Sally's dinner after the tattoos

Five men. Five pairs of eyes that looked up when Sally entered the room.

Jamal sat at the head of the table, his black shirt open at the top two buttons, his tattooed arms resting on the armrests as if the chair were a throne. He didn't look at her immediately. He looked at the others, one by one, like a business owner presenting a purchase.

Marcus was to his right, his slim white shirt taut over his shoulders, his gold watch catching the spotlights. He leaned back, legs spread, his whiskey glass already half empty. Darnell occupied the chair next to him with the heaviness of someone in no hurry to leave, his black sweater and full beard, his glass gripped between two fingers. Kendrick, the youngest, sat almost silently in a tight black T-shirt, his eyebrow piercing glistening. Terrence closed the circle at the other end, his Hawaiian shirt open over his massive chest, his gold chain digging into his skin, the scar over his eyebrow barely moving when he smiled.

No one spoke. Sally felt the chill of the air conditioner creep up her bare thighs beneath the hem of her latex dress, which clung to her like a shiny, too-short second skin. Her fishnet stockings barely cut into her knees. The XXL plug pressed inside her with every step, a weight that gave her no respite, and the pink cage squeezed her cock in a sweet, humiliating grip that made her toes tingle.

"There she is," Darnell said, his voice slow as if savoring each word. "The maid."

Sally looked down. The pink leather collar pressed against her throat as she swallowed, and the gold ring jingled softly against her collarbone. She took a step toward the table. Then another. The heels of her shoes—the ones Jamal had chosen for her, black, with buckles on the instep—clapped on the wooden floor with a rhythm that betrayed her every hesitation.

"Look ahead," Jamal said. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to.

Sally raised her chin. Her pink-glossed lips parted slightly, and her hazel eyes darted from one man to the next without stopping—Marcus, studying her with a raised eyebrow, Kendrick, running his thumb over his chin, Terrence, not smiling at all, Darnell, tilting his head as if to gauge how small she was.

The tray slipped from her sweaty hands. She gripped it tighter, her knuckles white against the silver rim.

“Put it down,” Jamal said, nodding toward the table.

She obeyed. The porcelain plates touched the oak one after another, and each time a plate was placed down, Sally felt the gaze of five men following her hands. When the last plate was down, she stood still, her arms at her sides, breathing shallowly.

It was then that Marcus reached out.

His fingers brushed Lilly's bare thigh just below the hem of the latex, a light, almost absent-minded touch, as if he were feeling the fabric of a sofa. Sally jumped. Her breath caught in her throat and she felt the skin of her thigh light up under the contact, a heat that spread inward, toward the point where the cage pressed.

"Soft," Marcus said, not looking at her. He was looking at Jamal. "Where did you find it, brother?"

Jamal didn't answer. His smile widened slightly beneath his trim beard, and his dark eyes flicked from Marcus to Sally, then to the rug in front of his chair.

A nod. Slow. Unmistakable.

Sally felt her stomach tighten. She knew how to read that sign—she'd learned it in the months Jamal had transformed her, lesson after lesson, mark after mark. The carpet at the master's feet. The place where a little whore waits.

She walked around the table with measured steps. Her fishnet stockings rustled against the wood. As she passed behind Kendrick's chair, the younger boy craned his neck slightly to follow her with his gaze, his eyebrow piercing catching the light. Sally felt those eyes on her like a hand.

She stopped in front of Jamal. He didn't move. His black shirt was open at the chest, and beneath the fabric, you could see the muscles of his shoulders, the mass of a man who had never had to ask for the same thing twice.

"On your knees," Jamal said. Sallu lowered himself. Her knees touched the carpet, and the XXL plug moved inside her with a weight that made her thighs tremble. The pink cage pressed against the fabric of Jamal's dress pants, just above the knee, and she felt the heat of his body through the fabric. Her hands fell to her thighs, open, waiting.

“Look at them,” Jamal said.

She looked up. The four men were all facing her now, their glasses still, their smiles different—Marcus's ironic one, Darnell's slow one, Kendrick's sharp one, Terrence's impassive one. Lilly felt her face start to heat up. The collar pressed against her throat with every breath.

Jamal reached out, grabbed the hem of her miniskirt, and lifted it up.

the tattoos tensed under the light — Love Black Cock, the black letters

Darnell whistled low. "Holy shit."

"He's done a good job," Marcus said, leaning forward, his elbow on the table, his eyes narrowed. "But did you pay for these tattoos, Jamal?"

"I wanted them but I made her pay for them, of course."

Jamal replied, and his thumb ran up her chin, leaving a wet trail. “Right, baby?”

Sally nodded as best she could, her mouth still open, her tongue still sticking out. A thread of saliva dripped from the corner of her lips and ran down her chin. She didn't dare swallow.

"Dillo," said Jamal

"Yes, Master," she murmured, the words coming out slurred, slurred, her tongue clattering against her teeth. "The master decided on the tattoos, I have them. Just paid for them."

Kendrick laughed. A dry, short sound that made her shoulders twitch. "Do it again," he said. "I didn't hear."

Jamal withdrew his hand. Sally remained still, her tongue hanging out, her chin raised, her neck tense. The gold ring of the collar pressed against her throat. She could feel her heart pounding in her ears, and she could feel—under the cage, inside her—her cock trying to harden against the metal but failing, and that failed attempt made her skin tingle.

The silence stretched on. No one spoke for a few seconds. Sally felt Marcus's eyes travel down her body, stopping on her thin chest beneath the latex, and then down to her knees bent on the carpet. She heard Darnell stirring the ice in his glass. She heard Kendrick shift in his chair, the wood creaking.

And she felt Jamal, above her, saying nothing. He left her there, his tongue hanging out, his chin raised, his mouth open, waiting.

"Good," Jamal said finally, his voice dropping a tone, deep and calm, like a hand resting on the back of your neck. "Now make yourself comfortable, little one."

Sally lowered her tongue. She swallowed. The taste of the gloss lingered in her throat.

Jamal spread his legs. The fabric of his black pants stretched over his thighs, and a space opened between his knees—the space where Sally knew she'd end up. He looked down at her, his trim beard framing a faint smile, and gently tapped the zipper of his pants with two fingers.

“Dinner can wait,” he said. “You can’t.”

Sally felt her throat tighten. She glanced at the zipper, then at Jamal's face, then—quickly—at the four men watching her from the table, their glasses in hand, their different smiles, their different expectations. Marcus had leaned forward. Darnell had relaxed back. Kendrick kept his eyes fixed on her unblinking. Terrence hadn't moved an inch.

Her hands rose by themselves. Her fingers trembled in the air before finding the zipper, and when they did, Sally felt the cold metal beneath her fingertips. She pulled. The zipper teeth opened one by one, with a low hum that in the silent room seemed the loudest sound in the world.

"Take it easy," said Jamal.

Sally nodded. She unzipped the zipper all the way, and beneath the black fabric she found Jamal's cock—already hard, already heavy, pressing against his boxers and flexing upward, dark against the fabric. She took it in her hand through the fabric. She felt the heat through the cotton, felt the pulse, felt the weight filling her palm.

“Take it out,” Jamal said.

Sally slipped her fingers into the waistband of his boxers and pulled them down. His cock slid out, black and thick, the skin taut and shiny, the tip already moist with a clear drop that glistened under the spotlights. It felt enormous, like every time—and like every time, her stomach tightened with a mixture of fear and something else she hadn't yet learned to name. The pink cage pressed against her thigh, useless, ridiculous, and the contrast made her face burn.

“Look at him,” Jamal said. “And look at them.”

Sally looked up. Marcus had raised the glass to his mouth and was drinking slowly, his gaze never leaving hers. Darnell was smiling. Kendrick was running his thumb over his lower lip. Terrence had his hands resting on his thighs and his head tilted slightly, like someone watching a documentary.

"Go," said Jamal.

She leaned over. Her mouth opened over the tip of his cock, and the first contact was with the taste—salty, warm, her skin smelling of him.

Jamal's hand found the back of her neck. He didn't push—not yet. He rested there, heavy, his fingers splayed across her short brown hair, and Sally felt that weight both permission and threat. He moved further down. His cock filled her mouth, pressed against the roof of her mouth, reached the back of her throat, and she stopped, her eyes watering slightly, her breath coming through her nose with difficulty.

"There," Darnell said, his voice slow and satisfied. "Look at him swallowing it."

“Not everything,” Kendrick said. “Not yet.”

Jamal laughed. A low sound in his chest, which Sally felt vibrate through his cock in her mouth. Then the hand at the back of his neck tightened, and he began to move—slowly, a short, back-and-forth motion, his cock sliding across her tongue and filling her mouth with each thrust. Sally gripped his thighs. Her nails dug into the elegant fabric of his pants. She felt saliva collect at the corners of her lips and run down her chin, and she heard the sound—that wet, rhythmic sound, mingling in the silent room with the hum of the air conditioner.

“Further down,” Jamal said.

Sally obeyed. She opened her throat, went as far down as it would go, and felt the cock push against the back of her mouth until she gagged, which she suppressed by clenching her fists. Tears streamed down her cheeks. The collar pressed against her throat from the outside while the cock pressed against her from the inside, and for a moment Sally couldn't breathe at all—and in that moment, as the world narrowed, she felt the pink cage throb against her thigh and realized, with a shame that burned her skin, that his cock was trying to harden again.

Jamal pulled her up by her hair. Sally emerged, breathing raggedly, her mouth full of saliva, her eyes shining.

"Breathe," he told him.

She breathed. The cold air filled her lungs and hurt, as if she'd missed it for years.

“Again,” Jamal said.

Sally leaned down again. This time she didn't wait for him to guide her—she took his cock in her hand, held it steady, and moved down with her mouth open, her tongue stretching along the shaft, feeling every vein beneath the surface, feeling the pulse responding to hers. She sucked. Her cheeks hollowed. His hand returned to the back of her neck, and this time he thrust, and the rhythm changed—faster, deeper, his hips barely moving to meet her.

“Like this,” Jamal said. “Like this.”

Marcus put down his glass. The glass hit the table with a sharp click, and Sally took it as a signal. He rose slightly from his chair, leaned forward, and his shadow fell on her.

“Show her,” he said. “Show us how she works with her tongue.”

Jamal lifted her chin with two fingers, still holding his mouth shut. Sally found herself with his cock still between her lips and her face raised toward the table, her tongue pressing under the shaft, her eyes staring at the four men as her mouth continued to move. Saliva ran thickly down her chin, dripping onto the carpet.

"There," Marcus said, licking his lower lip. "That's how you hold a cock in your mouth."

Darnell laughed softly, the ice clinking in his glass. "Jamal, you take that one out to dinner and let everyone try it."

"I'll take her wherever I want," Jamal said. "And she'll do what I say."

The hand on the back of Sally's neck tightened again. He started moving again, harder now, his hips thrusting, and Sally

She felt his cock swell in her mouth, felt the taste change, felt his pulse quicken under her tongue. Tears were now flowing unnoticed. The collar was cutting into her throat. The cage pressed against her thigh with every movement of her head.

“Do you hear it?” Jamal said, his voice lowering, becoming more tense. “Do you hear it coming?”

Sally nodded as best she could, her mouth full, her tongue working under the shaft.

“Stick out your tongue,” he said.

She obeyed. His cock slipped out of her mouth with a wet sound, and her tongue remained out, tense, the tip still touching Jamal's skin. He took his cock in his hand and began to move on his own, his fist clenched around the shaft, his eyes lowered to her.

"Don't shut your mouth," he said. "And don't swallow until I tell you."

Sally remained like that. Her tongue hanging out, her mouth open, her chin raised, her breathing shallow and noisy. She felt the eyes of the four men on her like four pairs of hands. She felt Marcus lean in even further, Darnell stand up, Kendrick put a hand to his mouth, Terrence, who hadn't moved but whose eyes were now narrowed.

Jamal's hand quickened. His breathing became heavier, and Sally felt him coming—she felt it in the way his fingers tightened in her hair, in the way his thighs tensed under her hands, in the way his cock pulsed once, twice, against her tense tongue.

“Now,” Jamal said.

And he came.

The semen hit her tongue, hot, thick, and Lilly felt it hit her throat. A second jet filled her mouth. A third trickled past her lip and down her chin, slowly, dripping onto her pink leather collar. She remained still. Her tongue out. Her mouth open. The semen dripping down her chin and the drops falling to the carpet, one after another.

Jamal looked at her. Then he looked at the others.

“Good,” he said. “Now for dinner.”

Sally remained on her knees. Her mouth still open, her tongue still out, the semen dripping down her chin, the drops falling onto the carpet. No one spoke for a moment. She heard the hum of the air conditioner. She heard the ice moving in a glass. She felt her own breathing, short and wet, through her open mouth.

Then Jamal withdrew his hand. He left it there, his face raised, his tongue out, waiting for the next word.

And he didn't say anything.

The semen lingered on her tongue, warm and thick, and Lilly didn't swallow it right away. She held it there, as she'd been told, feeling the salty taste mix with her saliva. Her mouth open. Her chin raised. The drops continued to trickle past her lower lip, slowly, and fell to the carpet with a sound no one but her could hear.

“Swallow,” Jamal said.

Sally's throat moved. She felt the seed slide down her throat, thick, and felt the collar tighten around her neck at the exact point where she swallowed, as if the gold ring were marking the passage. She swallowed once. Then again, to finish. Her tongue still hung out, shiny, and there was nothing left on it.

“Open up,” Jamal said.

Sally opened her mouth wider than before. Not the half-open mouth of someone half-compliant—her mouth wide open, her tongue lowered to the floor, her teeth exposed, her throat in shadow. She held it that way. She felt the cold air from the air conditioner enter her mouth and dry her lips, and she felt the eyes of the four men resting on the darkness of her throat, checking to make sure nothing was left.

"Good," Marcus said, speaking first. "Clean."

Sally felt the heat rising from her neck to her face. Her mouth was open and her eyes lowered, but from beneath her lashes she saw Marcus lean back in his chair, a glass of whiskey in his hand, a smile spreading across his face under his light beard. His gold watch glinted on his wrist. He looked at her like a well-finished dish.

"Did you like it?" Marcus asked. His voice was warm and ironic, as if they were discussing the weather.

Sally didn't answer. It wasn't a question for her—she could tell by the way Marcus looked at Jamal as he said it, by the way everyone was waiting for the master to decide whether the question deserved an answer.

Jamal lowered himself slightly in the chair. He wiped away a drop of water from her chin with his thumb, a slow, almost tender gesture that made her knees tremble. Then he withdrew his hand and placed it again on the armrest.

"Answer," he said. Sally closed her mouth. Her tongue returned, and she tasted his seed still in the back of her throat. She looked at Marcus—for real, this time, straight in the face, as Jamal had taught her—and felt her own shortness of breath through her nostrils.

"Yes," she said. Her voice came out thin and broken. "Yes, Master Marcus."

Marcus laughed. A short, chest-thumping sound, and he shook his head as if the answer had amused him more than expected. "Listen to the way he talks," he said, and turned to Darnell. "Listen to that voice."

Darnell had his glass resting on his knee and his head tilted to one side. The ice inside the glass had almost melted. He looked at Sally for a few seconds without saying anything, his thick beard covering his jaw, his small eyes looking down at her like two fingers.

"Jamal," he finally said, his voice slow as ever, each word drawn out calmly. "How long did it take you to train her like this?"

“As long as it takes,” Jamal replied.

“That’s not an answer.”

“That’s not a question that deserves an answer.”

Darnell laughed softly and drank. Sally felt the liquid trickle down her throat, felt the way his head moved as he drank—unhurriedly, without looking at her, as if she were a piece of furniture in a room he knew well. Yet, when he put the glass down, his eyes returned to her and rested on the pink leather collar, the gold ring that glittered at the base of her throat.

"That thing there," Darnell said, pointing with his collar. "Does he always wear it?"

"Always," said Jamal.

«Outside too?»

«Outside too.»

Darnell nodded slowly, as if filing the information away. "And what do people say?"

“People look,” Jamal said. “And then they look again.”

Sally felt her ears burning. She knew what it meant—it had actually happened one night, at a restaurant downtown where Jamal had taken her with her collar exposed and her dress short, and she'd spent the entire dinner feeling the waiters' eyes on the back of her neck and unable to eat. The cage pressed against her thigh even now, just remembering it.

Kendrick hadn't said anything. He sat in the chair, his tight black T-shirt and his eyebrow piercing catching the light, his thumb brushing his lower lip, and he looked at her. Sally felt him more than the others. He was the youngest, but he was the one who looked at her as if he meant something to her.

"Why are you keeping her on your knees?" Kendrick asked. His voice was dry, direct, and unadorned. "Dinner's ready."

Jamal turned to him slowly. "Because I like it that way."

«Yes, but we eat.»

"You eat," Jamal said. "She serves."

Kendrick nodded, and for the first time since she'd come in, Lilly saw something move on his face—not a smile, not yet, but the beginning of one, as if the answer had confirmed a calculation he'd been making himself. He ran his hand over his chin and looked back at her, and Sally lowered her eyes.

Terrence hadn't spoken since he'd said *that's how it's done*. He stood at the other end of the table, his Hawaiian shirt open over his massive chest, the gold chain digging into his tanned skin. The scar above his eyebrow barely moved when he breathed. Lilly couldn't tell if he was looking at her or looking past her, at the wall, at something only he could see.

Then Terrence placed his hands on his thighs and stood up.

The chair creaked under his weight. He was bigger than Sally remembered—not just tall, but broad, the heavy body of someone who had stopped playing but never stopped eating, his arms thick as logs protruding from his short-sleeved shirt. He walked slowly around the table. His shoes clicked against the wood in a slow, steady rhythm, and each step brought him closer to her.

Sally felt her breath catch in her throat. Her hands were still on her open thighs, her fingers barely closing on the fabric of her latex dress. The XXL plug was pressing inside her, and the pink cage was squeezing her cock in a grip that now felt tighter than before.

Terrence stopped in front of Jamal. He didn't look at Sally. He looked at his master.

“Can I?” he asked.

A single word, his voice rough as sandpaper. Sally didn't immediately understand what he meant. She looked at Jamal—his face, his trim beard, his dark eyes that narrowed slightly—and saw the smile widen under his mustache, slow, pleased, as if the question was exactly what she'd been waiting for.

“You can,” Jamal said.

Terrence reached out. His fingers—thick, warm, with marked knuckles—cupcaked her chin, and for a moment Sally thought he was going to lift her face like Jamal had. But he didn't. His fingers cupped her collar. The pink leather slid slightly under his grip, and Terrence turned the tags a little, as if reading something written on the back.

“Is there anything written there?” he asked.

"His name," Jamal said. "And mine."

Terrence nodded. He let go of the collar, and his fingers moved up Sally's throat, stopping at the gold circle. He rolled it between his thumb and forefinger, once, twice, like a coin. Then he let it fall against Lilly's collarbone with a soft jingle.

"Beautiful workmanship," he said. "Who made it for you?"

“Someone I know,” Jamal said.

«I thought so.»

Terrence straightened. For a moment he stood there, over her, and Sally felt his shadow fall on her, blocking the spotlights. Then he returned to his chair, as unhurriedly as he had come, and sat down again with his legs wide apart, his Hawaiian shirt flaring at his chest, and picked up the glass he had left on the table.

No one said anything for a few seconds. Sally felt her heart pounding against her ribs. She could still feel Terrence's fingers on her throat—not the touch, but the memory of the touch, the skin remembering where she'd been touched. She realized she'd stopped breathing through her mouth and was breathing through her nose, slowly, so as not to make any noise.

"So," Marcus said, and set the empty glass down on the table with a bang. "Are we eating or not?"

Jamal didn't answer right away. He looked at Sally—he looked down at her calmly, his eyes trailing from her collar to her knees bent on the carpet—and then he looked at the table, at the porcelain plates Sally had set down earlier, still empty, still cold.

"Yes," he said. "We eat."

Sally felt her shoulders relax a millimeter. A mistake. She knew it immediately, from the way Jamal tilted his head.

"Now you have to serve dinner," he said. "Stand up."

Sally stood up. Her knees creaked, and the XXL plug shifted inside her with a weight that made her grit her teeth. The cage pressed against her thigh as she straightened. She felt the blood rush back to her legs, and for a moment the room spun a little—the air conditioner, the spotlights, the five men sitting around the table, all watching her at once.

"The first course is in the kitchen," Jamal said. "Go."

“Jamal, do you offer that to guests too, or is it just for you?”

Sall felt the question hit her like a hand on the back of her neck. She kept her eyes down. She waited.

Jamal's response came after a silence that Sally felt fall on the room like a hand on her head.

"Sure," he said. Just that. Then the sound of his chair moving back, and Sally saw the toes of his black shoes turn toward her, and she knew she had to look up.

She did. Jamal was looking down at her, his glass still in his hand, his thumb slowly circling the glass. "Get up," he said. "And come here."

Sally stood up. Her knees creaked, and the plug rose an inch higher inside her when she straightened, and for a moment she couldn't breathe. She crossed the short space between the chair and the table, and the four men watched her without stopping eating, their forks rising and falling, the wine disappearing from their glasses. No one spoke to her. It was Jamal who spoke, for everyone.

"Marcus asked something," Jamal said. "And I answered. But you didn't."

Lilly lowered her head. "Yes, Master."

“Look at him,” Jamal said. “Not me.”

Sally looked up at Marcus. He had placed his fork askew on his plate and swiveled in his chair to look at her better, his elbow resting on the backrest, a smile tugging at just one side of his mouth. His white shirt was tight on his shoulders, and his gold watch glinted on his wrist every time he moved his hand.

"So," Marcus said, his voice warm and slow. "Jamal says so. But I want to hear it from you."

Sally felt her ears burning. She looked at the carpet, then back at Marcus, because Jamal had told her to look at him. "Yes, Master Marcus," she said. "Master Jamal is offering me to the guests."

Marcus didn't laugh. He tilted his head, as if weighing his words. "What if I wanted you tonight?" he asked. "Not some night. Tonight."

The silence around the table thickened. Sally heard Darnell put down his glass, heard the glass tapping on the wood. She didn't look at anyone except Marcus, because that was what she'd been told.

“If Master Jamal agrees,” he said, “I am here to serve.”

"Good," Marcus said, turning back to the table and picking up his fork again. "Then I want to watch her work tonight."

Jamal didn't answer. He nodded toward the place next to his chair, and Sally knelt again. The carpet pressed against her knees, and from there, low, she saw the men's legs under the table, their shoes, their dark socks, and smelled the scent of the sea bass mingling with the wine and the wood of the room. She counted the forks clacking. She counted the glasses being filled. She held still with the count, as she did in the kitchen, and waited.

The meal continued. They talked about things that weren't about her—a job, a game, a name she didn't recognize—and Sally remained on her knees, her back straight, her hands on her thighs, and every now and then she felt someone's gaze descend on her like a drop of cold water on her skin. Kendrick was the first to touch her without asking. He reached under the table and pressed the toe of his shoe against her side, gently, as if to test its solidity. Lilly didn't move. She felt the leather against her rib, and the heat rising from her neck to her face, and she said nothing, because she hadn't been asked anything.

Then, when the plates were empty and the glasses were half empty, Jamal put his fork down sideways and wiped his mouth with his napkin, and Sally knew from the way he did it—slow, precise—that the meal was over and the next thing was about to begin.

«sally,» disse. «In piedi.»

She stood up. Jamal stood with her, and for a moment he stood taller than everyone else, his shoulders filling the dim light of the room, his black shirt open at the chest. He turned to the guests and spoke to them, not to her.

"I promised you," he said. "You'll see it all tonight. But first, the little whore's doing something else for me."

He sat down again. He spread his legs under the table, and with a wave of his hand indicated the space between his knees. Sally felt the blood drain from her head for a second, then return, hot, and her knees moved on their own, and she knelt between Jamal's legs, under the table, with the wood above her head and the darkness closing in around her and the men's voices coming muffled, as if from another room.

"Look," Jamal said over her. "And be quiet."

Sally reached out. She placed her hands on his thighs, felt the fabric of his dress pants, the warmth of his skin beneath, and then her fingers found the zipper and pulled it down, slowly, one notch at a time, and the sound of the zipper unzipping seemed louder than everything else. Jamal didn't help her. He kept his hands on the table and waited, and Sally felt the weight of what she was doing—not the gesture, but the fact that four men were watching her do it from under a dining room table, her collar around her neck and her latex dress hiked up her thighs.

She opened his pants. She slipped her hand inside, under the waistband of his boxers, and felt Jamal's cock—already hard, hot, heavy—filling her palm. She pulled it out, and the low light of the room caught it, dark against the pale skin of her hand, and Sally heard a man across the table inhale softly, like someone seeing something he's been waiting for coming.

“Go,” Jamal said. Just that.

Sally leaned in. She placed her lips on the tip, and for a moment she could only feel it—the heat, the pulse throbbing against her mouth, the taste of skin and soap. Then she opened her mouth and took him in, and her jaw opened until it hurt, and she felt his cock fill her mouth.

"There," said Darnell's voice, somewhere above her. "That's how it's done." Sally closed her eyes. She took in as much as she could, and then pulled back, and then back down again, and found the rhythm herself, her mouth tightening around him, saliva dripping from the corners of her lips and wetting her chin. She felt Jamal's hand rest on the nape of her neck, wide, warm fingers gripping her short, straight hair, and then the push—not hard, but firm—that told her how deep to go.

"Lower," Jamal said. Sally went down. She felt the tip of it reach her throat, and her eyes filled with tears, and she resisted, and didn't pull away, because the hand on the back of her neck wouldn't let her. Her throat tightened around him, and Jamal made a low sound, almost a growl, and his hand tightened on her hair.

"Look how he takes it," Marcus said, his voice closer than before, as if he'd leaned forward in his chair. "Jamal, where did you find it?"

"She offered herself to me," Jamal said. "And I took her."

Sally continued. The table above her choked her, and the darkness made everything more intense—the taste, the weight, Jamal's pulse throbbing against her palate, the wet sound of his mouth moving up and down. She felt Jamal's fingers shifting, guiding her faster, and she followed, and her jaw ached, and saliva dripped down her neck to the leather collar, and she continued.

“Do you like it, little slut?” Jamal asked from above her.

Sally couldn't answer with her mouth full. She made a sound, a nod, and continued, and she felt Jamal's soft laughter rippling through her. Then the hand on the back of her neck held her still, and Jamal thrust his hip forward, and Lilly felt his cock swell in her mouth, and she understood.

“Don’t move,” Jamal said. “Take it.

Sally stood there with her mouth full, her throat open, her hands resting on his thighs, and she felt his seed reach her core—hot, thick, bitter—and she swallowed it, and some of it leaked out of the corner of her mouth and ran down her chin, slowly, until it dripped onto the carpet. Jamal held her there a moment longer, then let go of her hair, and Sally pulled back, and breathed, and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and the seed lay on her fingers, shiny.

"Outside," Jamal said. "And on your feet."

Sally emerged from under the table. She stood, and the four men looked at her—her chin shining, her neck wet, the collar pressing against her throat with every breath. Terrence said nothing. Darnell finished his whiskey. Kendrick ran a hand over his chin thoughtfully, then nodded to Jamal as if to say okay. Marcus rose from his chair and walked over, stopping in front of her, and took her chin between two fingers.

"Now it's my turn," he said. "But not in my mouth."

Sally felt her stomach tighten, and the pink plastic cage felt tighter, and the plug felt heavy inside her as if it had suddenly grown larger. She looked at Jamal. Jamal was sitting, glass in hand, and he was looking at her with that predatory expression she knew—the same one he had when he made a decision and had no intention of explaining it.

“Yes,” Jamal said. “Tonight.”

Marcus let go of her chin. He turned to the others and smiled, his white teeth gleaming in the dim light. "So," he said, "who wants to start?"

Terrence put down his fork. "Me," he said. His voice was rough, unhurried. "But first I want to see her without her dress."

Sally felt Jamal's hands on her back before she realized he'd stood up. His fingers found the zipper of her latex dress and tugged it down, straight, and the latex opened around her with a snap, and the air of the room touched the bare skin of her back, and Sally closed her eyes for a moment, because she knew what was coming next—the tattoos, the collar, the cage, the plug, everything she had become, exposed beneath five pairs of eyes.

The dress slipped off her feet. Sally was left in her fishnet stockings, the choker, and nothing else, and she felt Terrence's gaze descend on her, slowly, like a hand touching her without touching her.

“Turn around,” said Terence.

Sally turned around. And she felt, behind her, the silence of the men growing more intense, because on her back, above her ass, was the tattoo of a black dick with the word "Love," and now everyone could see it.

"There," Darnell said softly. "Now that explains everything."

Terrence rose from his chair. He didn't do it quickly—he leaned on the armrests, pushed his heavy body to his feet, and the chair creaked on the floor. He walked around the table without looking at her, and Sally heard his footsteps approaching from behind, then stopping. His Hawaiian shirt hung open on his chest, and the gold chain danced against his sternum with each breath.

"Hold her hands still," he said to no one in particular. "Or Jamal."

"Me," Jamal said. He stood up too, and stood in front of Lilly, taking her wrists and pulling her arms behind her back, and held them there—a single, wide hand, enclosing both her wrists like an iron ring. Lilly felt her shoulders pull forward, her chest expand, and the position made her push her ass back toward Terrence, without being asked.

“Good,” Terrence said behind her. “Likely.”

She felt his fingers on her collar first—he ran his thumb under the buckle, testing the closure, as if making sure it was secure. Then his hands moved down. They cupped her hips, large and warm, and turned her pelvis a few inches, and Sally realized he was adjusting her—positioning her as he wanted, the way you arrange an object on a table before using it.

"The cage," Darnell said from his chair. "Will you leave it with him?"

"For now, yes," Terence said. "I want to see if you need it."

Sally felt her face burn, and she couldn't tell if it was from shame or from the way Terrence's voice had said it—flat, without malice, like a statement of fact. His fingers trailed down her back, stopping at the tattoo, and they traced it slowly, from bottom to top, following the line of the black dick and then the word "Love," as if he were reading it with his fingertip.

“How long did it take you?” he asked Jamal.

"Three sessions," Jamal said. "The third one was half gone."

"And then?"

“And then she stopped crying and I finished it.”

Terrence laughed—a short, chest-thumping sound, almost a cough. "Good," he said. And his hands moved further down, to the plug, and his fingers closed around the base, and they moved it—slowly, a quarter turn, like turning a key. Lilly felt the fullness inside her shift, and her legs trembled, and Jamal gripped her wrists to keep her upright.

"Reggila," said Terence.

“I can handle it,” Jamal said.

Terrence knelt behind her. Sally felt his knee touch the carpet beside her foot, felt the heat of his body approaching her back, and then felt his lips—no, not lips, his breath—on her skin, over the tattoo, warm and slow. He didn't kiss her. He blew on her, and Lilly felt goosebumps rise, and she waited, and nothing came.

“Jamal,” Terrence said, his voice now coming from beneath her, “the table.”

Sall felt Jamal release her wrists. His hands cupped the back of her neck and pushed her down, and she bent forward on her own, her hands reaching for the edge of the table, and found them, and held on, and remained bent over with her back horizontal and her ass up, and the room before her turned upside down—the chairs, the glasses, the men's shoes, all seen from below, from a position that wasn't human.

“That’s fine,” said Terence.

She felt his hand spread her buttocks. Not gently—with two thumbs inserted into her anus, the cool air of the room touched the spot where only the plug had been, and Lilly closed her eyes and gripped the wood of the table until her knuckles turned white.

"Look how beautiful," Marcus's voice said, closer than before. "Jamal, look at the hole you made in him."

“I trained her well,” Jamal laughed.

Terrence took the plug and pulled it. He didn't do it slowly—he pulled it out in one motion, and Sally felt the emptiness hit her all at once, her ass clenching against nothing, and a moan escaped her throat before she could stop it. She felt the plug settle on the carpet, damp, next to her knee.

"There," said Terence. "Now you're empty."

Lilly felt his fingers. Two, right away, entering without asking, and the plug's lubrication was barely enough, and she felt the stretching, and her breath caught in her throat. The fingers went in, opened, came back, and then went in again, and Terrence worked calmly, like someone who has time, and every time the fingers came out, Sally felt air entering where it shouldn't have, and her ass tightened around nothing, and she waited.

“It fits,” Terence said. “It fits perfectly.”

Then he stood up. Sally felt the carpet shift beneath his knee, heard the sound of his belt unbuckling—the buckle, the leather slipping from the rings—and then the sound of the zipper, and then the swish of his pants unbuckling. She didn't turn around. She couldn't. She kept her eyes on the edge of the table, counting the specks of dust on the tablecloth, and waited.

"Jamal," said Terence. "Vieni qui."

Sally felt Jamal move. She felt him approach her, across the table, and then she heard the sound of his belt, and she understood. The blood drained from her head again, and her knees shook, and her arms stiffened on the wood.

"You wanted a double," Jamal said. His voice was calm, almost soft. "It's your first time. You know that."

“Yes, Master,” she said, her voice coming out thin, the words sticking to her tongue.

"Then take it as you should."

She felt Terrence's hand on her hip, holding her still. She felt the tip of his cock against her—hot, round, pressing but not entering, waiting for her to yield. And Sally yielded. She didn't decide: her body did it on its own, her ass opening a millimeter, and the tip sliding in, and the stretching that tore another sound from her throat.

“Easy,” Jamal said from above her. “Breathe.”

Sally breathed. She felt Terrence enter her inch by inch, each inch felt like a separate thing, and her hands closed on the edge of the table, and her jaw clenched, and then the tip reached the end and stopped, and Terrence made a low, satisfied sound, and his two hands gripped her hips and held her there.

“All of it,” Terence said. “There.”

Sally remained still with him inside her. She felt the fullness, the warmth, the pulse pounding inside her, and she felt her body opening around him as if it were made for this, and the tears came to her eyes but didn't fall. Then Jamal took her chin and lifted her face, and she looked at him, and Jamal looked at her, and said nothing.

Then Jamal moved. He placed his cock in front of her mouth, and Lilly opened her lips, and he entered, and now she was filled from both sides—her mouth and her ass—and the two were nothing alike, and together they were one, a thing that took her breath away, her thoughts. She felt Terrence begin to move behind her, slowly, a long wave, and Jamal move in front, another wave, and the two waves didn't go together, and Sally's body tensed to hold them both.

"Look," Marcus said, his voice now coming from very close by, from above, as if he were standing beside them. "Look how she takes it from both of them."

“And he hasn't cried yet,” Darnell said.

“She’s going to cry,” Jamal said, and pushed deeper, and Sally felt the tip of it hit her throat, and her eyes actually filled, and tears were running down her cheeks to the corners of her mouth, where Jamal’s cock was sliding in and out, and the taste of salt mingled with his.

Terrence sped up. His hands gripped her hips, his fingers digging into her flesh, and Sally felt the rhythm change—shorter, harder, each thrust moving her entire body forward, and her mouth slamming against Jamal's crotch, and her throat tightening, and the wet sound filling the silence of the room. She felt the slap of skin against skin, and heard the men's voices commenting, and she couldn't make out the words, because all she could feel was the fullness and the heat and the need to breathe between thrusts.

“Are you almost there?” Terrence asked, his voice hoarse.

"Yes," Jamal said. "She's ready."

Sally wasn't. Or maybe she was, and she didn't know it. She felt something rising inside her, from below, from where Terrence was opening her, and it wasn't pleasure and it wasn't pain, it was something that took away her words and left her with only her body, and her body responded on its own, her ass tightening around him, her mouth sucking Jamal without her telling it.

“Now,” Jamal said, and he took her head in both hands, and held it still, and came down her throat and she took it, and swallowed it, and some of it leaked out of her lips and down her chin, and at that same moment Terrence pushed deep behind her and stopped, and Sally felt his seed filling her ass, hot, and felt his cock throb inside her, once, twice, three times, and then the weight of his body leaning against her back.

Neither of them moved for a moment. Sally remained there, bent over the table, filled on both sides, tears dripping onto the wood and semen dripping from her chin and the other hole, and she felt her breathing return, labored, and felt her heart pound in her throat.

Then Terrence pulled out. Sally felt the emptiness and the warm liquid running down her thigh, and her knees buckled an inch, and Jamal held her head a moment longer, and then he let go too.

"On your knees," Jamal said. "And give thanks."

Sally slipped off the table. Her legs wouldn't hold her, and she leaned against the wood to keep from falling, ending up on her knees on the carpet, her thighs wet and her chin glistening, the collar pressing against her throat with every breath. She looked up at Terrence, who was already buttoning his pants as if he'd finished a job.

"Thank you, Master Terrence," she said. Her voice cracked, and the words cost her.

Terrence looked down at her. He didn't smile. "All right," he said, and went back to his chair, and sat down, and picked up his glass again.