Hot Robbery 4: Home Alone

Keeping the joint locked up these days is a damn chore. Cameras blink at you, dogs need walking, and you? You just sit in the home office tapping keys and hoping nothing breaks. Today the alarm never went off, but luck strolled in wearing half a costume apiece. Two women stood by the busted back door—thongs on, tops gone, tits out like they owned the place. One had a crowbar, the other a guilty grin. They clocked you and made the trade before you could yell: free entertainment for their freedom. Double header, no strings, and then the VR headset came out, promising angles no regular night could beat. Blowjobs turned sloppy in seconds, spit catching light while one woman worked the shaft and the other nursed the balls. Hands gripped hair, hips twitched, throats flexed. The headset slid into place, pixels and pussy mixing until the line between game and flesh blurred. Three bodies crashed together on the couch—sweat, lube, moans—while the gear pumped a fantasy of bigger rooms and more positions. Turns out they didn’t need a scoreboard; they needed cash and cock, you had both. The night wrapped with a trade: silence on the break-in for rounds of whatever the headsets could render next. Fair deal, everybody left sticky and solvent.