We didn’t rush. We studied him—every twitch, every gasp, every helpless spasm of his caged hips. Miss Flora kept her voice low and wicked while I held him in place, fingers wrapped around his soaked shaft like it was property. Rooster could barely keep still, too wrecked with need to speak, too trained to resist. This wasn’t stroking. This was harvesting. By the time we let him cum, he didn’t even want it anymore—he needed it like oxygen. We made him beg, made him melt, and then milked him dry while whispering all the filthy truths he’s too ashamed to say out loud. No escape. No dignity. Just two dommes working in perfect sync to break him open and leave him panting on the floor.