new normal

The penthouse suite smells like expensive cologne, burnt sugar, and a thick, overwhelming cloud of cum. For Candy, this is the only reality that has ever existed. The concept of her past the memory of reading feminist theory, the memory of holding hands with women in parks, the memory of feeling anger has been completely bleached out by months of relentless, pleasurable debasement.

To Candy, the idea that women once preferred each other is as nonsensical as believing the sky could be green. It is a foreign, impossible concept, like a fairy tale told to children. Her brain has been rewired to respond only to one stimulus: the presence of a massive cock.

Candy is currently positioned in the center of a velvet couch, her body a cascade of soft, manicured curves. Her massive breasts spill over the sides of her tiny satin bra, each nipple peaked and sensitive. She is in a state of perpetual arousal, her pupils permanently dilated.

"Mmmph~" Candy gurgles, her mouth stretched wide around Daddy's thick, obsidian shaft. She works him with a desperate, mechanical hunger, her tongue swirling around the rim as she sucks with enough force to bruise.

But she isn't alone.

While her mouth is occupied with Daddy, her hands are working frantically below. Her left hand is wrapped around the base of another massive Black cock that is thrusting against her thigh, while her right hand is stroking a third. She jerks them both off with rhythmic, practiced motions, her fingers slick with pre cum.

"You're doing so good, Candy~" Daddy rumbles, his hand tangling in her hair to control her pace. "Such a good little cockslut~"

Candy can't answer verbally her mouth is full so she responds with a wet, eager moan that vibrates through the cock in her throat. Her eyes are glazed over, staring at nothing, her mind completely empty of everything except the sensations of heat, stretch, and friction.

The two men she is jerking off lean closer, their dark skin contrasting sharply against her flushed, pale flesh. One of them grunts as Candy's grip tightens, her fingers moving with a mindless, desperate intensity. She isn't thinking about technique; she is simply reacting to the overwhelming need to serve, to be used, to be a vessel.