Chapter 6: The Streetwalkers
The apartment door slammed shut behind them, and the night swallowed them whole.
The heat hit first—thick and wet, the kind of summer night that made the air feel like soup. Logan's skin prickled with it, every nerve ending already raw and oversensitive from hours of Samantha's attention. The tiny skirt rode up his thighs with every step, the crop top clung to his chest like a second skin, and his caged cock throbbed with a dull, persistent ache that had become almost comforting.
Almost.
Samantha grabbed his hand and pulled him down the stairs. Her leather leggings creaked with each stride, and the corset pushed her breasts up so high they almost spilled over the top. She looked like she belonged on the cover of some underground magazine—dangerous and beautiful and completely in control.
"Where are we going?" he asked.
"Wherever the night takes us."
The street was alive.
Not the quiet, respectable street they lived on during the day—the one with the neat row houses and the old woman who watered her geraniums every morning. This was the street after dark, when the city shed its skin and showed its teeth.
Neon signs flickered overhead, spilling red and blue and sickly green light onto the wet pavement. The smell of stale beer and cigarette smoke hung in the air, mixed with something else—something musky and animal that made Logan's mouth water.
People moved in packs. Laughing. Shouting. Living.
And Logan was among them, dressed like a whore, his ass still loose and slick from Samantha's fingers.
"This way," she said, tugging him toward a bar.
The place was called The Rusty Nail. A fitting name. It looked like exactly the kind of establishment where bad decisions were made and forgotten by morning.
Outside, a group of men stood in a loose circle, smoking and laughing. They were rough-looking—construction workers, maybe, or bouncers. Big hands. Thick necks. The kind of men who could break Logan in half without breaking a sweat.
Samantha stopped.
"There," she said, nodding toward them. "Go get what you need."
He looked at her."What?"
"You heard me." She released his hand and stepped back. "Go."
He should have hesitated. Should have asked questions. Should have done anything except what he actually did.
He walked toward them.
The men noticed him immediately. How could they not? He was a vision of depravity—bare legs, painted face, a skirt so short it barely covered his ass. He could feel their eyes on him, hungry and curious and amused.
"Evening," he said.
One of them—a burly man with a thick beard and a faded tattoo on his forearm—laughed. "Evening? Is that what we're calling it?"
"I'm calling it whatever you want."
The men exchanged glances. Then the bearded one—Marcus, his friend called him—stepped forward.
"You lost, sweetheart?"
"No."
"Then what are you doing here?"
Logan didn't answer with words. He dropped to his knees instead, the pavement rough and wet against his skin. The men went quiet. He could feel Samantha watching from the curb, could feel her eyes on him like a physical weight.
He reached for Marcus's belt.
"Whoa," the man said. "What the—"
But he didn't stop him. None of them did. They just watched, frozen, as Logan unzipped his jeans and pulled out his cock.
It was thick. Thicker than he'd expected. Already half-hard, the skin warm and salty against his tongue. He didn't tease. Didn't lick. Just opened his mouth and swallowed it down.
"Fuck," Marcus breathed.
Logan worked him with his throat, taking him deeper with each bob of his head. The taste was overwhelming—sweat and musk and something bitter underneath. He gagged once, twice, then forced himself to relax.
"Shit," another man said. "He's good at that."
Behind him, footsteps.
He felt hands on his skirt—rough hands, yanking the fabric up over his hips. Cool air hit his exposed ass, then something warmer. A body pressing against him.
"Don't mind if I do," a voice said.
Logan didn't have time to respond. The man behind him—the one with the gravelly voice and the calloused fingers—spat on his hole and pushed inside.
The stretch was brutal. He wasn't prepared, wasn't lubed enough, and the pain was sharp and immediate. But it was also perfect. The fullness. The intrusion. The way it made him feel like nothing but a hole to be used.
"There we go," the man said. "Nice and tight."
They moved together—the one in front fucking his throat, the one behind fucking his ass—and Logan was nothing but a vessel. A thing to be passed around. He moaned around Marcus's cock, the vibration making the man groan.
"Jesus," Marcus said. "He's moaning. He fucking loves it."
"He's a whore," the man behind Logan said. "Look at him. Dressed like that. Begging for it."
"Please," Logan gasped—though he wasn't sure what he was asking for.
"Please what?"
"More."
The man behind him laughed and drove deeper. "You heard him. He wants more."
Another man stepped up. Logan saw his boots first—heavy work boots, scuffed and dirty. Then the hands on his head, pulling him off Marcus's cock and turning him toward a second one.
This one was longer, thinner. It slid down his throat like water, and he swallowed it just as easily.
Three cocks. Three holes. He was being split open, turned inside out, and he loved every second of it.
From the curb, Samantha watched. Her hand was down her pants, fingers working furiously at her clit, and when Logan moaned—that high, desperate sound that came from somewhere deep in his chest—she came with him.
The men didn't last long.
Marcus finished first, pulling out and jerking himself off onto Logan's face. Ropes of hot come splattered across his cheeks, his lips, his chin. The second man came down his throat, and he swallowed it all—every last drop.
The man behind him was still going, pounding into him with a rhythm that made the pavement scrape against his knees.
"Almost there," he grunted. "Almost—"
He didn't finish the sentence. He just buried himself to the hilt and came with a shout.
Logan collapsed forward, cheek pressed against the wet pavement, and let them finish on him. More come landed on his back. His hair.His skirt. He was covered in it, dripping with it, and it still wasn't enough.
"That was..." Marcus shook his head. "That was something else."
"You're welcome," Logan said.
The men laughed. One of them—the gravelly one—smacked his ass hard enough to leave a handprint.
"Come back anytime," he said.
They zipped up and wandered off, leaving Logan kneeling on the sidewalk like a discarded toy.
Samantha appeared beside him.
"You did good," she said.
"I know."
She helped him to his feet, and he swayed, drunk on endorphins and come. His legs were weak. His ass was sore. His cock was still caged, still aching, still horribly, wonderfully frustrated.
"More," he said.
She smiled. "I know."
The come on his chin was drying, crusting into a salt map of where he'd been and who he'd been with. He wiped his face with the back of his hand, then licked it clean because wasting it felt like a sin. Samantha stood beside him, her hand still down her pants, her breathing ragged.
"You're not done," she said. It wasn't a question.
"No."
He stood on legs that barely held him. His ass throbbed. His knees were raw. But the hunger—that gnawing, insistent craving—had only sharpened. He needed more cocks. More come. More of that feeling of being filled and used and discarded like a cheap toy.
He looked across the street.
Another bar. This one had a neon sign shaped like a martini glass, flickering pink and purple against the dark brick. The door was propped open with a cinder block, and music spilled out—something heavy, bass thrumming through the pavement like a heartbeat.
"I'm going over there," he said.
Samantha's eyebrows lifted. "Oh?"
"Watch me."
He crossed the street without waiting for her answer. The pavement was wet under his heels, and the skirt flapped against his thighs, and he felt the come on his leg—still wet, still warm, still slick on his skin. He could smell himself. Sex and sweat and something animal. He didn't care who noticed.
The bar was dark and loud and full of bodies.
He walked in like he owned the place. Shoulders back.Chin up. Cum-stained and proud. The bartender looked at him—a woman with a shaved head and intricate tattoos—and grinned like she'd seen it all before.
"Get you something?"
"Just looking."
"Looking for what?"
He leaned against the bar, let the skirt ride up a little higher, and met her eyes. "Everything."
She laughed and poured him a shot of something clear. He didn't drink it. Just held the glass and scanned the room like a predator surveying its territory.
The crowd was mixed—men and women, young and old, couples and singles. But he wasn't interested in the women. He was hunting for cocks, and he found them everywhere. In the corner, a group of men played pool. At the bar, two guys in suits nursed expensive drinks. Near the jukebox, a bear of a man with a braided beard laughed at something on his phone.
Logan picked his first target.
The man was alone, leaning against the wall near the bathroom. Tall. Blonde. Built like he spent his mornings at the gym and his evenings finding new ways to ruin his liver. He noticed Logan immediately—how could he not?—and his eyes went wide.
"Hey," Logan said.
"Hey yourself."
"I'm going to suck your cock."
The man blinked. "That's...direct."
"Do you have a problem with that?"
"No. God, no."
Logan didn't waste time. He grabbed the man's belt—black leather, expensive—and pulled him into the bathroom. It was small and filthy, but he didn't care. It had a door, a lock, and enough room for what he had in mind.
He pushed the man against the wall and dropped to his knees.
"Fuck," the man breathed.
Logan unzipped his fly and pulled him out. Long. Pale. Already hard and leaking, the tip glistening in the dim light. He leaned forward and took it in one slow swallow. Down to the root. Down to where he could feel the man's pubic hair against his nose.
The man groaned.
"You like that?" Logan asked.
"Yes. Don't stop."
"Beg."
"What?"
Logan pulled back just enough to speak. "I said beg."
The man looked down at him—gone, desperate, already close to the edge. "Please," he said. "Please suck my cock. Please don't stop."
"Good boy."
Logan went back to work.
He worked the man like he'd been doing this for years—deep throat, tongue work, little humming vibrations that made the man's knees buckle. The bathroom filled with the sounds of it: wet suction, ragged breathing, the slap of skin on skin. His own cock was still caged, still aching, and that only made him more determined. He wasn't here for his pleasure. Not yet. He was here to feed.
"God, you're good at that," the man said."I know."
"Where did you learn—?"
"Shut up."
The man shut up.
Logan felt the pulse against his tongue—that telltale throb that meant someone was close. He pulled back and then drove forward, taking the cock into his throat, swallowing around it. The man came with a shout, flooding his mouth with bitter, thick heat. He swallowed once, twice, three times. Then he pulled off and looked up.
"Thanks," he said.
"You're welcome?"
But Logan was already gone, leaving the man panting against the wall and stepping back into the bar. He didn't stop. He couldn't stop. The hunger was a wildfire now, and every cock was fuel.
He found another man. Then another.
The next one was short and stocky, the one after that impossibly tall. A man in a suit, a man in a tracksuit, a man who looked like he'd stepped off a fishing boat. He sucked them all. Swallowed them all. Some of them he fucked—bent over the sink, palms against the cracked mirror, letting them take what they needed. His ass was loose enough now that he barely had to prep, and the stretch felt like coming home.
"Cock-hungry little thing, aren't you?" one of them asked—a big man with hands like shovels.
"Starving," Logan admitted.
The man laughed and fucked him harder.
By the time he stumbled out of the bathroom, his legs were shaking. His ass leaked a steady trickle of someone's come. His chin was a Jackson Pollock of seed. Strangers looked at him with a mix of disgust and desire. He winked at every last one of them.
Samantha was waiting at the door.
"You amaze me," she said.
"I'm a succubus."
"I know."
She led him out of that bar and toward another.
The next place was quieter—a lounge with velvet curtains and candles dripping wax onto dark tables. It reeked of hookah smoke and expensive cologne: the kind of place people took affairs. Logan swayed on his feet. His body was exhausted. His soul was humming. But the hunger wouldn't quit.
"You're enjoying this," Samantha said. "Aren't you?"
"Yes. Too much."
"Good."
She grabbed his chin and kissed him, licking the mixture of come and sweat from his lips. She didn't grimace. She savored it. Then she took his hand and pulled him inside.
Samantha worked the room while Logan watched.
That was the thing about her. She was smarter than him—always had been—and she knew exactly how to read people. He'd never noticed it before tonight. Or maybe he had, but he'd never seen it weaponized.
She skirted the crowd without touching anyone. She touched elbows, whispered into ears, smiled. But within minutes she'd found three men. And they followed her like dogs.
All of them were lean and pretty—delicate wrists and soft eyes, the kind of men who looked like they'd fall over if you blew on them. Logan understood at once. She wasn't looking for a fuck this time. She was looking for devotees.
She took them to a dark corner with a leather couch.
"You," she told the first one, a boy with curly hair and lips like a girl's. "Worship me."
He went to his knees before she'd finished the word. She lifted her skirt—she'd changed at some point into something shorter that bared her thighs—and pushed his face between her legs. No hesitation. No build-up. Just hunger.
The boy's tongue moved like it was trained. He licked her cunt with long, flat strokes that made her sigh and grip the back of his head.
"That's it," she said. "Nice and slow. Don't rush."
She locked eyes with Logan across the room. He was still dripping. He was being ignored. He liked it.
The second man knelt behind her, kissing her boots. She widened her stance to let him get closer.
"You," she said. "Tongue my ass."
He obeyed without a word—no surprise, just the soft wet sounds of compliance. Samantha closed her eyes. Her breath quickened. But she didn't come. She just basked—steady, patient, in control.
"Good boys," she murmured. "Both of you. Don't stop."
Logan watched.
A man approached him. Not like the others. This man was older, wearing a tailored jacket and a wedding ring. He smelled like money and trouble.
"Your wife," he said. "Does she share?"
"She does whatever she wants."
"Lucky man."
"She'd tell you I'm the lucky one."
The man smiled and put a hand on Logan's shoulder. His thumb brushed against defenseless skin. Logan didn't flinch.
"Can I buy you a drink?"
"I don't drink."
"What do you do?"
Logan took his hand and led him to a dark booth. He shoved the man onto the seat—gently, playfully—and pulled off his jacket. His cock was already half-hard when Logan opened his trousers.
"Feels good," Logan said.
"It does."
"Not the end of it."
He swallowed him down without preamble, and the man didn't complain. He just leaned his head back against the booth and let Logan work. His hands found Logan's hair. His hips began to move.
He fucked Logan's face like he was embarrassed to admit he loved it, which made Logan want it more. When he came, he came desperately—forcefully—and Logan swallowed every drop and sucked him clean before pulling away.
He tucked the man back in and zipped him up.
"That was—"
"I know," Logan said.
Back in the corner, Samantha had already moved on. One of her slaves was still buried between her legs, exhausted but too terrified to stop. The other was kneeling quietly, his cock locked in a metal cock ring she must have pulled out of her purse. He was allowed no release, so his cock stood stiff and dark, leaking down the shaft. She noticed Logan looking and grabbed the slave by the hair.
"Come here," she said.
Logan dragged himself to her. She pulled him down onto the couch against her side.
"Open your mouth."
He opened it. She pressed two fingers deep, over his tongue. He tasted the sex from the boy who had been licking her. She tugged his hair. Slapped him once. He moaned around her fingers.
"You think you're getting one more?" she asked him.
"I think I don't need to," he said.He was lying. He was always lying. He always would need one more.
"Strange." She freed her fingers from his lips and looked out over the lounge floor. "I think I found you something."
He followed her gaze.
A man stood alone at the bar. Broad shoulders. Dark hair. A mouth that promised something ugly. He stood perfectly still, glass in hand, watching them. Watching Logan. Watching as if he'd heard everything and felt nothing.
"Go on," Samantha said. "He's for you."
"And if he can't take it?"
She shrugged. "Make him."
Logan didn't ask why she didn't want him for herself. He didn't ask how many she'd already had. He got up. He walked.
The man didn't move when Logan approached. That was the first thing Logan noticed. No nervous hands. No polite smile. No confused "sorry, I'm straight". What a relief from all the boys who didn't know what they were doing.
"You were watching me," Logan said.
"You were busy."
"Not busy now."
"What are you offering?"
Everything. "Only one thing."
The man set his drink on the bar. He pulled Logan by the back of the neck and kissed him roughly, like he was testing him. Logan met him with everything he had. He bit him. He grabbed him. He pressed his thigh between the man's legs and found no resistance, no hesitation. Just need. Perfect and brutal.
"Bathroom?" he asked.
"Hotel."
"I have no money."
"You won't need it."
He led Logan out a side door, through a narrow alley, and into a hotel with a red awning. He paid for a room with cash. No words. No questions. He opened the door and didn't bother to turn on the lights. Just what light leaked in from the street was enough.
He shoved Logan against the wall and tore his top open.
The world was hot and dark and hungry.
He turned Logan around without asking, shoved his skirt up, and pushed inside where his mouth had been. Logan screamed when he entered him. The man put a hand over his mouth and laughed against his neck.
"Quiet," he said. "We're not alone."
Logan didn't know what he meant. He didn't care.
The man fucked him like he'd been waiting for it all month. Fingerprints on his hips. Teeth on his shoulder. Breath like fire. And Logan—sweating, crying, bucking—gave himself up to it completely. He wasn't sure where his body ended and the man's began.
He was still being used when Samantha opened the door.
She stood there in the doorway, arm against the frame, watching as the stranger pounded her husband into the wall. Logan's face was smashed against the wallpaper. His legs were shaking. The stranger was close, grunting every time he drove deeper.
Samantha didn't interrupt. She dragged a chair from the corner and sat down.
"You're doing great," she said.
Logan tried to answer, but the man shoved two fingers into his mouth and he just groaned. She reached into her purse and pulled out a slender silver chain with a small pink anal plug on the end. She set it on the nightstand and crossed her legs.
"Don't come yet," she said. "He goes first."
The man laughed. "You think you're in charge?"
"I know I am."
He met her eyes. He kept going. And Samantha smiled.
"I like him," she said.
"So do I," Logan managed.
The man slammed into him one last time and came with a roar. Logan felt the pulsing deep inside him. He felt the wetness of release. And when the man finally pulled out, Samantha picked up the plug and pushed it into him without a word.
"Don't lose that," she said. "We're not done."
She pulled Logan to his feet. The two of them left the stranger to catch his breath. They walked back out into the night. The heat was soupy. The stars were invisible. His chin was clean enough for now. His body was warm and sore. He was shaking with pride.
She looked at him and saw the smile he couldn't hide.
"Let me guess," she said. "You want more."
"No."
She raised an eyebrow.
"I want everything," he said.
She wrapped her arms around his waist and let him lean on her. The city waited in the dark. The moon climbed the sky. He never wanted the night to end.