The Betrayal of Silke

The bottle spun properly for the first time.

Plastic on linoleum. A muffled circle. Silke was on all fours, her back arched, her ass up in the air, and she could already feel the first shaft pushing into her pussy from behind—wet, warm—until his belly pressed against her thighs. Up front, a second one slid over her tongue. The third—the boy—stopped, the bottle clenched in his fist, and spoke slowly so she’d understand him.

“I jerked off once before. I’ve got time.”

She heard it but didn’t grasp it yet.

Behind her, the fucking began without haste and without mercy. Every thrust made a smacking sound. Her pussy was already open from that morning, from Tom, from the fingers under the table, and yet it took him in tightly. In front, her mouth filled up, contracted, letting saliva run down her chin. The camera zoomed in. Someone on the other end focused on the wet edge where the cock disappeared inside her.

The bottle fell over.

No change. The one behind her thrust deeper. The one in front held her head tighter. Silke gagged and came anyway. A first, brief spasm around the shaft in her pussy, her knees buckling, a sound escaping her mouth that only pushed him deeper. She was going to come.

Click. This time the bottle stood upright.

“Out. Keep going.”

A wet plop. Two seconds of cold on her lower lips. Then the one that had just been in her mouth was already inside her slippery pussy, and the flip was on her tongue, tasting of skin and of the other one. Silke tasted the change. The smell shifted. Her tits swayed as the new rhythm from behind grew harder, more impatient, because the one with the bottle still wasn’t playing along.

She came before the bottle landed again.

Just from the new angle. Just from the fact that a different shaft hit the same spot and took her clitoris with it from the inside. Strands of saliva. Sweat on her neck. The garter straps cut into her thighs.

The taunter was jerking off next to her face, half-hard, leisurely.

“Nice that you’re already coming. I’ll save myself the trouble.”

Silke stared at the bottle in his hand.

Then she realized she was being tricked.

He had no reason to rush. If he took his time, the other two could come. Twice. In her pussy. Then get hard. Then her ass. And he’d still have her afterward, for the rest of the time until the minutes were up. Sixty. Or whatever Peter had set. That was his plan. Not brutality. Math. The two burned ones first. Then him alone with three open holes and a woman who’d already come too many times.

The rage flared hot.

The lust remained.

Peter’s watching, she thought anyway. Peter set the rules. Peter’s keeping an eye on things. That was the real punishment.

But the real Peter saw the same thing and couldn’t stop the cheating.

Next flip. The bottle stood upright again.

Pop. Step. New mouth. New pussy. Full right away. Silke gagged on the third taste in that quarter of an hour and came again, flatter, nastier, her pussy so wet that the pop grew louder. Drops on the floor. The smell of sex ate away at the toner.

“She’s slipping away from you,” said the third one. “Stay right in there. I’m nowhere near done yet.”

The first one cursed and thrust faster.

Silke felt him getting closer, how the shaft seemed thicker, how the hands on her hips were trembling. Up front, the other guy was only half-hard and not quite there yet—just hard, just deep. She sucked because the hole couldn’t be left empty, and rubbed her clit against nothing but the rhythm until she tipped over again. Three. Her arms went limp. Don’t collapse. The command ran deeper than the betrayal.

The first one came in her pussy.

Warm. A lot. Thrusting again. Holding it in. Silke convulsed along with him, involuntarily, a wet sound around the cock in her mouth. He pulled out. Cum ran over her lips from inside, thick, visible. The two seconds. Then the next one was already in the same wetness, sliding on the fresh cum, thrusting through.

The first guy jerked himself hard again next to her cheek. He wasn’t even trying to flip the bottle.

“Your ass is going to be mine soon.”

Silke heard it.

The third guy’s plan was now laid out on the floor like the bottle. The other two were supposed to be done with her. Then her ass. Then him. She wanted to have her mouth full and at the same time say that it was unfair. All that came out was saliva.

The second guy fucked her full pussy as if the cum inside belonged to him.

Silke came for the fifth time like that, with someone else’s cum inside her and a cock in her throat.

The second guy held out longer than the first and didn’t come in her mouth right away. Flip. Bottle over. Bottle standing. Damn. He’d been so close.

Switch. Silke lost track of who had been the first taste. The taunter would step up to her mouth every now and then—just briefly, just so the hole wouldn’t stay empty—then pull back to the bottle, laughing, jerking off, staying halfway.

The first one was hard again.

He knelt behind her, not at her pussy. At her ass. The lubricant—what was running out of her—was warm, white, hers and his. The glans pressed against the hole. Pressure. Silke breathed over the shaft in front. The first time here today. The second time in her life. The bench. The training room. Peter. Not Peter. The pressure increased.

The hole tightened around the head. Burning. Stretching. The camera somewhere to the side. Silke came almost just from being penetrated—a new orgasmic spasm, her pussy empty and wet, her mouth full. He didn’t wait as long as the guy on the bench had back then. He thrust deeper. More shaft. The ring gave way. Her tits sagged. Her knees slipped.

All the way.

His belly pressed against her cheeks. Her ass filled to the hilt. Silke gagged and moaned into the same cock. The taunter tipped the bottle in his hand and didn’t come. The second guy thrust into her pussy as far as the angle allowed, or waited in front of her face, depending on where the rule wanted him to be at that moment.