The white bowl

They stay inside until they're done coming, and then they both pull out at the same time, and my ass is left open and full, and the cum starts to drip down my thigh, hot, slow, and I stay on all fours without moving, because no one told me to move.

The room is silent. Only the breathing of the two men behind me, and the tinkling of the bells settling, and the ice in Mr. Jones's glass melting.

Mr. Jones rises from the armrest. The sofa creaks. He crosses the living room slowly, and the six men step aside to let him pass, and he comes up behind me and stops, and I smell him—tobacco and leather and whiskey—before I even see him.

“Look how beautiful she is,” he says. “Look how she holds everything in.”

He leans over. I feel his hand on my back, between my shoulder blades, and then I feel it slowly slide down my spine to the hollow above my ass. His fingers spread me a little wider, and he looks inside, and I feel his gaze as if it were a finger.

"It's a shame you're losing it," he says. "All that work would go to waste."

"I'm not losing it," I say, and I don't know why I say it. Maybe because I want him to tell me it's okay.

“No?” Mr. Jones laughs softly. “And how do you do it?”

I don't answer. There is no answer that isn't a plea.

He gets up and goes to the coffee table, and picks up something that was there earlier, something I hadn't seen. It's the plug. Black, rubber, bigger than the one I was wearing before—and I know it because I can feel it when he puts it against me, the cold tip on my open skin, and my ass tightens on its own, both from fear and hunger.

"You keep the sperm inside," says Mr. Jones. "You don't want to lose a single drop."

"Yes, master."

"Here. With this as a plug, it will be easier."

"Thank you, master."

He pushes it inside me with his hand, slowly, without asking, and the plug enters my ass already full of cum and pushes it deeper, and I feel the cum of the two men pressing against the walls of my ass, and the plug holding it there.

The six men laugh. The thin man claps his hands twice, without enthusiasm, as if applauding at a theater. The first man shakes his head and drinks.

"I think we need a break now," Mr. Jones says. He gets up and grabs the leash from the coffee table, attaching it to my collar with a quick movement, as if he did it every day. "Stand up," he says, and I get to my knees, then to my feet, my legs shaking and the plug inside me moving with every step.

"Now go to the kitchen," says Mr. Jones, "and make us some sandwiches. With beer and wine. When everything's ready, serve us; we'll wait here."

"Yes, master."

"After fucking you, we're exhausted," the stocky guy says from the couch, and the others laugh. "But don't worry."

“The night has just begun,” Mr. Jones says, and he tugs on the leash, and I take the first step toward the door with my ass full of cum and the plug holding it all inside me, and the bells jingling with every step, and the laughter of the six men behind me.

The first step is the hardest. The plug moves inside me with every movement of my hips, and the cum the two men left inside me hits the walls of my ass, warm and liquid, and the rubber plug holds it where it belongs. I take a second step. The bells on my nipples tinkle, and the sound precedes me down the dark corridor as if I were an animal with a rattle around its neck.

The leash is tight. Mr. Jones walks ahead of me without turning around, and the chain that attaches me to his collar tightens and loosens with each step he takes, and I quickly learn to pace myself, because if I go too slowly, the chain pulls on my neck, and if I go too fast, the chain loosens and I can't feel anything.

“How good she shakes,” says the skinny guy behind me.

« Like a real seasoned slut »

He didn't get up from his chair. and comments.

"With a full ass and all. Look at the way she holds her hips."

"I taught her to walk like that," Mr. Jones says without turning around. "Or rather, Madame taught her. I just reminded her that she needs it."

The kitchen is at the end of the hallway. Mr. Jones opens the door and the light comes on: the long marble countertop, the refrigerator as big as a closet, the wooden table in the center with a cutting board and knife on it. It smells clean. The smell of lemon and steel.

"You're here," Mr. Jones says, and leads me to the center of the kitchen, spinning me around on a short leash, as if he were showing me around. "Bread, ham, cheese, tomatoes. You make sandwiches properly. Nothing complicated. Beer from the fridge, wine from the cupboard. Clean glasses. Plates. You move, and you don't stop."

"Yes, master."

A big slap on the ass.

"Come on and finish, slut. My friends are hungry."

"And Bianca." He pauses in the doorway. "Don't touch the plug-in. Keep it inside until I tell you to."

"Yes, master."

The door closes. I hear the leash click off the collar, and I hear his footsteps receding down the hallway, and then nothing. I'm alone in the white kitchen, my ass full of cum and a rubber plug holding it all inside, and the bells jingling softly every time I breathe.

The fridge hums. The marble feels cold under my hands. I open the fridge and the light shines in my face, and I see the beers lined up on the bottom shelf, the green bottles, all the same labels. I grab six. I set them on the counter. The glass makes a sharp noise against the marble, and I stop to listen for anyone, but no one does.

The bread is in a paper bag on the cupboard. I open it. The smell hits my stomach before it hits my head, and I realize I haven't eaten since last night, and that hunger is something I'd forgotten I was. I cut the bread into slices. The knife is sharp, and each slice comes out different, and I line them up on the cutting board and look at them as if I were about to present them for an exam.

The ham is in the paper. The cheese is in cellophane. The tomatoes are in a ceramic bowl, red, round, and when I cut them, the juice drips between my fingers and I lick it off without thinking, and the taste makes me want to eat a whole one, but I don't. It's not mine. Nothing here is mine.

As I assemble the sandwiches, I feel the plug move. It's not my movement—it's my body adjusting, opening, trying to hold what's been put inside. The two men's sperm is still hot inside me, and every time I lean over the cutting board, I feel the liquid shift, and the rubber plug holding it in, and the bells tinkling against the marble when I lean against it.

I look at my hands. They're still stained with tomato sauce, and under my nails there's bread crust, and on my left side there's a red mark that's not a scratch—it's where the stocky guy held me with his rings, and the rings left me with four bruises that now, in the white kitchen light, are purple and round as coins. I count them with my thumb. Four. One on each finger.

I place the sandwiches on the plate. There are eight of them, and they're not pretty, but they're done. I open the cupboard and find the wine, a dark bottle.

The wine in the glass is dark red. I hold it up to the light. Then I look down the corridor, at the closed door, and I wonder how much time I have before Mr. Jones gets angry.

The refrigerator starts up again. Its hum fills the room. Outside, in the living room, I hear the voices of the six men talking among themselves, low, and occasionally a laugh, and I don't understand the words but I understand the tone. They're talking about me. They're talking about what they've done and what they'll do. And here I am, in the kitchen, with my ass full and the cork still in, and the bells jingling.

The white bowl.

I look at myself in the mirror hanging next to the kitchen door. The glass is small, like a kitchen mirror, but it's big enough to see my face. The makeup Madame Vivienne taught me to wear is ruined. My lipstick is smudged on one side, my eyeshadow is running under my eye, and on my right cheek I have a white streak of dried cum left by the stocky guy when he pulled me out of his mouth and ended up on my face instead of inside.

I wet a corner of my apron and rub it over my cheek. The streak won't come off. I rub it harder, and the skin turns red, and eventually it comes off in pieces, like a scab.

Madame Vivienne told me on the first day,

"A sissy must always be perfect in front of her masters. Made up. Desirable. If they see you dirty, they see you as something not worth looking at. And something not worth looking at doesn't get fucked."

He was right. I knew it then, but I know it better now, with my ass throbbing and the bells tinkling on my nipples with every breath. I can't go back to that room looking like I've been fucked for three hours. I have to walk in as if I've just arrived. I have to make them want me. They have to look and want to fuck me again.

I wash my face in the sink, with cold water, and the water hurts my skin, but that's okay, because the pain keeps me awake. I dry myself with the dishcloth. Then I look for the bag Mr. Jones left on the cupboard—the makeup bag, the one with the red lipstick and the eyeliner and the polish.

I sit on the edge of the table, my legs spread, my high heels sliding across the floor. The plug moves inside me as I lean forward, and I pause for a second, breathing shallowly, because the movement reminds me that it's still there, that the men's seed is still there inside me. Mr. Jones told me not to waste a drop.

The lipstick is the hard part. I apply it first to my upper lip, from the corner to the center, then to my lower lip, all at once, and then I press my lips together and spread them a little with my finger to release the color. The tube says "no transfer, ultra strong." The red is bright, almost blood red. I also line my lips with black pencil, which looks really slutty.

My mouth has to “say” I’m a cocksucker. Use my mouth.

I apply gloss to my lips. They feel sticky. They feel like mine, but of a me I don't know.

I'm wearing a pair of crotchless white panties and fishnet hold-ups. The gold bells hanging from my nipples tinkle when I touch them, and the sound makes my thighs tighten.

The sheer lace panties are wet. — me too. I can feel them against my skin, damp, and when I slide my fingers in to adjust them, I feel my ass tightening around the plug, as if trying to keep it inside. I want to keep it inside. Mr. Jones said not to lose it.

I put my clean waitress apron back on. It's white, lace, with a gathered hem, and when I tie it behind my back, the knot tightens my waist and makes me look thinner than I am. The bells remain under the lace, but you can still hear them. They jingle. They jingle throughout the room, and the six men will hear them and know I'm coming.

High heels are the last thing I do. I slip them on one at a time, leaning against the table, and when I'm standing I feel my body leaning forward, my ass rising, my back arching. It's the position Madame Vivienne made me try a hundred times, in the hallway, in front of the gym mirror, until it sank into my bones. "Sissy girls walk like this. They sway. It's what masters want to see."

I take two steps toward the fridge and come back. My ass moves on its own. The bells tinkle. The plug moves a millimeter and then pops back into place.

I look at myself in the mirror for the last time and I look like a whore. And what they want, and what I want. Okay. I'm ready.

I place the sandwiches on the silver cart in the corner of the kitchen, the one with the squeaky wheels. Eight sandwiches, one next to the other, on the serving platter. The beers are in the fridge—I grab six and put them in the cart's cooler. The bottle of champagne is already chilled; I had put it there earlier, and I place it in the ice bucket. The cigar box is on the top shelf, the dark wood one, and I place it next to the champagne.

I look at the cart. It's all there. Sandwiches, beers, champagne, cigars. Everything six hungry and thirsty black men could want after fucking a slut for three hours.

I push the cart down the aisle. The wheels squeak on the marble floor, and the sound seems too loud, too visible, as if I were announcing my arrival before I've even arrived. But that's what I have to do. Serve. It's my job. I was trained for this.

I stop in front of the door. I breathe. The bells are tinkling.

I was fucked, I was treated like an object, like a slut, humiliated, in every way possible by six black men.

…And yet I can't wait to go back to that room.

A little ejaculatory fluid is leaking from my cage. I'm horny as hell. Despite everything, this is what I want to do.

Then I go in.

Mr. Jones is in the largest armchair, the one near the dead fireplace. He still has his glass of whiskey in his hand. He looks at me. He doesn't smile. He just nods, as if he's been waiting for exactly this.

"Here's our landlady," he says. "Look how she's made herself look new."

The skinny one, the one with the tongue piercing, turns to me and looks me up and down. "Made up, and cleaned up," he says. "Good girl."

The stocky guy doesn't say anything. He just looks at my legs, then my apron, then my face. He still has the rings on his fingers. The ones that left the four bruises on my hip.

I push the cart, shaking my hips, into the middle of the room. I stop. The bells jingle in the silence. No one speaks for a second, and in that second I feel the plug inside me, the men's seed moving, my ass tightening.

Then I look at the floor.

there is a bowl.

It's a dog bowl. Metal, shallow, wide, with a rounded edge. It's on the floor, right in front of Mr. Jones's chair, and inside is a thick, yellowish liquid, with large white spots that look like cream, floating and not mixing.

On the edge of the bowl, engraved in large letters in the metal, is a name.

“Bianca.”

I look at the bowl. I look at the liquid. I look at the name engraved on it.

Then I hear Mr. Jones's footsteps rising from his chair, slow and heavy, and approaching me from behind. I don't see him. I only smell the scent of his whiskey and the heat of his body as he stops a step behind me.

His voice is low. Close to my ear.

“We thought you should drink and eat too.”

I freeze. The tray is still in my hand. My eyes are fixed on the bowl with my name engraved on it and the lumpy, yellowish liquid inside. The bells tinkle once, softly, as if they, too, are waiting.

"You don't understand," he says. It's not a question. "I'll explain."

He moves. I hear him walking around me, slowly, and now he's in front, between me and the bowl, looking down at me. He's still holding the glass. The whiskey inside is barely stirring. The ice made a sharp sound as a chunk melted.

"You've been fucked for three hours," she says. "You've taken cocks in your throat, in your ass, in your face. You swallowed. You held it in. You did everything we told you to do, and you did it well." She takes a sip. "Now you've made yourself new. You've put on your makeup. You've put your heels back on. You're back here with the cart like a good waitress."

Point to the bowl with the glass.

"And now you drink and eat too. Like us. With us."

The liquid in the bowl is still. Yellow, thick, with those white specks that float and don't mix, like cream that won't melt. There's a lot of it. Too much for a single bowl. Someone filled it to the brim, and someone filled it more than once, because the level is high and the metal around it is dirty with something that has dried.

The engraved name is deep. It wasn't written with a marker. It was carved with something sharp, letter by letter, and the letters have raised edges where the metal was pushed out. WHITE. Six letters. My name. The name I didn't choose.

I bend down a little, involuntarily, and the smell hits me. It's pungent. It's strong. It's the smell of a men's room, of old piss and semen, and underneath it all is something else, sweeter, more rancid, like spoiled milk. My stomach knots. My throat tightens. But I don't pull away. I can't.

The skinny man gets up from the couch. He approaches, hands in his pockets, and stops next to Mr. Jones. He looks at the bowl, then at me.

“Have you ever done this?” he asks.

I shake my head. Then I correct myself, because that's not an answer. "No," I say. My voice comes out low.

"Better," he says. "The first time should be with us."

The stocky man laughs. He's sitting in the armchair closest to the fireplace, his legs spread, his rings glistening under the lamp. "Look at that face," he says. "Look at the way he's holding that tray. Like it's the most important thing in the world."

“It is,” says Mr. Jones. “For her, it is.”

He lowers himself. He leans toward me, close enough to look me in the eye, and for the first time this evening his face is close to mine, and I see he's not smiling. He's not laughing. He's serious. He's calm. It's as if he's about to tell me something important, something I need to remember.

"Listen to me carefully," he says. "You're not a woman. You're not a man. You're an object, with a mouth and an ass, and tonight you're our whore. But you're also our hostess. And a hostess eats and drinks with her guests."

He indicates the bowl with a nod of his chin.

"That's your dinner. We made it for you. Every man in this room put something in it. Some piss, some cum. Some both. It's a gift to you. A gift. It's how we tell you you're ours."

The bells jingle on my chest. Once. Twice. The sound is small, silly, out of place in the midst of all this, and it makes me want to laugh and cry at the same time.

The first man, the one who fucked me first tonight, gets up from the sofa in the back. He doesn't say anything. He comes closer, stands next to the others, and looks at me. He's waiting too. They're all waiting too.

There are six of them. Six tall, black men, with open shirts and glasses in their hands, and they look at me from the back of the room like you're looking at something about to break. No one speaks. No one laughs anymore. The silence is full, dense, and within the silence I hear only my breathing and the tinkling of the bells and the plug pressing inside me, the men's seed moving every time I move.

Mr. Jones straightens. He returns to his glass. He places it on the table next to the armchair, and then sits down, looking at me from there, from his armchair, like someone who's seen it all and now only wants to see the rest.

"You can put the tray down," he says. "The cart stays there. No one's in a hurry."

I don't put it down right away. My hands won't open. The tray is the only thing I have in my hand, the only thing keeping me upright in this room, and if I put it down, I'll have nothing left. But Mr. Jones has spoken, and I obey. Always. I set the tray on the trolley, next to the sandwiches, and my hands are empty now, and they're shaking, and there's nothing to cover them.

The bowl is still there. On the floor. In front of Mr. Jones's chair. With my name engraved in the metal and the yellowish liquid waiting.

The skinny man sits back down. The stocky one pours himself a drink. The first man returns to his seat. Everyone settles in, as if they're about to start a show, and the show is me.

“Go,” says Mr. Jones. “We’re watching you.”

I also want to make a video to send to Madame Vivienne. This will end up on your CV. And everyone burst out laughing.

I take a step toward the bowl. My high heels sink into the dark wood, and the sound is crisp, and the bells tinkle with every movement. Another step. The plug shifts inside me, and I feel the seed moving, and I clench my ass so as not to lose a drop, as he instructed.

I stop in front of the bowl. I look down at it. The liquid is clearer than I thought, almost transparent at the edges, and thicker in the center, where the white spots have gathered in clumps that float like islands. The smell hits me all at once, and my head spins, and I have to breathe through my mouth to keep it under control.

I kneel. My knees touch the hardwood, and the cold creeps up my thighs. I place my hands on my hips, as I was taught, because a sissy doesn't rest her hands on the floor. My back arches. My ass rises. My heels remain planted on the floor.

The bowl is in front of my face. The engraved name is just a hand's breadth from my eyes. Bianca. I read it, and as I read it, I feel it's true, that the name is mine now, that there's nothing left of Lorenzo in this room.

Behind me, one of the men clears his throat. Another laughs softly. The ice in Mr. Jones's glass makes a clicking sound.

I don't turn around. I don't close my eyes. I lean forward, and the tip of my tongue touches the liquid, and the flavor fills my mouth before I'm even ready.