Chapter 3: The Feast
The sixth man was older, gray at the temples, and he grabbed Flip's shoulders like handles and sawed into him with long steady strokes. Cum squelched out around his cock with every pull-back, frothing at the rim, and the men nearest the rug leaned in to watch it foam.
"Six," Deena announced, like a ring girl. "Six loads in the dump."
The gray-haired man grunted and added a seventh's worth of nothing, because he pulled out at the last second and stroked himself off across Flip's lower back, painting two white stripes up his spine.
"Oh, he's decorating now," Deena laughed. "Back it up. In the hole, sir, that's what we signed him for."
The man laughed, pushed back in for a few messy strokes, and finished there. Flip said his thank you into the rug. Somebody patted his head like a good horse.
Seven. Eight. The eight man was short and thick and talked the whole time, narrating to the room, calling Flip a bitch in heat, a taxpayer-funded fleshlight, whatever came into his head, and the room laughed at each one while Flip's arms trembled and his cage scraped the concrete under him. When he came, he stayed buried and ground his hips in slow circles, and Flip whined at the feel of it spreading.
"How many is that, cleanup boy?" Deena called. She was flushed pink down her chest now, two fingers buried to the knuckle, her heel drumming the chaise arm.
"Eight, Deena."
"Say the whole sentence."
"Eight loads in my ass. I'm eight loads deep and there's seven men left." His voice was wrecked, hoarse from the rug and the moaning. The crowd whooped.
Nine came fast, barely two minutes, a furious pace that slapped cum out of him in wet bursts. Ten was drunk and giggly and kept slipping out, and each time the men shouted to put it back, and Flip reached back and held his own cheek open to guide him in, and Deena made him announce that too.
"He's steering cock now, gentlemen. He's a professional."
Eleven and twelve went back to back, one finishing in him and the next already kneeling behind before the first had pulled out, and the mess between rounds was beyond describing, white and thick and constant, running down his balls, spotting the rug. Deena pointed at every drop.
"Lick. Don't argue, don't beg, just lick."
He licked. His tongue was numb with salt. The taste coated everything now, his teeth, his throat, the back of his nose. A phone filmed him close-up as he tongued a smear of cum the size of a coaster off the concrete, and the man holding it zoomed in on the steel cage swinging under his stained balls.
"Thirteen," Deena counted, and her breath had gone ragged. She was fucking herself on her fingers openly now, hips lifting, her red nails flashing. "Thirteen loads in my ex-boyfriend's faggot ass. And you know what, baby? I'm close. Watching you get bred is the single best thing you have ever done for me."
"Thank you, Deena," Flip slurred. His cheek was stuck to the rug. "Thank you for signing me up."
Fourteen lasted forever, slow and deep, changing angles until Flip's whole body jerked and a sound came out of him that made the entire room roar with laughter. He did it again, hunting that spot, and Flip's caged cock swung and leaked and ached with a pleasure that had nowhere to land.
"He's finding the sissy spot," the man said. "Look at his face."
"There's no relief in it for him," Deena gasped, riding her own fingers. "That's the cruelty. He feels all of it and gets none of it. Right, Flip? Tell them."
"I feel it and I can't cum. The cage won't let me. Deena won't let me."
"Four months," the room chorused, someone started it, and they all said it together like a toast.
Fourteen emptied into him. Fifteen stepped up, the last man, a big red-faced guy who'd been waiting an hour, and Deena held up a hand.
"Wait. Change of program." She sat up, hair stuck to her sweating neck, and pointed at the chaise. "Fifteen gets my pussy. I'm not ending the night without one more load in me. Flip, roll over on your back. Under me. Now."
Flip rolled. The concrete was cold against his soaked back, cum smearing off him onto the floor. His cage pointed at the ceiling, small and absurd and dripping. Fifteen hauled himself up onto the chaise over him and pushed into Deena from above, and she braced on the armrest and rode him hard, her tits swinging over Flip's face, her wet slap of flesh directly overhead.
"Watch," she panted, looking down past her own bouncing chest at him. "This is load fifteen, cleanup boy. It goes in me, not you. And then you know where it goes."
"In my mouth, Deena."
"In your mouth. Every drop."
Fifteen hammered her. Her cries got shorter and sharper, and she came with a scream that cracked off the glass, clamping down on him, and he groaned and buried himself and pulsed. The room counted it out loud, fifteen, fifteen, fifteen, and the men pounded the couch arms.
He pulled out. Deena swung off the chaise and straddled Flip's head, facing his feet, and squatted her wrecked, gaping pussy an inch above his mouth. Cum hung from her in a thick white strand, swaying.
"Open," she said.
He opened. She lowered onto him and the first hot gush hit his tongue before his lips even sealed, load fifteen mixed with everything still inside her, and she ground down and smothered him.
"Clean it. All of it. Fifteen loads in his ass and one more for dinner."
The chant started low behind her, growing, phones raised over her shoulders: "Cleanup boy. Cleanup boy. Cleanup boy."