Chapter 5: The Neighborhood Welcome Committee
The chime of the doorbell seemed to linger, a polite interruption to the scene of profound ruin.
Tiffany lay on the console table, a wreck of spent flesh. The shattered vase and scattered peonies lay around the table legs like a battlefield memorial. Her body trembled, a constant, fine vibration that came from deep within her overfilled core. She felt hollowed out and heavy at once, a vessel slowly leaking their combined essence onto the polished wood beneath her.
Carol smoothed her lavender blouse, gave a prim flick of her wrist, and glanced at Beatrice, who was hitching her tracksuit pants up with a look of grim satisfaction. “Agnes is always so punctual,” Carol said, as if commenting on the weather.
She walked to the front door, her stockinged feet stepping lightly over the mess. She opened it with a welcoming smile.
Agnes stood there. She was a frail-looking woman in a daisy-print sundress, her white hair in a neat bun, a wicker basket hooked over her arm. Her eyes, pale blue and magnified by thick lenses, swept past Carol into the foyer. They took in the shattered porcelain, the glistening puddles, the naked girl gasping on the table, and Beatrice tucking herself away.
Agnes didn’t flinch. She didn’t gasp. A slow, dry smile stretched her thin lips.
“I brought the lemon curd you asked for, Carol,” she said, her voice a papery rustle. She stepped inside, setting the basket down carefully beside Beatrice’s pie. Her gaze locked onto Tiffany, who could only stare back, dazed and dripping.
Without a word, Agnes’s hands went to the buttons of her sundress. They moved with a swift, practiced efficiency. The dress fell around her ankles, revealing a body that was all sinew and sharp angles, covered in a faded floral-print slip. Then the slip was gone too.
Tiffany’s breath hitched. Her mind, blissfully dumb and simple, focused on one thing.
Agnes was hung like a draft horse.
It was obscenely long, a veined, pale rope of flesh that hung down past her knobby knees. It was different from Carol’s fat spear and Beatrice’s thick pillar. This was a length of alarming, pendulous seriousness, ending in a heavy, plum-colored head that already glistened with a drop of moisture.
“You started the party without me,” Agnes rasped, not a hint of true hurt in her tone. It was pure observation.
“She was impatient,” Carol said, shrugging.
Agnes padded forward, her bare feet silent on the floor. She stopped by the table, looming over Tiffany. Her scent was different—talcum powder, dried lavender, and beneath it, a sharp, coppery tang. She leaned down, her bony hands gripping Tiffany’s jaw.
The lick was not frantic like Beatrice’s, nor possessive like Carol’s. It was exploratory, a dry, sandpapery swipe from Tiffany’s chin to her forehead, collecting the smeared sweat and salty residues. Agnes’s tongue felt ancient.
“Tastes like both of you,” Agnes declared. She turned her head. “Come on. Don’t be shy.”
It was an invitation. Carol and Beatrice exchanged a glance, and then their civilized facades crumbled again. They shuffled closer, a circle of aged, hungry flesh closing in on the table.
Carol bent, her tongue, wide and wet, lapping at the mess on Tiffany’s neck and collarbone. Beatrice dove for her mouth again, her own thick tongue pushing past Tiffany’s lips. Agnes returned to her forehead, licking with a slow, relentless focus.
Tiffany was drowned in tongue. It was everywhere—in her ears, her nostrils, between her fingers, the hollows of her elbows. They were not kissing her. They were consuming her, tasting every inch of skin, lapping up their own previous offerings mixed with her sweat. The sound was a wet, slobbering chorus of grunts and slurps. Tiffany’s world narrowed to the sensation of rasping, questing muscle and the overwhelming, musky scent of three different, desperate arousal. She was a lollipop being ravaged by wolves.
After an eternity of slathering, Agnes pulled back. “Off the table,” she commanded. “The floor. Better angles.”
Strong, wiry hands hauled Tiffany off the hard surface. She crumpled onto the rug, its floral pattern now stained beyond recognition. She was positioned on her hands and knees, her back arched, her head hanging low.
“Mouth,” Agnes said simply, positioning herself in front of Tiffany’s face. Her enormous length swayed, the tip tapping Tiffany’s bottom lip.
Carol and Beatrice moved to either side of her hips. Carol’s rigid girth pressed against her sore, used entrance. Beatrice’s blunt head nudged against her other, stretched hole.
It happened in a horrible, wonderful unison. Agnes pushed forward, the impossible length beginning its slide into Tiffany’s throat. At the same moment, Carol and Beatrice sheathed themselves inside her from behind, re-opening the tender, overfilled channels with twin, burning shoves of flesh.
Tiffany gagged instantly. Agnes kept pushing. An inch, then two, then six. Tiffany’s throat bulged obscenely, the outline of the granny’s cock visible beneath her pale skin. It kept going, a relentless invasion, deeper than anything before. Her eyes streamed, her vision blackening at the edges. She couldn’t breathe. She didn’t need to breathe.
Behind her, Carol and Beatrice began a brutal, pounding rhythm. They used her like a socket, their thrusts jarring her entire body, which in turn forced Agnes’s impossible length deeper down her constricting throat.
The world dissolved into a violent, choking cadence. The slap of flesh, the guttural groans of the three women, the wet, choked gurgles that were the only sounds Tiffany could make. Spit and tears pooled on the rug beneath her face. She was a living straw, a piece of meat being violently used from both ends and the middle.
Agnes’s hips began to stutter. A high, reedy whine escaped her thin lips. “Gonna flood her,” she hissed.
That was the trigger. Carol roared, a sound of pure, feral release. Beatrice shrieked, her body locking up.
Agnes came first. It wasn’t a pulse; it was a geyser. A frothy, bitter torrent that fired directly into Tiffany’s stomach, so voluminous it felt like she was being force-fed gallons. Her belly distended, cramping under the sudden, internal deluge.
Carol’s release followed, another scalding flood that filled her, mixing with the previous mess, stretching her walls until they sang with a sharp, full ache.
Beatrice finished it, her own contribution a thick, viscous pump that sealed the overfill, until Tiffany felt sure she would burst open at the seams.
They pulled out from her, one after the other, with slick, final sounds.
Tiffany collapsed onto her side, her body convulsing weakly. Cum leaked from her in three distinct, warm streams, soaking into the rug, puddling beneath her ravaged hips. Her throat felt scraped raw, her other holes throbbed with a deep, satisfying ache. She couldn’t form a thought. Only a single, blissful word echoed in the hollow of her mind: cock.
Agnes looked down at her, adjusting her spectacles with a clean finger. “She’s a good one, Carol. Holds a lot.”
Carol, leaning against the wall to catch her breath, nodded. “Her mother never could.”
Beatrice picked up the pie dish from the side table. “Shall we? I’m famished.”
They stepped over Tiffany as if she were a piece of furniture, moving toward the kitchen, leaving her broken and leaking on the ruined foyer floor. The last thing Tiffany heard before blissful darkness took her was the clink of china and Agnes’s papery voice saying, “So, who’s next for Thursday bridge? Margaret? She does so love to fill a girl up.”