Chapter 12: The Spitroast Baptism
The tenderness shattered like glass. İsmail’s phone was in his hand, the cold screen glowing. “Rule four was a joke, right?” he said, his voice too bright, too sharp. “Let’s make a better one.”
Umut’s grip on Berkay’s hair tightened, yanking his head back. “Open wide, aşkım.” He fed his cock past Berkay’s lips, watching the stretch with dark approval. “Rule five. We document our property.” Berkay gagged, tears springing instantly.
Serdem watched, his large hands flexing. “This is different.” “It’s the same,” İsmail corrected, zooming in on Berkay’s streaked face. “Just honest.” He spat on the lens for a clearer view. “Show us your hungry hole, Berkay. For the archive.”
With a rough shove, Umut pushed Berkay forward over the couch arm, his ass exposed to the room and the camera’s unblinking eye. Serdem’s thick fingers, slick with spit, pressed against the puffy, used rim. “It’s still so loose from us,” he murmured, working two inside.
“He’s always ready,” Umut grunted, fucking into Berkay’s mouth in shallow, aggressive thrusts. İsmail circled, capturing every angle—the spit stringing from Umut’s balls to Berkay’s chin, the slow, obscene penetration of Serdem’s fingers. “Perfect. Now look at me, slut.”
Berkay’s wet eyes found the lens. “That’s the face,” İsmail breathed, recording the shattered acceptance there. Serdem replaced his fingers with his cock, sheathing himself in one smooth, brutal motion that forced a choked scream from Berkay’s stuffed throat.
The duality was the point: claimed by one end, recorded for the other. Umut’s hips pistoned, hitting the back of Berkay’s throat with each thrust. “Swallow it, mal. Every fucking drop.” Berkay’s body convulsed between them, a creature of pure, used sensation.