Chapter 2: The Line Forms
The line formed fast. Fifteen men, jeans and belts already loosening, shuffling into a crooked queue from the couch to the rug where Flip knelt with Marcus's and Derek's loads still leaking out of him. The front man was a stranger, heavyset, bald, already hard in his fist.
"Knees wider, ass up," Deena said. She'd folded herself back onto the chaise, one heel hooked over the armrest, crimson nails idle between her thighs. "Face forward, cleanup boy. I want you looking at the line while each one mounts you. Count them out loud."
The bald man dropped behind him and pushed straight in. Flip's stretched hole swallowed him with barely a wince, sloppy and loose, squelching around whatever was left inside him.
"Oh, that's nasty," the man groaned. "He's full of the last two guys."
"He's a cum dump," Deena said. "That's what cum dumps are full of. Flip, who's inside you right now?"
"A stranger, Deena. A man I've never met."
"And what do you say to a man who's using your hole?"
"Thank you, sir." Flip's voice came out high and thin, punched apart by the man's thrusts. "Thank you for fucking me."
The room laughed. Phones tilted. The bald man hammered him for a minute, short urgent strokes, then grunted and sank deep, and Flip felt the pulse again, the heat blooming around Marcus's and Derek's mess. Load three.
"Out," Deena ordered. "Next."
The man pulled free and Flip heard himself say, before anyone prompted him, "Thank you, sir. Thank you for your cum." The crowd hooted at that, and his face burned so hard he felt dizzy.
The second man was younger, wiry, and he lasted longer. He gripped Flip's hips and fucked him in slow rolling strokes, leaning over his back, breathing against his ear while the line watched.
"You feel that slosh, boy?" he said. "That's four months of no pussy building up in there."
"He doesn't get pussy," Deena called out, fingers circling faster now. "He gets loads. That's his diet. Flip, how many loads are in your ass right now?"
"Three, Deena."
"How many after this one?"
"Four."
"And how many will you eat off the rug when he's done?"
"All of it. Whatever leaks."
The wiry man sped up, slapping against him, and Deena watched Flip's caged steel swing with a kind of fascination. "Look at the keychain bounce. Like a metronome. Keep time with my boy, gentlemen, he's got a rhythm going."
The man finished with a hiss, drove deep twice more, and stood. Flip's hole gaped and a thick white thread spilled out and hit the rug. Deena pointed one crimson nail at it.
"Don't you dare let that dry, cleanup boy. Down. Lick the floor."
Flip bent and pressed his tongue to the polished concrete, to the warm blob of mixed cum, and lapped it up. The grain of the rug scraped his chest. Someone behind him narrated the taste into a phone camera and the men cackled.
"Chin up," Deena said. "Next cock."
The third man was fat and hairy and took his time, rocking into Flip with his belly against his back, while Deena slid two fingers inside herself on the chaise and fucked herself in rhythm. By the time he groaned and emptied into him, she was panting, hips lifting off the leather.
"Say thank you," she gasped. "Every single one. That's the rule."
"Thank you, sir," Flip said, sobbing a little now, sweat dripping off his nose onto the rug. "Thank you for using my faggot hole. Thank you for the cum."
"He cries so pretty," Deena said. She pulled her fingers out of herself, glistening, and reached over to smear them across Flip's mouth. "Taste that. That's what you do to me, watching you get bred like a sow. Open."
He sucked her fingers clean while the fourth man in line knelt behind him and pushed in, and she watched him do it, lips curling.
"How's it feel, being a party favor? Fifteen men. You're going to take fifteen loads tonight, baby. You know that, right? You signed for it."
"Yes, Deena."
"Whose hole is this?"
"Everyone's here. Yours. Yours first."
"That's right. I lend it out." She sat forward, cupping her own tit, eyes bright and mean. "Harder," she told the fourth man. "Wreck him. I want the fifth guy sliding into soup."
The fourth man obeyed. The slaps got loud and wet, cum frothing white around Flip's stretched rim with every stroke, and the crowd started a chant, low at first, then ugly: cum dump, cum dump, cum dump. Flip's elbows gave out and he lay flat, cheek on the rug, taking it, the steel cage pinned beneath him swinging against his bare balls with no feeling in it at all except ache.
"He's leaking again," someone said.
"The little dick's crying. Can't even get hard in that thing, can you, boy?"
"No, sir," Flip said into the floor. "It just aches. It never gets hard. Deena owns it."
The fourth man unloaded, pulled out, and cum ran down Flip's taint in a warm ribbon and dripped off his balls, five loads deep now, and Deena crooked her fingers and pointed at the drips.
"Lick your own balls clean first. Then his thighs."
Flip twisted, awkward, and dragged his tongue over the soft weight of his own balls, tasting the salt of other men's nut off his own skin, while the fifth man in line stepped forward and Deena laughed, breathless, working herself toward another orgasm on the chaise.