The private suite was on the top floor of the hotel the three judges owned between them. Mark drove me there himself, parked, and told me to get out without looking at me.
“Remember what I said. You do whatever they want. You smile. You spread. You take it. And you do not f**k this up.”
I walked in wearing the dress they had sent over—thin black silk that clung to every soft curve, every stretch mark, every heavy swing of my milk-full t**s. No bra. No panties. The fabric was already damp between my legs by the time the elevator doors opened.
They were waiting.
Three men in their late fifties and early sixties, silver at the temples, expensive suits still on, eyes that had watched the video of me squirting on camera and decided they wanted the real thing. The oldest one—Senator Hale—sto
