Tom Grayson slumped in his office chair, the fluorescent hum clawing at his skull. At 45, he was a wreck, decades of spreadsheets, a marriage turned to ash, and a body that groaned like a rusted gate. He dodged mirrors, hating the sight: thinning hair, sunken eyes, a paunch he’d let win. Project manager for a tech firm owned by an oddball billionaire he’d met twice in ten years, his life was a paycheck, nothing more. It had gutted him.
Then the invite slipped under his door on April 07, 2025, a gaudy, gold-embossed tease. “Time to live again, Tom,” it read, scrawled in jagged ink by his elusive boss, promising a weekend at a coastal summer estate. Tom scoffed, some corporate con. But a flicker of his old self, the kid who’d chased skirts and beers in his 20s, nudged him. He needed out, scam or not.
The three-hour drive in his rattling sedan shifted from drab highways to a sunlit coastal road. Cresting the final hill, he gaped: a white marble mansion loomed, pools glinting like wet jewels, tropical gardens sprawling toward a private beach. It was a fever-dream playground, buzzing with summer heat. Tom stepped out, breathing the salt air, his chest loosening a hair. This might be something.
The billionaire met him at the entrance, a wiry, tanned 60-something with a manic grin, eyes too wide, twirling a mojito like a circus prop. He slapped Tom’s back with a bony claw, shoving a beer into his grip. Springsteen’s “Born to Run” blared from hidden speakers, a jarring hit.
“Tommy-boy! My golden guest!” the billionaire crowed, voice shrill.
A Brazilian goddess sashayed up, bronze skin glistening, her red bikini top straining over full, round D-cups, her miniskirt a scrap hugging her jiggly, plump rear, flashing sculpted thighs with each sway. Tom’s eyes locked on her bouncing hips, cock stirring as he followed, awkward but hooked.
“Your room, sir,” she cooed, accent sultry.
She led him up a grand staircase to a suite, plush king bed, ocean-view balcony, dripping excess. Tom dropped his bag, reeling, when she turned, catching his hunched stance. Her coconut perfume hit him, dark eyes smoldering.
“You’re all stiff,” she said, stepping close.
Tom’s pulse spiked, her heat thawing his unease. She kept talking, voice soft but enticing.
“Chill, this place is yours. Anything you want, we’re game.”
She grazed his arm, nails teasing, then pressed a sticky kiss to his cheek, her plump lips leaving gloss.
“House tour?”
The tour snaked through the mansion, thirty stunners everywhere, a wet-dream parade. By the pool, a Swedish blonde bent over, her thong slicing her pale, heart-shaped ass, water streaking her long legs, while a Mexican brunette stretched nearby, her Double-D rack straining a crop top, nipples poking through, her denim shorts clinging to a bubble butt. Tom stared, hands itching, mind racing. Fuck, this is real?
Over a piña colada on a shaded terrace, the billionaire perched like a vulture, twirling his glass, grinning too hard. His eyes darted as he leaned forward.
“You’ve earned this, Tommy! These dolls? Yours, no limits!” he chirped.
Tom laughed, sharp, skepticism thick in his throat.
“Bullshit. This is for rich pricks, not a burnout like me.”
The billionaire’s grin twitched, a sneer creeping in.
“Watch this trick.”
He snapped his fingers, and an Indian beauty glided over, raven hair shimmering, pouty lips red, her sheer dress hugging an hourglass frame, E-cups heaving, hips flaring wide, rump plump and ripe. He snatched her waist, spun her like a toy, then squeezed her ass hard, sliding a hand under her skirt to probe her pussy and anus in one crude swipe.
“Yes, sir,” she gasped, husky and unfazed.
The billionaire cackled, eyes glinting as he whacked her rear, sending her off with a leer.
“See, Tommy? My puppets dance!”
He turned to Tom, voice dripping with challenge.
“Your turn, champ.”
Tom’s throat locked. This was sick, some creepy freak’s game. He crossed his arms, jaw tight.
“She’s paid to play,” he muttered.
The billionaire giggled, a high trill that grated.
“Stubborn, eh? You’ll crack, Tommy-boy.”
Lunch was a patio feast, steak, beer, Tom’s picks. The billionaire raised his glass, grinning all teeth, breath sour.
“To Tommy, my VIP!” he toasted with a flourish.
The girls hovered, a feast for the eyes. The Mexican brunette poured lemonade, her thong peeking from low shorts, her ass jiggling. The Russian blonde stood near, icy eyes piercing, her white bikini top taut over gravity-defying E-cups, legs parted to hint at a shaved slit. Tom brushed the Indian girl’s arm, her skin warm.
“Go ahead,” she whispered.
He pulled back, still doubting. The billionaire leaned too close, voice low and mocking.
“Baby steps, Tommy!” he cooed.
After lunch, the billionaire clapped, twirling a cane like a ringmaster.
“Afternoon treat!” he announced.
He led Tom to a cabana where four girls waited, oil bottles gleaming. The Australian was a freckled bombshell, tanned legs endless, her bikini top cupping bouncing D-cups, shorts hugging a spankable rump. The Samoan was a curvy goddess, bronze skin, thick thighs rippling, E-cups swaying under a loose top, hips wide. The French girl was sultry, olive skin, thong cutting between pert cheeks, C-cups with dark nipples peeking through, lips glistening. The Japanese beauty was a porn-star vision, porcelain skin glowing, black bikini framing firm C-cups with hard peaks, tiny skirt flipping over a sculpted peach, doe eyes teasing under long hair. They oiled him up, the Australian straddling his lap, breasts brushing his chest, the Samoan kneading his legs, hands grazing his bulge, the French girl working his shoulders, breath hot. The billionaire leered, voice sharp.
“Tell me what you want, Tommy, right now, no shy shit!”
Tom froze, eyes locked on the Japanese girl’s pouty lips, slim waist, tight rear. His face burned as he spoke.
“Uh… I’ve always dreamt of a Japanese girl blowing me, like in those Japanese porn movies.”
The billionaire squealed, clapping like a manic child.
“Brilliant! Go, doll!”
She knelt, unzipping him, her mouth taking him deep, sucking slow and sloppy. He groaned, the cabana thick with oil and sweat, and came hard in her mouth.
“Fuck, yes!” he gasped.
She licked her lips, eyes meeting his.
“Good?” she asked.
Tom nodded, buzzing. His mind spun as she finished. Years of porn and loneliness crashed into this moment. Fuck it, he thought, I’m all in. That flipped him. He roamed the house like a horny teen unleashed, every fantasy real. He’d jerked off to this shit for years, now it was his. By the bar, he snatched the Samoan’s plump rear, squeezing hard.
“Fuck, this is thick,” he said, probing her pussy through shorts.
She chirped, swaying her hips to egg him on.
“Oh, you!”
Near the hot tub, he pinned the French babe, yanking her hair as he slid his fingers into her tight slit. Her whimper spurred him.
“Best hole yet,” he growled.
By the pool, he gripped the Japanese girl’s sculpted cheeks, then pinched her nipples, treating them like toys.
“Tighter than the rest,” he said.
He kept going, voice rough with glee.
“Perfect little rack.”
She whispered back, teasing.
“More?”
The billionaire twirled his cane in the lounge, his grin a mask, eyes glinting as he watched Tom.
“Look at Tommy go!” he said.
Tom smirked, confidence surging.
“I want an orgy, four of ‘em.”
The billionaire clapped, voice high with delight.
“Perfect! Choose your girls.”
Tom chose, pointing to each: the Colombian, a tanned vixen with D-cups bouncing in a pink bikini, her plump rump swaying in a thong, lips wet; the British blonde, leggy and pale, E-cups spilling from lace, shaved pussy peeking from a skirt; the Korean, porcelain-skinned, perky C-cups in sheer silk, firm ass in tight shorts; the Irish redhead, freckled and wild, D-cups jiggling free, bouncy rear in a microskirt.
“Make it happen,” he said.
The billionaire cackled, leaning in close.
“Whatever you want, Tommy. What flavor?”
Tom leaned in, voice low and firm.
“I wanna treat ‘em like real sluts, rough and dirty.”
The Colombian taunted, her voice bold.
“Use this slut’s holes, stud!”
The British smirked, eyes challenging.
“Think you can break me?”
The Korean whispered, soft but eager.
“Please, sir, I’m yours.”
The Irish cackled, wild and unrestrained.
“Fuck me like a dirty whore!”
The billionaire licked his lips, voice oily.
“Rough sluts, eh? Delicious! To the bedroom!”
They marched to a plush suite, pink satin, fairy lights, “Pour Some Sugar on Me” blasting. The orgy erupted, a brutal, nasty hour of Tom’s roughest fantasies, the girls matching his savagery, tending to him as he fucked, until he came once, roaring over their faces.
The Colombian straddled him, her voice a sultry challenge.
“How do you want me, stud?”
Tom gripped her chest, barking an order.
“Line up.”
They obeyed. He squeezed each pair, pinching the Colombian’s, twisting the British’s, tugging the Korean’s, whacking the Irish’s.
“Juicy as fuck,” he said of the Colombian’s.
He moved to the British’s, voice gruff.
“Heavy.”
He tugged the Korean’s, grinning.
“Soft.”
He whacked the Irish’s, laughing.
“Bouncy.”
His cock stiffened. He pointed at the Irish.
“Ride me like a whore.”
She mounted him, slamming down, whacking her thighs with a wild laugh.
“Take this filthy cow!”
The Colombian stepped forward, jiggling her D-cups for him to grope.
“Grab these, stud!”
The Korean’s hands dug into his shoulders, massaging deep.
“Please, sir, I’m yours.”
The British slid her E-cups along his arm, smirking.
“Feel me.”
He fucked the Irish deep, her cackle wild, groping the Colombian’s rack. Ten minutes in, he pulled out.
“Deepthroat me, gag like sluts,” he snapped.
They lined up, ten seconds each. The Colombian dove in, choking hard, clawing her thigh.
“Use my throat, stud!”
The Irish kneaded his legs, voice playful.
“Relax, big boy!”
The British followed, eyes streaming.
“Think you can choke me?”
The Korean flashed her C-cups, letting him pinch them, moaning softly instead of speaking. The Irish fingered the British, taunting.
“Watch us, perv!”
The Irish shoved in, drooling with a grin.
“Gag this skank!”
The Colombian kneaded his chest, silent but smirking. Spit soaked him.
“Tie ‘em up and choke ‘em,” he snarled, grabbing a satin tie.
The Colombian bound the British, her voice sharp.
“Tying this trash!”
He choked the British lightly, barking.
“Spank yourself.”
She smacked her hips, smirking.
“Harder, yeah?”
The Korean massaged his back, silent but focused. He tied the Korean, choking her as she crawled, gasping wordlessly. The Irish shoved her bouncy rear in his face.
“Grope this!”
He fucked the British’s tied pussy, yanking her hair. The Colombian tweaked her own nipples for him.
“Tight slut,” he growled.
The British moaned, too breathless to speak. Fifteen minutes in, he paused.
“DP this slut,” he gripped the Colombian and Korean.
The Colombian rode him, voice wild.
“Stuff me full, stud!”
The Korean shoved a dildo in her ass.
“Take it, greedy bitch!”
The Irish whipped her back.
“Punish this cow!”
The British fingered the Irish, voice low.
“Look at us!”
He switched, railing the Korean’s pussy, the Irish pegging her ass. The Colombian jiggled her chest in his face, moaning instead of talking. Ten minutes of screams and wet slaps filled the room. The girls shouted together, voices blending.
“We’re your dirty whores!”
One hour in, he roared, pointing to the floor.
“Knees!”
They knelt, faces upturned, a slut pile begging. The Irish rode him, voice desperate.
“Cum for your skank!”
The Colombian shoved her chest in his face.
“Suck these, stud!”
The British gagged on him.
“Fill my throat!”
The Korean fingered the British, voice teasing.
“See this, stud?”
He whacked their hips.
“Take it!” he snarled.
They clawed each other, screaming.
“We’re your nasty bitches!”
He fucked them, a ten-minute frenzy, then stood over them.
“Open your mouths,” he snarled, stroking fast.
They obeyed, tongues out. His orgasm hit, spraying their faces.
“Yes, you fucking sluts! Take it, you desperate cum-whores! Lap it up, you ass-shaking cum-dumpsters!” he roared.
The Colombian taunted, smearing it.
“More!”
The Irish laughed, wild.
“Fucking yes!”
Tom sprawled, chest heaving, the girls cuddling him. Some giggled.
“We’re fucked-up sluts!”
Others whispered, soft and warm.
“So good.”
The billionaire peeked in, tossing a beer, his grin too wide, eyes cold.
“Fucking savage, Tommy!”
He kept talking, voice oily.
“This place is yours, thirty dolls, epic vibes. Back anytime.”
Tom swigged the beer, mind replaying the Colombian’s smeared face, the Irish’s cackle. He felt like a king, their squeals his crown. He wasn’t the burnout who’d driven up, he was hooked, plotting more.
