Taken

They never expect pillow talk to get out of hand. My wife Katrina Colt tells me she dreams about two strangers dragging her somewhere quiet. Tall men. Dark. Heavy hands. The idea sinks in. Three days later the masks go on and Jay Bangher, Jonathan Jordan kick the kitchen door like they own the place. Her silk robe tears open. Their fingers slide under the lace between her thighs while she’s bent over the island. One grunt from her tells them the line’s already crossed. They toss her onto our bed like luggage. Panties ripped down, a thumb pushed inside before she even stops bouncing. She shoves both thick cocks into her mouth, gagging loud when the heads ram her throat at the same time. Spit runs down her chin onto the sheets. Jonathan flips her. She’s dripping, but the first slow push inside stretches her open and she claws at the mattress. He keeps going. Slow. Cruel. Jay holds her hair so she can’t squirm away. They fuck her stupid. One from the front, one from behind, trading places, swapping her spit and her mess like nothing’s sacred. Slaps, yanks, spit down her back—every noise she makes only gets them harder. She comes twice before either of them slows down. When she begs them to empty inside her she means it. Both flood her at once, thick and hot, and she shudders like she might break in half. Nobody says a word after. Just heavy breathing and the wet sound of her trying to catch what’s already leaking out. Fantasy paid in full.