Towards the hall

Mr. Jones. He leads the way, holding me on a leash. The chain pulls me down the stairs.

Every step makes the bells ring. A sharp clang, metal against metal, bouncing off the stone walls and echoing back as if someone were following me. My knees tremble under the weight of the plug, which presses into me with every step, and the tips of my bare feet seek purchase on the cold wood. Mr. Jones doesn't turn around. He holds the chain in his hand like a dog on a leash, unhurriedly, and steps down in front of me.

The hall opens at the bottom of the stairs. I see the golden glow before I even enter, and I smell the cigar smoke, thick, mingling with the alcohol and beeswax on the floor. Voices come from inside, low, men laughing. Then a step, another clinking, and the voices all die away.

Within.

Six men are sitting on the leather sofas. Some are holding drinks, others are leaning against the backrest with their legs spread. They all turn toward me. No one speaks. The silence is louder than the tinkling of the bells, and I feel their eyes on me as if they were already touching me—my thighs, my chest, my mouth. My black satin skirt reaches just below my buttocks and hides nothing. The collar tightens around my neck. The locket engraved with my new name thumps against my sternum with every breath.

Mr. Jones leads me to the center of the living room, in front of the largest sofa. He stops me with a tug on the chain, and I stop. The leather of the leash creaks.

"Here she is," he says. He doesn't raise his voice. There's no need. "The whore of the evening. You've already met her, but now you can use her."

One of the men—the thin, elegant one, who had already put his tongue down my throat earlier—smiles and runs his tongue over his lips. Another, the stocky one with the rings, leans forward and sets his glass on the coffee table without taking his eyes off me.

Mr. Jones puts a hand on the back of my neck and pushes me down.

My knees touch the wood. The plug moves inside me, making me gasp for air that I try to stifle. The bells on the tips of my nipples swing and tinkle softly.

"But I'll try it first," says Mr. Jones. "Then it's yours."

No one says a word. I hear the now-familiar sound of his belt unbuckling—the metal sliding in the buckle, the leather loosening—and the room holds its breath. My face is level with his cock. It's hard, already out of his pants, dark, thick, and the shiny tip is just a hand's breadth from my mouth.

He grabs my hair and pulls my head back. My eyes meet his. Black. Cold. There's nothing to read in them.

"Open."

I open my mouth. He pushes my face toward his cock and shoves it down my throat in one fell swoop.

The taste fills my mouth—salty, warm, my skin tasting of soap and him. The tip presses against my palate and slides down, past my tongue, and I feel the piercing rub against his glans as my throat opens to let it pass. He grunts. He holds my head steady with both hands and begins to move his hips, slowly, letting me feel every inch.

“There,” he says. “Like this.”

Tears well up in my eyes and burn. I don't close my eyelids. I've learned not to close them. Saliva drips from my chin and onto the floor, and the noise I make—wet, strangled—fills the silence of the room. Some of the guests laugh softly. I don't know who.

Mr. Jones pushes deeper. His cock enters my throat to the base, and my nose presses against his pubic bone, my lips touch his balls, and the scent of his skin fills my nostrils. I hold back the gag. I hold it back. My hands tremble at my sides, but I don't move them. I'm not allowed to move them.

He slowly pulls out his cock and leaves his head in my mouth and stops there

“Do you feel the piercing?” he asks. His voice is low, almost soft. “Do you feel it on the glans?”

I can't answer. My mouth is full. He knows. He's asking for it on purpose.

“Yes,” I whisper when he pulls back a finger. “Yes, sir.”

He pulls out again and lets me breathe for a second. His cock glistens with saliva, right in front of my face. I look at him. I wait.

"Good," he says. And he shoves it back down his throat in one fell swoop.

This time he goes faster. He holds me by the hair and fucks my mouth like a thing, without consideration, and I take it all, and every time he goes deep, I feel my throat tighten around him and the piercing scrape his skin. The guests watch. I hear them watching. One of them's whiskey glass clinks against the coffee table, and another one has stood up for a better view.

Mr. Jones closes his eyes. His jaw tenses. His fingers tighten in my hair until it hurts.

Then he pulls out. With a final, slow moan escaping from his chest. His cock throbs in front of my face, glistening, and a drop of fluid drips from the tip and lands on my lip.

He breathes. He adjusts his pants slowly, as if nothing had happened. Then he turns to the guests.

“Now it’s your turn,” he says.

No one moves immediately. Then one of them—the stocky one with the rings—reaches out a hand toward my head. I see it coming. I see it stop an inch from my hair. Suspended. Waiting.

The living room is silent. My heart thumps in my throat, and the plug vibrates slightly inside me, like a reminder. My hand stays there, an inch away, waiting for Mr. Jones's word.

Mr. Jones doesn't answer immediately. He pours himself a glass of whiskey from the table, without looking at the glass, and holds it in his hand while the stocky man's hand hovers above me. I feel him smile. I sense it in the way his breathing slows.

“Wait,” he says finally. “I haven’t finished watching it.”

The hand withdraws. The stocky man isn't offended—he laughs softly, leans back, and spreads his legs, and the rings on his fingers glisten in the dim light of the lamp. I count four rings. One gold, thick, on a finger that isn't the right one. I don't know why I notice it. I notice it.

Mr. Jones turns my face with two fingers under my chin. He lifts my head. The collar tightens on my throat, and the bells on my nipples swing with a short tinkling sound.

“Look at them,” he says. “All six of them.”

I look at them. The skinny one with a glass in his hand and his tie undone. The stocky one with the rings. A younger one, sitting in the back, who hasn't touched his drink yet and is holding his hands in his lap as if waiting his turn. A bald one running his thumb over his lower lip. A man with his shirt open at the chest and a silver chain. And the last one, the one in the corner, who doesn't laugh or smile and looks at me as if he were looking at a bill to pay.

"You're men," says Mr. Jones. "Tonight you learn that you're not a person. You're a hole with a mouth and an ass, and tonight you serve anyone who wants it."

"Yes, sir, I am at your complete disposal. My only goal is to please the masters." I say.

My voice comes out low, scratched by my still-burning throat. The piercing weighs on my tongue like a coin.

Mr. Jones lets go of my chin and sits on the arm of the largest sofa, glass in hand, legs spread. From there he can see everything. It's his chair, his living room, his evening.

“You go first,” he says to the skinny man.

The skinny man puts down his glass. He slowly gets up, adjusts his cuffs, and comes toward me. He stops in front of my face and looks down at me. His shadow covers me completely.

“Open up,” he says.

I open my mouth. He undoes his pants with one hand, without looking at what he's doing, and pulls out his cock. It's not as big as Mr. Jones's. It's lighter, straighter, and has a vein running down the side. He places it firmly on my lip and waits.

“Lick it,” he says. “Slowly. Let me feel the ball on my tongue.”

My tongue slides out on its own. I run the tip under the glans and feel the piercing rub against the taut skin. He closes his eyes for a second. Then he pushes it into my mouth and places a hand on my head, loosely, as if he were teaching me a step.

“Like this,” he says. “Good.”

I suck it. I taste soap and something more bitter underneath, and saliva fills my mouth and runs down my chin. The skinny guy holds my head still and moves his hips slowly, and every time he reaches the end, my throat tightens around him and the piercing scrapes his glans. He breathes heavily through his nose. The others watch. I feel the weight of their eyes like a hand on my back.

"Enough," says Mr. Jones. "I don't want it to end now. The evening is long."

The skinny guy pulls out. His cock glistens and throbs in front of my face, and a drop drips onto the tip and stays there, suspended. He puts his pants back in without a word and sits down again. He doesn't wipe himself. He doesn't care.

“Stand up,” says Mr. Jones.

I stand up. My knees hurt from the wood, and the plug moves inside me when I straighten my back. My black skirt rides up my thighs a finger's breadth. No one tells me to pull it down. I let go.

Mr. Jones picks up the remote control from the coffee table and holds it up for everyone to see. It's black, small, with just one button. The guests stare at it. The young man in the back leans forward.

"I want you to see it vibrate," says Mr. Jones. "Before you touch it, because it's a lot of fun."

“On all fours,” he tells me. “In the center.”

I get on all fours on the wood. Hands open, knees wide, back arched as I was taught, ass facing the six men. My skirt slides down my small hips, leaving my ass exposed. The bells on my nipples hang down toward the floor and jingle softly. The collar presses against my throat. The medallion with my name on it thumps against my sternum.

“Look,” says Mr. Jones.

The button clicks.

The plug turns on inside me.

And the first speed isn't strong. It's worse. It's a low, steady vibration that takes me from the inside and travels up my back and reaches my hands. My ass is shaking on its own. I feel them vibrating, and the tinkling of the bells on my nipples changes pace, faster, more wrong. My ass tightens around the plug and then loosens, and then tightens again, and I'm not in control of it. Mr. Jones increases the vibration to maximum. My ass vibrates along with the plug. I feel like I have a jackhammer in my ass. My whole body vibrates. Like I'm having convulsions.

Some of the guests laugh, others applaud. It's not a bad laugh. It's worse—it's an amused laugh, like one over a well-executed game.

"Look how her ass is shaking," says the stocky guy. "Look."

"She likes it," says the skinny man. "You can see she likes it."

My cheeks burn. I don't lower my head. I've learned not to lower it. The wood is cold under my hands and knees, and sweat trickles down my back to the crease of my ass. The plug vibrates and vibrates, and I remain still, on all fours, in the center of the room, while six men watch me tremble. Someone picks up their phone and records the scene.

Mr. Jones presses the button. The vibration suddenly stops and leaves me feeling empty, as if something had been taken away from me. My butt still shakes for a second, on its own. Then it stops.

Mr. Jones approaches from behind and I feel him take the plug-in in his fingers, spin it half a turn and then with one thrust he pulls it out.

“Now you can use it as you wish,” says Mr. Jones.

“It’s already open,” he says. “Look how open it is.”

The plug comes out with a wet sound that fills the room. The emptiness expands inside me and makes me gasp in a way I can't hold back. I feel the cold air on my wet skin, and then I feel the tip of a cock pressing against my ass.

"Wait," says another voice. The stocky one. "I'm in too."

“There’s room,” says the young man.

I feel two different hands on me—one on my hip, one on my back pushing me down. I feel two cocks pressing against the same spot, and my skin tightens, and my body opens to let them pass. The first one enters. The second one pushes behind me, burning, and tears well up in my eyes, and I can't close my eyes.

They both enter.

My throat tightens. My breath comes out in ragged gasps. I feel the fullness—there's no right word for it, it's full, it's too much, it's everything—and the walls of my ass stretch around them both, and the pain mixes with the heat and becomes something else. The bells on my nipples sway with each thrust and tinkle as if they're counting.

"There," says the stocky man. "That's how it's done. Listen to how good it sounds."

They move together. Not at once—they take turns, one in while the other pulls out, and each time one pulls out, the other goes in deeper, and I stay on all fours on the wood and take them both. Saliva drips from my open mouth. The medallion with my name on it hits the floor with each thrust. Mr. Jones doesn't move from the armrest. He drinks. He watches.