Lorenzo's breakfast

7:00 am school canteen.

Lorenzo didn't know how long he'd been kneeling there. The collar was heavy. The cage weighed even more—that dull weight between his legs, the metal slowly warming against his skin and then remaining warm, moist, a presence that never went away.

The neon light above him hummed. A low, steady buzz, like a large insect trapped in a glass box. Below, the silence of the still-off kitchen. The pots hanging on the hooks glistened with a white sheen. The smell of detergent was so strong it had already caught in his throat.

He heard the footsteps before he saw the men.

Two. One heavier than the other. The first entered through the service door with a metal tray in his hand—empty, for now—and stopped to look at it like you might look at an animal you've bought and haven't yet decided what to do with.

The second arrived soon after. Wearing a white coat, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, thick, hairy forearms. He dried his hands with a dishcloth, which he then tossed on the counter.

"Here he is," said the second. "Right on time."

The first one laughed. A short, humorless laugh. "On time. On time. He obviously can't wait for breakfast." And they burst out laughing.

He approached. He bent down slightly, hands on his knees, to read the golden tag hanging from Lorenzo's neck. He read it as if he didn't already know it. Then he straightened and looked at the other.

"At your disposal," he said. "It says exactly that."

"I know what it says."

"I just wanted to make sure you read it too."

The second cook was a dark-skinned Egyptian—the older one, short-cropped gray hair, an old scar running across his jaw—

"You know why you're here," he said finally. It wasn't a question.

"For breakfast," Lorenzo replied. His voice came out lower than he intended. It had been getting lower lately.

"Good." The senior chef nodded slowly. "Breakfast is the most important meal of the day. Everyone knows that. It gives you protein, it gives you energy, it gets you going." He grabbed a cloth and began wiping down the already clean counter. "We give you something better than coffee."

The younger chef laughed again, and this time it lasted a little longer. He sat on one of the metal stools, legs spread, the empty tray resting on his thighs. He looked at Lorenzo as if he were watching a show.

The service door opened again.

Three of them entered. They were waiters on duty, Lorenzo could tell by their lab coats—shorter, dirtier, one with a green apron tied around his waist. None of them looked at him immediately. They took their seats. One poured himself some water from a jug on the counter and drank it standing up. Another leaned against the wall with his arms folded. The third sat down next to the young cook and whispered something in his ear that made them both laugh.

Five men. Lorenzo counted them without meaning to. Five, plus the two cooks. Seven. Then, from the corridor, the sound of more footsteps.

He stopped counting.

"All right," said the older cook. He put down the cloth. "Let's get started, because we have to open the kitchen for the others at seven-thirty." He approached Lorenzo, already on his knees. He grabbed the hair at the base of his neck—not violently, but with the firm, practiced grip of someone who's done the same thing a hundred times. He pulled his head back until his neck was tense, his throat exposed, his mouth already ajar. "Open wide, Princess."

It was the young cook who said it. "Open wide, princess."

Lorenzo opened his mouth.

The first cock entered without preamble. The older cook had no time to waste—he pushed it halfway in, then withdrew, then pushed it again, finding the rhythm with the same calm he'd taken with wiping down the counter. Lorenzo tasted it immediately: salt, a hint of soap, the bitter taste of skin unwashed for hours. His throat tightened for a moment—that old instinct, the reflex to close up—and then he gave in, as he'd learned to give in, and the cock slid further down.

"Here," said the old cook. "Like this."

It didn't take him long, but he didn't even need to hold back. He pushed all the way in, and came. The first spurt hit straight down his throat, and Lorenzo swallowed instinctively, and swallowed again, and again, until he felt the final jolt and the cock withdraw, wet, leaving a trail of saliva on his chin.

"Thank you, sir," Lorenzo said. His voice was hoarse. His throat was already sore.

The old cook calmly buttoned up his shirt. "You're welcome. Princess."

The second was the one in the green apron. She didn't pull his hair—she put a hand on the back of his neck and held him still, and his cock was bigger, or maybe just harder, and Lorenzo had to work to take it all. He felt his jaw protest. He felt his eyes fill with tears. But his throat opened, opened as it now knew how, and the man moaned once, low, and came too.

"Thank you, sir."

The third. The fourth. The fifth.

The bracelet vibrated every time he kept track of everything.

Lorenzo, on the other hand, lost count of the faces. He was counting the dicks—that, yes, Big M had forced into his head, and now it was the only thing that remained clear to him. Five. Six. Seven. The taste in his mouth changed each time, a little more bitter, a little saltier, but the gesture was always the same: open, welcome, swallow, thank.

Four...five...

He heard the click on the fifth

He didn't immediately understand what it was. Then he heard it again—a sharp, metallic click, followed by a short buzz. A phone flashed. Then another. He turned slightly, his eyes still watering, and saw that the attendant leaning against the wall had pulled out his cell phone and was scanning it. The light from the screen was shining on his face. He was laughing.

"Go ahead," he said. "Don't stop for me." The click repeated. Now there were three of them filming—one sitting, one standing near the stove, one who had moved closer to get a better angle. The laughter was low, almost gentle, the kind you get when watching something funny on television.

His mouth was burning. His jaw was beyond pain.

Last came the senior cook again. Not because he felt like it—because it was his turn, because the ritual required it, because someone had to close the circle. He approached, unbuttoned his pants as calmly as he'd buttoned them, and put his cock in his mouth without a word. Lorenzo took it. He sucked it. He tasted his own saliva mixed with the rest, and swallowed.

When the man retreated, Lorenzo remained with his mouth open for a second too long, his breath coming out in gasps.

"Did you keep count?"

"Yes."

"Bravo."

It wasn't a compliment. It was a test. Lorenzo took it anyway, holding it, like one might hold a coin found on the ground.

The attendants began to leave. One at a time, unhurriedly, like those who have finished their shift and now have other things to do. One stopped to drink some more water. Another picked up the dishcloth from the floor and tossed it in the wastebasket. The green apron disappeared first. Then the man on the wall's phone went off, and he, too, left.

There were two left: the older cook and the younger one.

The elderly cook took a white ceramic mug from the shelf above the counter. He placed it next to the dripping radiator. The mug was empty.

"Breakfast isn't over," he said.

The young chef approached. He stood in front of Lorenzo, took his head in his hands—two large, warm hands that covered almost his entire face—and held it still. Then he looked at the other.

"Or."

The elderly cook approached the cup. Lorenzo realized what was about to happen an instant before it happened, and the strange thing was that he didn't try to turn away, didn't try to close his mouth. He remained there, his head still, his eyes raised—and he watched the man take his cock in his hand and begin to masturbate over the white ceramic.

It didn't take long. It was the third time that morning, and the body of a man that age doesn't have much to give after a third time. But what came out was thick, yellowish, and fell into the bowl with a small, wet sound that Lorenzo heard distinctly.

The young chef let him go. He picked up the cup. He held it up to the light, as if he were looking at a glass of wine, then handed it to Lorenzo.

"Drink."

Lorenzo picked up the cup with both hands. It weighed very little. The liquid inside was warm—the radiator had done its job—and there was a white streak on the rim that reminded him of something he didn't want to remember. The phones had come back on. He heard them, the clicks, one after another, as the men returned to the room without being called.

The older cook had buttoned up his shirt. He adjusted his belt. He looked at Lorenzo with an expression that wasn't cruel—it was worse. She was satisfied.

"Come on," he said. "That's the best part."

Lorenzo brought the cup to his mouth.

The first warm sip filled his mouth—bitter, thick, a taste unlike anything he'd ever known. He swallowed. He had no choice. The clicks continued, laughter erupted around him, and someone—he couldn't tell who—said, "Look at that face," and laughed louder than the others. He was making a live video, who knows who he's commenting on.

"Look, guys. What are these white fags willing to do to suck black cocks? Hey, little faggot, look here, keep sucking, don't stop. Do you like black cocks?"

I don't answer, I couldn't answer with my mouth full of cum... I nod my head amidst general amusement.

The elderly cook nodded, satisfied, and turned to the ceramic mug sitting on the counter next to the dripping radiator.

The cup wasn't empty yet. A finger's breadth of it remained at the bottom, and the elderly cook lifted it, weighed it for a moment as if calculating something, then lowered it to the counter with a sharp clang of ceramic on ceramic.

"There's something left," he said. "Nothing goes to waste."

The young chef hadn't yet loosened his grip on Lorenzo's neck. His fingers had slipped into his hair now, holding him there—not out of force, but out of habit. The way you hold a leash when the dog is already sitting.

"Again?" he asked.

"Still.".

The elderly cook approached again. He didn't undo his pants this time. He simply picked up the cup, tilted it, and poured what little was left directly into Lorenzo's mouth—without asking, without waiting. A thick stream ran down his chin when he couldn't swallow it in one go.

Lorenzo swallowed twice. The second time cost him.

"Here." The man put the cup back on the counter. "It's empty now."

It was really empty. Lorenzo the transmission —

The phones went off one after another. Not all at once—they had recorded everything.

"Seven o'clock," said the senior cook. He had already turned to the stove. "Tomorrow morning. Here. Not in the common room."

Lorenzo raised his head. "Tomorrow?"

Of course your red collar week. Continue

"Breakfast. The real thing." The man took the saucepan from the hook—the one he'd put down at the beginning and never turned on—and put it back. "Today was a taste. Tomorrow, seven of us are expecting you. The two of us and the three from the night shift. And two Guards."

The young chef had sat back down on the metal stool. He listened, legs spread, the empty tray still resting on his thighs. He no longer looked at Lorenzo as if he were watching a show. Now he looked at him as if he were looking at something he owns.

"Seven," Lorenzo repeated. It wasn't a question. He just wanted to hear the word spoken, to make sure he understood it.

"Seven, seven mouthfuls," said the older cook. "One after the other. And then the cup." He dried his hands on the cloth tucked into his belt. "The cup is the important part. The collected cum is drunk in its entirety. Nothing is left at the bottom. If you leave any, we'll force it back into your mouth and you'll get a demerit."

He didn't say it with malice. He said it like you'd explain a house rule to someone new—with the weary patience of someone who's already explained it to many others before you.

Lorenzo nodded. His head felt heavy. His neck felt like a man.

"And then thank them," the man continued. "Out loud. One by one. With your phones on."

"Yes."

"Good job, you're getting better and better at sucking cock."

Lorenzo was strangely almost grateful for that unexpected appreciation.

The young chef rose from his stool. He pushed it aside with his foot, picked up the cup, and wrote Lorenzo's name with a black marker.

"This will be your personal mug, are you happy?"

"Yes sir.. thank you sir."

"You wash up before you show up," he said without turning around. "We don't like dirty mouths."

Lorenzo looked down and nodded.

The young cook turned off the faucet, dried his hands on his coat, and turned away. He looked at Lorenzo for a moment—his mouth, his neck, his collar—and then looked at the other.

"Should I leave it here?"

"Leave it here." The senior cook was already heading for the service door. "He said seven. He'll be there at seven."

The door opened. A gust of air from the hallway, colder than the kitchen air.

The click of the lock was soft. It wasn't a key—Lorenzo heard it; the sound was that of a door being lowered, not a door being locked. He could get up. He could push that door open and walk out into the hallway. No one had stopped him.

He remained kneeling. For a while.