5
His left hand grips his cock, stroking in rough, uneven jerks as he watches her.
"Push," he growls, twisting the bottle deeper just to hear her whimper.
His palm slides wetly over his own length, his thumb smearing precum across the head.
Natasha's eyes roll back as the bottle grinds against something deep inside her—pressure and pleasure colliding until she can't tell them apart.
The man groans, his hips stuttering. "Fuck, you're so goddamn filthy," he snarls, fingers tightening around the bottle's base.
With a brutal twist, he drags it halfway out—her asshole fluttering helplessly—before slamming it back in to the hilt.
Natasha screams, her body arching off the bench.
"Come on, whore," he pants, his cock twitching in his fist.
"Show me how wrecked you are." His fingers dig into the soft flesh of her ass, spreading her obscenely wide as the bottle shifts inside her.
Natasha sobs, pushing weakly—her muscles contracting in ragged, useless spasms.
The glass slides free inch by agonizing inch, her rim stretching obscenely around the widest part before the man yanks it out completely with a wet pop.
The sudden emptiness makes her jerk, her cunt pulsing traitorously as the cold air hits her gaping hole.
Without pause, he flips the bottle—still slick with shit and fluids—and shoves the dripping neck straight into her cunt.
Natasha's scream echoes off the walls as the glass breaches her, cold and unyielding, stretching her swollen lips wide.
The man growls—a low, feral sound—and twists the bottle deeper, watching her puffy flesh bulge obscenely around the intrusion.
"Look at that," he rasps, his cock dripping onto the ground.
"Your cunt's gonna swallow it whole." The glass scrapes against her oversensitive walls, the pressure unbearable as he forces it deeper—against her cervix—until the widest part catches at her entrance.
Natasha's hips buck wildly, her thighs glistening with sweat as she fights the restraints.
The bottle tips inside her at an impossible angle, pressing against something that makes her vision fracture.
The man snarls, shifting his grip, using his free hand to spread her labia wider.
"Yeah, there—" His forearm flexes as he wrenches the bottle sideways, grinding it against her g-spot.
Natasha's back arches violently, her scream dissolving into wet, broken gasps.
The glass is everywhere—stretching her beyond reason—yet her cunt pulses greedily around it, sucking it deeper with each ragged contraction.
Just as the widest part threatens to tear her open, he pivots his wrist sharply.
The bottle's rim catches on her cervix for one excruciating second before popping past with a sickening squelch.
Natasha's entire body jerks like a marionette with its strings cut, her cunt swallowing the glass whole until only his fingers remain, curled around the bottleneck.
He exhales sharply through clenched teeth, watching her stomach bulge obscenely.
"Fuck. Look at yourself." He presses down on the unnatural swell, and Natasha's mouth drops open in a silent scream as the bottle shifts inside her womb-deep.
The orgasm doesn't crest—it detonates. White-hot electricity erupts from her core, radiating outward until even her fingertips convulse against the restraints.
Her cunt clamps down on the glass with such violence it should shatter, her asshole fluttering around nothing in perfect, ruined sync.
Natasha's vision fragments into static as her body arches impossibly high—only the leather cuffs keeping her from flying apart.
The bottle moves with each contraction, grinding against raw nerves until pleasure and agony become indistinguishable.
Somewhere beyond the ringing in her ears, she hears him laughing darkly, his fingers still buried knuckle-deep inside her alongside the glass.
His free hand fists his cock with brutal efficiency, the wet slap of skin echoing obscenely.
"Fuck—look at you—" His voice is shredded, wrecked by the sight of her cunt gaping around the bottleneck.
One final twist of his wrist inside her and he's coming—thick, hot spurts splashing across Natasha's wrecked holes.
The first jet hits her cunt, painting her twitching hole white.
The second arcs higher, striping her stretched asshole.
The third lands with filthy precision, onto the bottleneck still embedded in her cunt, pooling in the divots of her labia before spilling between her thighs.
Natasha feels every drop like a brand—the heat of his release against her oversensitive flesh, the way it slides down her trembling skin.
The man groans, his hips jerking as he empties himself onto her, his fingers still clawed inside her alongside the glass.
"Christ," he pants, smearing his spend across her gaping holes with rough strokes.
"Look at this mess." His thumb catches on her loose rim, pushing inside effortlessly alongside his come.
Natasha whimpers, her body too wrecked to even flinch—just a shuddering pulse around the intrusion before another weak climax trembles through her.
Outside, the muffled sounds of Amsterdam’s Red Light District continue—laughter drifting through the thin walls, the occasional shout—but inside, there’s only the wet slap of skin, the rasp of breath.
The man leans back, admiring the wreckage: Natasha’s cunt stretched obscenely around the bottleneck, her asshole still fluttering in slow, lazy twitches.
He drags a fingertip through the mess dripping down her thigh and holds it up, grinning.
"You’re fucking ruined," he murmurs, pushing his slick finger past her swollen lips, and then taste her—musky, salty, the faint tang of cola still lingering on his skin from the glass.
Natasha barely registers it. Her vision swims, her limbs leaden.
Every pulse of her heartbeat sends fresh tremors through her—not pleasure, not pain, just sensation, raw and unrelenting.
The bottle shifts inside her as she breathes, the cold glass pressing against something deep, and yet her cunt clenches weakly around it, as if trying to milk it dry.
The man exhales, amused, and gives the bottleneck another slow twist.
"Still hungry?" His voice is rough, almost fond.
"God, you’re insatiable." He pulls it halfway out—her cunt sucking desperately at the glass—then slams it back in to the hilt.
The door creaks open. A draft of cooler air hits Natasha’s sweat-slicked back, and Jack’s familiar cologne cuts through the musk of sex and salt and spilled cola.
"Jesus fucking Christ," Jack mutters. Natasha hears the exact moment he takes in the scene—the paused inhale, the sharp exhale through his nose.
His footsteps are deliberate as he approaches.
"You really made a mess," he says to the man, his voice carefully neutral.
Natasha can’t see but she hears the unspoken tension in Jack’s tone. "Enough for tonight. Please leave now."
The man doesn’t move immediately. His fingers flex inside Natasha’s cunt, curling around the bottleneck still buried deep.
Natasha feels the tremor that runs through him—half-reluctance, half-arousal—before he exhales roughly and withdraws.
Natasha doesn’t lift her head, her cheek pressed to the leather, her breaths shallow.
The man’s palm smacks her ass—a parting shot—before he steps back.
"Tell me when she’s ready for more," he says, his voice thick with leftover lust.