Coming Home

In the shadows of a sleek, glass-walled fortress, a devoted housewife—Casey Calvert—preps for her man's return. Her floral frock clings like a vintage sin, apron tied taut over curves, white stockings whispering innocence amid the cold chrome gleam. She's a 1950s siren dropped into our ruthless now, dusting and sucking up grit with feverish zeal. Bowl brimming with creamy milk in hand, she glides to the bedroom, lips curved in wicked adoration. There, her collared vixen—Whitney Wright—writhes in skintight leather, crystal choker biting her throat like a promise of surrender. Casey perches, and Whitney slinks near, then drops to the floor on all fours, tongue flicking hungrily at the milk, eyes locked in raw devotion. Casey strokes her pet's dark mane, then rises, Whitney trailing on hands and knees, ass swaying in desperate loyalty. The clock ticks like a heartbeat—the husband's key will soon scrape the lock. Seth Gamble strides in, suit rumpled from the grind, greeted by his two aching sluts, primed for the night's filthy rituals of power and release.