White chamber. A golden swimsuit goddess drives her spiked heel into the kneeling man’s face, grinding the stiletto deep until the flesh yields and bone protests. “Insect,” she murmurs, leaning closer, rotating the heel with deliberate cruelty until something gives. His breath shatters. She withdraws.
A figure in black silk steps forward. “Mine now.” Fingers seize his hair, haul him upright, then lock his throat between velvet-hot white thighs. The soft pressure seals his airway; color floods his face, then drains. Consciousness slips. A sharp crack of her palm across his cheek jolts him back—eyes huge, terrified. The thighs clamp tighter still, crushing harder as he twists and struggles beneath them.
Don’t Get Attacked By Crazy Girls
