"Shared toy, Henderson?" Greg doesn’t stop fingering you. "Close the damn door, Davies." Brad obeys, locking it. He strides over, his thick fingers tangling in your hair, yanking your head back. "Look at you," he sneers, shoving his thumb into your mouth. You suck instinctively, tasting stale coffee and sweat. Greg pulls his fingers free with a wet pop. "Hold her hips," he orders Brad. Brad grips your waist, pinning you as Greg unzips. You hear the thick slap of flesh against flesh before his cockhead presses against your soaked entrance. "No—please!" you whimper, a useless reflex. Greg slams into you to the hilt in one brutal thrust. The desk groans. "Fuck!"