PITCH PERFECT
Beca's Surprise Facial
You met her at a college party and could tell immediately that she liked you.
You invited her back to you place and 3 beers later, she was naked on your carpet.
Damn she was loving the feeling of your cock 9 inches deep in her pussy.
So it was quite the surprise when you suddenly pulled out and covered her pretty face with your cum!
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Brooklyn 99
A Hot Summer Night in Brooklyn 99
The air inside the 99’s holding cell was so loaded with testosterone and Axe body spray that Amy could practically see the haze. Still, she was riding high: third time this month she’d put away the Donegan boys, and the paperwork was going to look delicious.
Yes, they were three slabs of Brooklyn-grade beef with a collective IQ that wouldn’t cover the tip at a diner. But it was still satisfying nonetheless, especially after the cussing out they’d given her.
The cell door thunked shut behind them, and already they were at each other’s throats. This was standard. Less standard: the argument was about grammar.
“I’m telling you, it’s ‘Donegan’s Rulez’, apostrophe S!” barked the eldest, Mickey, who was only distinguishable from his siblings by a slightly less tragic haircut.
“Bro, you’re such a moron, it’s plural—no apostrophe!” chimed in the middle brother, whose name Amy could never remember because his face was so generic it practically reset itself between bookings.
The third Donegan, the runt, piped up, “Wait, but if it’s our gang, shouldn’t it be like, S apostrophe?” His voice cracked like an overcooked cannoli shell.
Amy’s ears prickled. She couldn’t help herself. The call of incorrect grammar was too strong, like a spelling bee buzzer straight to her amygdala. She spun on her heel and fixed the trio with a look she reserved for people who said “irregardless” or used “literally” to mean “figuratively.”
“Gentlemen,” she said, drawing out the word as if it were a challenge, “it’s ‘Donegans Rule’, no apostrophe, unless you’re talking about something that belongs to you, like your complete lack of self-awareness. Plurals don’t get apostrophes. This is basic stuff.”
Mickey squinted at her, lip curled. “Oh yeah? Then why does my tattoo artist always put the little comma thingy on my name?”
Amy felt her blood pressure spike. “Because your tattoo artist has a criminal disregard for punctuation and possibly an undiagnosed head injury.” She mustered her most withering glare, which by her count had a 73% success rate in silencing perps.
But the brothers just blinked at her, their collective brain cells grinding away like a rusty bike chain.
She huffed, turned, and started to walk away—but the graffiti on the cell wall caught her eye. Scrawled in thick blue marker, it read: DONEGAN’S RULEZ. The offending apostrophe glared at her. Amy’s left eyelid twitched. She reached into her pocket, fished out a Sharpie, and marched back to the cell.
“Watch and learn,” she said, uncapping the marker with a flourish. She crossed out the apostrophe, then added a helpful note: (NO APOSTROPHE FOR PLURALS). “There. Now the whole precinct can learn from your mistakes.”
She turned to leave, but the metallic clang of the cell door made her freeze. She whipped around. The three brothers were suddenly very close, their faces looming above her like a wall of denim and questionable dietary choices.
Uh-oh…
Harry Potter
Ginny gets tied up and used by the Slytherin boys
It's the first year of a new Slytherin tradition for its senior boys: Capture the Gryffindor.
And poor Ginny is their first unwitting target.
They ambush her late at night as she studies, hitting her with a sleeping charm.
When she wakes up...
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Pirates of the Caribbean
Elizabeth Swann vs. The Kraken
Salt air needles Elizabeth’s nose, sharp as the ropes that bite her wrists, and the moon, a thin fingernail of silver, sketches the battered deck in ghostly lines. The pirates have lashed her to the mainmast, where the wood’s splinters prod through her chemise and the pitch stains her skin with tarry streaks. From every direction: laughter, curses, the clatter of dice and tankards. In the shadows, men dance with shadows, the ship rolling drunkenly beneath their boots.
The pirate set to watch her is a boy, no older than Elizabeth, all bones and pockmarks and a nose that’s broken more than once. He sits cross-legged before her, squinting into the bottle he cradles like a babe. Every so often, he looks up, as if surprised to find her still there, and starts afresh with his tales.
“Swear on me soul, the kraken’s not a story. Me cousin seen it once, off Ushant. Big as a cathedral, arms like serpents—”
She turns her wrists, working the knots against the mast’s roughness, careful to keep her face slack, her voice sweet. “Did your cousin live to tell it?”
He grins, showing stubs of teeth. “Course not. But he told me in a dream. Kraken’s got a way with souls, you see.”
The twist of rope loosens—the boy’s handiwork, sloppy with rum. Elizabeth’s arms prickle, blood returning in tingling waves. She says, “I suppose you’re a great swimmer, then. In case it comes for us tonight.”
He leans forward, eager, and the bottle sloshes. “Best in Tortuga,” he boasts. “Captain says I’ll be helmsman someday, if I don’t get et first.”
She nods with mock solemnity. “A noble ambition.” The ship lurches and the boy’s head turns, gaze drawn by a raucous cheer from the forecastle. The men are gathered in a seething knot, fists raised, competing to see who can finish a cask fastest. Elizabeth feels the last binding slip, her fingers raw but free.
She waits. The boy’s attention flickers back to her, but already his eyelids droop, his words slurring into nonsense. He hugs his knees, rocking, humming an off-key shanty.
Slowly, she tenses every muscle, then sags against the mast, feigning defeat. She lets her chin drop to her chest, eyes half-closed, shallow breaths. The boy watches, uncertain, then surrenders to sleep. His head falls forward, mouth open, and the bottle rolls from his hands, thudding dully against the deck.
Elizabeth counts to twenty. Then she slips her hands free. She moves on silent feet, skirts bunched up to keep from snagging, and skirts the sleeping pirate. Beyond, the deck is chaos—no one sober, not even the bosun, who is vomiting over the gunwale with theatrical groans. She ducks behind the capstan, scans for the longboat.
Ten minutes later, she rowing for her life away from the ship.Behind her, the ship is a lantern-lit carcass, its sails limp, its men oblivious in their drunken brawl. She pushes until her lungs burn, but the story waves make it hard going. The world narrows to the reach and pull, the ache in her shoulders, the taste of copper on her tongue.
Then: a shout. Far off, but unmistakable—a voice raised in alarm, then another, and another, echoing over the water. She rows harder, but the boat is sluggish, weighed down, as if the ocean itself conspires against her. The wind picks up, laced with the tang of ozone and rot, and the sky knits itself shut with clouds, blotting out the moon.
A low, pulsing wail vibrates through the air, so deep it rattles her teeth. She freezes, half-expecting to see the pirate ship bearing down on her, but the deck is chaos, men swarming like ants, no sign of pursuit. The sound comes again, closer, a note of pain or hunger that thrums through her bones.
Kraken, she thinks, and laughs—a high, brittle noise. The boy’s stories, meant to scare her, now hollowed out and ridiculous. She rows on, muscles trembling, jaw clenched. The wail rises, splits the night, and something brushes the hull. Not a wave, not driftwood—something alive, something that lingers, curious.
Elizabeth jerks the oars, desperate, and the boat skews sideways. The sea bulges beneath her, a huge black dome, and then the surface breaks with a hiss. A tentacle, slick and glistening, arches out of the water, curling towards her with obscene slowness. It is the color of bruises, studded with pale, puckered suckers. Another, then another, rising behind it—an entire forest of limbs, impossibly long, impossibly strong.
She scrambles for the knife at her belt, but the blade is gone, lost in the rush. The first tentacle wraps around the stern, squeezing, and the wood groans in protest. Elizabeth tries to stand, to leap into the water, but another limb snaps around her leg, yanking her off-balance. She lands hard, ribs cracking on the bench, and the air leaves her lungs in a wet gasp.
The tentacles lift her bodily from the boat, water sluicing from her hair and clothes, and she dangles above the churning sea, arms and legs pinioned. The suckers are cold, but the flesh beneath is hot.
The tentacles shift, adjusting her in their grip, and for one disorienting moment she’s weightless above the ocean, the world a dizzy, salt-soaked blur. Then she’s hauled closer, pressed against something yielding and immense, a surface that pulses with a heartbeat she can feel through her ribs. The beast’s skin is slick, mucous-sheened, ridged here and there with muscle like the cables of a ship.
Suckers latch onto her ankles, her calves, the bare skin just above her boots. More tentacles, finer and more deft, curl around her waist and shoulders, finding seams, tugging at cloth. A rough, deliberate jerk tears her chemise from neck to navel. She tries to twist away, but the grip only tightens, pinning her arms to her sides. Cold air shocks her skin, then the rubbery damp of the beast’s touch follows, coating her with slime.
She wants to scream, but her chest can’t expand. The tentacle around her waist slithers higher, caressing the notch of her throat, leaving a trail of stinging wetness. Another slides between her thighs, forcing them apart. She kicks, but her legs are useless, splayed and held. The tip of the tentacle is tapered, hot against the chill of her skin, and it probes the soft crease between her legs with obscene curiosity.
She clamps her jaw, refuses to give it the sound it seems to want, but the tentacle is insistent. It pushes, slow at first, then with gathering force, and her body betrays her by yielding. The sensation is like being filled with fire and ice at once—pain, and then a dark, unwelcome pleasure. The thing inside her pulses, expanding, drawing her deeper onto itself.
She gasps, the noise torn from her, and the tentacle in her pussy thrusts deeper, all sensation now narrowed to the place where the beast invades her. Each movement is a new violation, but there’s a rhythm, a strange cadence that her body begins to anticipate. She hates this, hates the heat building inside her, but she can’t stop it. The tentacle in her pussy writhes, finding places no lover ever has, and the world dissolves into stabs of agony and sparks of something dangerously close to pleasure.
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Salt burns Elizabeth’s eyes. She blinks, slow and sticky, and the world comes back as a smear of white light and shadow. The slap and creak of rigging and the sun hammering against her bare body. She’s on the deck of the ship, spread naked as a caught fish, the wood hard and hot beneath her spine.
Shouts, laughter, the scrape of boots and the rattle of cutlass hilts. Shadows loom over her, more bodies than she can count, all of them grinning, leering, their eyes crawling her skin. The stink of sweat, rum, and old blood hangs above her like a fog. Every inch of her exposed, sticky with drying slime and crusted in scales of salt.
The captain stands over her, boots planted wide, shadow blotting the sun from her face. His coat is open, belt loose, breeches bulging with obscene promise. She knows what’s coming; the look in his eye is a question he’s already answered.
He kneels, the stink of rum and sweat rolling off him, and fingers her jaw. “Ain’t you a lucky lass,” he purrs, “surviving the beast when most would’ve been dragged to Davey Jones.” He drags a thumb over her split lip, smears blood across her cheek. “Bet you thought you was free.”
She spits at him, or tries to, but her mouth is sandpaper and the spittle lands on her own chin. The pirates howl with laughter.
The captain kneels, boots creaking, and fingers her jaw with a thumb and forefinger. He licks his lips, slow as a cat. “Such fight,” he murmurs. “We’ll see how long it lasts.”
She twists her face away, but he only laughs and stands, undoing his belt with a showy flick of his wrist. The men hoot and jeer, jostling for a better view. His cock springs out, thick and mottled, and he strokes it as if coaxing a snake from its den.
A hand—bigger, rougher—lands on the captain’s shoulder. His mate, the one with the scarred face and voice like a cracked bell. “Cap’n,” he says, “think of what the lass has been through. She’s likely tore up worse’n a whore in a hurricane.”
The captain rounds on the man, lips peeled back in a snarl. For a heartbeat Elizabeth thinks he’ll gut him where he stands, but instead he considers, eyes flicking from the mate to her and back. The silence stretches.
“Aye. You’re right, you old dog. Would be a sin to plunder what’s already spoilt.” The captain pauses, lets the silence grow thick, then grins. “So we’ll take her arse instead!”
A howl goes up, men slapping backs and pounding the deck.
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The pain in her ass is a dull, steady drumbeat now—nothing like the sharp tearing agony of before. She can live with dull. She’s lashed again to the mast, this time belowdecks, in the cramped, airless dark where the only light seeps in from a storm lantern swinging above the companionway. The ropes bite deeper. She’s grateful for them. The ache of circulation is a distraction, something to measure time by.
Above, the crew celebrates. She can hear the thump of boots, the slurred singing, the wild, idiot laughter. Every so often, a couple of them stagger down the ladder, eyes glassy, cocks already out, and stand over her, jeering. Sometimes they jerk off onto her, painting her face with their cum, then wipe her off with a rag. Sometimes they just stare at her, dead-eyed, as if daring her to say something.
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There’s relief in it, perversely. Compared to the kraken’s tentacles, a pirate’s dick is almost a mercy. The memory of the sea beast is burned into her, a fever that won’t break. She can still feel the suckers on her thighs, the hot slickness of that impossible thing inside her, the way her body had betrayed her with a shudder of wet, involuntary pleasure. She thinks of the boy—her jailer, her confessor—saying, “Kraken’s got a way with souls.” He wasn’t wrong.
She laughs once—a dry, cracked thing that echoes in the hold. What would her father say, Governor Swann, if he could see her now? Not the proper daughter, not the lady of the house, but a stinking, tar-stained fuckdoll for the worst scum in the Caribbean. She wanted adventure, and here it was, gushing down her chin, pooling in the hollow between her breasts.
Later that night, she listens. The crew above is quieter now, either sleeping off the night or nursing their wounds from the captain’s discipline. Somewhere, water leaks in a steady drip, and she can hear the rats moving in the hold, their tiny claws ticking on the boards. She tests the knots at her wrists, slow and methodical, working the cords against her skin until she feels the first strand fray.
They underestimated her. They always do.
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More Anna Kendrick please!!! Need that scene expanded, more sex positions, a blowjob, more cumming on her face! Love Anna Kendrick!!!😍