Chapter 12: Greasy Spoon Gangbang
The taste of come and synthetic lemon was still a paste on his tongue when the world snapped into a new, jarring focus. The plush carpet vanished. His knees hit cold, wet linoleum.
He was on the floor of a bathroom. A diner bathroom, reeking of industrial disinfectant and stale urine. Pale green tiles, grout black with mildew. A flickering fluorescent light buzzed overhead like an angry insect. He was facing a long, stained porcelain urinal, his fly already open, his dick in his hand. A thin, pointless stream was just trickling out.
From behind him, the scrape of a stall door.
“Marlene, I’m tellin’ you, the secret is club soda in the batter. Makes ‘em airy.”
“Club soda my ass, Darlene. That’s what makes ‘em soggy. You gotta use sparkling water. And a pinch of cornstarch.”
Two women sidled up to him, one on each side, squeezing him against the cold porcelain. They were waitresses, or parodies of them. Stained pink uniforms stretched to near bursting over absurdly proportioned bodies. The blonde on his left had hair piled in a frazzled beehive, chipped red polish on her fingernails. The brunette on the right had smeared, raccoon-like eyeliner and a wad of gum popping in her mouth.
They ignored Bob’s slack-jawed confusion, staring instead at his exposed dick, which was now, predictably, beginning to stiffen under their combined gaze.
“Lookit that, Darlene,” the blonde—Marlene—said, her voice a nasal drawl. “Customer left his utensil out. Unsanitary.”
“Health code violation, Marlene,” Darlene agreed, popping her gum. “Gotta sanitize before return to service.”
As one, they sank to their knees on the filthy floor. Marlene’s giant, pale breasts spilled out of her uniform top, smothering his shaft in warm, pillowy flesh as she leaned forward. Darlene’s darker, heavier set swung beneath his balls, cushioning them. Then their mouths were on him, from both ends.
There was no grace, no technique. It was a noisy, slobbery ordeal. Marlene took the head, sucking with violent, cheeks-hollowed concentration, her chipped nails scratching at his thigh. Darlene laved and sucked at his balls, her tongue broad and wet, her gum transferred to her cheek with a click. They bobbed in a discordant rhythm, their beehive and ponytail bumping against each other.
“Mmmph—see? Told you club soda,” Marlene mumbled, her mouth full.
“Nuh-uh, tastes like sparkling water to me,” Darlene retorted, her words vibrating against his perineum.
Bob’s head lolled back against the urinal. His body was on automatic, his hips giving shallow thrusts into the dual, wet heat. One of Marlene’s hands came up and smack-slapped her own tit against the side of his face, then held it there, suffocating him in soap-scented cleavage. He breathed through the damp valley of her bra.
They pulled off with twin, wet pops.
“Counter’s free,” Darlene announced, standing and wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.
His body turned. They manhandled him out of the bathroom, through a swinging door, and into the empty diner proper. The air was greasy, smelling of old fries and syrup. They shoved him backwards onto a long Formica counter, sending a ketchup bottle and a stack of napkins flying. His ass landed on the cold surface.
Marlene hiked up her uniform skirt, revealing no underwear, just a thatch of blonde curls. She spat into her palm, slicked him roughly, and then impaled herself on him with a grunt, taking him inside her in one downward plunge. She began to ride him, her breasts bouncing wildly, her uniform straps snapping. “Sparkling. Water.” She grunted with each bounce.
Darlene, meanwhile, had produced a can of whipped cream from her apron. She shook it vigorously, the metal ball rattling. With a theatrical hiss, she sprayed a fat, swirling mound onto Bob’s stomach. Then she turned, bent over, and presented her ass. She aimed the nozzle.
The cold, sweet foam hit his asshole, a shocking, sugary intrusion. She emptied half the can, the cream dribbling down his thighs and onto the counter. Then she dropped the can, spat on her fingers, and began to work the foam inside him, her fingers pushing past the tight ring with sticky, relentless pressure. It burned, it was cold, it was grotesquely sweet.
Bob was split in two—filled above and below. Marlene’s cunt clenched around him, hot and rhythmic. Darlene’s finger, then two, then the rough, rounded tip of the whipped cream can itself, pushed and twisted inside his ass. The world narrowed to the slap of flesh on flesh, the hiss of Darlene’s breathing, the clatter of a spatula falling from a hook.
Marlene came with a shrill cry, her body locking around him, milking him violently. The sensation, combined with the violating pressure in his rear, tipped him over. He spasmed, pumping into her, his vision whiting out at the edges.
As he finished, Darlene pulled the can from his ass with a wet, sucking plop. She stood, grinning with her smeared eyeliner. “Told you. Cornstarch.”
Then, without warning, she squatted over his spent, cream-smeared groin.
A hot, liquid, semi-solid log of whipped cream and God-knew-what else erupted from her, splattering onto his stomach and softening dick with a sound like thick batter hitting a bowl. It was warm. It smelled incongruously of vanilla and human waste.
The two waitresses looked at each other and burst into cackling laughter, high and vacant.
Bob lay on the counter, drowning in the stench of sex, disinfectant, and synthetic vanilla. The fluorescent lights above flickered, their buzz deepening, morphing into a low, mechanical thrum. The Formica under his back began to feel less like plastic and more like cool, polished metal. The laughter faded, replaced by a new sound: the rhythmic, hydraulic sigh of a giant pump.