Fuck your asshole making you watch Sabrina's hot music videos

Ricky yanked your head back, his cock slipping out of your mouth with a wet pop. A string of saliva connected your lips to the head of his dick for a moment before breaking. You gasped for air, your jaw aching, your throat raw.

"Not yet," he grunted, giving you a rough shove. "Turn around. On your hands and knees. Face the TV."

You scrambled to obey, your muscles stiff. The carpet was abrasive on your palms. You were now facing the large screen, where a particularly slutty music video was playing. Sabrina's face, smiling and winking, filled your vision. She looked so confident, so untouchable.

You heard the wet squelch of a lube bottle being squeezed behind you. Then, a cold, slick finger was probing at your entrance. You tensed up, your body's last line of defense.

"Relax, pop star," Ricky's voice was a hot breath on your ear. "Gotta get you ready for your big performance."

He worked one finger inside, then another. The sensation was intrusive, uncomfortable, a stretching burn that made you clench your teeth. You stared at the screen, at Sabrina's dancing, her perfect body moving in ways you could never replicate.

His fingers withdrew, leaving you feeling empty and exposed for a second before something much larger and warmer pressed against your hole. "Look at her," Ricky commanded, one hand gripping your hip, the other guiding his cock. "Watch her while I fuck you." He pushed inside.

The pain was sharp, blinding. It was a tearing, burning agony that stole your breath. A strangled cry escaped your lips. He didn't stop. His cock was forcing its way into you, inch by agonizing inch, filling you up, splitting you open. The panties you wore felt like a mockery, a flimsy flag of surrender flapping in the storm of your sexual awakening.

You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to block it out, to go somewhere else in your mind. But Ricky was having none of it. He slapped your ass, hard. "I said look at her."

Your eyes flew open. You stared at the screen, at the woman whose clothes you were wearing, whose identity you were being forced to embody. Ricky began to move, slowly at first, then with a steady, punishing rhythm. Each thrust sent a fresh wave of pain and a sickening jolt of unwanted pleasure through you. Your own cock, still trapped in the lace, was achingly hard.

"That's it," Ricky grunted, his hips slapping against your ass. "Take it. You're my little pop star now. My little slut."

The words washed over you, mixing with the pain and the confusing pleasure. You were a hole. An object. A vessel for his fantasy. You stared at Sabrina's beautiful, smiling face on the screen, and for a terrifying moment, you weren't sure where you ended and the fantasy began. The line between your reality and the porn on the screen had been erased, and you were left adrift in a sea of sensation and shame.

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