You're bound to a footstool in the shoestore stockroom.

From your perch on the little metal footstool, you are peering into the single eyes of three old mens' cocks.

"She's awake, Al!" cries the heaviest man, as your stunned expression sets off the circle jerk.

"No names, Bob Rooney!" gasps Al as he stares at your full boobs, your dress top folded at your waist. "Hooters!" he sighs as his yellow jizz arcs over your lovely pink-capped mams.

You instinctively flinch away from the spray, but find yourself bound by shoebox twine at your wrists and ankles. The jizzstorm covers your outthrust tits, splattering your face as well.

"Get her the box, Griff," says Al as he unties you.