The week with the pink collar

I stood up. My leggings were still at my knees. I pulled them up. The corridor was long. The cafeteria was at the end.

As I pushed open the service door, coffee steam hit my face. The old Egyptian chef was at the stove, his back broad, his white lap stained with sweat. The young chef was leaning against the counter, his phone in his hand, the screen lit. He turned when he heard me enter. He looked at my pink collar. Then he looked at my ass, and smiled.

"Good morning, Princess," he said. "The menu is different today."

The old Egyptian cook barely gives me a quick glance.

"Bend over the counter."

I bent over. My hands on the cold marble, my face against the countertop, my ass in the air toward the dining room. The young chef placed his phone on a jar, the screen facing me. The red recording light came on.

The old man dried his hands on his apron, came over, and pulled down my leggings with a single gesture. The cafeteria air hit my bare ass. The base of the plug was there, black and shiny, with the gold ring shining under the fluorescent lights.

"Keep him inside," said the old man. "The first man arrives in two minutes."

I remained hunched over the counter. The coffee was bubbling. The phone was recording. Outside, in the courtyard, the men's footsteps were approaching the door. And I waited, my ass full and my throat empty, for the first man of the day.

The door to the courtyard slammed shut.

The old man's hand reached the back of my neck and pressed my face against the piano.

"How many?" he asked.

"One," I said. My voice broke mid-word.

"Brava."

The young chef moved his phone. He placed it on the nearest jar, a couple of feet from my face, the screen facing me. The red light was pulsing.

Then I heard footsteps. From the courtyard. Heavy shoes on the gravel, then on the concrete, then on the cafeteria floor. The door opened and the cold air swept over my bare back.

"Now, count out loud," the old man said, his mouth close to my ear. "Every thrust, every stroke. That way you'll learn to count with your ass, too."

He let go of the back of my neck. He stepped back. The young chef leaned against the counter to the side, his arms crossed, and watched the man enter as if he were watching a familiar movie.

The man was big. Not like Big M—Big M was something else, a different category—but big. Workman's hands, black nails, gray overalls with a grease stain on his chest. He didn't say anything. He approached the counter, looked at my ass, and unbuttoned his pants.

I felt the zipper. I felt the fabric sag. I didn't raise my head.

He took my golden ring between two fingers and pulled. Slowly. The plug came out with a wet sound, and cold air rushed inside me. The walls of my ass contracted against the void. A void that hurt.

"Open up," he said. Not to me. To my ass.

I didn't open anything. I couldn't. But he didn't wait. He stood behind me, grabbed my hip with his right hand, and pressed the tip of his cock against my hole.

It was hot. Big. The tip was pressing into me, pushing me, and my ass wasn't wanting it.

"Relax," said the young cook from the side. "If you squeeze it like that, it'll hurt. You know that."

I knew it. I'd learned it in a week. I breathed through my nose, let my shoulders go, and felt the tip enter. An inch. Then two. Then the head of his cock passed the ring and filled me suddenly.

The noise I made wasn't a word. It was a long, drawn-out sound that escaped my throat without permission.

"One," I said. Right away. Before he pushed. "One."

He laughed. A short, snippy laugh. "Good girl," he said. "You can count."

And he pushed.

His cock entered me all at once.

"Two," I said. My voice was shaking.

He pulled out almost all the way. The head of his cock scraped my ring from the inside. Then he went back in.

"Three."

Out. In.

"Four."

The pace was slow. Each thrust went all the way in. My ass began to give way. The pain opened into something warmer, wider, and my thighs stopped trembling.

"Five."

The young chef approached. He picked up the phone, raised it, and held it with both hands. "Lift your face," he said. "I want to see your mouth."

I lifted my face from the marble. My cheek burned where it had been crushed. I looked into the lens and counted.

"Be."

The man behind me sped up. His balls slapped against my ass with every thrust, a sound of skin opening and closing. He grabbed my other hip. He was holding me with both hands now, pulling me toward him with every thrust, and I no longer had to push back. He was using me. He was pulling me into him like a tool.

"Set."

My voice was lowering. More broken. The coffee continued to bubble. Outside, in the courtyard, someone was talking, and the voices were muffled through the glass, as if the cafeteria were a normal place and I were a normal thing in a normal place.

"Otto."

The old cook returned. He stood sideways, close to my face, and looked at me. He didn't say anything. He just watched my ass opening and closing around the man's cock, and his face didn't change. As if he were checking a pot.

"New."

The cock inside me began to throb. I could feel it. I felt it swelling, hardening further, and the man behind me lost his rhythm. His thrusts became shorter, harder. I felt his breath on the back of my neck.

"Ten."

"Again," he said. "Don't stop."

"Eleven."

He grabbed my hair. With his right hand. He pulled my head back, my throat exposed to the neon, and I looked at the ceiling and counted.

"Twelve."

He thrust three times in quick succession, and each time his cock went deeper into me, and each time I counted, and my voice wasn't my voice anymore. It was a voice that simply counted.

"Thirteen."

Then he stopped. All the way inside. His hands squeezed my hips until they hurt, and I felt his cock opening and emptying inside me. Hot. The first spurt hit the walls of my ass, and then another, and then another, and I remained still, bent over the counter, my face against the marble and my mouth open, as he filled me.

The noise he made was low. A grunt that came from his chest, not his throat. And then his breathing, long, slowing.

He stayed inside me for a moment longer. Then he pulled out, and I felt the emptiness again, and the fluid began to drip down my thigh.

"Thank you," I said. My face on the marble. "Thank you."

He didn't answer with his cock dangling and dripping he walks around the counter he stops in front of my face he grabs me by the hair and lifts my head he takes my cock in his hand and sticks it in my mouth,

“Clean up thoroughly, princess.”

"The taste is that of cum mixed with my juices."

While I'm licking and cleaning my cock, some saliva drips down my chin. The man collects it with his finger and makes me suck it.

"Good job, little faggot, see you soon."

He buttoned his fly and walked out the courtyard door without looking at me. The door closed. The neon light hummed.

The old cook puts a hand on my back. Not to hold me. To check me out. I feel his thumb spread my ass a little, peer inside, and then let go.

"Good," he said. "You counted."

The young chef lowers his phone. He looks at the screen, checks something, and laughs. "Thirteen thrusts," he says. "And two dicks."

I slowly straightened up. My legs were shaking. The fluid was dripping down my right thigh, all the way to my knee. The plug was still on the counter, black, shiny, with the gold ring. The old man picked it up, wiped it with a rag, and held it up to me.

"Put it back," he said.

I take it. It's cold. I place it between my legs, find the hole with my fingers, and push it in. My ass is open, slippery, and the plug slides in without resistance. Too easy. I feel the fullness returning, and the base closing against my skin, and I pull up my leggings.

The old cook wiped his hands on his apron. "The third one's coming in five minutes," he said. "Then the fourth. Then the fifth. Same thing. Count out loud."

"Whatever they tell you," he said. "If they tell you to count, you count. If they don't tell you anything, you count anyway. The number is yours."

The young chef placed the phone back on the jar. The screen was still on. The recording was still in progress.

"Bend over," he said.

I bent over again. My hands on the marble. My face against the countertop. My ass in the air, full of the plug, with the previous man's juices still warm inside me. The courtyard door opened, and footsteps arrived.

I didn't look up. The phone was recording. The old cook stood to one side with his arms crossed.

The third man approached the counter. I felt his shadow on my back. I felt the zipper. And I waited for the first thrust, my mouth already ready to count.

The third one didn't waste any time with his fingers. He pulled my leggings down to my knees, grabbed the gold ring of the plug, and pulled it out in a flash. My ass was left open, the cold air inside, the second one's juices dripping out in slow drops.

"Look at this," the young chef said, and held the phone close to my ass. "Still full, open like a gaping mouth."

The third one placed the tip against my hole and pushed in without waiting. He didn't ask anything. He didn't say open. It went in completely in three seconds, and the noise I made was a strangled sound.

"One," I said.

He didn't answer. He started fucking me immediately, hard, without rhythm. Each thrust moved me onto the counter. My fingers searched for the edge and couldn't find it. The phone focused on my back, my shoulder blades, the nape of my neck.

"Due."

"Louder," said the old cook from behind. "I can't hear the noise."

The man sped up. His balls were slamming against my ass, and now I could feel it. Skin against skin. The marble scraped my belly with every thrust.

"Three."

The young chef laughed. "Good. Don't skip any numbers."

"Four."

My voice came out low, almost calm. It was the strangest thing. My ass was burning, my legs were shaking, and my voice was counting as if it were reading a house number.

"Five."

The man grabbed my hair with one hand and held my head against the marble. My cheek was flattened. My right eye was closed. I could only see with my left, and I could see the edge of the counter, the jar, the phone.

"Be."

"Do you like it?" the old man asked. Not to me. To the man.

"Yes," he said. The first word he said. "It's nice and wide. It opens well."

"He's learning," said the old man. "A week."

"Set."

I felt his cock hardening inside me again. The man was about to come. I could feel it in his breathing, in the way his thrusts were becoming shorter, more furious. He was pulling my hair and pushing me down, and I was counting.

"Otto."

"More," he said. "Two more."

"New."

"Ten."

He stopped. All the way inside, all the way to the balls. His hands gripped my head and hips, and I felt his cock throbbing and emptying. Hot, inside, against the walls already filled with the second. The juices no longer had room and began to leak around his cock, running down my thighs, mixed with the first.

The grunt came from his throat this time. Long. Then the breath.

He pulled out. The vacuum returned abruptly, and with it came a gush of liquid that reached my knee. I heard the wet sound on the floor.

"Thank you," I said. My face on the marble. "Thank you."

He slowly pulls his cock out of my ass. It's still semi-hard and covered in white liquid. He also moves in front of my face.

"I want your cock as clean as before I put it in your ass, princess."

And he places it on the marble in front of my mouth.

With long licks from the glans to the balls, I collect everything that remains stuck to the man's cock.

Once cleaned.

With his hand, he zipped up his pants and walked out the courtyard door without looking at me. The door closed. The neon light hummed.

The young chef lowered his phone and looked at the screen. "Ten thrusts," he said. "Three cocks."

The old cook came over and put two fingers in my ass. Not to check, this time. To widen it. I felt his fingers stretching my walls, feeling inside, and then coming out.

"Still open," he said. "Good."

He straightens me. My legs were barely holding me up. The liquid was now dripping down both my thighs, and the floor beneath me was a small, clear puddle, with a neon glow.

"The fourth is coming in two minutes," the old man said. "Then the fifth. Same thing."

He picked up the plug from the counter. He wiped it with the rag. He held it up to me.

"Put it back."

I took it. Cold. I pushed it in, and my ass swallowed it without any resistance. I pulled up my leggings. The fabric stuck to the liquid on my thighs.

"How many did you count today?" asked the old man.

"Three," I said. "Plus the two from this morning."

"Five," he said. "Write it down."

"Where?"

The young cook reached into his apron pocket and pulled out a piece of chalk. White, short, and worn. He handed it to me.

"On the wall," he said. "Behind the counter."

I looked at the wall. Behind the counter, under the marble top, was a row of notches. White. Small. One above the other, in a column. More than twenty. Some older, faded. Others fresh.

I didn't ask whose they were. I didn't ask anything. I leaned over and drew three notches, below the others. My hand was shaking. The line came out crooked.

"Good girl," said the old man.

The chalk remained in my hand. I didn't know where to put it. The young cook took it from my fingers and put it back in his pocket.

"Bend over," he said.

I bent over. My hands on the marble. My face pressed against the countertop. My ass in the air, full, with the juices of three men dripping in and out of me. The courtyard door opened.

There were two footsteps this time. Not one. Two pairs of shoes on the concrete, then on the cafeteria floor. I didn't look up. I looked at the marble. The gray veins. The dried drop of coffee.

"One at a time," said the old cook. "Today is all that matters."

The phone was back on the can. The red light was pulsing. The fourth man stood behind me. I felt the zipper. I felt the fabric sag.

And I waited for the first push, my mouth already ready to count, and the number rising in my throat as if it were the only thing I had. Four bars… five…

Finally, on the wall, TEN notches…