Hey Nifty fans!
Some stories almost seem to write themselves: this one is about what happens when you answer a mysterious advert promising all your gangbang dreams could come true. If you're not of legal age where you're located, or you don't like gay fiction, now's the time to close this tab. Please don't copy, reproduce, repost, or otherwise modify my writing :)
I just released a new book called "College Wrestler Secrets" - if you like college jocks, skintight singlets, and locker room sex, I think you'll enjoy it! You can find it, and plenty more of my stories, at www.AlexPendragon.com
Remember: if you play, play safe, and don't forget to donate to Nifty!
-Alex
CENTER OF ATTENTION by Alex Pendragon
"Listen. Your safe word's flashlight. Say it for me, now."
I blinked at him, my mouth feeling gummy. "F-flashlight."
"Again." His stare was cold, like they were older eyes in his thirty-something face.
"Flashlight."
"Again."
I tried to sound as though I was confident, knew what I was walking into. "Flashlight."
"Say that, and everything stops, you understand?" He waited for my nod. "And it doesn't start again. That's your ripcord. Just be sure you really want to pull it."
An escape route that only goes one way. I wasn't sure why the idea of it was so unnerving to me.
He waited a moment, and then nodded. "Well, okay then."
I gasped, at his shove against my chest. My back colliding with the wall, more startling than painful, but no time to focus on either. Not with his hands pulling at my t-shirt, yanking it up and over my head with unceremonious haste.
Shorts next, the fly tugged open with one angry pull, and then he was stripping them down my legs. Kicking at my feet to make me lift them, step out of the crumpled fabric, until I was standing there in nothing but my briefs.
He looked at me, down my almost-bare body and then back up again. The way you'd look at cattle: clinical, and assessing.
"Smile, kid." A wink without warmth. "This is meant to be fun, remember."
His hand around my bicep, and then I was being dragged down the corridor. Wondering if I'd made a terrible mistake.
It was overdue, and I was impatient. Frustrated, not just at being single, but barely experienced with it. Missing the part of my brain which understood how to flirt with guys my own age, hook up with them. Not bad looking, or so I thought, even if my hair needed cutting and my gangling teenage build had given way to wiry awkwardness.
And the thing about the internet is that it makes it all so easy. All you have to do is say yes, and drive to an address, and repeat the safe word over and over in your head as your heartbeat rattles in your chest.
A garage, or something like that; my eyes struggling to take in detail, skittering across the groups of men who'd all turned from their conversation to look as I was led in. A dozen, give or take, everything from twenties to forties, if not older. My skin prickled with the weight of their attention.
Another shove, and I stumbled into the middle of the room.
Like being circled by wolves, their assessment as sharp as the pack's teeth. Expressions ranging from cool amusement to outright hostility: as though I'd stumbled into some gentlemen's club, interrupted the benign routine, and dared upend things with my shameful undress.
Only nothing about this felt benign.
I jerked, at the finger snapping the waistband of my underwear behind me. Turned, to find a guy stood close. Taller than me, older, wider; entertained by the way I took a hurried step back.
A smack across my ass, the impact dulled by my white cotton briefs, but still enough to make me yelp with surprise. Twisted around again, only to find more mocking looks.
"Skittish, ain't he."
Pointless trying to identify who'd said it, and yet I still tried. My stilted movements only proving his assessment.
"What are you, kid? Stoic, or the whimpering sort?"
Laughter at that, and some dim and distant part of my brain wondered how many times they'd done this. How many other guys had answered the advert before me, admitted their secret desire.
"Your mom buy those for you?"
Another turn, and suddenly it seemed desperately important that I find who'd just spoken. Make eye contact with them, drag this away from being a wheeling circle of taunts and into a conversation.
"Bet she picks you up a pack of three from the grocery store, doesn't she."
Another voice, a different one, or at least I thought it was. From elsewhere in the room, as I spun on bare feet: the cold, gritty floor already feeling slippery with my panicked sweat.
A shove, between my shoulders, sent me tottering forward. Arms pinwheeling as I tried to stop myself before colliding with them, suddenly terrified of making contact. As though that might finally pierce whatever dwindling barrier between us remained.
The hand on my bicep caught me, swung me around. Toppling me into a stranger's chest, fingers pinching my ass before I was propelled away again. Like a pinball, lurching on feet and legs that seemed to have forgotten their purpose, as I stumbled from body to body.
"Fuck it," I heard, close to my ear.
Gasped a moment later at the arm around my neck, pulling my bare back against his shirt. And then again, at the utility knife brandished inches from my face.
"You'll wanna hold still, kid."
The soft sound of ripping, and for a moment I thought he'd cut me. Waited for the slash of pain, the nerves' howling to reach my brain; wondered, even, if I'd need to say the safe word I'd been taught, or if the blood alone would be enough to derail it all.
When he pushed me away, I felt the last of my slit underwear rip apart.
"Well fuck, ain't that pretty."
I blushed, mortified and fascinated in near-equal measure. Simultaneously loving and hating being the center of their attentions: naked amid their clothed curiosity. The tatters of my underwear in a soft puddle on the floor at my feet.
The first fingers caught my nipple, twisting it cruelly. I yelped, pulling away, but only to bring myself within reach of another groping hand. Tugging on my balls, tight enough to make me wince, and strain against the man holding my arms pinned behind me.
It was like that movement was a reminder, my impotent struggle making it utterly clear that they were at liberty to do as they pleased. Not taking it in turn, no patience or restraint. Just hands and squeezing fingers from every angle, toying with my chest, the hardened buds of my nipples. Pushing between my legs to fondle my cock, pinching around the flared head until I was howling and sobbing from the overload of sensations. Trying desperately to twist away, but hemmed in on every side as they roughly worked me over.
"Let's get the ring on him, then."
More groping, but with purpose, intent. A hand that gripped my cock and almost offered it up, as another stretched a tight loop of rubber down my shaft and around my balls. The cling of it shocking; when I looked down, I could see my junk pushed forward urgently, out from my body.
"How big do you get, then, kid?"
I blushed again, as though such a personal question could be somehow more embarrassing than what they'd already done to me.
"I... I don't know."
They laughed at that, at my meek voice. Hands wasting no time to reach for me: rough fingers stroking and squeezing, slapping at my growing dick to make it bob and twitch as I watched myself thicken.
"Well damn," I heard, as a fist pulled my erection down painfully, then let it spring up to slap loudly against my abdomen. "Gotta love a big-dicked bottom."
It should've been a compliment, some distant part of my brain decided, and yet it only made me more of a target. The bigger my cock got, the more there was for their slyly pinching fingers to target. The wide flare of the fat, swollen head the perfect opportunity to nip at me with their fingertips, and nothing they did seemed to make me any less hard.
The guy who'd led me in grabbed my chin, tilting my face up to meet his stare. I wondered how I must look to him, my cheeks flushed and eyes wide. If he was feeling any pity, he hid it well.
"Tell me again what you want."
I swallowed. Hating the idea of putting it into words, what these random strangers must surely already know. Cringing at saying out loud what I'd secretly admitted I hungered for.
His fingers tightened on my jaw. "Tell me again, I said."
"I want..." My throat felt dry, tight. The words catching on that roughness, refusing to emerge. "I want to have sex."
He looked down, pointedly, at where my hard cock throbbed. Swollen, red, and eager; the tip purpling from where they'd molested me. And yet, I saw as I followed his gaze down, already starting to drip with precum.
"What do you really want?" His intonation was flat; my response was a foregone conclusion.
"To... to get fucked," I admitted.
He laced his fingers into my hair. A half-twist of his wrist, and I gasped from the stretching pain.
"Okay then, son. Let's get you bred."
Half leading me, half dragging me across the room, my bare feet threatening to skid out from underneath me. Knowing, though, that I couldn't afford to slip: that he'd have no qualms about just yanking me over there, my tender scalp be damned. Twisting and whining as we went, from the incessant hands pinching and groping at me, taking advantage of my bare skin.
Another tug, which had me dancing on my tip-toes, and then he shoved me forward. Thighs colliding with the edge of the table, old wood worn smooth, as he bent me down until my chest was flat against its scratched varnish.
I felt a hand slip, slyly, between my legs. Tried to jerk away, but no escaping the rough fingers grabbing my rigid cock and pulling it down. Until it was throbbing against the thick edge of the table, every twitch of my hips grazing the tender flesh.
"Not much point wriggling," he warned me, soberly. His tone said he didn't much care what I tried either way, a disinterest I understood a moment later as his thick fingers pushed between my cheeks. No soft stroking, no teasing: just the bluntness of one fat digit jabbing at my hole.
I squealed as it pushed into me, barely the tip, but sweat a meager lube as he toyed with my flinching muscle. Pulling and stretching me, the work-scored pad of his fingertip a torture that simultaneously had me wanting to writhe away and push back on him.
The sound of spitting, then wetness dribbling down the cleft of my ass. Enough, he apparently decided, that I'd be able to take the full length of his digit.
I'd played with my hole before, fingered myself while I was jerking off. Knew about that bud of incredible pleasure not all that deep inside, and how much better it could make your orgasm. But this wasn't the slow, gentle toying that I'd tried, legs thrown back in front of my bedroom mirror.
"Fuck, he's a tight one. Gimme that lube."
The sound of a bottle uncapping; I figured someone was doing the honors for him, since his bunched fist in my hair was still keeping me pinned. And then, a moment later, the cool of his slicked finger pushing into me: one long, smooth stroke and then the press of his knuckles against my skin.
"That's better." Said approvingly, to an echo of amused chuckles from the other guys in the room. Reminding me that all of this was being observed, watched, as if some sort of entertainment or display. That these strangers had the perfect view of me, my legs spread and cock drooling, as a second finger was pressed in alongside the first.
I gasped, at the surprise and the heft of it. Hands clawing desperately, pointlessly, at the table, but finding little purchase. Only able to scrabble there, as he sawed his fingers in and out, in and out, overcoming my body's meagre protests.
"Give him a third," another voice suggested, to a murmur of approval.
"No... wait, I..."
Either he didn't hear me or, more likely I suspected, he did but didn't care. And then there were no words in me at all, as he shoved what felt like half his hand inside, my tortured hole forced to take it as I danced on my toes and whimpered pointlessly.
He was pumping his fingers in me now, my ass making sloppy, wet, lewd sounds as he brute-forced his way past any lingering protest. My face pressed into a puddle of drool on the table, my eyes wide and breath coming in short, desperate pants, as he tugged and stretched me.
"Anyone else want a go?"
Offering me up like meat, like a plaything. And then - right after, as I felt the another set of fingers squirming around my entrance - the mortifying realization that that's what I was, now. An amusement for men, an evening's distraction, and they could pick and choose which parts of me took their idle fancy.
I'd not thought my first time would be like this. Not after dragging my reluctant brain through the mud of self-denial; the grudging teenage realization that I liked other boys, not girls. How that graduated through layers of fascination, to outright lust. And the self-recrimination of missed opportunities and misread signals.
I'd thought my first time would be with someone special.
Thoughts fleeing from my brain again, as my tender hole got pulled open wide. The howl bubbling up from inside my chest as I writhed and sobbed.
I didn't know how many. How many men, how many hands. Lost track, even, of how many fingers got pushed inside me at once. Punctuated by sharp slaps across my cheeks that left me vibrating with the stinging pain.
And then, equally sudden, the feeling of emptiness. The purr of a zipper.
"This what you wanted, was it?"
The press of a hand at the small of my back, pinning me in place. And then, the blunt push of something against my hole, my brain sluggish and overwhelmed, before the sound of hoots and hollering washed out my hoarse cry as the cock broke into me.
"Ah, fuck, that's tight."
Actions not matching the words, though; no pause, just the steady shove inside me. What felt like a chair leg, a baseball bat... uncountable inches stabbing deep into my inexperienced hole, until it felt as though I must be half-dick.
Only the heat of his body against my cheeks told me I'd taken it all.
He leaned down, chest against my back. Lips close behind my ear. At some point the hand in my hair had pulled away: my compliance presumed a given, now.
"Apparently you're a virgin, and I'm meant to take it easy on you," he murmured, and I felt the heat of his breath against my skin. Second to the amusement in his voice, though, as his hips shifted and I groaned at the way that churned his erection in me. "But I think you want it rougher, don't you."
I opened and closed my mouth, but the words wouldn't come. "Please..."
"I tell you what," he continued, hips still languidly tilting from side to side. "How about I fuck you as hard as I want to, and if you have a problem with that, you can complain about it later."
I sucked in a breath, to say words I still hadn't decided on, when he stabbed his hips forward. Then, all I saw were stars.
His hand around my neck, squeezing my throat as he slammed into me. No slow build-up, no waiting until I got used to it. Just the slap, slap, slap against me, and the thick, bare length of his cock gouging deep inside. My body rocking on the old table, legs kicking out behind me, but it didn't matter. His weight atop me meant I was going nowhere until he let me loose.
"Fuck, that's it... your hole really squeezes when you wriggle," he mocked me, voice thick with lust. Knowing, I was certain, that there was no hope of me replying; the hoarse cries the only noise I was capable of making.
He pushed himself up, a hand on the back of my neck. Pressing my cheek into the wood, and now - one-eyed, bleary, still rocking with the intensity of him screwing me - I could just about see him. The way his lips curled in a sly smile, showing teeth, as he used me mercilessly. Sweat dripping from his torso onto my back.
"First load of the night, kid." A warning or a promise, or both, grated out through clenched teeth. And then, just seconds later, the fierce grip of his fingers at my nape, and five, six stabs as deep as he could make them. The roar of our audience making it clear that I'd just been creamed.
I was limp when he released me. Hissed at the strange sensation, his cock yanked unceremoniously from my hole.
"Who's up next?"
Another laugh at that, and then hands on my cheeks. Thumbs tugging me wider open, a roughness that made me wince, and then all memory of that forgotten as a second cock drove inside. No finesse, or patience; just the whole, fat length of it skewering me. Not as deep, maybe, but so much wider.
"Shit, look at him stretched open." Entertained surprise. "Reach back and feel how gaped you are."
I obeyed, with shaky hands. Stretching, terrified and fascinated in near equal measure, to grope around where his shaft had my muscle pulled taut. No way to stop the groan of dismay from seeping out of me.
"Don't worry, kid. If I break you, it'll be worth it."
He jerked his hips back, then pumped into me. The slick, slimy length of his cock brushing past my fingertips, as my eyes rolled back in my head. Knowing that I'd invited this onto myself, had wanted it so strongly, but wondering if my body could handle what my brain so desired.
"You like that fat cock in you?"
My reply emerged as a gurgle, barely intelligible.
He punch-fucked me with his extra-wide dick a few times. "I asked, do you like that fat cock in you?"
It felt like it took every scrap of my concentration to put together a one-word answer. "Y-yeah..."
A laugh. "And you wanted it rough, right? That's what you asked for?"
There was drool running down my chin, I realized. Tears on my cheeks, too.
"Uhhhh..."
Another laugh, and then he was pulling at my hole too. Fingers squirming against my own, only he had further stretching me in mind. Chuckling as I shuddered from the overload of sensations.
I cried out, when he dug his fingertip in alongside his dick. Then felt him twitching as he unloaded in me, his cock throbbing against my fingertips.
"He's gettin' sloppy," he said, sing-song, as he stepped back.
I could feel cum dripping from my ass, now, and oozing down my erection. Part of me wished I was standing where they all were, that I could see myself like they did. Compare the mental picture of myself I had - sweating, panting, halfway to ruined - with what was actually slumped across the table.
Believe the internet, and it was easier than ever to be gay, and out, and happy. To find a boyfriend, someone to share that first, fumbling time with. And then I'd watched my eighteenth birthday pass, and then my twenty-first, all with nothing but the comfort and company of my right hand. Until suddenly you're twenty-three, almost twenty-four, and the idea of hurtling midway through your twenties still a virgin seems impossible, nauseating. A signifier that there must be something wrong with you, something not-so-secretly unappealing.
Hands on my hips, breaking that train of thought as I was pulled back. Feeling the head of a third cock swipe through the slime running down the crack of my ass, before being slapped wetly against my leaky hole.
"Ask nicely." Another stranger's voice. Another opportunity to degrade myself.
"P-please..."
He was slower, this one. No more tender, but making me wait for it; grit my teeth and curl my toes as he fed each inch into me. No leverage for me to grind back on him, speed up the new impaling, and so all I could do was suffer the indignity.
"Shit, it's like I'm fucking pudding."
More laughter, and I had to squeeze my eyes shut to keep from crying again. Mortified by the way they were talking about my body, even if their lewd comments were making my cock twitch all the more urgently.
Maybe he read my mind, maybe they were all just thinking of new ways to torment me, but he reached underneath and wrapped his hand around my swollen, hyper-sensitive dick. Fingers sliding, no shortage of lube from my precum and the frothy overspill from my double-loaded ass. Pulling me back, forcing me to tilt my hips up to avoid the stretching pressure. The ring they put on me gripping tight, my balls feeling extra-tender as he rasped his fingernail across them.
My cock was like a handle, something for him to grip as he pounded at me. And for all he started out different, in the end he wanted just what the other guys wanted. What I knew every man in the room was after: the chance to slam into me, to feel me squirm, until they added their own contribution to my cum-filled guts.
He didn't last long, and that sucked because the angle he was working me had the tip of his dick grinding across my prostate. Enough that the precum was flowing out of me in a near-steady stream, as I gurgled and scratched at the wooden surface they'd dumped me on.
I whimpered in impotent frustration when he pulled out.
"Look at him, he fucking wants it so bad."
More laughter, at my hips' jerking. My desperate hunt for friction, the right friction, inside of me and out. Wanting, too, to reach underneath myself and grab my dick: give myself those few, urgent strokes that I know would be all it took.
"You wanna jerk off, don't you."
A statement, not a question, and that sense of my mind being splayed wide open to them. Desires bluntly obvious through the shivering of my sweaty, well-screwed body.
"Please..."
Like that was the only word left in me, the only one my mouth could produce, and that was a shame because they seemed in no hurry to either satisfy me or allow me to satisfy myself.
I already felt pathetic, lonely. Some loser in his twenties, stroking his dick to internet porn every evening and fantasizing about how it'd be different if he had a date, a boyfriend, some connection that was meaningful and real. Instead of just being weird, the oddball who found himself scanning through the personal ads on shady message boards.
The idiot who hit reply, and admitted that no, he didn't have much experience. But that he wanted it, even if it came in a shape he'd barely dreamed of.
I didn't get to jerk off, strong hands twisting my arms behind my back as another anonymous cock slid into the sloppy mess of my hole. Not even bothering with taunts, or jeering; leaving the degrading commentary to the guys watching as he long-dicked me. Deep, painful strokes that had me gritting my teeth right up until his grunt and the throb of him inside me.
I didn't fight the next one, or the one after that. Didn't protest at the hand grabbing my elbow and dragging me off the table and onto the dusty floor; the yank which tugged my hips up, and the angle seemingly satisfactory from the way he sunk his dick into me. Riding me, his thighs gripping either side of my ass, as the curve of his shaft set off new, shuddering sensations in its scraping along my inner walls.
The floor was easier: easier for them to move me, reposition me. To pull me onto all-fours, my body rocking as I was pounded, or to push me flat. Cock trapped beneath me, untouched and rigid, and even that scant, grazing friction of the cold linoleum better than nothing. A reminder that there was more to me than just a hole, even as trickles of cum and lube and spit oozed down my thighs with sticky, greasy excess.
I'd lost count, my brain struggling to recall how many men, how many loads. Trying to rationalize what had happened, was still happening: a wild youth's-worth of encounters, hook-ups, and one-night-stands, condensed into one night's ruin. But recoiling from that explanation, from any attempt to brand it intimacy.
The harsh halogens overhead left me blinking, afterimages swimming through my vision, when they turned me over. Eyes watering from the glare, before the lights were eclipsed by the silhouette of another man above me. My legs spread, pushed back, and then a chuckle that became a hiss as he sank into the gooey pit of my ass.
"Squeeze tight now, kid."
Blushing at the instruction, but I still tried it. Forced tender muscles to clench down on him as best they could, as he gripped my hips and pulled me in to meet each thrust.
"Smile, son... we're having fun, remember." His tone was amused, as much a taunt as a reminder.
It was like the muscles in my face had forgotten how to move, how to form expressions. My whole body limp, switched into standby as all of my senses focused on the stretch and slide and churn of cock in my ass. Far beyond any hope of remembering individual styles - hammering me, or filling me with long, deep strokes, or teasing my drooling hole with a fat, flared head - as each stranger's preferences melded into one long, continuous friction between my cheeks.
He snorted. "If you can't smile, put that mouth to good use, then."
Another shadow above me, and then the grip of hands; tipping my head back, to meet the blunt tip of an erection as it pushed at my lips. My mouth opened on instinct, brain realizing a moment too late that I should've taken a breath first, as the dick slid into my throat.
"No teeth, you little fuck."
A slap to punctuate the rebuke, but if he'd wanted an apology then he only had himself to blame for it being inaudible. His cock already digging into my gullet, stretching me and filling me as I fought my gag reflex and tried to stave off panic.
It wasn't a blow job he wanted, I understood, as he pulled his hips back and then buried himself in me again. Just another hole to be fucked, another source of slick tightness. My fingers scrabbling at the floor in desperation as he plugged me deep, holding himself there until fireflies filled my tunneling vision, and only then yanking back to let me gasp down pained lungfuls of precious air.
The tap on my cheek told me my moment of respite was over, his hand under my neck - tilting my head back; adjusting the angles just so, for the perfect slide in as far as his thick inches could reach - as he fed himself back between my lips. The scrape of it past my tonsils, making me wonder if he could feel me bulging from the outside as my throat stretched around him.
"Shit, that's it." A grunt of pleasure from the guy hammering my ass. "He really squeezes when you're in deep."
A chuckle. "Happy to help, dude."
Said with amusement, casually. As if they were discussing borrowed tools, not how best to extract the maximum enjoyment from my limp, sticky body. Barely able to writhe and squirm, with thighs clamping my head and my hips in a vice grip.
"Look at his dick. He likes it too, the little pervert." Said with a crowing sort of satisfaction: as if my hardness made this a conspiracy, not just a guy getting used on a dirty floor.
I couldn't deny how turned on I was, though, dick flopping around thickly as my body shook from their pounding. The ring a part of that, but I knew enough about myself to recognize it wasn't the only reason for my erection.
That flush of guilt all too familiar, all too easily recalled. The cum cooling on your belly as you click away browser tabs that - up until the twist of climax just moments ago - were the secret route to the darker corners of your libido. Gangbang videos, and bukkake, and shakycam footage of wrung-out, slack bodied men handed over to satisfy others. The kinks you try to forget you have, right up until the moment your cock is in your hand and you're desperate to watch that helter-skelter into degradation.
I was primed to answer the advert, I knew that. Even as I typed in my stats, my limits. An application to become meat, dehumanized and willingness assumed. I could chose to blame horniness for fueling my submission, for letting fantasy trip into reality, but no way to deny that - even when I wasn't typing one-handed - the idea of it fascinated me to my core.
You can fight it, or you can lean into it. Maybe I was never destined to have the normal first time.
It was difficult, my arms feeling jellied, but I still managed to catch hold of my legs. Pulling them back, spreading myself further: knowing, too, that it would be seen as in invitation.
"You like this dick, boy?"
I grunted agreement.
"You like being a hole, for men to use?"
Another grunt. I felt the guy face-fucking me squirm; wondered if the vibrations of my wordless replies were accelerating his route to the point of no return.
And then, moments later, got the answer to that question as he erupted in my throat.
Sharp, jagged pumps that left me needing to gasp and splutter. And then he was pulling back, still spewing in the sticky, cloying mess of my mouth, the taste of him strong on my tongue as I tried to breathe through my nose while swallowing.
Finally, he settled back on his haunches. Fat cock resting across my face, slick with cum and throat slime. No shortage of that running down my cheeks, either.
My eyes were blurry, sweat making them sting. Lips feeling raw, as though they'd been stretched out of all recognition, and my throat burning.
The guy winked at me, then looked around the room. "Who's next, then?"
Barely time for him to shift aside, before his place was taken. Another erection pushed across my tongue, not stopping, not pausing as this new stranger forced his way into my throat. A wave of panic rushed through me, body rebelling as my lungs complained.
My ass taking another load ended up being the distraction I needed; an unlikely salve for my spiraling anxiety. Inside me, at first, before he pulled out and sent hot splashes of it across my junk. Fat cock still hard in his fist; I watched him stroke himself, before he pushed back into my unresisting hole.
The urge to jerk off was fierce, but I knew my dick was out of bounds. Imagining how good it would feel to have my prostate strummed at just the right angle, just the right speed and intensity. The way my body would vibrate with pleasure if I could just cum untouched. Picturing it, even as strong hands flipped me again: set me on all-fours, to rock on hands and knees as they plowed me at both ends. Digging deep, harder and harder strokes, as if the goal was to have the tips of their cocks brush at some midpoint of my body.
I wasn't sure how much cum I'd swallowed, how much was filling my ass and making each anonymous thrust squelch and bubble. Only knew that my face was covered with it, chin dripping; that it was running thickly across my balls and down my thighs. Splattering, messy and haphazard, from my dick as it wagged underneath me.
The need to get off was an itch that became an ache, that snowballed into a frenzy. One that had me leaning into each punishing stroke, overcoming whatever little resistance my body had left, in the hope of finding that final, extra scrape of friction. Fucking myself on them as much as they were fucking me, the laughter at my frantic desperation a dim backdrop as fingers stretched and pinched me. Pushed in alongside whatever cock was reaming me, ground my nipples between rough pads.
And then, suddenly, respite.
Not quiet, not with the sound of amusement around me still; lewd comments and taunts, even if it felt like my limp, sticky body was no longer so interesting now that they'd got off. But no hands on me, either. No pulling at me, positioning me. Angling me just so, to extract their maximum pleasure.
I could hear my own breathing, hoarse with exhaustion. No part of me dry, cum down my legs and across my chest and crotch; more of it gumming my hair. Spit and sweat on the parts their loads hadn't reached, a sheen fast turning to stickiness in places.
It took effort to turn my head, when he crouched down next to me. The same guy from earlier, the one who'd opened the door, and told me my safe word, and then led me into the room where the best and worst of my fantasies could prove themselves real.
He'd fucked me too, I figured, even if he was dressed now. Expression no warmer than before, though not cold, either. Unreadable in its flatness.
"You get what you wanted, son?"
The laugh bubbled out of me, uncontrollable. Thick with the churn of other mens' pleasure.
There was something almost solicitous in the way he pulled me to my feet. In so much as fingers laced through your hair can be tender.
He pushed me across the table again, face down once more, and for a moment I had the vision of another roomful of men filing in. All change, a fresh cast bar the main attraction; wondered, in that flicker of shock, whether my body could handle it. Whether I should be shouting out that safe word before my mouth was otherwise occupied.
Fear and some thread of anticipation upended by his hand between my thighs.
Not a soft grip, a gentle one, but I didn't care. Hips instinctively bucking at the friction I'd been longing for, trying to pump my cock through his fist. Terrified, even, that he'd pull away before I was done.
"Such a sloppy, needy little hole," he muttered, loud enough for the room to hear. Laughter, at that, and a fresh round of jeers, as I humped the tight ring of his fingers around my shaft.
I knew I could do it faster, if only I was allowed to touch myself, but there was no fighting the pressure on the back of my neck. Reduced instead to gibbering, desperate pleading, as cum drooled out of my gaping ass and added extra, friction-stealing lube to his strokes.
"P-please..." My voice was hardly recognizable, even to my own ears.
Maybe he took pity on me. Maybe it was just time: to wrap things up, to send these strangers home. My own orgasm the cherry on top, after my cherry had been taken. A reminder, as pointed as the cock ring in highlighting my constant arousal, that I'd wanted all this. Enjoyed it. And, in the end, got off on it.
"Little slut," he grunted, and that was enough.
A climax so hard, it was borderline painful. My balls trying desperately to clench against my body as my dick jerked in his hand, prevented by the tightness of the ring. Whole body vibrating, and the sense that I was being twisted from both ends, head and feet, to wring the cum out of me.
And then the whimpering, frantic begging as pleasure flipped into hyper-sensitivity, and his fist became a further torture. Genuinely fighting against his pinning hand, the fingers twisted painfully in my hair; willing to have it tear from the root, if only that meant I could escape the unending roughness sleeving my still-hard cock.
He stopped, just as my lips were shaping the "flashlight" he'd promised would save me.
A step away; he flicked his hand, spattering my back with the dregs of uncounted loads. Watched me, for a moment, before nudging me with his foot.
"That's you done, then. Get lost, kid."
Footsteps, and the sound of my own labored breathing. Cheek resting in a puddle of men's slick, my skin tingling. Wondering if I'd ever have the energy to stand up again.
The snap of the strip lights shutting off forced me into movement. Piecing my way, barefoot and cringing at what I was stepping in, to the dim light in the hallway.
My clothes were waiting, on a chair near where he'd stripped me. A rough towel folded on top. I started to wipe myself down before realizing I probably ought to have taken the cock ring off, first.
It wasn't the shower I needed, but eventually I figured I was dry enough to pull my t-shirt and shorts back on. Underwear missing, of course, not that it was wearable any more.
And, under it all, on the chair, a scrap of paper. Torn, it looked like, from a cheap yellow notepad; a brief scrawl of handwriting, and a website address.
"Most guys use the safe word," I read, as my stomach fell. "We'll upload your video here."
Thanks for reading! It's always great to hear from people - my email is alexp336@gmail.com - and you'll find much more of my writing at www.alexpendragon.com