Alena Croft

'Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.' That old line fits like a glove today. Alena Croft's thumbing through Hubby's phone the second he steps out, hunting for the usual bullshit. She nails it. One sketchy text from some random bitch and the gloves come off. She fires off texts, starts ringing numbers, rounds up seven of her crew—trainers, pilates buddies, yoga instructors, a boot-camp drill sergeant. Doesn't tell them what the hell's going on. Doors open, eyes pop wide once they clock the mattress, candles, and Alena stripped and smirking in the middle of it. Five seconds flat and the gangbang light switches on. They cycle through her like wolves. Every hole gets its share. Cocks slide in mouths, slam home in her cunt, all while she's holding Hubby's phone, switching between selfie mode and video. She laughs between gasps, angles the lens to catch every filthy inch stretching her open. When they finish, the bulls paint her face thick—ropes land across her cheek, her tongue, up into her hair. Anything that misses the target she swallows without a flinch. Right before they scatter, they crowd in for the parting shot: one final photo, all eight of them in frame, Alena smiling through the mess, middle finger raised to the camera. 'Enjoy your night, babe.' Phone back on the charger. Show's over.