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The oil rig’s dining hall reeked of burnt coffee, grease, and the sour musk of men unwashed for weeks. Steel tables stood bolted to the floor, their edges chipped, scarred with years of spilled stew and sweat. Canvas tarps, strung across rusted beams, carved a flimsy fuck bay from the hall’s corner, their frayed edges trembling in the humid air.
The barrier would muffle nothing—every wet slap of flesh, every grunt, would echo off the walls, the rig’s iron heart groaning beneath like it craved the sound. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting jagged shadows across men in purple boilersuits, their cocks out, fists slow and deliberate, precum glistening like oil slicks, thick in the air.
Lila and I stepped inside, robes slipping from shoulders that were slick with sea spray. Amber and Jasmine flanked us, their eyes sharp as priestesses leading lambs to an altar. My cunt throbbed, still raw from the helipad, semen leaking from my well-fucked hole, a shameful trail down my thigh that caught the light.