Taylor takes on Ovi & the Capitals

Slutty podcast host pisses off the Capitals now

Taylor S. slouched in her ergonomic chair, the dim studio lights highlighting her athletic curves. Her latest podcast episode was a scorcher—she'd torched the Washington Capitals without mercy. 'Oven's a has-been sniper with daddy issues,' she snarled into the mic, her voice husky from hours of ranting. 'Smith's just a goon who can't skate, Carl's defense is Swiss cheese, and the whole team's choking harder than a rookie on opening night. Bench 'em all!' Listeners flooded the chat with fire emojis, but Taylor smirked, adjusting her low-cut sports bra that strained against her D-cup tits, nipples poking through. Her short shorts rode up her thick thighs, cameltoe visible as she crossed her legs.

In a DC locker room, the Capitals seethed. Alex Oven, 6'3" of Russian muscle, crushed his phone replaying Taylor's clip. 'This bitch thinks she knows hockey?' Tom Smith, 6'4" enforcer built like a tank, cracked his knuckles. John Carl, lean and ripped defenseman, nodded grimly. Nicklas Armstrong, sleek Swede with endless stamina, grinned wickedly. They piled into vans—Ovi, Smith, Carl, Armstrong, plus bruisers like Garnet Hoffman and Nic Don—heading to her address, cocks hardening at the thought of payback. 'We're gonna wreck that mouth,' Ovi growled.

Taylor hit 'publish,' stretching, her ass flexing as she stood to grab a protein shake. The outer door shuddered—then burst open with a crash. Six hulking figures stormed in: Oven leading, eyes blazing, Smith barricading the exit. Gear bags slung over shoulders, sweat from optional skate clinging to their jerseys.

'What the fuck? Caps? Get out!' Taylor snatched her phone, dialing 911, but Smith lunged, ripping it away and stomping it. She swung a chair; Ovi caught it, flinging it aside. They swarmed her—Carl grabbing arms, Armstrong pinning legs. She thrashed, kicks landing on shins, nails scratching faces.

'Mouthy slut trashed us? Time to use that throat,' Ovi barked, his accent thick. He clamped her jaw, forcing it open as Smith yanked her sports bra up, tits spilling out—heavy, pale orbs with dark areolas, nipples diamond-hard from fear and chill. Hoffman mauled them, pinching roughly, while Don shredded her shorts, exposing her smooth-shaven pussy, already dewing with reluctant arousal.

Taylor bucked, spitting curses: 'Assholes! Rapists!' But Ovi unzipped, hauling out his thick eight-inch cock, veined and curved, pre-cum beading. He shoved it past her lips, stretching her mouth wide. 'Suck, bitch.' She gagged, teeth grazing, but Carl twisted her arms back, Smith slapping her tits—red handprints blooming.

The others stripped: Smith's massive nine-incher, girthy as a Red Bull can; Carl's seven inches straight and rigid; Armstrong's elegant seven with a flared head; Hoffman's stubby but fat six; Don's average but rock-hard. They formed a circle jerk around her kneeling form—Ovi face-fucking deep, balls smacking chin, drool pouring down her neck onto cleavage.

'Take turns,' Smith ordered. Ovi pulled out, strings of spit dangling; Smith rammed in next, skull-fucking brutally, hands fisting her hair. Taylor choked, throat bulging, mascara rivers on cheeks. Carl went third, slower, making her tongue every ridge. Armstrong fourth, hips rolling smooth, moaning Swedish filth. Hoffman fifth, grunting as he humped her face. Don last, fast and frantic.

Her jaw ached, lips swollen purple, but pussy clenched emptily, thighs slick. 'Look at her drip,' Ovi laughed, fingering her snatch—two digits plunging, curling. Taylor moaned around Don's shaft, hips twitching.

They dragged her to the desk, bending her over. Ass up, cheeks spread by Smith. Ovi spat on her puckered hole, thumb probing. 'Virgin ass? Ours now.' He pressed his cockhead there, inching in slow—Taylor screamed into Carl's crotch as he fed her dick. Burn stretched her ring; Ovi bottomed out, balls-deep in rectum.

Smith mounted her pussy from below somehow—no, they flipped her onto the desk flat. Ovi claimed ass first, reaming slow then pounding. Carl slid under, spearing her cunt upward. Double penetration: cocks separated by thin wall, grinding together. Taylor wailed, body jolting—tits bouncing wild, hands clawing wood.

Armstrong straddled her chest, tit-fucking—shaft vanishing between globes, Ovi and Carl's thrusts making cleavage ripple. Hoffman and Don jerked over her face, Smith pinching nipples. 'Cum for us, whore!' Ovi slapped her ass crimson.

Overload hit: pussy spasming first, squirting arcs soaking Carl's abs. Ass clenched Ovi's dick; he roared, flooding her bowels with hot jizz—pulse after pulse. Carl followed, creaming her womb thick. Armstrong painted her tits white ropes. Hoffman and Don erupted on face—cum glazing eyes, lips, hair.

They rotated. Smith took pussy now, stretching her cum-lubed hole with his monster girth—pistoning like a jackhammer, hips slamming. Taylor's protests dissolved to begs: 'Harder... fuck!' Armstrong claimed ass, elegant strokes turning savage. Ovi face-fucked again, scooping mixed loads from her holes to feed her.

Carl and Hoffman double-teamed tits—two cocks sliding between, heads poking out for her tongue. Don knelt, sucking her clit while Smith railed—tongue flicking merciless. Another orgasm ripped her—screaming, gushing on Don's chin.

Smith grunted, balls drawing up: 'Take my seed!' Cum blasted deep, overflowing around his shaft. Armstrong nutted in ass second load. Ovi pulled from mouth, jerking onto tongue—forcing her swallow.

Not done. They hoisted her like a fucktoy—Carl and Hoffman holding legs wide, Armstrong under in pussy. Ovi in ass again—triple threat? No, Don shoved into her mouth. Airtight: every hole stuffed. Smith jerked over the pile.

They rutted in sync—bodies slapping, sweat flying, studio echoing grunts and squelches. Taylor's body betrayed fully—humping back, sucking greedily, orgasms chaining nonstop. Pussy milked Armstrong; he filled her. Ovi second in ass. Don throat-pied, cum bubbling nose.

Smith straddled, pissing dominance—cock in cleavage, tit-fuck to explosion across neck.

Final round: couch gangbang. Taylor on all fours—Hoffman pussy, Don ass, Carl mouth. Ovi and Armstrong jerked, Smith directing. Switch every minute: fresh cocks invading slick holes. She lost count of loads—creampies leaking rivers down thighs, face a mask of semen, tits glazed.

Ovi last: laid her missionary, legs pinned, slow-deep fucks building to frenzy. 'Praise us next pod, or daily visits.' He buried, erupting—cum churning previous floods.

They dressed, leaving her sprawled—body bruised, holes gaping, cum pooling under ass, dripping from chin. 'Good slut. Team's yours now.' Door slammed.

Taylor twitched, fingers dipping into creampied pussy, tasting. Next episode? Capitals worship... with invites