Biker Bar and Remembering

Your husband’s still balls-deep in Jess on the other cam, his fingers sunk into her thick brown rolls like he’s gripping handles. Jess — oh fuckin’ Jess — heavy, loud, and always just a little too eager. She’s black, and she plays it up for him like that’s all he needs: thick curves and a mouth full of moan. She’s built solid, jiggly where it counts, and he treats her like she’s goddamn divine. You watch his hands digging into her hips, watch her throw her head back with those long fake lashes fluttering and her voice going high and syrupy — all performative, all for him, all for show.

She’s got those neon acrylics that catch the light when she grips his back, and her lipstick’s smeared across her cheek like she licked too hard and too fast. Her wig’s tilted, platinum and frizzed at the edges, but he doesn’t care. He’s buried in her like he’s home. You hear her — “Oh yeah, baby, ruin me again!” — and it’s the same line he fed her last night. Same beat. Same arch. You know because you watched him rehearse it with her.

You hate her. Hate that fat, greasy bitch like poison. Hate how she gets all the dick like she earned it. And hate that if you had a dick right now, you’d fuck her better. You’d grab her by those thick hips and fuck the smug out of her. You’d make her whimper for it, cry for it, beg for it — and then you’d deny her just to see her squirm. You’d show her what real dick does. She’d remember you, not him. She’d be the one moaning your name, not coughing out those fake-ass orgasms for tokens.

But instead you sit there, soaked from throat to thigh, cum slick between your legs and drying in your tube top, and he doesn’t even check on you. Doesn’t even glance at the cam light, now dark — your show signed off, forgotten.

You stand there a minute, soaked from throat to thigh, cum slick between your legs and drying in your tube top, and you make a decision. You slide to the floor, wipe your mouth, and crawl over to his pants draped on the chair. Wallet’s there. Thick. You snatch it, tuck it into your shorts, and slip out the back door with the flip-flops clacking like applause.

The biker bar smells like motor oil and dry cum. Everything’s dark wood and neon beer signs, and the jukebox plays Skynyrd even when no one touches it. You swing in like you belong, shorts riding high, tube top still stretched and stained. The men all clock you, but so do the women. You go to the bar and flash your tits a little too much as you lean in.

The bartender — tall, tattooed, dark lipstick smeared from smoking — raises one brow. "You run away from the county fair or somethin’?"

You laugh, voice scratchy. "Only thing I ever won was first prize in being used."

She smirks. "Ain’t that somethin’. What’ll it be, Miss Lucky Slut?"

You lean in like you’re gonna order, then let your lips graze hers—soft, slow, just long enough to feel her smirk twitch against your mouth. Her breath smells like smoke and cherry soda. You whisper into her ear, voice low and hot: "If you weren’t workin’, I’d let you bend me over that bar and pour shots down my back while you fuck the truth outta me."

You order something brown and mean, whatever's in the bottle with the least label. It burns like regret. You flirt. Let her light your cigarette. You touch her hand when she sets down the glass. She lets you — but she’s watching the men now.

They move in groups. Vests and sweat and tattoos over sunburns. You recognize the type: the kind that leaves a girl wrecked just for the thrill, the kind that grunts more than talks. You’re drunk before the third drink and already giggling too loud.

One of them sits beside you. Hands like shovels, rings digging into your thigh when he says, “What you lookin’ for, girl?”

You answer by sucking his finger. Another man hands you a tab of something. You don’t ask what. You let it melt on your tongue like communion. Another pours powder onto the bar and bumps you from his pinky.

You feel it fast: a slow, blooming ooze in your bones. Like you’re not a person anymore, just a body built to take.

They drag you to the back — behind the bar, through a broken door, into a storage room that smells like mildew and cum. They lay you out on the floor, shorts yanked halfway off, legs wide and shaking. You giggle again when the first cock slaps against your cheek.

“Take it slow,” someone says, already half-inside.

You don’t. You moan like the last thing you need is mercy.

“Open up, bitch,” one of them growls, grabbing your jaw and forcing his cock between your lips. “God damn, that’s warm.” You groan as he hits your throat, his hips snapping forward with no care for your gagging. “You take it like you been trained.”

Another spreads your legs wider, laughing. “She’s already dripping. Fuckin’ look at her.” His cock sinks into your cunt fast and rough. You cry out around the one in your mouth, but he grabs your head and fucks through your moan. “Shut up and suck,” he says, balls slapping your chin.

Behind you, you feel spit hit your ass. “Mine now,” another voice says, low and mean. Two fingers push in, then four, then he’s shoving his cock inside your ass without waiting. “Tight little bitch,” he groans.

You’re filled, front to back, mouth to ass. One fucks your throat, another your cunt, another your ass. Your body’s a shaking, dripping thing. Tits bouncing as hands grope and squeeze. One grabs your pierced nipple, twists until you moan around the cock gagging you.

“She’s ready for the next,” someone says. They switch. One cock pulls from your mouth, replaced in seconds by another. Your cunt empties and is filled again. You barely register who’s who — just hot, grunting weight slamming into every hole.

“Fuck, she clenched,” a voice moans. “She likes watchin’ us shoot on each other.”

“Dumb slut’s gonna beg for it,” another says, wiping his cock across your cheek before slapping it back between your lips.

And you do beg. Between moans, between thrusts, you say, “Use me. All of you. Want it everywhere.”

They grunt and cum and change places. Someone shoots across your tits, hot and sticky. Another cums in your ass as a third unloads on your tongue. A fourth presses his cock between your tits, fucking them until he spills down your chest. It lands on another man’s hip — and they laugh.

You arch your back and moan, rolling your hips like a drunk whore on parade. “Y’all ever fuck a real Asian trailerpark MILF before?” you purr. “Ain’t no bitch on this side of the county gonna let you cum in all three holes and still beg for more.”

One of them slaps your ass. Another grips your jaw and groans, “Fuckin’ hell. You want it that bad?”

You grin with your mouth still full, nodding. “I’m the stepmom who leaves her door cracked when you bring your friends over. I’m the one wearin’ his shirt with no panties, bendin’ over just so he’ll look.”

They howl, egging each other on. Another cock in your mouth. A slap to your tit. Cum flung on your cheek like paint.

“And I’m the one who lets your son fuck me in the garage,” you continue, voice thick and dripping. “Bet you wanna marry me just so you can walk in on me and your son fuckin’ on the couch you bought.”

“Jesus fuck—” one of them mutters, already stroking again.

You giggle. “I’ll moan for both of you. Call you both daddy. Let him cum in me while I clean you off with my tits.”

“You boys makin’ a mess,” you moan again, cum bubbling at the corner of your mouth, “but that’s what mama’s for. Say it’s yours. Say I’m just a hole to share.”

They all agree. “You’re a fuckin’ toy,” one says. “Our slut.”

“Cockdrain.”

“Say thank you,” another commands, slapping his cock across your face.

“Thank you,” you moan, “thank you, daddy, thank you for the mess.”

They keep going until you’re slick and filled and ruined. Until there’s nothing left but shaking legs, dripping holes, and a body that’s more used than whole.

You’re shaking.

You’re—

You blink.

You’re in the mansion.

Sitting in a cold pool of cum. Your own sweat mixed with strangers’. The cheap pink tube top is gone. So is the body. You’re you. The man. Who is supposed to be figuring out the test so you can marry Rosa. Alone in a dim-lit room with a mirror cracked down the center.

Your throat is raw. Your hands are sticky. Your heart is hammering. You wipe some cum from your stomach. Not knowing what to do with it, you feed it to yourself, licking it off like you were still Mei, then swallow.

You look up.

On the wall, an arrow painted in wet red points toward the door. Above it, in faded gold letters:

Another round?

Below it:

Onwards.

You stand. You hesitate.

Then you sigh.

And head out the door, back toward the selection plates full of words.. Time to choose again.

The "Asian, Milf, and Trailertrash" words are now gone. You cannot choose that combination again.— her show ended, her couch cold.

Next. Who will you be now?