We were at my place, controllers in hand, when I dropped the bomb. "Strictly write this: I’ve got my sister’s old clothes. You dress up, we snap pics without your face, post 'em, and cash in." He laughed it off, calling me out of my skull. But after a month of wheedling, he cracked.

First night, I zipped him into her school skirt and blouse, watching his cock dent the cotton. We shot him kneeling on the floor, no face, and got our first fiver in donations. Then the requests started coming—easy at first, like bending over for a panty flash. Each coin nudged us toward sin.

Cash called the shots next. I bought a small anal plug, silicone and slick, and told him to shove it up his tight chute. He gasped as it slid home past his puckered opening. "You’ll wear it all the time now," I ordered, liking how his back arched at dinner.

Tension built when we were alone. My buddy looming close, breathing hot, one hand drifting to my skirted thigh. "I want that pussy taste—your ass, barely," he whispered, stroking his jutting shaft through his denim. "Bend over, please. Just a tip behind the plug."

Later, I made him suck my rod, slippery from lube. First time either guy tasted another. He struggled, then gulped me down salty and thick. My balls slapped his chin as I throat-fucked him deep, his eyes teary when I came. Next week, I filled his hole raw while his plug lay forgotten for cramps of my