Amanda
Copyright© 2026 by Aaron56
Chapter 1
BDSM Sex Story: Chapter 1 - Amanda is 18 and in love with Jenny who is also 18. Both are in a troubled family. Amanda’s mom is dead, and her father owes a lot of money to a bookie. Jenny's Dad is an alcoholic and a pervert. Amanda will do anything to protect them both.
Caution: This BDSM Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Fa/Fa Mult Slavery Lesbian BiSexual BDSM Humiliation Rough Torture Anal Sex First Water Sports Big Breasts Small Breasts
“Five bucks for two minutes,” Jenny said, popping her gum as she leaned against the arcade machine’s side panel. The neon glow from Galaga flickered across her face, catching the bored tilt of her chin. A boy with acne and shaky hands fumbled his wallet open.
Jenny snatched the crumpled bill before it even hit Amanda’s palm. “Timer starts now,” she announced, tapping her phone screen with a chipped nail. The boy swallowed hard, already unbuckling his jeans as Amanda dropped to her knees behind the pinball machine. The arcade’s usual noise, beeping scores, laughter, and the occasional slam of a joystick, drowned out the wet, rhythmic sounds.
The arcade’s side door creaked open just as Amanda spat into a napkin and wiped her mouth. A shadow stretched across the sticky floor, too big to belong to any high school kid.
“Shit,” Jenny muttered, shoving the cash into her bra.
Vic filled the doorway, his gold tooth catching the light when he grinned. “Damn, girl. That’s a hell of a hustle.” His Timberlands barely made a sound as he stepped closer, but the boys scattered like roaches. Amanda stayed put, shoulders squared; she’d learned early that running just made things worse.
“You got a name, sweetheart?” Vic crouched down, eye-level with her. The leather of his jacket groaned.
“Amanda.” She didn’t flinch when he grabbed her chin, turning her face left, then right.
Vic’s thumb brushed Amanda’s lower lip, rough like sandpaper. “Got some talent in those pretty lips, but you should swallow the boy’s gift or woman’s gift,” he mused, letting go only to tap twice on her cheek, patronizing, but not quite a slap. Behind him, Jenny edged toward the emergency exit, sneakers squeaking on the linoleum.
“Jenny, baby,” Vic said without looking back, “you take one more step, I break both of those skinny legs.” His voice stayed conversational, almost friendly. Jenny froze.
Amanda watched his belt buckle, oversized and gold-plated, with some basketball team logo, as Vic unzipped his jeans. “Show me what you did for those little boys.” The command hung between them, humid and inevitable.
Amanda didn’t hesitate. She leaned in, salty denim and the musk of cigars flooding her sinuses. Vic exhaled sharply through his nose when she took him deep, one hand immediately fisting in her hair. “Slow,” he grunted. “Make it count.”
Jenny stared at the ceiling, counting water stains while Vic’s breathing turned ragged. Two minutes in, his thighs tensed. Amanda knew the signs; she swallowed neatly, wiping her mouth afterward with the same bored efficiency as she had for the boys.
Vic’s laugh rumbled low in his chest as he zipped up, tossing a fifty at Jenny’s feet. “Cleanup on aisle five,” he smirked, watching her scramble for the bill. Amanda stayed kneeling, the taste of him still thick on her tongue, different from the boys, heavier, like copper and cheap cologne.
“Stand up, princess.” Vic hooked a finger under Amanda’s chin, tilting her face up. “How’d you learn to blow like that? Did your daddy teach you?” His thumb pressed against her bottom lip again, smearing spit. Amanda’s eyes flicked to Jenny, who was pocketing the money with trembling hands.
“Nah,” Amanda said, shrugging. “Just practice.”
Vic’s grin widened. He pulled a business card from his jacket, thick and embossed, with POP’S ADULT EMPORIUM in raised letters. “You want to make real money? Not this nickel-and-dime kiddie shit.” He tucked it into the waistband of Jenny’s jeans, letting his fingers linger. “Booth three. Tomorrow after school. Bring your whore.”
Amanda opened her mouth, probably to say no, but Jenny nodded. “What’s the cut?”
Vic’s grin was all the answer Jenny needed; his gold tooth flashed under the arcade’s flickering lights like a silent promise. “Fifty percent in the bookstore, 10% at THE CLUB,” he said, squeezing Amanda’s hip before stepping back. “You’ll earn ten times what you’re scraping up here.” Amanda’s breath hitched, but Jenny just rolled the card between her fingers, already calculating.
The next afternoon, the bell above Pop’s door jingled like it was any other store. Jenny pushed through the beaded curtain separating the porn mags from the video booths, Amanda trailing behind like a shadow. Vic leaned against the counter, arms crossed, nodding toward the back. “Booth three’s got a glory hole. You know what to do.”
Amanda did. The plywood partition was splintered at the edges, the hole just wide enough for a dick to slide through. She knelt on the sticky floor, jeans bunching under her knees, and waited. The first one came quickly, a middle-aged guy. She just opened her mouth and let him groan above her. Twenty bucks slid under the divider when she finished.
By Friday, she had learned to take off her clothes. Otherwise, she would get cum all over them. Word had spread. The line for booth three snaked past the peep-show machines, men shuffling their feet, adjusting themselves. Vic watched from behind the register, counting bills with one hand, the other gripping Jenny’s wrist too tightly. “Told you,” he murmured, his thumb stroking the inside of her arm. “Nobody sucks cock like a girl who’s got nothing to lose.”
THE CLUB
Vic’s fingers tightened around Jenny’s wrist, his thumb pressing into the delicate blue veins beneath her skin. “Tell me something, Jenny-girl,” he murmured, leaning in close enough that she could smell the spearmint gum masking the whiskey on his breath. “Does Amanda belong to you?” His other hand traced the waistband of Jenny’s jeans, the tip of his index finger dipping just beneath the fabric. “Are you her owner?”
Jenny’s pulse fluttered like a trapped bird against Vic’s grip. Across the club’s dimly lit backroom, Amanda knelt naked on the stained concrete floor, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand while a man in a suit buckled his belt above her. The question hung between them, loaded and dangerous.
“N-no,” Jenny stammered, eyes darting to Amanda’s slumped shoulders. “We are just—”
Vic’s laughter cut her off, sharp as a switchblade. “See, that’s your problem.” He released Jenny’s wrist only to grab her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. “Nobody owns her. Not you, not even that broke-ass daddy of hers.” His thumb brushed her lower lip, sticky with cherry gloss. “But somebody should.”
Amanda staggered to her feet, revealing a crescent-shaped bruise blooming above her left breast. Vic didn’t glance her way, just kept his grip on Jenny’s face as he murmured, “You want to know what happens to pretty things nobody claims?”
Jenny’s breath hitched when Vic’s fingers tightened around her throat, not enough to cut off air, just enough to make her toes curl inside her sneakers. Amanda moved before she could think, stepping between them with her arms spread wide. Vic, sir,” Amanda’s voice was steady, though her knees trembled. She kept her arms outstretched between Jenny and Vic, her fingers brushing Jenny’s wrist behind her, a silent plea to stay still. “Jenny does owe me.” The club’s bass thumped through the floor, drowning out Jenny’s gasp.
Jenny’s fingers closed around the crumpled bills Amanda pressed into her palm.
Jenny’s fingers trembled around the damp bills, the edges sticking together with sweat. The back room light flickered overhead, casting shadows that blurred the numbers on the bills. $500. Enough to pay part of her mom’s hospital bill.
Jenny had to sit down, and Amanda sat down on the floor. An envelope landed on Jenny’s lap with a slap, thick enough to make the vinyl couch squeak under her weight. Vic’s shadow loomed over her, blotting out the flickering porn loop playing on the club’s overhead screens. “Thousand dollars,” he said, lighting a cigar with deliberate slowness. The flame caught the edges of the cash peeking out, crisp hundreds banded tight. “This is for Amanda’s services every Friday and Saturday night as long as she keeps her legs open and her mouth wet.”
“Okay,” Jenny said, but the word tasted like pennies in her mouth. She put the envelope into her backpack, fingers numb against the crisp edges of the bills. Amanda sat cross-legged on the floor. The silence between them stretched, not comfortable, not hostile, just there, like the stale popcorn scent clinging to Amanda’s hair.
Vic snapped his fingers twice, sharp cracks that cut through the club’s bassline, and jerked his chin toward Jenny. “Out.” The cigar smoke curled around his teeth when he spoke, the word more a dismissal than a command. Jenny hesitated, her sneakers squeaking against the sticky floor as she glanced at Amanda. Vic didn’t raise his voice, just exhaled smoke slowly. “Are you deaf, bitch? Scram.”
Amanda nudged Jenny’s ankle with her bare toe, a silent go, before standing.
Vic’s hand landed heavily on Amanda’s shoulder, steering her toward the crowd clustered around the stage where a woman in latex was twirling a whip—her eyes on the prize, a young girl in chains. The girl’s back was bloody, and the crowd was cheering for more.
“Princess,” he murmured, thumb digging into the bruise blooming above her collarbone. “They can touch, they can look, they can squeeze; you smile and say, ‘Thank you, sir or ma’am.’ But if a dick or finger goes in you, you find me first. Clear?”
“Yes, sir,” Amanda murmured, her voice barely louder than the hum of the club’s neon sign flickering outside the dressing room. Vic’s thumb pressed harder into her collarbone, the bruise throbbing in time with the bass shaking the floor. She didn’t flinch.
Jenny’s footsteps faded down the hallway, the click of the exit door too soft to hear over the music. Vic’s grip shifted to Amanda’s chin, tilting her face up toward the stage lights. “Good girl,” he said, smearing his thumb across her bottom lip, chapped from too many hours with her mouth open.
“Thank you, sir,” Amanda murmured.
A man in a paisley shirt had the kind of grin that made people cross the street. Too many teeth, not enough sincerity. His shirt was loud, obnoxiously.
“Now, now, sweetheart,” the man in the paisley shirt drawled, his grin widening as his fingers flicked the buckle loose. The stage lights caught the garish swirls of his shirt, turning them into a dizzying mess of colors. Amanda froze; Vic’s hand was suddenly on her shoulder, pressing down with a weight that wasn’t just physical.
“Be nice,” Vic murmured, his breath warm against her ear. Amanda’s knees hit the hardwood before she realized she was moving. The surrounding crowd, half-drunk and half-interested, let out a low hum of approval. Someone whistled. The man in paisley chuckled, the sound like gravel in a tin can, and then there he was, bare and thick in her face. The smell of cheap cologne and sweat hit her like a wall.
Amanda’s lips parted, not by choice, but by the insistent pressure of Vic’s fingers tangled in her hair. The man’s cock was already slick with pre-cum, glistening under the stage lights like some grotesque trophy. She gagged when the first salty tang hit her tongue, but Vic’s grip tightened, forcing her forward until her nose pressed into wiry pubes. The crowd’s murmurs sharpened into laughter and a few scattered claps. Someone shouted, “Get it, girl!”
The man in paisley groaned, his hips jerking unevenly. “Fuck, she’s—” His words dissolved into a grunt as Amanda’s throat convulsed around him. She could feel the vibrations of the bass through the floor, the heat of too many bodies pressed close, and the way Vic’s thumb traced circles on her scalp like he was soothing a dog. Her eyes burned, but she kept them open, wide, unblinking.
The man’s hips bucked forward, forcing another inch down her throat. Amanda’s gag reflex kicked in hard, tears spilling over as her nose mashed into coarse pubic hair. The crowd’s laughter swelled, somewhere between encouragement and mockery, but the sound blurred into white noise behind the pulse pounding in her ears. Vic’s grip shifted, fingers tightening just enough to remind her who was really in control here.
“Swallow,” Vic murmured, his voice low and smooth against the din of the bar. His other hand trailed down her spine, stopping at the small of her back. The man in paisley groaned, his fingers knotting in her hair now too, his rhythm turning erratic. The taste of him was bitter-salty, the musk thick enough to coat her tongue. Amanda’s jaw ached, but she didn’t dare stop, not with Vic’s thumb pressing into the hinge of her jaw, urging her on.
The man came with a shudder that rolled through him like a bad circuit, his hips jerking forward one last time as his fingers twisted tight in Amanda’s hair. The crowd erupted, half-laughing, half-jeering, as his release hit the back of her throat, thick and sudden. She gagged, her body convulsing instinctively, but Vic’s grip on her head held firm, his fingers pressing into her scalp. The taste flooded her mouth, metallic and sour, and she swallowed in frantic, staccato gulps, tears streaking down her cheeks.
The paisley-shirt man let out a ragged exhale, his grin returning as he pulled back, his cock slipping from her lips with a wet pop. He wiped himself lazily on her cheek before tucking back into his pants, the fabric of his shirt brushing against her face as he straightened. “Good girl,” Vic muttered, patting her head like she was a fucking pet. The crowd clapped, a few whistles cutting through the smoky air. Amanda stayed on her knees, trembling, her breath coming in shallow hitches.
The man in the paisley shirt tucked himself back into his slacks. His fingers lingered too long in her hair, tugging just hard enough to make her scalp sting before he dropped a hundred-dollar bill onto the sticky stage floor.
Vic said, “Pick it up with your teeth.”
She picked it up with her teeth, and the crowd whooped, some frat-boy type sloshing his beer in excitement.
The crowd roared when she dropped it into the fishbowl balanced between her spread knees. The glass was smeared with fingerprints and lipstick stains, half-full with bills folded into origami shapes or rolled tight like joints.
Amanda crawled around the stage until a woman stuffed a hundred-dollar bill into her ass. The woman’s polished fingernails traced the inside of her knee. “Such soft skin,” the woman murmured, her voice honey-thick with expensive liquor. Up close, her perfume smelled like orchids. The crowd around the stage hooted when she leaned in, her breath hot against Amanda’s ear. “Five grand. Back room. Now.”
“Okay, give it to Vic, and I’ll meet you there,” Amanda whispered.
The spotlight burned white-hot against Amanda’s skin as she crawled toward the edge of the stage, the bill still wedged in her ass. The crowd’s laughter buzzed in her ears, some drunk guy shouting, “Shake it loose, baby!” but she kept her movements slow and deliberate. Vic’s rules echoed in her head: Never rush. Make ‘em wait. That’s where the money is.
The backroom door clicked shut behind Amanda, muffling the club’s thumping bass. The woman, whose name tag said, pushed Amanda onto the leather couch without ceremony, her manicured fingers already working the buttons of her blouse. “Don’t look so nervous,” Lydia purred, her diamond bracelet catching the dim light as she straddled Amanda’s lap. “Have you done this before?”
No, ma’am, I’m a virgin.” Amanda’s voice wavered only slightly as Lydia’s fingers froze on the last button of her blouse. The older woman’s perfume, something expensive, clung to the humid air between them.
The door burst open before Lydia’s fingers could undo the final button. Vic filled the doorway, his shadow stretching across Amanda’s bare thighs like a stain. “Half off tonight, sugar,” he said, tossing a wad of cash onto the nightstand. Lydia’s bracelet clinked as she reached for it, but Vic caught her wrist mid-air. “But nothing goes inside her cunt.” His thumb traced the delicate bones of Lydia’s hand, his grip just shy of painful. “That cherry’s reserved for tomorrow; fifty grand says so.”
“How’s her ass?” Lydia asked, her manicured fingers trailing down Amanda’s spine like she was inspecting livestock. The couch’s leather stuck to Amanda’s bare thighs as Lydia’s grip tightened, kneading the soft flesh with a possessiveness that made Amanda’s stomach clench.
Vic chuckled, leaning against the doorframe with his cigar dangling between his fingers.
“Untouched,” he said, blowing smoke toward the ceiling. “Just like the rest of her.” His gaze lingered on Amanda’s exposed backside, the dim light catching the faint tremble in her shoulders. “If you want her ass, will it still be five grand?”
“Sure.” Lydia’s fingers stilled against Amanda’s thigh, her polished nails digging just enough to leave marks in the girl’s skin. The club’s muffled bass pulsed through the walls, vibrating the leather couch beneath them. Lydia’s breath smelled like mint, warm against Amanda’s neck as she leaned closer. “You’re telling me nobody’s taken this yet?” Her laugh was low, disbelief laced with something hungrier.
“Show me your virgin ass,” she murmured, her breath hot on Amanda’s neck. The couch groaned under their combined weight as Lydia exposed the curve of Amanda’s ass to the stale backroom air.
The slap echoed before Amanda even processed the movement, Lydia’s palm connecting with her bare ass hard enough to leave a red imprint that would linger for hours. Amanda gasped, fingers clawing at the leather couch as Lydia chuckled, trailing a single nail down the welt rising on her skin. “Still flinches like a virgin,” Lydia mused, glancing at Vic. “You weren’t lying.”
Amanda’s thighs trembled against the leather couch as Lydia’s fingers traced the curve of her ass, the older woman’s breath hitching when she spotted the faint tremor. “You’re dripping,” Lydia murmured, pressing two fingers against Amanda’s inner thigh and holding them up to the dim light, glistening. The club’s bassline throbbed through the floor, syncing with the pulse jumping in Amanda’s throat.
“Lydia,” Vic drawled from the doorway, tapping his cigar against the doorframe so the ash scattered onto the stained carpet. “If you’re going to do your perv shit, do it on the floor like a good girl.” His grin flashed gold in the dim light. “Not on my goddamn couch like last time.”
Lydia’s manicured fingers dug into Amanda’s hips as she shoved her off the couch onto the stained carpet. The girl landed hard on her knees, palms skidding against something sticky, old beer, maybe, or worse. Vic’s shadow loomed over them, cigar smoke curling around his head like a halo as Lydia yanked Amanda’s hair back, exposing her throat.
Lydia’s knee pressed between Amanda’s shoulder blades, pinning her face-down on the carpet. The smell of stale cigarettes and piss filled Amanda’s nose as Lydia’s fingers twisted tighter in her hair. “Spread,” Lydia commanded, her voice husky with arousal. Amanda’s wrists trembled as she pushed herself up just enough to obey, her knees sliding apart on the damp carpet. Behind them, Vic exhaled a slow stream of smoke, his shadow stretching across Amanda’s bare back like a second pair of hands.
The carpet fibers scratched Amanda’s knees raw as Lydia’s fingers traced the curve of her spine, nails catching on the ridges of vertebrae like piano keys. “Still tight,” Lydia murmured, pressing two fingers between Amanda’s clenched thighs. The girl gasped from the sheer wrongness of being spread open under Vic’s watchful gaze.
Lydia’s finger breached Amanda with a dry, twisting push that made her gasp.
The carpet fibers dug into Amanda’s cheek as she turned her face away, her fingers clawing at nothing while Lydia chuckled above her. “Ohhh, my,” Lydia cooed, her manicured finger circling tighter, deeper, the burn blooming bright and hot between Amanda’s legs. Lydia worked her finger in shallow thrusts, each one punctuated by a soft, wet sound that made Amanda’s ears burn.
Lydia pushed another finger in, slow and deliberate, the stretch burning white-hot as Amanda’s breath hitched against the carpet. The older woman’s rings scraped raw against tender flesh, the cold metal a sharp contrast to the heat pooling between Amanda’s legs. Somewhere above them, Vic exhaled a plume of cigar smoke, the ember glowing brighter, and some ash fell onto Amanda’s back, burning her.
Lydia pushed another finger in, three, then four, each knuckle popping past the tight ring of muscle with a wet, obscene sound that seemed louder than the club’s bass. Amanda’s fingers curled into the stained carpet, her breath coming in ragged hitches as Lydia’s fingers twisted deeper, spreading her wider. The pain was sharp, relentless, but beneath it pulsed a shameful heat that made Amanda’s stomach clench.
The moment Lydia’s fist finally slid home, Amanda’s vision whited out in pain and from the sheer impossibility of it. The stretch burned as hot wax poured straight into her spine, her body arching off the carpet in a silent scream as Lydia’s knuckles pressed against something deep and untouched. The club’s bass faded into a distant thrum, replaced by the wet, rhythmic squelch of Lydia’s wrist twisting inside her.
The first full thrust of Lydia’s fist punched the air from Amanda’s lungs in a silent, shuddering gasp. Her hips jerked involuntarily, trying to escape the impossible stretch, but Lydia’s other hand clamped down on the small of her back, fingers digging into fresh bruises. “Relax, baby,” Lydia murmured, her breath hot against Amanda’s ear. “You’re taking it so well.” The words dripped with honeyed condescension, the kind reserved for prized pets or particularly obedient whores.
Lydia’s fist was still buried inside her, knuckles gleaming with wetness under the strobe lights. She asked, “How old is this whore?”
Vic exhaled cigar smoke through his nose in twin streams. “She’s fourteen,” he said, watching the way Lydia’s fingers twitched inside Amanda like she’d been electrocuted. The older woman’s polished nails dug crescent moons into the girl’s hipbone as she froze, mid-thrust, her breath hitching audibly even over the club’s bass.
“Wow, I love it. She’s the same age as my daughter, but Kara has bigger tits than this whore.” Lydia purred, her fingers flexing inside Amanda with deliberate slowness. The girl’s choked whimper and crying seemed to vibrate through her wrist, each tremor telegraphing how impossibly full she felt. Lydia withdrew her fist just enough to watch the stretched flesh cling to her knuckles before plunging back in, a wet, obscene squelch punctuating the movement. Amanda’s forehead pressed into the carpet, her fingers twisting in the fibers hard enough to tear them loose.
Amanda’s mouth opened, just a fraction, her lower lip trembling as Lydia’s fist twisted deeper inside her. She wanted to say “Eighteen. I’m eighteen.” But the word sat on her tongue, bitter and heavy, but Vic’s cigar smoke curled between them like a warning. His shadow stretched across her bare back.
Lydia’s fist slid free with a wet pop that echoed obscenely in the cramped backroom. Amanda’s body jerked, her thighs clamping together instinctively, too late, the damage done. The carpet fibers scratched her cheek as she turned her face away, but Lydia’s fingers gripped her jawbone like a vise, forcing her head back around. “Lick,” Lydia commanded, holding her glistening hand inches from Amanda’s mouth. The fingers glistened under the flickering bulb, strands of slickness connecting them to Amanda’s trembling body.
The taste hit Amanda’s tongue first, an unwashed tang that made her gag reflex twitch. But she kept her lips parted, her breath coming in shallow pants as Lydia’s fingers pressed deeper into her mouth. The older woman’s rings scraped against Amanda’s teeth, cold metal clinking as Lydia curled her fingers against the girl’s tongue with possessive satisfaction.
“She is good; you have a good one here,” Lydia said, tilting her chin up slightly as she watched Amanda kneel between her thighs. Lydia’s fingers curled into the couch cushions beneath her, her breath already uneven.
Vic took one last drag from his cigar, the ember glowing bright for a second before he crushed it into the ashtray on the side table. His expression didn’t change, cool and detached, as if he were watching a clock tick down. “Yes, she is,” he agreed, voice low. “And you have ten minutes left.”
Amanda didn’t hesitate. The moment Lydia’s fingers spread herself open, Amanda dove in with the practiced hunger of someone who knew exactly how to make a woman forget her name. Her tongue dragged slowly and deliberately up Lydia’s slit, pausing just long enough at the top to swirl the tip in tight circles before pulling back down again. Lydia’s thighs tensed, her hips jerking forward involuntarily. Amanda had barely started, and already she was losing control.
Vic leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled under his chin. His gaze flicked between the two women like he was calculating odds at a poker table. There was no warmth in it, no flicker of arousal, just cold assessment. Lydia gasped when Amanda’s fingers joined in, two slipping inside her with no resistance, curling just right. “Fuck,” Lydia muttered, her head tipping back against the couch. “I wasn’t kidding; she is a keeper.”
Amanda didn’t waste time; she knew the clock was ticking. Her fingers pressed deeper, knuckles brushing Lydia’s clit with every thrust, while her tongue flicked faster now, relentless. Lydia’s breathing turned ragged, her thighs clamping around Amanda’s head, but Amanda didn’t let up. She could taste Lydia’s desperation, sharp and metallic under the sweetness, and it only made her work harder.
Vic checked his watch. “Seven minutes,” he said, voice flat.
“You better get me off, whore,” Lydia hissed, her fingers tightening in Amanda’s hair hard enough to make her scalp sting. The older woman’s thighs trembled against Amanda’s temples, the scent of her arousal thick and cloying in the cramped backroom air. Amanda didn’t reply, just pressed her tongue firmer against Lydia’s clit in slow, deliberate circles. At the same time, her fingers curled deeper inside her, knuckles brushing that spongy spot that made Lydia’s breath hitch.
The slap came suddenly. Lydia’s palm cracked against Amanda’s cheekbone hard enough to make her vision go white for a second. Amanda’s fingers stuttered inside Lydia, but she didn’t stop. That was the game, pain threaded through pleasure like gold through a bruise. Vic lit up another cigar. The smoke curled above them, watching. Always watching.
Three minutes. That’s all Amanda had left before Vic’s cigar burned down to the filter and Lydia’s patience snapped like a rubber band. The older woman’s thighs quivered around Amanda’s ears, her breath coming in sharp, uneven gasps as Amanda’s tongue flicked faster against her clit, not just circles now, but quick, fluttering strokes, the kind that made Lydia’s hips jerk off the couch. Amanda’s jaw ached, her cheek still throbbing from the slap, but she didn’t slow down. She couldn’t.
Lydia’s fingers twisted tighter in Amanda’s hair, yanking her closer until her nose pressed into the wiry curls at the base of Lydia’s cunt. The scent was overwhelming: sweat and perfume. Amanda’s fingers curled deeper inside Lydia, her knuckles brushing that spongy spot that made Lydia’s breath hitch. “Fuck,” Lydia hissed, her voice ragged. “Just like that—fuck—
Lydia came so hard she began to piss herself, a hot, shameful gush that splattered Amanda’s chin and soaked the floor beneath them. Amanda kept her mouth sealed tight, swallowing reflexively as Lydia’s thighs clamped around her head like a vise, the older woman’s moans dissolving into ragged, hiccupping sobs. The smell, sharp and ammonia-bright, mixed with the musk of Lydia’s sweat and the stale cigar smoke, the lingering perfume now gone rancid with exertion.
Vic didn’t move from his chair. He just flicked ash into the tray and checked his watch. “Two minutes early,” he noted, voice flat. His gaze slid to Amanda, still pinned beneath Lydia’s trembling thighs, her face glistening with fluids. “Clean her up.”
Amanda’s knees burned against the carpet as she wiped her chin with the back of her hand, the piss drying tacky on her skin. Lydia slumped against the couch, her chest still heaving, one heel digging into Amanda’s thigh like a spur. The silence stretched, broken only by Vic’s lighter flicking open, the flame catching the fresh cigar between his teeth.
“Towel,” Vic said, nodding toward the sink in the corner. His voice was casual, like he’d asked for a napkin at a diner. Amanda moved stiffly, her thighs sticking together with sweat. The towel was rough, smelling faintly of bleach, and she pressed it to her face hard enough to leave red marks.
“Not you, whore.” Vic’s voice cracked through the backroom like a whip, freezing Amanda. The towel dangled limply from her fingers as Vic jerked his chin. “Clean, Lydia.”
Lydia’s legs splayed wider without. the leather couch creaking beneath her. Amanda hesitated, the towel hovering inches from Lydia’s glistening cunt, still swollen, still wet with the aftermath. Vic exhaled cigar smoke through his nose, watching. Always watching.