We'll Take GOOD Care Of Him...

Cami Strella and Remy Rune didn't give a fuck about rules. Seth's wife marched in like she owned the place, hands on hips, barking about a couples massage they sure as hell didn't book. Poor Seth just stood there— shoulders slumped, eyes glazed—like he'd already lost the fight years ago. The girls clocked it in two seconds flat and exchanged that look. While the entitled bitch was still talking shit about not waiting, Remy flashed Cami a wicked little grin. The wife left in some noise about running errands. That moment her heels clicked out the door, the lock flipped behind her. "Take your clothes off," Remy purred, voice dripping pure mischief. Seth hesitated, confused. "You heard us. Shirt. Pants. Let’s see what the hag's been hoarding." He stripped. Soon as the towel was around his hips, they went to work—two sets of hands slick with warm oil, thumbs digging just right, strokes turning greedy real quick. Cami palmed his chest, claiming it, then dragged her hands lower. Remy's fingers didn't bother staying polite for long. She peeled the towel away, spit in her palm, and wrapped him in that wet, noisy stroke that had his hips jerking instantly. "Bet she never does this," Cami teased, smearing hot oil over the head of his cock. One switch of her grip: greedy, nasty, twisting every time she reached the crown. Remy popped two fingers between his lips and made him suck them clean while she thumbed his balls. Thirty minutes on the books but they weren’t going anywhere—he was gonna cum against every black mark his old lady ever earned. "Gonna put something inside you to remember us," Remy growled, sliding a dollop of numbing, lube-thick cream between his cheeks before her slim middle finger breached him nice and snug. Seth sucked in a breath that ended in a low, dirty moan; his cock jumped hard between Cami’s slippery tits. She squeezed them together, rocking, inviting the mess while Remy found his prostate and mercilessly massaged it until his balls ached purple and full. He warned them—strain, grunts, palms shooting out—but they fucking laughed. "Do it. Paint our tits, baby," Cami gasped. When he snapped, it felt brutal and necessary. Thick ropes hit warm cleavage, dripped down her belly, arched long enough to hit Remy’s outstretched tongue. They kept him leaking, still squeezing, praising the twitch until the poor guy shivered. When they finally tossed a fresh towel his way and waved him back to the lobby, he zipped up with hands that trembled like it was the first honest second of the marriage all year. Right then the front door bell chimed again. His ever-so-lovely wife was back, clearly already hating the visible bounce that was left behind in her husband’s step. Neither girl winked. No hint. Just innocent smiles asking the vanilla question they wrote in the log. "Same time next week?"