Chapter 10: The Double Penetration Debut
Am I really going to let Evan fuck my ass? You think.
The ring lights burned three halos into my vision. The chat scrolled, a torrent of emojis and demands, but the words blurred. My heart was a frantic drum against my ribs. Drew was already behind me, his blunt, thick cock nudging at my soaked entrance, a familiar and hated pressure. Evan stood frozen beside the couch, bottle of lube in his hand, his eyes wide and dark.
“You good, Tay?” Drew mumbled, his breath hot on my shoulder.
“Just fucking do it,” I spat, the command grating from my throat. This was logistics. A objective. My naked skin goosebumped under the lights. I mentally braced, locking my spine, trying to divorce my mind from the reality of my own spread knees and upturned ass. Evan’s cock, not Drew’s. In my ass. The thought was a live wire, spitting panic and a deep, shameful spark of curiosity. I focused on the green-screen pines, willing myself into that pixelated wilderness, away from this couch, this room, this betrayal of my own body.
Drew pushed in, and my cunt, well-trained now, accepted him with a slick, gushing ease. The fullness was routine, a dull ache. “Fuck yeah,” he groaned, his hands gripping my hips.
Then I felt Evan’s fingers, cold and slippery with lube, tracing a circle around my other hole. I flinched. “Relax, man,” Evan said, his voice low, strained. He wasn’t talking to the stream. He was talking to me. To us. His fingertip pressed, not entering, just applying steady, insistent pressure against the tight pucker.
My whole body clenched. Breathe. You’ve taken a fist on a screen. This is just a cock. This is Evan. My friend. The absurdity of that thought almost made me laugh, a hysterical bubble in my chest. His other hand steadied my hip, thumb digging into the flesh. The pressure increased, a relentless, burning point of invasion that refused to yield.
“C’mon, Tay,” Evan murmured. “Let me in.”
I exhaled, a shaky surrender, and pushed back against him. The tip of his cock, slick and insistent, breached me. The burn was immediate, shocking, a white-hot tear of pure stretch. A sharp gasp tore from my lips. “Jesus Christ.”
“Holy shit,” Evan breathed, his voice full of awed horror. He pushed forward another inch, and the sensation transformed from tearing pain to a deep, impossible fullness. My ass was being split open, claimed. Drew chose that moment to pull back and slam into my cunt, and the dual sensation short-circuited my brain. A broken moan escaped me.
They found a rhythm. Drew’s thrusts into my wet, sloppy cunt drove me forward onto Evan’s cock, which sank deeper with every jarring impact. The burn faded into a brutal, stretching fullness that bordered on pain but veered into something else entirely. Each synchronized slam sent a jolt through my core, my prostate—no, my g-spot, fuck—lighting up with devastating precision.
“Look at her take it,” Drew panted, his voice thick. “Two at once. You’re a fucking champion, Taylor.”
Evan didn’t speak. He just fucked my ass with focused, grinding thrusts, his breathing ragged in my ear. The sounds were obscene: the wet slap of Drew’s balls against me, the slicker, tighter suck of my ass around Evan’s shaft, my own choked whimpers. My body was a vessel, a toy, a fucking masterpiece of degradation. Pleasure, toxic and undeniable, coiled tight in my gut.
“I’m gonna–” Evan’s warning was a strangled gasp.
He pulled his cock from my ass in one slick, burning slide. The sudden emptiness was a shock. A hot, rhythmic splatter painted my back and shoulders, stripes of his come landing warm and thick on my skin.
The loss of his filling pressure made Drew’s pounding in my cunt feel raw and singular. It only took three more rough, deep drives before he grunted, shuddered, and buried himself to the hilt. I felt the hot pulse of his release flooding my insides, a claiming that went deeper than skin.
They both pulled away. I collapsed forward onto the velvet throw, spent, trembling. Sweat cooled on my skin. Drew’s cum leaked from my used cunt onto the fabric. Evan’s was drying in sticky tracks on my back. The chat was a solid block of celebratory text, donations chiming like a demented orchestra.
I pushed myself up on shaking arms. I looked directly into the camera, my green eyes hard, my voice steady despite the hoarseness.
“Next week,” I said, wiping a streak of come from my cheekbone. “We’re using the Airsoft gear.”