Nick
Alec linked his phone to the television, the feed filling the screen. I lit a cigarette, stretched out, and rested my feet on the couch, settling in to watch her correction. Just seeing her strip had given me a semi—but when Rowan told her to get on her knees, I grew harder.
Alec turned the volume up and reclined on the opposite couch.
When my eyes returned to the screen, she was already turned away from the bed, kneeling. The camera caught her side profile perfectly. Her arse jutted back beneath her heels, and her breasts were the kind that gave a cock somewhere to belong.
Rowan tapped her knees. She parted her thighs, then settled again.
“Open,” Rowan ordered, fisting his cock.
Her mouth parted.
We knew what was coming. He slapped his cock against her cheek. She blinked—but she didn’t cry, scream, or protest.
Maybe she could handle both of them.
“Wider.”
Obviously.
I took another drag of my cigarette.
She tilted her head back and opened wide.
“Good girl,” Alec murmured to himself. “Nice and wide for him.”
Rowan pumped his hand along the length of his cock, then squeezed the tip, rubbing it against her lips.
“Swallow,” he said, before pushing into her open mouth.
He eased in and out slowly at first.
We saw—and heard—when he began pressing into her throat. She gagged, hands flying to his hips.
“Hands on your legs,” Rowan snapped.
She obeyed immediately.
I remembered my cigarette just in time, catching the ash on my palm before tipping it into the tray and stubbing it out.
“Rowan said she was malleable,” Alec said. “Question is—how far will she go?”
Rowan held the top of her head and fucked her throat. There was no escape. He was deep—buried in her neck.
The sounds of her struggling were wet, messy, and undeniably beautiful.
“This is what your mouth is for,” Rowan said, snapping his hips forward until the last inches disappeared. “Not for disrespect.”
Her throat rebelled—snot, spit, choking.
“Damn right,” Alec said, making me chuckle.
“You’re not sore about the dad comment, are you?”
“If she were broken in already,” Alec said, checking his phone, “I’d have spanked that arse before riding her over the table.”
He moved closer now, her head resting against the bed as he took her harder.
“Zoom in,” I said.
“I don’t want to risk it—I’m recording,” Alec replied, shifting on the couch.
“Send me a copy.”
“Oh? So you want in?”
“No. Research purposes,” I muttered.
“He’s making a mess of her,” Alec said, as we watched her head bounce between Rowan’s cock and the mattress.
The sound was relentless—flesh against face, balls slapping her chin.
“That’s it, Ella,” Rowan snarled. “Keep that whore mouth open for me.”
He drove into her balls-deep with every thrust. She was doing well—remarkably well.
Heat flushed my cheeks. My cock strained painfully against my jeans.
Rowan was close.
So was I.
“I’ll send it to the group chat,” Alec murmured, eyes never leaving the screen.
“Keep that mouth open,” Rowan growled, pulling free.
He stroked himself, groaning, eyes closed briefly. Ella stayed exactly where she was, gasping, breasts rising and falling.
Rowan’s eyes were open when he came—jets splattering her face. He kept fisting his cock, aiming carefully, crouching to rest the head against her lower lip as more spilled over her skin.
“Maximum coverage,” Alec said. “Nice.”
Rowan squeezed the tip, gave it a final shake, then smeared what remained across her face.
He stepped back, admiring his work.
“The clock’s on the wall,” he said calmly. “Stay on your knees for an hour. Don’t wipe my come off before then.”
He turned away to retrieve his trousers.
Alec switched cameras. I was about to complain—until the new angle framed her face perfectly.
Her cheeks were flushed pink, lips swollen, the rest of her ruined. Thick streaks covered one eye, her mouth, her forehead, dripping down her nose.
Her pale grey eyes were open.
“I’d bet her pussy’s soaked,” Alec murmured.
My gaze snapped back to hers.
Her pupils were blown.
She didn’t look disgusted.
Or angry.
She didn’t move at all.
She stayed there—head resting on the bed.
I shifted higher on the armrest.
Rowan passed her, trousers on, shirt in hand.
“One hour,” he repeated.
A test.
And judging by her composure, I had a feeling she’d pass.
The door closed behind him.
She didn’t move.
Rowan joined us to watch.
Other than shifting her stiff legs, she stayed on her knees for the full hour—his come drying, cracking, caking her face—before she finally moved.