it does

You follow Marcia on your lead as she climbs the few steps to the stage floor. You pad on all fours toward the middle of the stage. The walk seems to take forever over the well-illuminated black linoleum. The videoscreen wall to your right is reflected on the floor. The videotape flames seem to dance across the stage, as well as reflect off the Masy's staff now watching your every move.

Before you, you see the buxom young Latina shotgirl setting up a table and a barstool. The table has one of the candleglobes glowing on it. A black metal ring with legs, meant to hold food over the flame, is put into place over the flickering globe.

"Miranda! A drink for the lady!" Marcia requests of the fly shot hustler.

The red-tressed young woman simply nods and pulls a test tube of 100 proof whiskey out of her leather bandolier. She slots it between the two pillows of her lush cleavage and moves towards you. Marcia pulls hard on your lead, snapping your head back. This causes your jaw to drop, and Miranda pours the shot straight down your gullet.

You feel the strong **** burn as it goes down into your stomach. Almost immediately, you feel a little light-headed.

"Bodyshot! bodyshot!" the men in the assembled crowd chant. You watch, stunned, as Miranda takes off the bandoliers, slipping them over the back of the barstool. Then, she pulls off her spandex top, allowing those 44EEE tits to shimmy free. Despite their size, the dark capped beauties just hover like twin dirigibles out of the hangar, never sagging. She then skins out of the little booty shorts, to even more thunderous applause.

Naked but for her high heels, Miranda slowly pours another 100 proof vial down her cleavage as she sits on a little rug laid out on the floor. She motions for you to come over as Marcia lets your leash fall to the floor.

The crowd goes wild as you accept the invitation and climb atop her supine form. The fact that your image is now displayed ten feet tall behind you in no way diminishes the crowd response.

The crowd watches both your live show as well as the magnified performance on the wall as you lick lovingly at the tremendous cleavage of the woman. She continues to empty the vial, the amber fluid coursing past her cleavage, over her tummy, and into the small, but dense, pussyfur.

You follow the trail, all the while feeling the whiskey's added buzz in addition to the increasing buzz between your legs. You turn yourself into a classic 'sixty-nine' position as you reach her tropical border. The fluid continues through her black thatch into the pulpy lips of her pussy, where you stop the flow of one fluid, but begin another to flow.

As the voracious Latina eats you, her pussyjuice stains your face as you search for more spilled liquid. She clamps her thick thighs around your delicate face, pressing so hard your ears start to ring. Your efforts to free yourself only allow you to grind your bald pussy further into Miranda's mouth.

It is only after you both climax and sprawl on the floor in exhaustion, that you notice the intertwined bodies on the wallscreen, and realize, ashamedly, that one of them is yours. Your overwrought pussy can't help but juice again. Mere seconds seem to go by before Marcia pulls you to your feet.

As you regain your footing, you see the mason jar is seated on the metal ring above the candle globe, the contents a translucent white. The crowd is on its' feet, giving you a standing 'O' for your videocast 'O'. You smile a silly little smile to them before Marcia keys the microphone that had been waiting on the stool.

The blonde steps forward to address her co-workers. "Before little Lacey goes, all of the male coworkers have prepared a toast for her. I would now like her to accept that toast." More applause, encouraging you to continue.

You step forward, looking incredulously at the large jar of mancream, re-warmed up to its' original direct-from-the-cock goodness.

With new confidence from the shots of Old Granddad, you toss your head back and let the still thick cream pour down into your open mouth from almost a foot above your waiting tongue.

The stuff comes down and folds in on itself like heavy cream. The crowd just stands astonished as you manage to keep the viscous goo flowing down your throat without ****.

After you finish the contents of the jar, you clank the empty glass in front of Marcia loudly, looking her directly in the eyes, challengingly. You catch her off-guard by frenching the cosmetics saleswoman and pushing a mouthful of cum into hers. You then unhook your collar and leash and throw them to the table in front of Marcia, who is still stunned at receiving a mouthful of who-knows-whose goo. You determinedly pick up yourbag, ID and keys and turn for the nearest exit. You really had to get home.

Entering the near empty mall parking lot, you expect to find your car easily. You do not. It is then that you spy it, moved under a far parking light.

You barely recognize it, the dark green of the compact car barely visible under the soapbar scribblings it had been defaced with. CUMSLUT was written numerous times on the quarterpanels and over the windshield in big, bold letters. 'For a good time call..' was written over the rear window, followed by your phone number. 'I (heart) CUM was written on the hood in six inch wide letters. LACY CUMSLUT was written on the front side windows. That Marcia! She must have done this when Dylan said she 'went outside'.

You could barely see to drive it out of the lot, much less twenty miles home. You still live at home while you finish college. You can't park it in the drive this way.

You get in and head toward 'Quickie Carwash' but, being 1am, the customizing garage is closed. You head around the block, spotting an automatic carwash by a fastfood restaurant. When you try putting money in the slot, it doesn't take. The place is also shut down for the night.

Your pretty blonde head rests against the steering wheel as you begin to cry, not knowing how to get out of this predicament. You feel tired, half-drunk, and just want to go home to your bed. You go to pull out of the lot, then see a spraygun and hose in a truckbay outside the autowash. You pull around and get out of the car, trying the gun. It kicks back, spraying hard. You are delighted at your luck. Or thought you were.

When you go to the other side of the car, you realize there are about five guys hanging out in the restaurant parking lot, drinking, watching your every move.

You feel very exposed in your two-piece leather outfit. The mall or nightclub was one thing, but out in a suburban parking lot, you felt like your advertisements on your car. The guys hooted and hollered as you worked around your car, watching as your little leather mini rode up to expose your engorged pussylips. The rubbing of the pussylips in the tight skirt drove you nuts. You slide the wand between your legs and rubbed it against your clit, spraying the gun at the guys when they tried to approach. You had no time for them now.

Finally, all of the dried-on soap was off and you quickly get inside your little car. Twenty minutes later, you breathe a sigh of relief as you pull your car into the family driveway. You're glad the house is dark. You were in no mood for talking.

You walk around the front of the car, getting out your house key, oblivious to the faux vanity plate Marcia had also added, addressed, of course, CUMSLUT.