Compton

It was the roughest area Douglas had ever been in. The motel that he and Meadow were in was dilapidated, the wallpaper shearing off, the sink giving out only a trickle of water, the mattress broken and creaking loudly in protest at even the slightest hint of action.

And oh, was there action. Douglas was filming Meadow, sitting on one thug's cock, another buried up her ass, another down her throat, two more filling her hot hands. She was a machine.

They'd sent the invite to the Black men they'd befriended out in LA, and told them to invite their friends. They had condoms on, but it was still exciting, evident in both Meadow's wet pussy and Douglas's stiff cock. He tilted the phone down a little bit to capture his second orgasm of the night, his small white cock dribbling its thick seed, then back up to the action. Every time one of these bulls came, another took its place. It was terribly exciting for Douglas, and it should feel just that -- the desire bereft of attachment. But why was he feeling angst?