Weekend Offsite

They told her it was just a team retreat.

Two days at a private house on Pasir Ris Road. A stocked fridge. A jacuzzi. A few laptops—just in case. No suits, no decks, no KPIs. Just time to “sync in a less formal setting.”

Tiffany didn’t ask questions.

She just packed.

Tight tops. Short shorts. A black bikini. Nothing else.

She didn’t bring panties.

⸻

She arrived late. The sun was bleeding into the sea, the sky streaked pink. A glass of wine found her hand before she’d even dropped her bag. The house was sprawling—five bedrooms, open floor plan, no neighbors in sight. Just the guys.

Jake. Mason. Derek. Ethan. You.

And her.

She didn’t knock. Just padded into the living room barefoot. A white T-shirt clung to her chest, nipples sharp beneath the thin cotton. Her thighs gleamed—fresh lotion. Her hair still damp from a quick rinse. Her eyes, gleaming with something between challenge and invitation.

“You all packed so much,” she said with a grin. “I didn’t even bring underwear.”

No one answered.

You didn’t need to.

Jake set his drink down.

“Strip.”

She paused. A teasing tilt of the head.

“Here?”

“Now.”

She didn’t ask why.

She obeyed.

⸻

The shirt came off first, peeled slow from damp skin. Then the shorts, sliding down smooth, tanned legs. The bikini top followed—tiny, black, useless. She hadn’t worn the bottoms.

Now she stood in the center of the room—naked, shimmering, her pussy already glistening, already leaking.

You stepped forward. Circled her like a predator. Your fingers grazed the curve of her hip, then slid lower, between her thighs.

Slick.

Dripping.

Ready.

“Lay her down.”

The coffee table was moved. Cushions thrown onto the rug. She was guided to her back—arms above her head, legs parted, mouth slightly open.

The first cock was inside her before the others were even undressed.

⸻

It became rhythm.

One in her ass.

One in her pussy.

One in her throat.

No schedule. No names. No roles.

Just cock.

Just need.

Just Tiffany.

Each time one pulled out, another filled the space. Each thrust a claim. Each moan a confession. She didn’t speak anymore. Just sounds—high, broken, helpless little cries that turned the room electric.

She came. Again. And again.

Her cunt spasmed around them. Her ass twitched, stretched wide and twitching with every thrust. Her throat bulged and pulsed, swallowing. One of them pressed a vibrator to her clit and held it there. Her scream cracked the silence—pure, raw, unfiltered release. Someone caught it on video.

When her voice gave out, they tied her wrists behind her back and kept using her mouth.

⸻

By the second day, she stopped waiting for permission.

She crawled toward any lap within reach. Open-mouthed. Hungry.

She begged to be stretched, even when she was already stuffed. Whispers through swollen lips:

“Please… more. Please—stuff me. Fill me up…”

And when she wasn’t being fucked, she was plugged. Thick black silicone—one in her pussy, one in her ass. Keeping her full. Holding everything in. She wore nothing but her collar now.

A polished metal tag dangled from it:

Property of the Team

⸻

That final night, you took her outside.

The patio table was warm from the sun. You laid her face down—legs open, ass gaping, cunt dripping. Her skin glowed beneath the moonlight. The ocean breeze kissed her back.

The men lined up.

One after another.

Slap—groan—burst.

Again. Again. Again.

She took it all.

Her pussy was a mess—cum leaking, spreading, pooling. Her ass gaped, twitching after every fill. At one point, when someone pulled out, her cunt spurted—a geyser of cum and slick, arcing like a broken dam.

She trembled.

Then whispered, hoarse:

“…still not full…”

They laughed.

“Greedy little office whore.”

A slap cracked across her ass—loud and mean. She moaned.

And smiled.