Mad Fuckers: Reverse Psychology

Whitney Wright shoves Isiah Maxwell into her office, the door clicking shut like the start of something dirty. "Sit," she orders. The lie comes easy at first—he's here for therapy, and she's the professional keeping his addiction in check. The moment the lock turns, she launches at him. Their mouths crash. Tongues tangle. Hands claw at clothes and skin. "Fuck, I missed you," she breathes into his lips. He groans the same words back, already hard, already pulling her closer. The line about ethics fades with every wet kiss. She wants his words too, the dirty ones. She asks if she's the only woman he thinks about, if he's really staying clean like he claims. Each lie tastes sweeter when his lips shake it out between kisses. Whitney suddenly pulls away, smirking. Two more women slip inside—Liv Revamped and Christy Love. Recognition hits Isiah like a fist. His stomach drops. He's been promising each of them the same thing: the sessions are working, the addiction's fading, they alone have tamed him. Now he's trapped. The three of them look ready to rip him apart, equal parts rage and hunger. Isiah drops to his knees, mumbling he’ll do anything to fix it. That’s the charm that keeps him alive—they nod, still hungry. Christy and Liv line up. He hooks his teeth into their panties, peels them down. Whitney follows, sliding hers off next, then orders him to lose the shirt. The view alone gets him aching again. They take turns sitting on his face, grinding until his chin is slick. Then they work together on his cock—passing it like a secret, lips meeting around the shaft, tongues trading spit, balls getting sucked while someone else bobs deep. Saliva drips down his length between each mouth. Whitney rides first, urgent and grinding. When she cums, the others tag in, hips slapping hard while the rest watch. Each gives him orders: faster, deeper, don’t slack off, not with three holes to satisfy. Every demand makes him harder. Now bent in a row, they spread for him. He shifts between each, thrusting, praying his rhythm pleases them. Their impatient moans tell him it might not be enough. Still, Isiah keeps moving, desperate, working himself raw trying to buy forgiveness one thrust at a time.