Reward

The third one had won.

The second one was out—dressed, door closed. The heat still lingered in Silke’s ass. Thirty minutes. Debts of honor. She stayed propped up on her forearms for a moment, breathing, her mouth empty, the hole in the back open. A brief respite. No comfort. Just enough air to let her knees slide back under her body.

He sat down on the chair.

His cock still hard, still glistening from her. Silke understood without another message. Gambling debts. She straddled him, boots on the outside, and took him into her pussy. Slowly. Deeply. Until the base pressed against her wet lips. He took her tits in both hands, immediately, firmly, thumbs on her nipples, and played with them as if they were part of the clock.

Silke rode him.

Up and down. Her thighs were already burning from Tom, from the rotation, from everything. And now this, too. Her pussy slurped around him. He kneaded her breasts, lifted them, squeezed her nipples, sometimes pulling them forward until she had to bend over him. The camera on the table captured the side view, his wet shaft, her spread lips swallowing him whole.

She came first.

A spasm, painfully honest, her pussy clenching around the victor. He groaned and thrust upward from below, his hands still on her tits, and came along with her. Warm. Inside her pussy. Silke stayed seated, filled to the brim, and breathed against his forehead.

Gambling debts are debts of honor.

She slid down onto her knees and took the soft cock into her mouth. It tasted like her and like him. She sucked until he twitched, sucked harder, jerked off with her hand, ignoring her jaw. It grew hard again on her tongue—slower than Tom’s, but hard. Silke didn’t let up until the shaft slammed hard against the roof of her mouth.

Then he lifted her up.

He bent her over the desk. He positioned the camera downward, at the edge, lens pointing upward between her legs. Silke lay on her back, her butt on the edge, her shoulders on the desk, her tits still gripped by his hand. From below, the webcam saw everything: pussy, perineum, asshole—wet, used, open.

He fucked both holes alternately.

First her pussy, all the way to the hilt. One thrust. All the way in. His stomach pressed against her. Out. Then her ass, all the way to the hilt. Pressure. Sliding. All the way in. Out. Back to her pussy. Back to her ass. Silke counted the switches with her body, not with her mind. Her ass was burning. Her cheeks too—red, warm—from shame and from his hands, which spread her apart now and then so the lens could see the wet ring. And then it was almost over. He told her to count down

“Countdown,” he said. “From ten.”

Silke swallowed.

“Ten.” Pussy, all the way in.

“Nine.” Ass, all the way.

“Eight.” Pussy. The shaft slick with everything.

“Seven.” Ass. The burning sharper.

“Six.” She moaned. Her clit against his thumb, imprecisely.

“Five.” Ass all the way to the root. The lens full at the bottom.

“Four.” Pussy. She almost came, biting her lip.

“Three.” Ass. Her cheeks straining with effort.

“Two—”

He came in her ass.

The last load. Deep. Pulsing. Holding it. Silke convulsed along with him, the number two still in her mouth, her pussy twitching emptily, the hole full. He stayed inside until it had stopped, then slowly pulled out. The camera from below captured the openness, the whiteness, the dripping.

Time was up.

The line appeared on the display.

Peter: Get some rest. We’ll pick you up in a minute. For the final adventure.

Silke lay on the slab, her legs still spread over the lens, staring into the same lens as before.

The third man wiped his hands on his own pants and said nothing more about the clock. Debts of honor had been settled, as far as he could tell.

Silke didn’t close her knees.

The camera continued to film the evidence between her legs until footsteps echoed down the hallway.