Next at the cabinet 2

The next one arrived a little later.

The door again. Voices over the loudspeaker again. Silke remained with her back to the hatch, naked, wet and open between her legs, and realized from the tone alone that this was intentional. He wanted her to listen as they sold her off.

“I just want her pussy.”

“Twenty-five for you. First of all, she’s already been used. Second, I want to see how she handles it.”

The other one laughed.

Silke had learned her lesson.

She dropped to her knees, turned around, spread her legs, and pressed her pussy directly against the hole—hard, flush—her labia against the wooden edge. From the outside, you had to see the wet slit and what was still running out of her: cum from the last guy, white, slow, a streak across the underside.

Something pressed against the entrance. Not like just now. Harder. More massive. More merciless. Not a searching glans. A pressure that immediately pushed the lips aside, as if the hole had suddenly been given a peg that was too big.

Her labia were spread apart—not by fingers, but by the cock itself. Silke gasped for air. The stretching came without pause. Round. Thick. More and more. No end at the wood, no “that’s it.” It pushed into her centimeter by centimeter, filling her, rubbing against her front wall, and then more shaft followed. She was pushed away from the door.

Involuntarily. Her body yielded to the girth. A little. The cock followed, as if it had no end. The loudspeaker, immediately: “Ass against the door. Otherwise we’ll open the door.”

Silke pushed herself back. And now she knew what the fat guy meant when he said, “I want to see how she handles it.”

Every centimeter she gained, she swallowed him deeper. Her ass slammed against the wood. Her pussy took whatever the hole could give, and it was more than she’d ever taken. No man. No toy. Nothing had ever been that big or been inside her like that. The sensation consumed her: stretched to the point of pain, wet enough to make it work, and then that dull, impossible pressure all the way back inside.

For the first time, she thought she felt something at her cervix. Maybe she was imagining it. Maybe not. It was deep enough that she felt sick and hot at the same time. He gave her a few seconds. His whole cock inside her, her ass pressed against the wood, her hands on the side walls, her tits thrust forward into the box. Breathe. The pulse in her pussy around him. Then he pulled all the way out. Until the head was almost out. Her lips tried to close but couldn’t. Empty. A wet sound. And back in again. All the way. Silke screamed. Not just from pain. From pleasure she couldn’t hide—raw, too loud for a closet. The shaft plowed into her, firm, relentless, until it hit the back again.

Again.

Again.

The same distance every time. Out to the very edge. In to the mouth of the womb. The wood slapped against her buttocks. Juice ran down it, over the edge, onto the floor toward the old stains.

She came like that for the first time.

Hard. Her pussy struggled against a girth she couldn’t wrap her mind around, cramping, pulling, failing. Her knees slipped. She stayed upright anyway, her ass sticking out, because the camera was rolling and the threat of the door wasn’t a joke.

He kept going.

She didn’t know for how long. The pleasure came in waves, new, unfamiliar, as if someone had found a switch inside her that Jonas had never hit. Every deep thrust drew a sound. Sometimes a curse. Sometimes just breath.

A new rhythm. Slower pace, deeper thrusts. He stayed buried longer, stirring where it took her breath away, pulling out just a little, then thrusting right back to the spot.

The speaker: “Press yourself tight against the door now. Otherwise—”

That was all Silke needed. She pressed.

Her ass flat against the wood. Her pussy stretched so far over the hole that he went a little deeper still. The pressure on her cervix became unmistakable. Dull. Warm. Too close.

Then his voice. Not right at the board. Further away, over the mic.

“I’m going to shoot my hot load right against her cervix. Hopefully she’s on birth control and isn’t fertile right now. Otherwise her belly will get big. And she’ll have a black baby.”

Those words were enough. Silke came so hard that her vision went black. Her pussy clamped down on the huge cock in a spasm that wouldn’t stop—juice, a scream against the wall, her legs giving way—only the command kept her ass pressed against the door. She squirted all over him, audibly, embarrassingly, wet down the wood. The orgasm devoured the sentence and doubled it. Belly. Fertile. Inside her. The thought was dirty and wrong, and yet it pulled her through.

He thrust through her. Two, three more full strokes—all the way out, all the way in, against the same spot—and then he came. Hot. A lot. So deep that she felt the pulsing at the top, not at the entrance. Thrust after thrust against the cervix, semen that had no choice but to stay.

Silke hung onto the wood, full, stretched, and twitched in the aftermath.

Breathing outside. A laugh, shorter.

“Twenty-five well spent.”

“I told you so. Thanks for the video footage.”

He pulled out.

Slowly. Her pussy remained open for a moment, a wet, round void, then it oozed out: his white, the last of it, hers. It ran over her labia, out through the hole, dripping. She’d had her hardest orgasm over a hole in the closet.

And the tutor had been right: He wanted to see how she’d handle it.