The Hundred Husbands of Sand Saref alternate ending (Patreon)

Three billboards went up outside San Sierra the next fall.

In the first, Sand Seraf sat in a chair. She wore the Florida-brown cloth that made up the local police department’s uniform, only all it made up was a tiny halter top and a pair of shorts the same size—not that this was enough fabric to cover up her generously sized ass and hips.

Her legs were open, the tiny band of fabric that ran between her legs all that hid her pink pussy from view. A policeman, his face turned away from the camera, fondled her large breasts. His hand was underneath her halter, his fingers visible through the tight fabric, making it obvious he was pinching her nipple.

In the second, Sand Seraf was on her knees. Her long hair was brushed behind her shoulders as she sucked a man’s cock. Again, it was a police officer. Her mouth half-covered his long prick and one hand fondled his balls, while the other grasped the length of cock her mouth couldn’t handle. Between her hands and mouth, all of the man’s erection was hidden from view—except for that which bulged against the inside of her cheek.

On the third billboard, Sand Seraf laid across a bed. Three men stood around her, their backs to the camera, but their hands clearly down at their crotches. Something white and sticky covered Sand Seraf’s body—paint, perhaps.

That one, Sand saw everyday as she did Sartana’s shopping for her. She knew what it was. That despite the veneer of respectability that allowed such photos to be shown in public, she had sucked cocks and gotten fucked as those photos were taken. She remembered lying on that bed, men all around her, jerking off. She could still feel the cum hitting her open mouth and closed eyes, splashing on her body.

It never failed to make her tingle and she always hurried back to Sartana, to see what new ways her mistress had found for her to repay her debt to society.