Jamaican Vacation

You stumble through a crooked wooden doorway and crash face-first onto a pile of rusted tin, broken boards, and rotting fruit. The impact knocks the wind out of your skinny chest. Your grey dingy sweats ride up hard, leaving your pale, bony ass hanging out in the open air of the Jamaican shantytown like a lost piece of white trash. Heat slams into you. The air smells like smoke, salt, and sweet mango rot. Bass-heavy reggae thumps from every corrugated roof.

Thick chocolate asses sway past on every side. Women in scraps of fabric that barely qualify as clothes—tiny shorts that swallow themselves between fat cheeks, napkin tops stretched over heavy tits—laugh and talk in rolling Creole and thick patois as they step around your sprawled body.

One pair of long legs pauses. A full, jiggling ass in a bright yellow thong almost brushes your face. The woman looks down and says, “Wah dis little pale bwoy a do dung yah? Him ass white like coconut milk, mi seh.”

Her friend leans over, tits nearly spilling out of a tiny orange top, and answers with a laugh, “Look ‘pon him! Him a gwan like him lost in di market. Poor little dutty something.”

They keep walking while more women pass, big hips rolling, soft thighs brushing close. Another one glances at your exposed ass and calls out, “Bwoy, yuh a look fi trouble or yuh just a show off dat dry-up backside?”

You push up onto your elbows, face red, cock already half-hard and twitching against the thin grey fabric. More women pass. Big hips, soft thighs, laughing mouths. None of them stop. None of them even glance at the pale little dweeb with his ass in the air.

A petulant, gamer-man-child fury starts bubbling up inside you, the same kind of rage that used to make you slam your keyboard and scream for more Mountain Dew when the match went sideways. You scramble to your feet, sweats still half-wedged in your crack, and grab the growing bulge.

“What the fuck,” you mutter. “Why isn’t anybody macking my wang? Look at this shit.” You shake it at the next pair of thick thighs that stroll by. “Speak American, damn it! I don’t know what the fuck you’re saying!”

A tall woman with a round ass in cut-off denim slows just long enough to look you up and down. She answers in pure, rapid patois, “Cho, little man, yuh cocky a jump but nobody a care. Move from mi way before yuh get step on.” Then she walks off laughing with her friends. Another one does the same. Then another. Your face gets hotter. Your skinny hands clench. The half-hard cock in your sweats is now fully hard and leaking, completely ignored by every smoking-hot piece of Jamaican ass that swings past.

“SPEAK AMERICAN!” you shout at the next group. They just laugh harder and keep moving.

A sudden loud engine roar cuts through the reggae, making you whip your head away from the fine pieces of ebony ass strutting about. A gleaming white luxury coupe rolls slowly down the narrow dirt lane between the shacks, looking like it fell out of a different planet. The car is so out of place it makes your pale ass look almost normal. You squint at the shiny front plate as it gets closer. It reads ABLE MASTER in big silver letters.

“What the hell does that even mean?” you mutter. “Some kind of rich-guy code? And is this a Rolls Royce or what?”

Behind the wheel sits a hot ebony amazon—tall, dark, long neck, sharp cheekbones, white tube dress stretched tight across heavy tits and a flat stomach. On either side of the back seat two dark big-booty queens in matching white tube dresses that leave almost nothing to the imagination lean in close. Their straight black hair falls over bare shoulders as they gently caress the man between them, fingers tracing his arms, lips brushing his ears, treating him like a king.

The car stops right in front of you. The rear door opens and a bearded white guy in a white polo shirt, white shorts, and white sandals steps out, looking every bit as ridiculous as the luxury car. The two tube-dress queens stay pressed against him for a second longer, one kissing his cheek, the other stroking his chest, before he gently waves them back.

He looks at your dusty pale ass and sighs through his nose in a crisp British accent.

“You appear to have taken another rather undignified tumble.”

You blink at him. “Who the fuck are you, and why’s your fancy Rolls Royce got weird words on the front?”

He straightens slightly. “I am Able Master. The vehicle is, in fact, a Bentley. And you are…?”

“David. The guy with the fat white cock that nobody’s sucking yet.” You jab a thumb at the plate. “So what is that ABLE MASTER crap supposed to mean, anyway?”

Able Master pinches the bridge of his nose, then speaks in that same polite British tone. “David. This place runs on a rather simple principle. If you can picture something clearly enough and truly want it, it tends to happen. No forms, no waiting about. Just think it hard and will it into being.”

You stare at him blankly.

He glances around the shantytown, at the zinc roofs, the heat, the passing dark women, then back at your pasty face and sighs again. “You’ve chosen a rather peculiar scenario, David. Some of my other clients have put together personal oral-service arrangements of considerably more inventiveness from far less promising starts. There was a balding Roman-history enthusiast who managed an entire antique face-fuck paradise—marble courtyards, toga-clad attendants, continuous throat service under olive trees.”

You tilt your head. “What is a toga?”

Able Master continues without slowing. “Another was a mid-level office clerk. He now has his attractive superior call him in for ‘performance reviews’ during which she stays under the desk the entire time, after which he goes to lunch where the waitress slips him her number while the same office girl keeps working beneath the tablecloth.”

You scowl. “Yeah, and I AIN’T GETTING MY DICK SUCKED!”

Able Master presses on, still measured. “Compared to those arrangements, this particular setting…” He glances once more at your pale skin against the surrounding dark faces, the words “problematic choice” almost forming, then studies your vacant, purely horny expression and clearly thinks better of finishing the thought. “…is functional, if unimaginative. You are, at least, consistent in your priorities.”

You glare at him. “What the fuck are you trying to say?”

He drops the register a little further. “Look. Imagine a woman sucking your cock. Want it badly enough. It will happen. That’s the whole trick. Even someone like you can manage it.”

You scratch your shaved head. “So like… if I think about pizza, pizza shows up?”

He stares at you. “Yes. But we’re talking about mouths on your cock, not pizza.”

“What if I think about a mouth and a pizza at the same time?”

“David.”

“Or like, a mouth that’s also a pizza?”

Able Master’s eye twitches. “Just. Imagine. A woman. Sucking. Your. Dick. Will it to happen. That’s it.”

You frown. “But what if the woman doesn’t speak American? Do I have to imagine the subtitles too?”

He closes his eyes for a long second. “No. Subtitles are automatic. Now try it before I lose what’s left of my patience.”

The two tube-dress queens lean out of the car again, soft hands reaching for him. The ebony amazon at the wheel gives a little smile and revs the engine once. Able Master climbs back into the Bentley. As the door shuts he adds, almost as an afterthought and with clear reluctance, “You may call on me if you truly need assistance. Though I rather hope you won’t.” The car rolls away down the lane, the three dark women already back to caressing him like royalty.

You watch the gleaming rear end disappear between the shacks and whistle low. “Damn. He got it good.”

Then you plant your feet in the dirt, close your eyes, and try to concentrate real hard on finding some mouths.

It is almost inhumanly difficult. Your brain is a cluttered landfill of instant-gratification junk—endless loops of Instathots bouncing their oiled asses to camera, TikTok whores sticking their tongues out while they deepthroat bananas, paused hentai frames of blue-haired girls with impossibly stretchy throats, and the same three Pornhub thumbnails you’ve jerked to a thousand times. Every time you try to form a clear picture of warm lips wrapping around your cock, another random clip interrupts: a giantess crushing a city, a catgirl meowing around a knot, a fitness influencer’s camel-toe in yoga pants. You grit your teeth, fists clenched at your sides, sweat beading on your shaved head as you forcibly shove the noise aside. You picture mouths. Just mouths. Soft, wet, eager mouths. You push harder, willing them into existence with the same desperate focus you once used to clutch a ranked match at three in the morning on zero sleep and pure Mountain Dew fumes. The effort makes your temples throb. Your half-hard cock twitches harder against the grey sweats. You hold the image until it hurts—dark lips, wet tongues, the wet sound of suction—and force it to stay.

You open them again.

Two women lean against a peeling blue wall, sharing a fat blunt. The first has lighter golden-brown skin and a wild mane of curly auburn hair that frames her laughing face. She wears a tiny Jamaican-flag bikini—green, yellow, and black triangles that barely cover her full, firm tits and the plump mound between her long legs. The second is pure deep chocolate, skin gleaming like oiled mahogany. Her afro is enormous, a soft black cloud that swallows the light. A shiny black bandeau top strains across tits so massive and heavy they look ready to spill out; the fabric digs into the soft undersides. Tiny black shorts cling to wide hips and a thick, round ass, gold waist chains glinting against her bare midriff. Both stand half a head taller than you. Both are smoking hot and already watching you with lazy, amused eyes.

Your cock is out before the next laugh can leave their mouths—pale, average, already leaking at the tip. You walk straight up, skinny hips rolling, and hold it out toward them.

“Suck it.”

The curly-haired one in the flag bikini tilts her head, takes a long pull from the blunt, and says in thick, rolling patois, “Dis cocky bastard walk up yah like him own di whole yard. Look ‘pon di pale little dutty.”

The afro girl laughs, low and rich, smoke curling from full glossy lips, and answers, “Jah strong wid him. Mi can feel it in di air. Di spirit a move.”

Neither steps back. They just shrug at each other like this is the most normal thing in the world and keep smoking.

The afro girl drops first. She sinks into a crouch that makes those enormous shiny tits swing free of the tiny bandeau, heavy and soft. Thick dark lips stretch around the head of your cock. Wet heat slides down half your length in one slow push. She doesn’t gag—just hums, throat flexing, while the curly-haired one watches and takes another deep drag. The contrast is almost ridiculous—your pale pink shaft disappearing between those deep chocolate lips, the soft dark skin of her face pressed against your pasty hips.

The afro girl pulls off just long enough to mutter around a mouthful of spit, “Hmm… dis white cocky taste a bit salty, like him nuh wash it proper. But mi still a give him di real Jamaican bow, nuh true? We di most sexy women in di world, seen?”

The curly-haired one drops to her knees beside her with a little shrug, like sucking a random pale stranger is just another Tuesday. She takes the blunt, inhales deep, then leans in and presses her full lips to the afro girl’s. Smoke transfers mouth-to-mouth in a thick white cloud that rolls straight into the afro girl’s open throat around your dick. The taste of weed and spit hits the back of your tongue even though you’re the one getting sucked. When they break apart both of them turn to your cock at the same time. Two sets of big glossy lips, two hot tongues. One licks from the base up the underside while the other seals around the head and sucks hard enough to hollow her cheeks. Spit runs down your balls in shiny ropes. The wet sounds are filthy—schlurp… gluck… hhnnnk—soft choking, the occasional muffled laugh when one of them pulls off just to blow more smoke across your wet dick. Your pale skin looks almost ghostly against their dark faces every time they lean in.

The curly-haired one licks a long stripe up your shaft and comments casually, “Balls smell a little ripe too, like him been wearing di same sweats all week. Still, mi like di taste. Dutty little whiteboy wood. We a show him how Jamaican woman really give bow—proud and proper.”

You stand there like a pasty statue, skinny hips twitching forward every time a throat opens wider, completely ignoring whatever noise they’re making. The afro girl takes you deeper, nose pressed into your sparse pubes, those massive oily tits bouncing against your thighs with every bob. Her eyes water but she keeps going, throat working in long swallowing motions. You grab two big handfuls of that enormous soft afro and yank her head forward like a chocolate flashlight, no care for how hard you pull. Her scalp stretches under your pale fingers as you use her face, dragging her mouth up and down your shaft in rough strokes while spit floods out around the base in wet, gurgling gluck-gluck-gluck sounds. Thick strings of saliva drip from her chin onto your filthy hairy balls. She pulls off with a wet pop, long clear strings of spit connecting her lower lip to your shiny shaft, and grins up at you with a perfect white smile, eyes half-lidded, still speaking in the same thick patois, “Cocky bastard still a stand up dey like him run tings.”

“Yeah, take it, you big-titted jungle bunny,” you grunt. “Choke on that big white schlong.”

The afro girl just rolls her eyes at the curly-haired one over your cock with mild annoyance and keeps sucking like the insults are background noise. “Cho, him a talk plenty shit for a man who nuh even wash him cocky. Still, mi a finish di job. Jamaican hospitality, seen? We di sexiest, so we give di best bow.”

The curly-haired one ducks lower, her big dark lips parting wide as she starts lapping at your filthy hairy balls with long, greedy strokes of her hot tongue. She sucks one heavy nut into her mouth, rolling it around with wet slurp-slurp sounds while her free hand strokes the vein-covered shaft that disappears into her friend’s face. You switch hands, fist a thick handful of her curly auburn hair and haul her deeper onto your ball, treating her head the same way—no safety, just pure use. The pale skin of your balls and thighs stands out stark against their deep brown cheeks and big smiling lips every time you shove them closer. The curly-haired one’s tongue drags slowly up the underside of your vein-ridged dick, tasting every filthy inch before she goes back to sucking your balls with noisy, wet enthusiasm.

“That’s it, you coconut-looking whore. Suck those nuts like they’re the last mango on the island.”

The curly-haired one gives a soft chuckle around your ball—half bemused, half mildly irritated—and a little head shake, then goes right back to work like this is nothing new, her tongue swirling over every sweaty, hairy crease while the wet schlick-schlick of her mouth fills the air. “Him call mi coconut and still expect mi lick him unwashed balls. Typical pale bwoy. Whatever, mi still a do it. Real Jamaican woman nuh back down from di wood.”

You ignore every word, hips twitching forward for more.

After a while the afro girl pulls off, gasping, spit pouring down her chin and cascading over the heavy curves of her tits in long, shiny ropes. She takes the blunt from her partner, hits it hard, then holds the smoke in her cheeks. She looks up at you with that perfect smile, eyes sparkling, and crooks a finger.

You lean down. She presses her soft dark lips to yours and exhales the entire lungful straight into your mouth. The smoke is thick, sweet, and hot. You cough once, eyes watering—

—and the thick noise starts to break apart into half-understood pieces.

“…cocky bastard… pale little dutty…”

“…Jah strong wid him…”

You take another long pull when the curly-haired one offers the blunt again. The smoke hits harder. More words lock into place.

“…spirit a move…”

“…drain him proper…”

One more deep hit and everything snaps into clear, normal English.

“Damn, this cocky bastard walked up like he owns the whole yard. Look at the pale little something.”

“Jah is strong with him. I can feel it. The spirit is moving. We Jamaican women are the most sexy ones in the world, seen? Let’s give this ugly white dude a real taste of Jamaican bow.”

Your eyes go wide. “Ohhh. OHHHH. Wait… who’s Jah? Is that like… the big boss around here? Some local drug guy? Why’s he strong with me? Did I win a contest or something?”

Both women shrug at the same time, casual and stoic-sexy, and keep their faces close to your cock.

You blink down at them, still holding fistfuls of hair. “Uhh… what are your whores’ names actually?”

The afro girl smiles around your cock. “Jahzara.”

The curly-haired one licks a long stripe up the side of your shaft. “Sativa.”

You nod like that information is extremely important. “Right. Jizzara and Saliva. Got it.”

They roll their eyes at each other with quiet pride, share a quick amused look, and go right back to licking without missing a beat.

You yank Jahzara’s afro harder, shoving your cock back between those thick dark lips like you’re aiming a flashlight. The wet gluck-gluck-GLUCK of her throat getting facefucked fills the alley as you use her mouth like a fleshlight, pale hips smacking against her dark face with every thrust. Spit explodes from the corners of her stretched lips in messy white bubbles. Sativa is right underneath, both hands spreading your skinny cheeks while her hot tongue laps greedily at your filthy hairy balls, sucking them into her mouth one after the other with loud, wet slurp-pop sounds, then dragging her tongue all the way up the vein-covered underside of your dick every time it pulls free of Jahzara’s throat.

“Suck my hairy nuts, Jizzara. Both of you. And kiss my asshole while you’re down there, Saliva.”

Sativa gives a short chuckle and a little head shake, then ducks under with a shrug, spreading your skinny pale cheeks with both hands like this is just part of the job. Her dark tongue is hot and wet and completely shameless as it drags from your pale balls all the way up to your tight pink hole. The contrast is filthy—deep chocolate face buried between your pasty white ass cheeks, dark lips kissing open-mouthed around your rim while her tongue fucks inside with wet schlick-schlick noises. She keeps that perfect smile even as she works, big lips shiny with spit. Jahzara takes both of your spit-soaked balls into her mouth at once, humming around them, her darker skin making your pale sac look almost glowing. The vibration shoots straight up your spine while the wet glurk-glurk of her throat continues. You keep fistfuls of their hair—curly auburn and massive soft afro—and yank their heads exactly where you want them, using those chocolate faces like living flashlights, rough and careless. Pale fingers dig into dark hair, pale hips push against dark cheeks, pale skin against deep brown in every wet motion.

“Yeah, rim that pale ass like it’s a free buffet, Saliva. And Jizzara, those big jungle lips were made for my fat white cock, you know that?”

Jahzara just hums around your balls and keeps going, the wet slurp-slurp of her tongue working over every filthy, hairy inch of your sac. Sativa pulls back for a second, glances up at her friend with quiet pride, and mutters lightly, “Cheese man really acting like the boss man today, eh? Still, we a give him di real Jamaican hospitality. We di sexiest, so we give di best bow.”

“Mm-hmm. Pale little something think him strong,” Jahzara answers around a mouthful, voice casual and almost fond, before diving back in to lap at the vein-covered shaft with long, noisy strokes. “Let him taste proper Jamaican wood service.”

You rock between them like a skinny, stinking metronome—forward into a tight throat with wet GLUCK-GLUCK-GLUCK sounds, back onto a greedy tongue with soft schlick noises. Every time one of them pulls off to breathe, the other is already there, big lips stretched, perfect smiles still in place, tongues lapping at your filthy hairy balls and the thick veins running up your spit-slick dick.

“Mmm, pure nasty boy… forcing his cocky down my throat like he owns the place. But we Jamaican woman handle it with pride.”

“Kiss the hole proper, sister. He loves it. Look how his pale little legs are shaking. Real Jamaican bow, seen?”

Jahzara takes you so deep her throat flutters and squeezes in long rippling waves. Spit pours from the corners of her big dark lips in thick ropes, dripping onto her massive tits and then down onto Sativa’s tongue still buried between your pale cheeks. The wet glurk-glurk-glurk of her face getting fucked is almost as loud as the reggae. You haul her closer by the afro, scalp stretching, and hold her there while the other one works your ass and balls with greedy, wet licks.

“That’s right, Jizzara. Deepthroat that big white schlong like a good little island slut.”

They switch again without complaint. Now Sativa is gagging softly around your length—hhnnnk… gluck… schlurp—while Jahzara spreads you open and pushes her thick tongue past the rim, licking inside you like she is hungry for it, then drops lower to suck both of your filthy hairy balls into her mouth at once with loud, wet slurp-pop sounds. Your pale balls rest heavy on one glossy dark forehead or the other, dripping with their spit. You keep pulling their hair harder, dragging their heads up and down, side to side, treating them like tools while the wet audio of their mouths fills the air.

“Saliva, you got a tongue like a goddamn windshield wiper. Keep polishing that hole, bitch.”

Sativa pulls off just long enough to chuckle and shake her head with stoic pride. “Cheese man got jokes,” she says lightly, then dives right back in, tongue lapping up the vein-covered underside of your dick before going back to your balls with noisy enthusiasm. “We still a give him di full Jamaican treatment.”

You push deeper, feel the throat flutter and squeeze, feel the tongue push past your rim, and keep going. The blunt is almost gone. Smoke and spit and the wet slap of dark faces against your skinny pale pelvis fill the narrow lane between the shacks.

Your skinny arms are starting to ache from all the yanking and dragging. Those heavy ebony heads are a lot of work, and the constant facefucking is wearing you out. You decide you’ve done enough of the heavy lifting. Time to let the whores earn their keep and put those big chocolate melons to proper use while you just sit back and enjoy the ride.

You shove both of them back by their hair and look around. A low, worn couch sits against the opposite shack wall like it was waiting for you. You walk over, drop your skinny pale ass onto the cushions, and sprawl out like a king, cock standing wet and shiny against your stomach.

“Double titfuck. Now. You two do all the work. Jizzara, Saliva—make those chocolate pillows earn their keep.”

They crawl over without hesitation, big lips already curved into matching perfect smiles, exchanging another casual eye-roll at the name mangling. Jahzara climbs up first, those enormous shiny dark tits swinging free, and wraps them around your pale cock from one side. Sativa presses in from the other, her full firm golden-brown tits sandwiching the other half. Soft, hot chocolate flesh surrounds your entire length, the skin contrast almost pornographic—your pale pink shaft completely lost in the deep brown valley between four heavy tits. They start bouncing and squeezing, working in rhythm, sliding those heavy pairs up and down your spit-slick shaft while you just lie there, hands behind your head, watching two pairs of perfect dark tits do everything.

One of them reaches for a fresh blunt, lights it, and they start passing it back and forth between those big smiling lips while they work.

“Look at this pale lazy white boi,” Jahzara laughs softly, smoke curling out as she speaks, voice full of quiet pride. “Just sprawled out like a king, wanting the full Jamaican special. We di most sexy women in di world, seen? Let’s give him a real taste of Jamaican bow with these chocolate melons.”

Sativa grins around the blunt, big lips glossy, and answers while she presses her tits tighter, “Mm-hmm. Little cheese man can’t even move. Just wants us to do all the work with these pillows. And now he talking like a real rasta too, even though he look like cheese left out in the sun. Still, Jamaican hospitality. We show him how proper wood get stroked.”

You snort. “That’s right, Saliva. Big white cock in the sun with a side of island tit-meat. Keep sliding those big dark melons, Jizzara. You’re basically a walking spit-roast.”

They both shrug with stoic sexy pride and keep bouncing, the wet slide of your cock through the dark valley getting louder and filthier. Every time they push up, the pale head of your cock pops free between the four soft mounds so they can lick it together with those big lips before sinking back down. Smoke drifts between them as they pass the blunt again, perfect white smiles never leaving their faces even as you start going rougher—hips twitching up harder, pale fingers digging into the dark soft flesh of their tits to guide the pace.

“Why we giving this pale boy such worship though?” Sativa asks, tongue flicking eagerly over the head every time it pops free, voice light and almost teasing but still proud. “We just met the little cheese-looking something. But we Jamaican woman—we di sexiest, so we give di best.”

Jahzara takes a long hit, then pops her big dark lips off your cock with a wet sound and answers with a soft laugh, “Jah is a mysterious force, sistren. Him walk in mysterious ways. And we a show this ugly white dude real Jamaican bow, seen?” She immediately sinks back down, wrapping those massive chocolate tits tighter around your pale shaft and continuing the slow, worshipful slide.

You frown mid-thrust. “There goes that Jah guy again. Is he like… the landlord? Does he get a cut of the titfuck or something? Tell him I said thanks for the whores.”

Jahzara and Sativa both roll their eyes at each other with quiet national pride, share a quiet chuckle, and keep working your cock between their soft dark tits like the question is the funniest and least important thing they’ve heard all day.

They keep joking and passing the blunt, big lips and perfect smiles right there while your cock slides in and out of the warm chocolate valley of tit-flesh, the contrast of pale shaft against deep brown skin making every stroke look dirtier. You don’t move a muscle. You just sprawl and let them work, pale skinny body completely at ease while two smoking-hot Jamaican girls use their amazing tits to jack you off on a random couch in the middle of the shantytown, giving him the full proud Jamaican hospitality treatment.

The rhythm picks up. Their fat ebony asses start to bounce harder, almost twerking as they grind those heavy chocolate tits up and down your spit-slick shaft faster and wetter. Big dick-sucking lips wrap the head every time it pops free, spit-shining it between strokes. You reach out, snatch the blunt right out of Jahzara’s fingers, and take a fat, greedy pull.

The ultra-potent smoke hits your lungs like a freight train and rockets straight into your brain.

Everything explodes into pure euphoric white noise. The wet slurps of the two rasta whores ring in your ears like church bells. Their dark faces and glistening tits blur into a single beautiful chocolate smear. Your skinny hips lock up. Your balls seize.

Thick waves of pent-up loser jizz erupt out of your fat white cock in slow-motion, high-definition glory. The first rope paints a perfect white stripe straight across both of their smiling, willing faces. The second blasts higher, splashing deep into Jahzara’s enormous soft afro, turning the black cloud into a sticky, dripping mess. More and more and more keep coming—heavy, endless pulses that coat their cheeks, their open laughing mouths, their massive bouncing tits in thick white layers until their dark skin is almost completely covered.

The high stretches every second into forever. You keep cumming. The ropes get thicker, longer, more ridiculous. They splash across the couch, the dirt, the zinc walls. In your weed-blasted brain the load just keeps growing—painting the whole shantytown, then the entire city, white rivers of jizz flooding the streets while every chocolate slut in Jamaica tilts her face up to catch it. You feel yourself lifting off the couch, flying, still pumping, blasting the whole island in one never-ending, sky-covering cumshot until the Caribbean itself turns milky.

The last real thing you see before the blackout swallows you is the two whores standing up, still casually talking to each other in soft amused voices full of quiet pride, leaning in to lick your salty pent-up loser jizz off each other’s cheeks and tits with long, slow, unhurried strokes of their tongues.

Then you open your eyes.