Chapter 10

The van ride felt endless. The carpet I was rolled up in scratched my thighs, and the scent of Axe body spray from somewhere in the front had oozed its way inside. Mom’s voice piped up somewhere to my left, muffled but still annoyingly mom-like: “Gloria? Keep your knees bent!”

I ignored her.

When the van finally stopped, they unloaded us like Ikea furniture—thudding, grunting, one guy complaining about his hernia. I was dumped in a corner, still rolled up, listening to the others get unceremoniously plopped around me. I heard cheering—like a football crowd, but hornier.

The thugs unrolled us into a warehouse lit by neon strobe lights, the air thick with cologne and nacho cheese fumes. Mom stumbled out of her rug, her hair staticky from the carpet fibers, and gasped.

“Is that ... a fish tank?”

Not quite. We were in a U-shaped area, and around the perimeter were rows of clear plastic cubes sticking through the plexiglass walls. Each cube was just big enough to crawl into and kneel on your hands and knees, ready to service a cock that was stuck through the hole at the end.

Outside the front of the U shape, and to the left, was a stage with a DJ on it. There was currently techno music blaring throughout the warehouse, and the lights strobed and flashed along to the beat.

There were at least 100 people, mostly men, outside the plexiglass walls, with some of them slapping the wall as they watched us being unwrapped like late Christmas presents. On top of each cube sat big glass pickle jars with slots cut in the lids to serve as tip jars. They were labeled with things like CUM FUND and SLURP STASH, with a few dollar bills inside to get the point across.

The thugs dragged us over to a rusted overhead rail, shackling our wrists with greasy chains that clattered like a broken rollercoaster. Mom tried to resist and was still yelling something about just being a manager when a woman’s voice cut through the noise.

Over the speakers, a female voice started speaking. “Shut your cum-dumpster mouth, MILF, or I’ll staple your tits to a rotisserie!”

A woman stormed into view from behind a curtain in the back, her 5’4” frame barely containing the fury radiating off her. A black leather dominatrix outfit clung to her curves, the corset straining against her 46G tits, their swollen nipples thick as cigar stubs and glistening with droplets of milk. High heel leather boots completed the outfit. She was wearing a headset with a microphone hanging in front of her mouth. She cracked a riding crop against her palm, her glare silencing the thugs mid-chuckle.

“Name’s Sharon, you rancid cunts,” she barked, her voice like gravel soaked in whiskey. “Your slut asses belong to me until I’m done with you. And you—” She jabbed the crop at Mom, dangling from the rail. “—need a lesson in humility.” She spun Mom around until her ass was facing the crowd, then reared back with her riding crop.

CRACK!

The crop split the air, striking Mom’s bare ass.

“ONE!” the crowd roared. They obviously knew what to expect.

Mom yelped, her body jerking against the shackles. Sharon smirked, flicking milk from her left nipple onto Mom’s thigh. “Scream louder, Grandma. They paid for a show.”

CRACK!

“TWO!”

“Oh fuck! That fucking hurts!” Mom screamed out.

The strikes fell in a brutal rhythm—

CRACK! “THREE!”
CRACK! “FOUR!”
CRACK! “FIIIIVE!”

“Please! Oh fuck, please! No more!”

Mom’s ass bloomed red, her legs trembling. Sharon paused, letting the crowd savor the choked sobs. “Ain’t she sweet?” she purred, rubbing the flat leather surface up and down Mom’s quivering ass.

CRACK! “SIX!”
CRACK! “SEVEN!”
CRACK! “EIGHT!”

Mom’s screams turned raw, primal. She could no longer seem to form words. The crowd stomped in unison, howling for more.

CRACK! “NINE!”
CRACK! “TEN!”

Sharon tossed the crop aside, breathing hard, her nipples slick with milk. “Welcome to the Gala, sweethearts. Now let’s see if your mouths work better than your yapping.”

As Mom hung from her wrists, sobbing, they proceeded to strip us one by one. Mom’s lingerie hit the floor, and the room erupted in whistles. “Ain’t you a snack,” a thug sneered, pinching her hip. “Bet you teach yoga just so you can bend over in leggings.”

I got the guy with a Free Mustache Rides tattoo around the bottom of his neck. He yanked off my heels and hose, his fingers “slipping” everywhere. “Oops,” he grinned, thumbs hooking into my panties. “Clumsy me.”

Sharon’s crop cracked an inch from his ear. “Touch her clit again and I’ll turn your dick into a zipper pull.” The guy just snickered, not seeming too afraid of the smaller woman.

They gave Mom a sip of water and wiped her tears away, but I started to suspect she was playing us somehow. She didn’t seem extremely bothered by the red welts on her ass at the moment. She would shake her shoulders like she was sobbing, but then thrust her chest out until she got at least a whistle from someone watching.

They dressed us next—waist-high fishnets so tight they dug into my thighs, then they put my heels back on. Mom got special treatment: a black corset with more straps than a BDSM octopus. Sharon personally yanked the laces, her milk-smeared tits pressing into Mom’s back as she tightened it. “Let’s perk up these grandma udders,” she laughed, twisting Mom’s nipples until tears welled in her eyes.

Then she grabbed Mom’s jaw, her thumb digging into the hinge. “Open up, Fossil. Time to hydrate that prune-box.” She shoved a nipple into Mom’s mouth, the thick tip glistening with fresh milk. “Suck, you geriatric cumsock. These tits are younger than you.”

“Mmf thirty-seven—!” Mom gagged, milk spilling down her chin.

“Thirty-seven?” Sharon barked, slamming Mom’s head harder against her breast. The crowd cackled. “Honey, your tits qualify for AARP.” She kneaded her own tit, forcing a thick stream into Mom’s throat. “Swallow. Maybe it’ll reverse the menopausal stench.”

Mom’s eyes watered, her gulps loud and wet. Sharon moaned mockingly. “There we go ... Grandma’s first liquid meal since she got to the nursing home.” She pulled away, leaving Mom coughing, her lips slick and white. “Congrats, MILF—you’re officially a dairy queen.”

“Damn, MILF,” a thug said, slapping her ass. “Save some for the rest of us.”

Mom flushed, but I couldn’t look away. The corset carved her into an hourglass, all curves and cleavage, her sweat glazing her skin like she’d been oiled for a photoshoot. Her body was so fucking sexy. I wanted nothing more at the moment than to go over and start licking the sweat off her.

The crowd of men outside the central area had started chanting, “MILF! MILF! MILF! MILF!” while they watched everything Mom was going through. It looked like she was going to be wildly popular.

They unchained us and pointed to rubber mats on the floor, which we all stood in front of. I instinctively tried to cover myself, but caught a flick of the riding crop on my ass almost immediately. I put my hands by my thighs and left them there.

The strobe lights died as a man in a bedazzled Elvis jumpsuit strutted into the area just beside us, mic in hand. A spotlight appeared and centered on him. “Pipe down, you rabid horndogs! Tonight’s lineup’s so filthy, even my moral compass just snapped!” The intro to Enter Sandman by Metallica started playing over the speakers. The crowd of men got quieter, but you could tell there was a rising tension in the air. Like a wave of testosterone was about to wash over all of us.

He gestured to the first woman—a petite white girl with blonde pigtails in ribbons and a forced smile. They had attached a plaid schoolgirl skirt to her, all of it making her look younger than she was. “First up, BUBBLEGUM BECKY! Sweet as candy ... until she pops! Guaranteed to stick to your dick! Is she legal? We sure hope so!”

The crowd howled, with the ones in front pounding on the plexiglass walls. Becky blew a bubble with gum she must have been chewing on for quite a while. Then she started sucking on her thumb, much to the crowd’s pleasure.

Next up was a black woman with a towering afro and midnight-dark skin, radiating disdain. “Give it up for CHOCOLATE THUNDER! Her hair’s a national monument ... and her mouth’s a natural disaster! She’s going to destroy you motherfuckers!”

Someone in the crowd screamed out, “FLOOD THE ZONE!” as Chocolate Thunder flipped them off with a manicured middle finger with a very long nail.

“Third, we have SPITFIRE SOPHIE!” She was a redhead with a snake tattoo coiled around her thigh. “She’s got a tongue sharper than a switchblade ... and she’s twice as mean! Don’t worry, boys—she bites! I sure hope your buddy will suck out the poison!” The crowd groaned.

Sophie bared her teeth at the men pressing up against the plexiglass then snapped them together. The crowd barked like dogs. She was obviously known here already.

“Next up is CARAMEL CREAM!” A lighter-skinned Black woman with bleached blonde hair and hips that swayed like a pendulum. “Smooth, sweet, and melts under pressure! Warning: addictive—diabetics beware, she’s 100% sugar ... and 0% FDA-approved!”

Caramel Cream started twerking, her hips clapping like a standing ovation. The crowd lost their damn minds, howling like wolves on a sugar rush.

“Now give it up for, VELVET VIXEN!” A brunette with smaller breasts, a smokey eye and a resting “I’ll ruin your life” face. “Silky, sinful, and silently judging you! She’ll drain your balls ... and your self-esteem!”

Velvet Vixen blew a kiss dripping with sarcasm, then she flipped off the crowd with both hands as they screamed their approval.

Finally, the spotlight hit Mom and me. The announcer spread his arms like a sleazy maestro. “And now... mesdames et perverts ... the crème de la sleaze! A mother-daughter duo so depraved, they’ll make your Oedipus complex look like a Hallmark card! The only thing thicker than their denial is the cum on their chins!”

The crowd roared, once again chanting “MILF! MILF! MILF!” as Mom curtsied like she’d just won a pageant.

“First, the pièce de résistance...” He gestured to Mom like she was a prize ham. “Linda the MILF MAGNIFIQUE! At 37, she’s vintage—like fine wine! But don’t let the mileage fool you ... her engine still purrs!”

Mom blew a kiss, her corset threatening to unleash a titty tsunami.

“Those mommy milkers fed a generation ... now they’re feeding your fetish!” The announcer mimed milking a cow. “She’s old enough to know better ... and skilled enough to make you forget!”

“And her petite protégée...” He pointed at me like I was roadkill. “GAG-REFLEX GLORIA! Fresh off of her training wheels ... but don’t worry—Mommy taught her to swallow her pride ... and your pride rockets!”

Mom kept blowing kisses, basking in the chaos. I dry-heaved.

“Alright, deviants!” The announcer screamed as he and a few of the thugs started tossing rubber chickens over the walls into the crowd. “Release the sluts!”

I guess the DJ and the announcer were pretty skilled, because right at that moment the guitar riff for the song kicked in and the volume was turned up until it was almost painful. All the guys in the crowd were jumping around and banging into each other, like it was some kind of fucked up mosh pit.

“Kneel,” one of the thugs screamed. “And smile—you’re on candid camera, bitches.”

Mom lowered herself gracefully, her corset creaking. “Posture, Gloria,” she shouted. “Arch your back.”

I slumped. “They’re not hiring for ballet, Mom,” I yelled back.

“Standards, Gloria. Even here.”

Right then an airhorn blared. The crowd outside the cubes roared.

“CRAWL, SLUTS!” screamed Sharon through the speakers.

We scrambled on all fours and climbed into our cubes, which were about a foot off the ground. The plastic floor was padded with gym mats that smelled like feet. A hole the size of a grapefruit gaped at the far end, rimmed with glitter. Once we were in, the thugs lowered panels behind us, trapping us inside.

“Well, this is degrading,” Mom hissed through the partition separating our cubes. There were a few air holes cut between them, so I could usually make out what she was saying over the crowd noise and the music.

Then the first dick slid through her hole. Her eyes went wide, but she had a weird smile on her face.

Then it was my turn.

A cock jutted through the plexiglass—thick, veiny, and reeking of Axe body spray and desperation. Outside the cube, I caught glimpses of men passing little blue pills around like candy. It’s Viagra roulette. Fantastic.

I leaned in, my training echoing: “Lick the shaft first, Gloria. Make ‘em feel wanted.” The skin tasted like salt and regret. I gagged, my nose brushing a nest of pubes that looked like they were dusted with Cheeto crumbs. Classy.

“C’mon, duckling,” the guy grunted, hips jerking. “Ain’t got all day.”

Duckling? Where is that shit coming from?

The cube was already stifling, sweat pooling under my fishnets. I hollowed my cheeks, mimicking the porn Mom made me study. He didn’t last long—five or six pathetic thrusts before he groaned, shooting a lukewarm load that dripped down my chin. I wiped it with the back of my hand, grimacing. Guess you didn’t have all day, did you Pudgy?

Another dick replaced it almost before I could breathe. This one curved left, with a mole near the base. At least it’s not crunchy.

“Attagirl, Gloria!” Sharon’s voice boomed over the speakers. “Swallow or suffocate!”

Mom’s moans seeped through the partition, high and performative. “Ohhhh yes! Just like that! Give it all to me, baby!”

I rolled my eyes. Showoff.

Two Hours Later

I lost count after dick #12. Some were quick, some took forever, and one guy kept screaming, “HAPPY BIRTHDAY, TODD!” while I gagged on his girth. The tip jar on my cube—FEED THE DUCKLING—overflowed with fives and a suspiciously folded $50.

I looked over while I was catching a breath to see that Mom’s tip jar, labeled MILF MONEY, was doing better.

“Use more tongue!” she coached through the partition, her voice weirdly perky. “And smile—they tip more if you smile! Make them tip you more before you finish them off!” She was going to say something else, but a new dick slid in next to her face and the guy started slapping the top of her cube.

I let the next load splatter on my cheek and turned to look at her. “You’re smiling?!”

“It’s called hustle, Gloria,” she said as she gripped the cock and gave me a quick glance. “Now swallow that—it’s protein.”

The cube turned into a sauna. My fishnets were fused to my legs, and my eyeliner pooled in my cleavage. Across the room, a man in a cowboy hat licked the plexiglass while a woman beside him mimed strangling him. I was glad I hadn’t eaten before we got here. My stomach was starting to feel a bit full.

“Encore!” the crowd chanted as a new dick poked through my hole. It was another big black one, and the foreskin was dripping with pre-cum.

I was learning, so I pointed at the tip jar several times until I watched him stuff a handful of bills in. I closed my eyes, opened my mouth, and leaned forward to start slurping the tip as cheers rose around me.

Break Time

They let us out after almost three hours. Mom strutted to the “break area”—a folding table with a box fan and cold bottles of Evian—like she’d just closed a corporate merger. Outside the plexiglass, the men were crowded around a hotdog stand, while in another corner they were pumping on a keg.

“$642,” she announced, fanning herself with her tip cash. “Not bad for a Tuesday.”

I stared. “You enjoyed that?” I didn’t count mine yet, but it was probably less than $300.

“It’s transactional,” she said, sipping water. “Like a bake sale, but with semen.”

A thug with pistol tattoos on his biceps winked at her. Mom winked back.

“Mom.”

“What? He’s the shift manager. Networking, Gloria. Networking.”

Velvet Vixen—the brunette with the “I’ll ruin your life” face—snorted. “Congrats, MILF. You sucked off Grandpa’s retirement fund.”

Mom’s smile tightened. “Jealousy’s a stinky cologne, sweetheart.”

“Jealous?” Velvet stood, her fishnets ripped at the thighs. “I cleared over a grand already. You’re just the pity fuck for guys who miss their mommy.”

The room went quiet. Mom set down her water. “At least I don’t reek of desperation and dollar-store lube.”

Velvet lunged, knocking over the Evian. “I’ll carve MILF into your saggy tits—”

CRACK!

Sharon’s riding crop split the air between them, landing on Velvet’s right tit. “Enough!” Her milk-heavy tits swayed as she shoved them apart. “You wanna fight? Fight.” She pointed to the floor. “69 it. Now. Loser licks the winner’s asshole and pays $100 for it.”

Velvet balked. “What?!”

“STRIP!” Sharon roared.

The two women scrambled to pull their fishnets off. Mom’s corset creaked as she knelt then lay back on the floor, Velvet crawled on top, her snarling face hovering over Mom’s crotch. Sharon grabbed my chin, forcing me to watch. “Take notes, Duckling. This is how you hustle.”

Velvet dove in like a starved animal, her tongue lapping at Mom with violent precision. Mom gasped, then retaliated—her mouth working Velvet’s clit like a piston, the slick sounds echoing around the small area. My stomach churned, and my thighs pressed together. Why is this...

On the floor, Velvet’s tongue worked Mom’s clit like a jackhammer, her very sweet little ass jutting in the air as Mom retaliated with slow, deliberate sucks between her thighs. The sounds were obscene—wet slaps, Velvet’s guttural grunts, Mom’s breathy moans that sounded rehearsed, like she’d practiced them in front of a mirror.

My face burned, but my hand drifted between my legs anyway. Just to relieve the ache, I told myself. Not because of ... this.

Mom’s corset creaked as she arched her back, her tits spilling over the top. Velvet’s fingers dug into Mom’s hips hard enough to leave marks, but Mom didn’t flinch. She just ... moaned, low and throaty, like she was enjoying a fucking spa day.