D.P.

We left the bathroom. A man was already waiting in the hallway—young, thin, still wearing a coat and his hands in his pockets—and when he saw me, he didn't smile. He looked at Rosa, and Rosa nodded, and he motioned for me to follow him to a door at the end of the hallway.

I turned back toward the bar one last time. Through the smoke and the lights, I saw Marcos at his table, glass in hand and his eyes on me, and I saw the other customers laughing and drinking, and I saw the mirrors that multiplied everything—the faces, the glasses, the lights, me.

Then the door at the end of the hall opened, and the man in the coat let me go first, and I walked into the room with the semen still on me and the redone lipstick and the cage weighing me down, and I thought of Jamal waiting for me at home, and I thought I didn't know what time it would end, and I thought it didn't matter.

The man took off his coat and placed it on a chair. He closed the door. He turned to me.

"Strip," he said. "And get down on your knees."

I got down on my knees. The floor was cold beneath my knees, and my black dress slipped off my shoulders, and I was left with the collar and the piercings and the cage and nothing else, and I looked up enough to see his face.

He wasn't smiling. But he wasn't in a hurry.

The man took off his belt. He placed it on the chair, next to his coat, the buckle clinking once against the wood. He wasn't looking at me the way Jamal looked at me, or the way Marcos looked at me from his desk—he was looking at me like a job you've just started. He sat on the edge of the bed, legs spread, chin resting on one hand.

"Marcos says you're trained," she said. "Let's see."

"Yes," I said. My voice came out thin. "Yes, sir."

"No, sir. Marcos said you're answering to his name tonight." He ran his thumb over his lip. "Who are you?"

“I’m Master Marcos’s little whore.”

He nodded, as if I'd read a correct line aloud. Then he stood up, calmly took off his shirt—folding it, really folding it, and placing it over his coat—and stood before me with his pants still on. His body was as lean as his face, long bones, a flat, hairless stomach, and his cock, already half hard, pressing against the fabric. He took my chin between two fingers and lifted my face.

"You use your mouth later," she said. "You use your ass first. Marcos wants to know if you can handle two cocks in the same hole. He said it's the test of the evening. If you pass it, you'll do it again many, many more times."

I felt the floor grow colder beneath my knees, or maybe I was just shaking. Two cocks in the same hole. I'd never done it before. Jamal had promised me, had been telling me for weeks—double anal, he said, is the moment when a little whore stops pretending to be something else—but he hadn't given it to me yet. And now Marcos wanted to see it, and I was kneeling in a room behind the bar with an unnamed man in front of me.

"On the bed," he said. "On your back. Knees to your chest. And you don't move until I tell you."

I stood up, my legs limp, and lay down on the bed with my knees bent and my thighs spread, my hands clutching the sheets. The ceiling was stained yellow above the lamp. He remained standing, took a tube of lube from his pants pocket and placed it on the nightstand, then took off his pants and folded them. His cock rose freely against his belly—long, straight, the tip dark—and he took it in his hand and jerked it twice, looking at me, unhurried.

"Open your mouth," he said. "I want to hear you count. From one to ten. If you skip a number, you start over."

“Yes,” I said.

"Yes who?"

“Yes, Master Marcos.”

He bent down, picked up the tube, and greased my hole—two fingers, cold, slowly swirling inside me. Then he took my cock in its cage and lifted it, like you lift an object to make room underneath, and the cage pulled my skin and made me moan. "One," I said. "Two." He pushed the tip in. "Three." He went all the way in with one thrust, and I lost count. "Four—five—" He stopped, all the way inside, and looked at me.

"You missed it," he said. "Start again."

“One,” I said, and my voice cracked. “Two. Three.”

He moved. Not hard—slow, deep, each thrust opening me up to the base of my back. The sheets clung to the sweat on my back. "Four. Five. Six." I felt his cock slide inside me with the lube, the wet sound rising each time he almost pulled out, and my knees shaking against his ribs. "Seven. Eight." He reached down and grabbed my hair with one hand, pulled my head back until my throat was tight, and pushed deeper. "Nine." Another thrust, harder, that wrenched a sound from me that wasn't a word. "Ten."

He remained still, inside me, breathing shallowly. Then he pulled out—slowly, and the emptiness made my anus clench around nothing—and straightened up.

"Now the second one," he said. "And you don't count anymore."

He opened the door. I wasn't expecting it. I could hear the hallway, the club music filtering downstairs, the voices. And I heard footsteps. Two men entered—the first one was fat, his shirt open and his belly bulging above his belt, the second one was younger, with a baseball cap pulled down over his eyes. I hadn't seen them in the club. Or maybe I had, and I didn't remember them.

"Marcos says she's ready for the double," said the nameless man. "Show her to you too."

“Damn,” the fat guy said, and laughed. “Someone that skinny?”

"She's trained," said the nameless man. "She's not skinny. She's a hole."

They stood on either side of the bed. The fat man unbuttoned his pants and pulled out a short, thick, already slick cock; the young man did the same, silently, and grabbed the lube from the bedside table and put a handful on himself. The nameless man sat down on the chair, lit a cigarette, and watched me like he was watching a game.

"On your back," said the fat man. "Knees to your chest. And now you're in the middle."

I stepped between them. The fat man slid under me, on my back, and I sat on top of him—slowly, his cock entering me from below, short and thick, opening me in a different way, fuller and lower. Then the young man knelt behind me, grabbed my hips with both hands, and rested the head of his cock against my already full hole.

"Breathe," the nameless man said from the chair. "If you tense, you'll tear."

I breathed. The young man pushed. The head entered—hardly, against the wall of the fat man's cock, and I felt the stretching like a burn rising from the mouth of my ass to my navel, and I cried out. The fat man laughed beneath me, a vibration that passed through my belly. The young man pushed again, and again, and the second head entered, and I felt my body opening up around two cocks pressing against each other inside me, and the cage throbbed and couldn't do anything, and tears spilled from my eyes without my choosing to cry.

"Here," said the nameless man. "Here's the double."

They began to move. Not together—taking turns, one in while the other pulled out, like two pistons out of sync, and each time one pushed back in I felt it push against the other inside me, and my ass tensed around both of them, and the sound was wet and loud, and my knees couldn't stay up against my chest anymore and fell open on the bed. The fat man held my hips from underneath. The young man held my hair. I stared at the stained ceiling and counted my breaths and didn't ask for anything, because no one had asked me to ask.

"Tell me," said the fat man. "Tell me what you are."

“I’m Master Marcos’s whore,” I said, my voice half-crying.

"And what are you doing?"

"I'm taking two cocks in my ass"

"And do you like it?"

"Yes."

"Yes who?"

“Yes, sir.”

Then suddenly the door opens and I see Marcos come in.

He comes closer to my ear "how's it going slut. Do you like your double?"

My face distorted by pain and pleasure. While the two men continue to pump from behind, I answer in a thread of voice.

"Yes sir, I like it... I like it a lot."

But it's a shame to see that you still have your mouth free. He nods.

rose-colored

«Let them come in…»

And three more black men enter through the door.

"Guys, the slut still has her mouth open, come on."

One of the three stands in front of my face with his cock already hard and without thinking twice, he pushes it all the way down my throat.

Marcos takes my wrist.

"Come on, faggot, you have two hands too. You can give these two boys a good handjob. You can't leave them with their dicks hard."

As I try to pick up the two birds I see that Marcos is filming a video.

« Sally, put on a happy face. We'll send this to your master so he can see how much fun they make you have.»

And he bursts into laughter along with Rosa.

The young man behind me sped up. His thrusts became shorter and harder, and the fat beneath me began to push upward, and I was caught between two rhythms I couldn't follow, and my body gave up before my mind. I felt the young man stiffen, I felt his cock swell inside me, and then I felt the heat—in spurts, against the wall of my ass, mixed with the lube, dripping out with each thrust. He groaned and stopped, leaning against my back, and the fat beneath me continued to push that mess inside, faster, until he too stiffened and came—inside me, from below, another hot spurt mingling with the first, and I felt my ass filling with two men and unable to hold anything anymore.

They pulled out together. I felt the void open inside me like a door, and I felt the semen drip down my perineum onto the sheets. The fat man rose from underneath and dressed without wiping himself. The young man picked up his hat from the floor and put it back over his eyes. Neither of them looked at me again.

The nameless man put out his cigarette on the nightstand.

"Good," he said. "The double is done. Now Marcos wants to see you in public."

"But first go with Rosa and get yourself sorted out."

Rosa tells me to follow her.

He takes me to a small room where there are showers.

"Give yourself a good clean, Sally. This is a classy place, you can't walk around like an old harlot. You always have to be perfectly clean, with makeup on, and wearing sexy, provocative clothes. When you're done, I'll leave the dress in the dressing room for you to wear for the next customers."

It was a black corset with laces, white stockings with lace trim, and black patent leather high-heeled shoes, the inevitable cage, with the equally inevitable XXL plug, which after the double penetration entered me without problems even without lube.

The nameless man opened the door and motioned for me to leave. The hallway was busier than before—more customers were standing against the wall, drinking and talking, and when they saw me pass, some of them stopped talking.

Rosa removed the pendants from my nipples and replaced them with two little bells that ring with every step.

Marcos was at his table, glass in hand and eyes on me, and next to him was Rosa with the empty tray and an expressionless face.

“Come here,” Marcos said.

I stopped in front of his table. He put down his glass and looked down at me—my hair, my face, my collapse, my corset...

"They opened you up," he said. "Good. Now I'll put you where everyone can see you." He nodded to Rosa, and Rosa took a chair and brought it to the center of the room, in front of the mirrors, where all the tables could see. "Sit with your back to them," Marcos said.

«Master Marcos—»

"I didn't ask for anything," he said. "I said sit down."

I sat down. With my back to the mirrors, facing the room, I felt the air conditioning on my ass, held open by the large rubber cylinder that was clearly visible. The mirrors behind me reflected everything—my red buttocks, the hole that couldn't close—

The customers turned around, and some stood up to get a better view.

"Here," Marcos said. "This is what you get when you pay. Not a mouth. Not an ass. This." He picked up the glass and drank. "Now stay there. If you move, you'll start over with Diego. And Diego isn't as nice as the ones before."

I sat there. My knees were shaking, and all eyes in the room were on me—

No more calculations now. Fun. Someone was laughing. Someone made a comment I didn't hear. Rosa walked past me with the tray and didn't look at me. Marcos poured himself another finger of whiskey and went back to talking to the nameless man, who had sat down at his table as if nothing had happened.

And I stayed there, in the middle of the room with my ass open and the cage weighing me, counting my breaths, and waiting for Marcos to decide how long it should last.

I don't know how much time passed. I learned to count the floorboards—the dark joints between them, the spot where the wood had swelled under the mirror. I learned to recognize Rosa's footsteps: the heel clicking twice and then stopping, because Rosa had a sore knee and didn't tell anyone. I learned that if I kept my eyes down, my neck hurt less, and that if I looked up, I always found someone already watching me.

A man rose from the far table. He was large, with a white shirt pulled up to his chest and a gold watch that sparkled on his wrist every time he raised his glass. He walked toward me slowly, his hands in his pockets, and stopped two steps from my chair.

"How much?" he asked, but not to me. The question was for Marcos.

"It depends on what you want," Marcos said from his table, without turning around. "The mouth is free. You negotiate the rest with me."

The man laughed. "Is the mouth free for everyone?"

"For those who pay for the table," Marcos said. "And you pay for the table."

The man looked at me—at my face, my neck, my thighs spread under my hiked-up dress. Then he unbuttoned his pants with one hand and pulled out his cock, already half hard, and placed it in front of my mouth without saying anything. He didn't ask. He didn't wait. I opened my mouth because that was what I had to do, and he came in, and the taste was salty and cold like whiskey, and I closed my eyes and took it.

“Look at me,” he said. “Not the floor.”

I looked up. His face was wide and red, and he was looking down at me, and I took him deeper, his throat opening, his neck tense under the collar. I felt the gold ring press against my windpipe. He placed a hand on my head, not to push—to hold me there—and began to move slowly, back and forth, looking into my eyes as if he were reading something I'd written on my face.

“There,” he said softly. “Like this.”

Someone whistled from the next table. Another clapped twice, slowly, like applauding a show that doesn't deserve much. I continued. His cock swelled in my mouth, and I felt the taste change, more bitter, and his fingers closed in my hair. He wasn't pulling me. He was holding me. And I thought, with my mouth full, that no one had ever held me like this—as if I were something worth keeping.

“Do you like it?” he said. It wasn’t a question.

I couldn't answer. I nodded, my mouth still around him, and he laughed, a short sound coming from his belly, and he pushed deeper until he was in my hair, and I felt my throat close and tears well up in my eyes, and I didn't pull away. I stayed there. I counted to three in my head. Then he pulled out, took his cock in his hand, and came twice, fast, and came—on my face, on my left cheek, a little on my collar, hot and sticky, and I kept my eyes open because he'd told me to.

He wiped his cock on my lips. He rolled up his shirt and returned to his table without saying anything. None of the others moved. Semen was dripping from my jaw onto my neck, and I couldn't wipe it away because Marcos wouldn't allow it.

“Good,” Marcos said, finally turning to me. “Now you need to clean yourself up.”

“Rose, bring her a cloth.”

Rosa came with a damp cloth and wiped my face like a table—quickly, without looking me in the eye. Then she put on my lipstick again. Then she walked away with the tray, and I went back to counting the floorboards, and the semen on the collar dried into a pale stain that no one cleaned up.

Another man passed. Then another. The second wanted only my mouth, and it was quick. The third wanted me to get up from my chair, bend over the table with my hands resting on the wood and my dress still up, and he took me from behind while standing, his thighs against mine, and I felt the old seed inside me lubricate his cock, and he moaned and said a word that wasn't my name, and he came too, and pulled out and left me bent over the table with my face against someone's glass.

"Get up," Marcos said when the third man had left. "Get back on the chair. With your back turned. Dress up."

I stood up. My legs were shaking, and the semen was dripping down my thighs inside my fishnet stockings, and I sat back down in the chair and lifted my dress, and the mirrors behind me reflected the same thing as before, only worse—the hole redder, more open, the semen that now belonged to three men and was no longer distinguishable.

"Look," Marcos said to the diner. "Look what's left when you're done. This is the work. It's not the mouth. It's not the ass. This is what's left."

No one laughed this time. Some nodded. Some looked at the bottom of their glass. And I sat there, with my dress up and my thighs spread, waiting for Marcos to decide enough was enough.

He didn't decide. He got up from the table, walked over, and stood in front of me with his hands in his pockets. He looked down at me—at my hair, my face, my neck, the cage weighing me down between my thighs.

"They opened you, they used you, they put you on display," he said. "And you're still here. On the chair. With your dress up. Like I told you." He leaned over and spoke softly, just for me. "This is what I wanted to see. Not the double. This."

He straightened up and nodded to Rosa.

"Take her upstairs," he said. "And tomorrow I'll bring her back to Jamal. She passed the test."

Rosa grabbed my arm and pulled me up. My dress fell off me, and my fishnet stockings clung to my thighs, and I followed her toward the stairs, my semen still dripping from me, and I didn't look back, because there was nothing to see that I hadn't already seen.

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