Josephine Gangbanged by Cyrus and Damon

The loft still smelled faintly of the espresso Josephine had pulled at eleven, bitter and warm under the cleaner scent of the lemon oil she used on the walnut table. Floor-to-ceiling glass looked out over the downtown grid, a scatter of office lights still burning in the towers across the street, and the city noise came up muted, more pulse than sound. Her heels were off. The silk blouse she’d worn through the strategy session was open at the throat. She stood at the end of the table with the last slide deck closed on her laptop and watched the two men who had not left when the work did.

Cyrus Winston was thirty-two, broad through the shoulders in a way that made the rolled sleeves of his charcoal shirt look strained, dark hair pushed back from a face that had gone quieter as the night lengthened. Damon Rough, thirty-one, sat with one ankle hooked over his knee, the leaner of the two, a scar through one eyebrow and a mouth that kept almost smiling whenever she caught him looking. They had been circling her for weeks in conference rooms and late dinners after client calls—open, unhidden, the kind of flirtation three adults could carry without pretending it was anything else. She was twenty-eight. She ran the account. She had spent the last hour listening to them argue media spend while imagining their hands on her, and she was done pretending the heat in the room was just the work.

“I’m not calling a car yet,” she said.

Cyrus looked up. Damon didn’t bother to hide the way his eyes dropped to the open collar of her blouse and then came back.

“You want another pass at the Q3 numbers?” Cyrus asked. His voice had gone lower. He already knew she didn’t.

Josephine set both palms on the table. The wood was cool. Her pulse was not. “I want both of you to fuck me. At the same time. Tonight. Here. Rough the way I’ve been thinking about it since the pitch in March. Not gentle. Not polite. I want to be used until I can’t stand, and I want you both to mean it.”

The silence that followed was thick enough to taste. Cyrus’s chair creaked as he sat back. Damon’s foot came down off his knee. They looked at each other—hungry, checking, the same look she’d seen them trade when she bent over a printout and neither of them had the decency to glance away. No shock. No hesitation once the want was spoken out loud.

“Say it again,” Damon said.

“I want you both inside me,” Josephine said. Her mouth was dry and her cunt was already wet, a slick ache she’d been ignoring since Cyrus’s knee had brushed hers under the table an hour ago. “I want it rough. I want my hair pulled and my ass slapped and my throat fucked, and I want to come while you do it. If that’s not what you want, say so now and I’ll call the car.”

Cyrus stood. He was taller than she remembered when he wasn’t seated across a conference table, and the look on his face had gone dark and intent. “It’s what I want.”

“Same,” Damon said. He was already on his feet, already moving around the table. “Been wanting it. You sure you want rough? Because once we start, we’re not going to treat you like the woman who signs our checks.”

“I’m sure.” She met his eyes. “I want you to treat me like the woman who asked for it. Check in if I go quiet. Otherwise don’t stop until I’ve had both of you in every hole I offer. Green means more. Yellow means ease off. Red means stop. That’s the only rule.”

Cyrus nodded once. Damon smiled, small and filthy. The tension in the loft changed shape—still thick, but moving now, a current instead of a held breath. Josephine felt it settle into her skin. She had said it. They had agreed. Nothing about the night was going to stay professional after this.

She walked around the table and dropped to her knees between them on the rug.

The wool bit faintly at her skin through her skirt. She reached up and opened Cyrus’s belt first, then Damon’s, working both flies with steady hands while they watched her from above. Cyrus’s cock came out heavy and already hard, flushed dark at the head, thick enough that her fingers didn’t quite meet when she wrapped them around the shaft. Damon’s was longer, a little curved, hot against her palm, the head slick when she thumbed it. She stroked them both, slow, learning the weight and the heat, and looked up so they could see her mouth.

“I want it mean,” she said, voice low and clear. “I want you to grab my hair. I want you to fuck my face until I drool on my own tits. I want one of you in my cunt and one of you in my ass at the same time, and I want you to hold me down while you do it. Slap me. Choke me if I ask. Don’t ask me if I’m a good girl. I already know what I am tonight. I’m the hole you’re both going to use.”

Cyrus’s hand settled in her hair, not yanking yet, just claiming. “Open.”

She opened. He fed her the head of his cock and she took it, lips stretching, tongue flat underneath, the salt of him immediate. She sucked him down until her throat fluttered and her eyes watered, then pulled off with a wet sound and turned to Damon. His hand replaced Cyrus’s in her hair. He didn’t wait for her to set the pace. He pushed in, deeper on the second stroke, and she moaned around him, the vibration making his hips jerk.

“Fuck, look at that,” Damon said. “She meant it.”

“She meant every word,” Cyrus said. He stroked himself while she worked Damon’s cock, then tugged her back by the hair so she had to look up, spit shining on her chin. “You’re going to take us both until your makeup’s gone and your voice is wrecked. You’re going to come on our cocks like you begged for it. And when we’re done, you’re going to thank us.”

“Yes,” she said, and went back to him, switching, stroking the one she wasn’t sucking, messy and eager. She described it between breaths, between the wet sounds of her mouth. “Doggy. Throat. Then both at once. I want Damon in my ass. I want you in my cunt, Cyrus. I want to feel you rub against each other inside me. I want cum on my face and my tits and leaking out of me. I want it until I can’t think.”

Damon’s grip tightened. “Then stop talking and show us how bad you want the throat part.”

She did. She took him deeper, relaxed her jaw, let him fuck her mouth in short rough thrusts while Cyrus watched and stroked her cheek with his thumb, smearing spit. They traded her. Cyrus was thicker; she gagged once, eyes streaming, and he eased for half a second until she grabbed his thigh and pulled him back in, a clear yes. Damon laughed under his breath, filthy and pleased, and stripped his shirt off. Cyrus followed. Then they were hauling her up, hands everywhere, impatient.

Her blouse went over her head. Her bra clasp gave under Damon’s fingers. Cyrus shoved her skirt and panties down in one motion and she stepped out of them, naked in the loft lights, nipples tight, cunt shining when she shifted her thighs. Damon palmed her ass and slapped it once, sharp, testing. She gasped and pushed back into his hand.

“Again,” she said.

He did, harder. The sting bloomed hot. Cyrus cupped her breast, thumbed the nipple, then bent and bit it just shy of too much. She clutched his shoulder and heard herself make a sound she didn’t make in boardrooms.

“Bedroom,” Cyrus said. “Now.”

They didn’t let her walk it alone. Damon scooped her up—she was not small, and the easy strength of it went straight to her clit—and Cyrus went ahead, shoving the bedroom door wide. The bed was wide and low, white sheets, city light cutting across it in pale bars. Damon dropped her onto the mattress. She bounced once and spread her knees without being told, and both men looked at her like they’d been starving.

Cyrus stripped the rest of the way. Damon did the same. Two hard cocks, two sets of hands, the low sound of their breathing in her expensive quiet room. Josephine lay back on her elbows and felt the want crest so hard her thighs trembled.

“Green,” she said. “Don’t make me wait.”

They didn’t.

Cyrus climbed onto the bed behind her and hauled her onto her hands and knees with a grip on her hips that would leave marks. Damon knelt in front of her, cock in his fist, the head bumping her lips. She opened and he slid in, one hand fisted in her hair at the roots, the other braced on the headboard. Behind her, Cyrus dragged the head of his cock through her slick folds, once, twice, not teasing so much as aiming, and then he pushed in.

The stretch stole her breath around Damon’s cock. Cyrus was thick, and she was wet enough that he sank deep in one long drive, filling her until his hips met her ass. She moaned, muffled, and Damon used the sound, fucking her throat in a steady rhythm that matched the way Cyrus started to pound her. Spit-roasted, held between them, exactly as she’d asked. Each thrust from behind shoved her forward onto Damon’s cock. Each pull back dragged her off it until Damon hauled her in again by the hair. Her eyes watered. Spit slid down her chin and onto the sheets. Her cunt clenched around Cyrus and he swore, low and rough, and fucked her harder.

“Listen to her,” Damon said. “Gagging on it and still pushing back. Filthy.”

“She takes it,” Cyrus said. His hand cracked across her ass, once, then again, the smack loud in the room. Heat flooded the skin. Josephine cried out around Damon’s cock and came the first time without warning, a sharp clenching orgasm that made her arms shake and her throat tighten. Cyrus felt it and didn’t slow. He slapped her again, palm flat, and drove deep, grinding, letting her ride it out on his cock while Damon eased just enough to let her breathe and then pushed back in when she nodded, frantic, green, more.

They rotated before the aftershocks faded. Damon pulled out of her mouth. Cyrus withdrew, cock shining with her. They manhandled her onto her back, then Damon lay down and dragged her over him, chest to his chest for a moment so he could kiss her—messy, biting, tasting himself on her tongue—before he turned her to face away and lined himself up with her ass.

“You asked for this,” he said against her ear. “Tell me you still want it.”

“I want your cock in my ass,” she said, hoarse already. “Slow in. Then don’t be careful.”

He spat into his hand, slicked himself, pressed the head to her hole and worked in with short patient pushes while Cyrus held her thighs open and watched her face. The burn peaked and broke into a deep, full ache as Damon sank in to the hilt. Josephine’s mouth fell open. She bore down, adjusted, and nodded.

“In me,” she told Cyrus. “Both. Now.”

Cyrus knelt between her spread thighs, Damon’s cock already buried in her ass beneath, and pushed into her cunt. The fullness was obscene. She could feel them both, separated by so little, the drag of Cyrus’s thrusts rubbing against the pressure of Damon underneath. Damon gripped her hips and started to fuck up into her, short hard slams that jolted her whole body. Cyrus matched him from above, driving into her cunt, their rhythms colliding until she was nothing but the place they met. She came again, longer this time, a rolling wreck of an orgasm that made her sob and claw at Cyrus’s shoulders.

“Choke me,” she gasped. “Light. I want it. Green.”

Cyrus’s hand settled on her throat, broad, careful even in the roughness, pressure at the sides and not the windpipe, exactly enough to make her head go bright and her cunt seize. He watched her eyes. She held his gaze and mouthed more, and he kept the pressure while he fucked her, Damon’s cock pounding her ass from below, the wet sound of it filthy and constant. When her vision edged sparkly he eased off, and she hauled in air and laughed, wrecked and delighted, and told him to do it again on the next peak.

They rotated. Damon took her cunt from behind while she knelt and Cyrus fed her his cock, slower now, letting her suck the taste of herself off him, then faster when she grabbed his ass and pulled. Cyrus took her ass while she rode Damon’s cock facing him, bouncing, tits swaying, Damon’s hands slapping up to meet her ass on every downstroke until the skin was hot and pink and she was begging in broken sentences. They put her on her side and fucked her in tandem, one then the other, trading holes, talking over her in low filthy voices—how tight she was, how she dripped, how pretty she looked ruined, how they were going to fill her. She came a third time with Damon’s fingers on her clit and Cyrus buried in her ass, shaking so hard Damon had to hold her together.

“Close,” Cyrus said, voice shredded.

“Face,” she managed. “Tits. And inside. I want all of it. Don’t waste it.”

They pulled her to the edge of the bed. Damon stroked himself over her mouth while Cyrus fucked her cunt in hard final thrusts, then pulled out and came across her stomach and breasts in thick pulses, groaning her name. Damon followed a moment later, one hand in her hair, painting her lips and cheek and tongue, and she opened for it, swallowed what landed in her mouth, let the rest stripe her skin. They weren’t done. Cyrus pushed back into her ass while she was still twitching and finished what he had left inside her, grinding deep, and Damon slid into her cunt and came there too, flooding her, hips jerking, both of them cursing while she shook through a fourth orgasm that felt like it emptied her out.

After, the room was all breath and the low hum of the city.

Josephine lay on her back between them, wrecked in the best way, thighs sticky, cum cooling on her face and tits and leaking from her cunt and her ass onto the sheets. Her throat was sore. Her ass stung in bright patches. Her hair was a ruin. She had never felt more precisely like herself. Cyrus’s hand rested on her stomach, broad and warm, rising and falling with her breath. Damon’s fingers traced idle circles on her hip, no performance left in it, just contact.

She turned her head and kissed Cyrus first, slow, tasting salt and herself, lingering until he made a quiet sound against her mouth. Then she turned the other way and kissed Damon the same way, languid, grateful, a little laughing when he nipped her lower lip.

“Thank you,” she said. Her voice was raw and she didn’t try to pretty it. “That was exactly the rough gangbang I wanted. Both of you. All of it. You didn’t hold back, and I didn’t want you to.”

“Anytime,” Damon said, and meant it. She could hear it.

“Anytime,” Cyrus echoed, quieter.

She settled deeper into the heat of them, sweaty and spent, the afterglow heavy as a blanket. “Next time,” she murmured, already half gone, “I want Kiara to join us too. She’s been listening to me talk around this for weeks. She’d want it. You’d want her. Think about it.”

Neither of them argued. The three of them lay there in the wrecked sheets, breathing slowing, the loft dark except for the city, satisfied down to the bone.

Cyrus kept his eyes on the ceiling and didn’t say the thing moving under his ribs—that he already knew he would say yes to Kiara, to next time, to whatever Josephine asked, because somewhere between the strategy deck and the way she had looked up from her knees he had stopped being able to pretend this was only the night she’d requested. He didn’t tell her. He didn’t tell Damon. He let the secret sit in his chest, small and certain, while she drifted against his shoulder with cum still drying on her skin and a smile on her mouth, and the other two never knew.