. He keeps her up with one arm around her ribs and keeps pounding until the table creaks. She comes first, loud, filthy, voice cracking. He doesn’t stop. He yanks her upright, spins her, lifts her onto the felt, spreads her wide, and fucks her again—harder, like the tape needs proof. Her nails cut red lines across his shoulders. He finishes inside her in three brutal strokes, growling through his teeth while the red light still blinks. When he pulls out, cum slides down her thigh onto the green felt. He wipes his dick on her skirt and says, “That enough for the tape?” She smiles like a wolf and nods once.