Glory hole

The glass trembled in my hand. Not because of its weight—it was light, made of thin glass—but because of the way the third man handed it to me: with two fingers, like one might pass something to a servant. I took it. He didn't let go right away. His fingers lingered on the glass a second too long, and I felt the heat of his skin through the glass, and I realized he was looking at my neck, at the throat as I swallowed, at the gold tag tapping against my collarbone.

“Fill it up,” he said.

Karim was behind the bar. He wasn't looking at me. He was wiping a glass with a rag, slowly, as if there was nothing special about a whore in an apron serving whiskey to three men who'd just watched her get fucked on stage. The bar was shiny and black, and the bottle of whiskey was there, in plain sight, its label worn off on one corner.

I poured. The amber liquid rose in the glass. The ice clicked. My hands—hands that had learned to do everything but stay still—were shaking a little, and a drop of whiskey fell on the counter. I wiped it away with my palm. Karim didn't say anything. But he stopped cleaning the glass, and I felt his eyes on my back like two fingers.

I took the glass to the third man. I was walking in high heels—heels Madame Vivienne had made me wear that morning, heels that forced me to walk in a way that wasn't my own, a way that made my hips sway with every step. And with each sway, the two bells hanging from my nipples—small, golden, attached to the rings they'd placed on me—rang. Tink. Tink. A subtle, almost ridiculous sound, but it filled the silence of the club like a metronome.

The third man took the glass. He drank. Then he looked at my nipples, at the little bells hanging from them, and laughed. A low, joyless laugh.

"Cute," she said, and with one finger she rang it. The bell swung, causing me a slight pain. My nipples after they'd been pierced. They're hypersensitive.

“They put bells on you.”

"Yes, master,"

I said. My voice came out low, uncertain, as always. My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth. The taste of Karim was still in my mouth—the salty, bitter taste of his cum that had trickled down my throat and I'd swallowed without thinking. Now that taste mingled with the smell of whiskey and the scent of cigars wafting from somewhere in the darkness.

The first man raised his hand. He didn't say anything. Just his hand, two fingers, a gesture toward his empty glass. I turned. My heels spun me around with a grace I wasn't used to, and the bells rang again, and I felt the plug—the plug Madame Vivienne had put in me that morning, the plug I'd been carrying inside me for hours—move inside my ass with the movement. A weight. A constant presence like the bracelet that inexorably continues to record everything, every emotion. Every man, every cock, everything.

My body had also become accustomed to the plugin. It welcomed it, held it. But every now and then, when I moved a certain way, I still felt it, and it reminded me of what I had become.

I returned to the bar. I poured. The whiskey dripped from the bottle with a thick, liquid sound. Karim was still there. He was looking at me now. Not with anger, not with desire—with a kind of professional calm, like a man watching a trotting horse and assessing whether it's at the right pace.

"Straighter," he said. "Your back. Don't hunch."

"Yes, master."

I straightened my back. The collar was tight around my throat, and the gold tag—empty, nameless—thumped against my sternum. I brought the glass to the first man. He took it without looking at me. But when I bent down to set it on the table in front of him, my skirt—short, black silk—hitched up, and he saw. He saw my ass, he saw the plug protruding between my buttocks, he saw the tattoo on my shoulder blade—the school seal, the black cock between the open cuffs—and he made a sound, a kind of grunt, and he reached out and grabbed my buttock, squeezed it, let go.

“Come back here later,” he said.

"Yes, master."

The second man. His glass was still half full. He wasn't in a hurry. He looked at me from under his brows, his black eyes unmoving. When I approached, he reached out and took the gold tag between two fingers. He read it. There was nothing to read. He let go, and the tag fell back onto my chest with a soft thump.

“You have no name,” he said.

"No, master."

"Why?"

"Because I haven't earned it yet."

He nodded.

I returned to the bar. My knees made a barely audible noise—my knees, not my heels—a tremor I couldn't stop. Karim had resumed cleaning his glass. But as I passed him, he said, without looking up:

"You know, I thought I'd call you Tinkerbell while you're here at the club." He pointed to the bells hanging from my nipples. "Do you like it?"

"Yes sir, I think it's a nice name, thank you."

"So, little bell. Go back to work."

"Did the third one ask you something?"

"No, master."

"Good. Don't speak unless they speak to you. Smile. Keep your eyes down, but not closed. If they offer you a drink, refuse. If they offer you a smoke, refuse. If they ask you to sit down, you remain standing. At most, you kneel."

"Yes, master."

"And if they ask you to suck it, you suck it. But you don't move from here until they call you. Do you understand?"

"Yes, master."

The club was filling up. I hadn't noticed before—I was too engrossed in the drink, the whiskey, the bells—but now, when I looked up, I saw that there were no longer three tables. There were six. Seven. Black men, all of them. Some in suits, some in open-chested shirts, some with gold chains that shone in the dark. They sat at the tables as if they were at home with the sissy king, just as these men served me. The customers talked among themselves and laughed, and every now and then one of them would look up at me—watch me walk, watch me pour, watch me bend—and then talk again.

I walked between the tables. The bells rang. My heels clicked on the polished concrete floor. The plug moved inside me with every step, and I felt it, and my ass tightened around it like a hand. I held the bottle in one hand and a glass in the other, and every time I bent over to pour, my skirt would ride up, and I knew they could see. I knew they could see the tattoo on my thigh—ONLY BBC, in small letters, on my inner left thigh—and I knew they could see my cock locked in the cage, and I knew they could see the blank tag tapping on my chest.

A man at table four—white shirt, gold chain, pinky ring—grabbed my wrist. Not hard. Just to stop me.

“Bring me some ice,” he said. “Mine’s melted.”

"Yes, master."

I went to the counter. I grabbed the ice bucket. The tongs were cold. My fingers slipped. One tong fell to the counter with a loud thud, and Karim looked up.

“Be careful,” he said.

"Excuse me, master."

"Don't apologize. Do it."

I got the ice. I carried it to table four. The man with the gold chain watched me put the ice in the glass, and then looked at me—the first time anyone had looked at me that evening—and said:

"How old are you?"

“Nineteen, master.”

"Nineteen." He repeated it as if testing the word. "And here you are."

"Yes, master."

"Why?"

I didn't know what to say. The truth—that I was here because I didn't know how to be anywhere else, because Madame Vivienne had looked at me and I had said yes, because the red neck had taught me that I could be something to someone, even if that something was a whore—

“Because it’s my place, master,” I said. “I serve to please men. They’re training me for that.”

He nodded.

"Do you like to please and suck big black cocks?"

Yes, sir, I like it and my life is for this . They even wrote it on my skin. The man runs a finger over the tattoo. “Y LOVE BBC”

"I see."

He didn't smile. But something in his eyes softened, just a little, as if he'd recognized a truth he hadn't expected. Then he raised his glass, and I knew I was dismissed, and I returned to the bar.

Time passed. I don't know how much. There were no clocks in the club. There were only glasses, whiskey, bells, heels. And Karim, behind the bar, who every now and then would nod at me and say something—"That guy wants gin, not whiskey"—or "Don't bend so low, you look like a cow"—or "Smile, damn it, you're not at a funeral." And I obeyed. Every time. Because obeying was the only thing I knew how to do well.

Then, at a certain point, while I was serving a customer a drink—I don't know why, but my cage gave me an unexpected electric shock that made me jump. A glass fell to the floor. It shattered into a thousand pieces. After apologizing to the visibly annoyed customer, Karim placed the cloth on the counter. He dried his hands. He looked at me.

“Come here, bitch, you broke a glass, you idiot, you need to be more careful.”

As punishment. When it's time for your break. Instead of resting, go clean the bathrooms.

"The bathrooms," he said. "Go clean them."

"Yes, master."

"There are four urinals on the wall. You clean those with your tongue."

I stopped. The glass I was drying hovered in mid-air. The bells fell silent for a moment, as if they too were waiting.

"With your tongue, master?"

« Yes With the tongue »

If there's a customer who needs to use the urinal, you kneel down with your head down and wait for them to finish. Then you continue your work.

If they ask you to suck their dick, you do it. You do whatever they ask.

Karim picked up the pack of cigarettes from the counter, pulled one out, and lit it. Smoke slowly wafted out of his nose. "The toilet. The rim. Under the rim. Inside. All of it. When you're done, you come back here and tell me it's clean. If it's not clean, you start again. Do you understand?"

"Yes, master."

"And keep the bells. I want to hear them ring while you clean. If I don't hear them, you're not moving enough."

"Yes, master."

The bathrooms were at the end of the corridor, beyond the stage. The corridor was dark, and my heels clicked on the concrete, and the bells rang with every step, and I felt the plug moving inside me, and I felt the whiskey still burning in my throat, and I could taste Karim returning, every now and then, like an echo.

The men's room. The door was ajar. I pushed it with my hand—my hand shaking—and the door opened onto a white-tiled room, a sink, a mirror, two toilets, and four urinals. The floor was wet. There was a smell of disinfectant and urine, and beneath that, deeper, the smell of men, of sweat, of old sex.

I knelt before the first urinal. The tiles were cold beneath my knees. My silk skirt stretched tight over my thighs. The collar tightened around my throat as I lowered my head. And I lowered my head, and opened my mouth, and placed my tongue on the rim of the urinal.

It tasted of ceramic and ammonia. It tasted of everything that had passed through there, and hadn't been washed away. My tongue retracted, for a moment—instinct, shame, something still rebelling—and then it came back, and I licked. From the edge inward. Along the curve. Under the edge, where the ceramic curves and where no one ever cleaned. My tongue hurt. My jaw ached. The little bells dangled from my nipples and touched the ceramic, and they went, tinkling, tinkling, every time I moved.

I licked the second urinal. I licked it all over. The rim, the inside, the bottom, where the water stagnates. The taste filled my mouth, ran down my throat.

The door opens, a man enters, I kneel down. And I wait. As I was ordered.

The man takes out his cock and approaches the urinal I hear the strong powerful jet.

“What are you doing here?” asked the man.

“I have to clean the bathrooms, sir.”

"And do you clean them with your tongue?"

“Yes sir, I broke a glass and this is my punishment.”

He laughs, “You sissies are really willing to do anything a black master orders.”

When I finished, I stood up. My knees hurt. My lips were wet, and the taste lingered. I looked at myself in the mirror. My makeup was still there—lipstick, mascara, blush—but around my mouth everything was dirty, all shiny, and my blue eyes looked back at me from the mirror as if they didn't recognize me.

I returned to the hallway. The bells were ringing. Heels were clicking. The plug was moving. I passed the stage—empty, the white light still on, my plug still on the floor where I'd left it—and returned to the bar.

Karim looked at me. He looked at my mouth. He looked at my eyes.

"Clean?"

"Yes, master."

«Let me hear it.»

"Good," she said. "Now you clean up, do your makeup, and go to the room at the end. The one with the black door. There's a glory hole. You kneel in front of it and wait. Whoever comes, you suck them off. You don't talk. You don't ask. You don't stop until they're done. Do you understand?"

"Yes, master."

"And you keep the bells. I want to hear them from here too."

The room at the end of the corridor had a black door, no handle, just a finger slit. I opened it. Inside was darkness, and the smell of latex and disinfectant filled the room, and a wall with three holes—three glory holes, at different heights. The floor was covered with a cold rubber mat. I knelt in front of the central hole. The bells rang once when my knees touched the mat, and then fell silent.

I waited. The darkness pressed in on me. I could feel my own breathing, my heartbeat, the weight of the plug inside me, and the taste of the toilet still on my tongue. It wasn't long. On the other side of the wall, I heard footsteps. A belt unbuckling. The sound of a zipper. And then, through the hole, a cock appeared—already hard, already dark, already shiny—and I opened my mouth and took it.

I took him all in. His tongue first, along the side, feeling the veins, feeling the pulse. Then his mouth, his throat, the thrust. He didn't say anything. He didn't say my name—I didn't have a name—he didn't say anything. Just the sound of his breathing on the other side, and the sound of his hand moving, and my gargling as he reached the end. The bells rang with every tilt of my head. Tin. Tin. Tin. And I sucked, and swallowed, and waited for him to finish, and when he finished—when I felt his cock throb and felt it fill my throat—he swallowed it all, and I remained on my knees, my mouth still open, waiting for the next one.

And the next one came. And then another. And another. I don't know how many. I lost count—count, the only thing I knew how to do—because there were no words, no numbers, just the holes in the wall and the cocks going in and out of my mouth, and the bells ringing, and the taste of latex and semen and disinfectant, and my body moving on its own, back and forth, like a machine someone had turned on and didn't know how to turn off.

Then, suddenly, on the other side of the wall, I heard a voice. A voice I knew.

"Turn around," Karim said. "Get on all fours. Ass toward the hole."

I turned around. The rubber mat was cold beneath my knees and palms. My skirt rose to my waist. The plug was there, between my buttocks, and the gold tag hung from the collar and touched the floor.

"Remove the plug," Karim said. "With your hand. And put it on the floor, in front of you, where I can see it."

I did. The plug came out with a wet sound, and my ass felt empty, open, and the cold air from the room rushed inside me. I placed the plug on the mat. The metal made a small noise, a click, against the rubber.

“Now,” said Karim, “wait.”

And I waited, on all fours, with my ass towards the hole, and the little bells hanging from my nipples and touching the mat, and the taste of the seed still in my throat, and the collar that was tight around me.