Three Holes

The first one was buried deep in her ass.

Every thrust felt tight; Silke could feel the base against her cheeks, the pulling in her stomach, the burning at her anus. In front of her lay the second one on her tongue—hard, salty, impatient. Next to him, the third one was laughing—the boy, the strategist—the bottle loosely in his fist.

“Take it slow. I’ve got time.”

Silke sucked on the second one.

At least she wanted to take him out of the game. Whoever came in her mouth was out. If he came before the bottle was upright, she’d be free without the third one having come. She ignored the cock in her ass as best a body could. No rocking along. No sounds for the one in the back. All in her mouth. Cheeks hollow. Tongue flat. Deeper, until she gagged, saliva dripping down her chin, her nose pressed against her stomach.

The third guy realized what she was up to.

The color drained from his face. If the one in her mouth came, the game would be over—and his own bonus, the remaining time, the math—all gone. He threw the bottle. Once. It landed on its side. “Fuck.” Again. It tipped over. “Fuck. Fuck.” Silke heard the panic and sucked harder. She wanted to get the cum out of the second guy before the plastic decided otherwise.

The one in her ass groaned because she wasn’t rewarding him anymore.

He fucked her anyway, hard, offended, his hands on her hips. Silke let her ass be a lifeless thing. Only her mouth worked. Strands of saliva. A wet gagging sound. The second guy clawed at her hair and grew thicker on her tongue.

Then she saw the triumph.

The bottle was standing.

Click. Clear. Upright.

The one in her mouth pulled back, over her lips, glistening, a split second before tipping over. Rule: Flip to the mouth, mouth to the pussy. He pressed his cock against her pussy, needed just one more thrust—and came.

The thrust went into her pussy. What a shitty situation. Now two of them are going to fuck my ass. The third one laughed loudly, just as Silke suddenly found herself hanging onto his cock because the flip had pushed it forward.

“We did it. Two of us get to fuck your ass.”

Silke had lost track of everything.

The first guy flipped the bottle. He wanted to go back to her ass. He made it. The third guy slowly slid into her pussy. The second guy jerked himself off hard right next to her face. Silke could now taste her own asshole on number one.

Then the switch sent it through her mouth before it landed back in her ass. Bitter. Soapy. Disgusting. Hot. She sucked in the taste quickly and hard while the third guy slowly fucked her pussy, like someone who didn’t want to get burned. And the second guy wanted to get hard again.

Switch again.

The bottle stood upright. One back in her ass. Two in her mouth. Silke sucked listlessly. The second guy fucked her mouth anyway, shallowly, determinedly. He wanted to get hard. Really hard. He wanted her ass, too. The third guy did almost nothing. Jerked off. Waited. They were freaking out. His plan was to wait until one had cum in her ass or two were hard enough for the same hole.

Silke gagged on the second one and felt the first one getting closer from behind.

The thrusts grew shorter. His hands tighter. The hole wide and burning. She came involuntarily around him—a wet spasm, her pussy empty, her mouth full. The first one thrust forward, got stuck, pulsed—warm, deep—and came in her ass.

He almost fell over.

Silke didn’t know what was happening now. Apparently, he was out. He pulled out, slowly; the hole remained open, white fluid trickling out. He reached for his pants. Pulled them on. No words. Just breathing. Then he left.

Number three finally lost it.

The bottle was still standing. Number two was only half-hard. The hole was still open. So he took it. The head of his cock pressed against the used, wet, gaping asshole. Pressure. A push. Half-hard was enough, because it wouldn’t close anymore. He slid inside, cursed, and got harder inside her.

Silke wanted to win the race now.

If she sucked off number three before number two came in her ass, she’d win. Number three wouldn’t get anything else. Number two would have to stop as soon as her mouth had spat out number three. She jerked her head toward the strategist, took him as deep as she could, and got to work. Cheeks. Tongue. Saliva. A look up at him—angry, wet.

The second one moaned in her ass and thrust faster.

The third one panicked again, this time in her mouth—he’d forgotten the bottle. Silke sucked as if the clock were running out. Wet and open in the back, two loads already on their way down. Up front, the boy who’d been doing the math and now had to figure out if his calculations would end up in her throat.

The camera zoomed in on both ends.

Peter at home watched the race. Silke gagged, dripped, stayed on her knees, and jerked off the third guy’s cock, while the second guy took her ass as if time belonged to him—time that the first guy had already left behind.