Chapter 8: The Buffet
The words hung in the fetid air, a welcome that was also a sentence. Before Tiffany could even blink, strong hands—gnarled and speckled with age spots—seized her. They lifted her as if she weighed nothing, her body a limp doll in their grasp. Her back met the cold, hard surface of a folding table, the metal shuddering under her weight. Someone swept aside a plastic bowl of potato chips. It clattered to the floor.
“Line up, ladies! Orderly, now!” Agnes barked, taking charge. She wasn’t asking.
A ragged queue formed instantly, a shuffling parade of naked, aroused elderly women, their grotesque erections leading the way. The scents of talc and decay and deep, musky sweat intensified, becoming a fog that coated Tiffany’s tongue.
The first was Doris, the ham-armed woman. She didn’t wait, didn’t speak. She simply positioned herself between Tiffany’s spread legs, her thick, stubby fingers parting Tiffany’s damp folds. Then she leaned her weight forward.
There was no gentleness, no finesse. Doris’s cock, a thick, veined trunk of mottled flesh, pushed against Tiffany’s entrance and then invaded in one relentless, grinding shove. The stretch was immediate, breathtaking. Tiffany’s back arched off the table, a sharp cry torn from her throat.
“Tight little oven,” Doris grunted, beginning a slow, deep piston motion. Her heavy breasts swung with each thrust. She leaned down, her face close to Tiffany’s. “Gonna bake you good.”
The penetration was sloppy, wet sounds filling the air alongside the groans of the watching crowd. After a dozen brutal pumps, Doris’s rhythm stuttered. She buried herself to the hilt, her body tensing. A guttural sound erupted from her chest, and then it came: a hot, frothy geyser that flooded Tiffany’s core. It wasn’t a spurt; it was a stream, a viscous, copious fountain that spilled out around the straining connection, cascading down Tiffany’s thighs and onto the table with a sound like thick paint.
Doris pulled out with a wet pop, and a second wave of the foamy, pearlescent fluid followed, splattering Tiffany’s stomach and breasts. The granny sighed, satisfied, and shuffled aside, already softening.
The next was the skeletal woman, Edith. Her member was long and thin, a pale, curving wand. She didn’t bother with Tiffany’s used hole. Instead, she turned the girl over with surprising strength, pressing Tiffany’s face into the cold tabletop. Edith positioned her sharp hips, and with a precise, unyielding pressure, she pressed into Tiffany’s other entrance.
It was a dry, searing intrusion that made Tiffany scream into the Formica. Edith fucked with a birdlike, frantic energy, her bony hands gripping Tiffany’s hips hard enough to bruise. As she climaxed, she let out a shrill shriek, and her load was a shocking, cold rush that felt endless, filling and overflowing, dripping down Tiffany’s legs to mix with Doris’s on the floor.
Edith then collapsed forward, her thin body pressing on Tiffany’s back. She licked the side of Tiffany’s face with a sandpapery tongue, from jaw to temple, leaving a cold, sticky trail of saliva. “Sweet girl,” she panted, her breath a sour ghost in Tiffany’s ear.
Before Tiffany could recover, she was flipped onto her back again. Bertha was next, a mountain of a woman with a belly that hung low. Her cock was absurdly fat, a bulbous thing that seemed impossible. It wasn’t about depth with Bertha; it was about sheer, stretching width.
“Gotta open the jar,” Bertha chuckled, smearing a handful of the pooled cum from the table onto herself and Tiffany. The initial pressure was agonizing, a burning, tearing fullness that made Tiffany’s vision spark. Bertha rocked more than thrusted, her immense weight pinning Tiffany down, using gravity to force herself in.
When she came, it was with a low, seismic groan. The frothy eruption was volcanic, a hot, churning flood that seemed to expand inside Tiffany, pushing her limits. It jetted out in rhythmic pulses, each one adding to the puddle spreading beneath the table.
Bertha, heaving herself off, didn’t lick. She lowered her rear over Tiffany’s face, a damp, wrinkled panorama of flesh. There was a low, bubbling rumble, and then a hot, pungent puff of gas enveloped Tiffany’s nose and mouth. The granny farted, a long, releasing sigh that carried the intimate, digestive scent of her. Bertha sighed in contentment. “There’s a good air biscuit. Breathe it in, pet.”
Tiffany, drunk on the overwhelming stimuli, the stretching, the smells, the degradation, did. She inhaled the gross, intimate air, and it felt like a sacrament.
The line stretched back into the shadows of the hall. There was no end in sight. Margaret, the blue-haired watcher from the garden, took her turn, her member surprisingly elegant and long. She focused on Tiffany’s mouth, holding her head in a vise grip as she face-fucked her with methodical intensity, her climax a bitter, frothy torrent down Tiffany’s throat that she had no choice but to swallow in gulping, choking swallows.
Another granny, whose name Tiffany never caught, had a twisted, corkscrew-shaped cock that drilled into her with a brutal, rotating motion. Another simply used Tiffany’s slick, overstuffed cunt, pounding away with the frantic energy of a much younger woman, her loads thin and watery but voluminous.
The table became a slippery mess. Tiffany’s body was a canvas of frothy, dripping white, painted in layers by different women. The floor was a slick, hazardous pond of it. The air thrummed with grunts, slaps, wet impacts, and the ceaseless, hungry chatter of the waiting women.
“Look at her take it.”
“My turn, hurry up, Mabel!”
“Such a good set of holes.”
“That’s it, fill the little pitcher.”
Tiffany’s mind dissolved into a blissful, white static. She was just a thing, a collection of openings being used, over and over. Her own pleasure was a distant, irrelevant echo beneath the monumental sensations of being stuffed, flooded, and owned. She stared at the acoustic-tile ceiling, a dumb, happy smile on her cum-glazed face, as a granny with a shock of bright orange hair positioned herself, the tip of her enormous member already pushing against Tiffany’s swollen, overused entrance once more.
Carol watched from the head of the table, her own monstrous equipment in her hand, slowly stroking it. She smiled a thin, proud smile. The night was young. The line was still long. And her granddaughter had never looked more perfect.