Modern Day Sins Update - Mad Fuckers: Reverse Psychology

Whitney slams the door, already clawing at Isiah before her hands are off the knob. Clothes hit the floor in seconds. Lips smash, teeth scrape, tongues battle like they want to drown in each other. "You didn't touch anyone else, right?" she murmurs between gasps, making him say the line again while she squeezes his hard-on through his slacks. "Swear it. Say it like you mean it." She pulls away with a smirk, opens the door, and Liv and Christy file in. Every ounce of color leaves Isiah's face. The three women trade knowing looks, then turn cold. He tried feeding each of them the same guilt-trip lies. Now the walls close in. On his knees, shirt gone, cock throbbing and desperate, Isiah starts apologizing in rapid-fire pleas. The women aren't interested in words. Liv and Christy stand shoulder-to-shoulder, snapping their panties aside for him to peel off with his teeth. Whitney kicks hers down next. They taste him one after another, dragging wet tongues across his neck, chest, the hard ridge in his lap. Then the first cunt presses onto his mouth. Lips smother, thighs lock his head, voices hiss orders. When they let him up, the three line up in front of him, slick and panting. They take his cock together like they own it—one deep-throating the head, another sucking the balls, spit running down the length, hands guiding and passing him back and forth. No teasing, just hungry, skilled mouths. They shove him back onto the couch, one by one. Liv rides first, slamming down hard enough his bones hit the frame. Christy watches, fingers inside herself, counting aloud like a referee. Whitney is next, talking filthy, hips circling like she means to snap him. They bark at him to buck up or lose his chance. Asses spread over the cushions, knees on the cushions, they demand rotation—every minute, a fresh dripping hole. He shoves, grunts, groans, fucking one, two, three, looking dead certain he'll be kicked out if he lags. The faces in the room are beautiful and merciless, and every thrust feels like a bet on how long he lasts before the game turns lethal.