Continue To Face Fuck Her

After a few more minutes of thrusting his hard cock in and out of Emilia’s mouth, Marcel released her head stepped back. He made a grand, sweeping “after you” motion with his right hand and moved off to the side.

Pierre immediately took Marcel’s place. With one hand, he gripped the back of head, with his other he grabbed her chin and turned up face up towards him. Dutifully, Emilia opened her mouth and waited for his entry. Since he had been watching Emilia blowing Marcel, he was already fully hard and plunged away furiously. Marcel remained off to the side, his arms crossed over his chest, watching his co-worker ravage the helpless Chattel’s mouth. When about five minutes had passed, Pierre withdrew his salvia-coated cock from the woman’s mouth. A thin string of spittle connected the tip of his dick to Emilia’s lower lip.

“Would you like to go at it again?” Pierre asked.

Instead of giving a verbal reply, Marcel merely uncrossed his arms and stepped up in front of the panting girl again. Of course, she was too well disciplined to offer any resistance. She only took a deep breath before engulfing Marcel’s meaty member. But this time, he did not allow her control. Instead, he grabbed her head, holding it completely still, and face-fucked her.

She did her best not to struggle, but when one can’t breathe, it is difficult to be complacent. Still, she did not attempt to pull away. Only the involuntary shaking and jerking of her body gave any indication that she was in distress.

This time when Marcel withdrew, it was accompanied by the coughing, hacking sounds of the handcuffed woman as she tried to regain her breath.

But her reprieve was cut short. Microscopically short. For Pierre immediately replaced his fellow Valet and resumed plundering her mouth and throat. As the Valet stood there bucking his hips, trying to **** his cock down her throat, Emilia tried to breathe.

“Why do men always go for the throat?” she wondered to herself as her nose was repeatedly flattened against the man’s stomach. She was accomplished at deep throat, Adolofo had seen to that. It must have been hours and hours that she spent up on his bed, kneeling over him and learning to master her gag reflex. She had vivid memories of the afternoon golden rays of the Mediterranean sun streaming through the porthole of his yacht. His wet pubic hair matted from all the spit that she had drooled down his shaft. His legs spread wide as he lay flat on his back, the gray hairs of his broad chest like a welcoming nest for her to cuddle against when she need a break.

But she needed room to properly engulf a cock. Not to be held like a piece of fruit being skewered.

A lungful of blessed air rushed into her when Pierre exited again. Only to be nearly instantly replaced by Marcel. Emilia knew that neither man was even close to coming. In fact, she did not think that was their goal at all. She resigned herself to trying to sit there passively, to let them face-fuck her for the rest of the afternoon until they grew tired of the sport. Or they did ejaculate. Or she simply blacked out.