Chapter 4: Gloryhole Port-a-Potty Perils

Kira’s body was a quivering wreck of deranged ecstasy and filthy leaks, every inch of her painted skin screaming for deeper ruin as the rave’s chaotic pulse hammered through her like relentless thrusts. The double creampies from the alley quickies oozed from her stretched holes—pussy and ass dripping thick white rivers down her thighs, mixing with squirt residue and sweat to create a sticky sheen that caught the strobing lights like cum-glazed diamonds. Her perky tits heaved, nipples raw and swollen from slaps, paint smeared into abstract streaks revealing her pale flesh underneath. Long dark hair clung to her back in matted tangles, green eyes wild with that broken hunger—the kind that made her beg to be degraded further, her clit throbbing like a heartbeat demanding violation. The ecstasy surged hotter now, turning every degrading stare into foreplay, every risky brush of a stranger’s hand into a promise of brutal bliss.

Jax dragged her by the hair, yanking her toward the port-a-potty line—a stinking row of plastic hellholes reeking of piss, shit, and desperation, the perfect backdrop for anonymous filth. “Smell that, you disgusting cum-leak? That’s your next playground,” he snarled, slapping her ass hard, the wet smack echoing over the distant bass, sending fresh dribbles from her holes. Kira whimpered, legs trembling, heels sinking into the muddy ground churned by thousands of feet. The line snaked long, ravers shifting impatiently, some glancing at her dripping thighs with smirks: “Leaking like a fucked-out whore—been busy, slut?” One girl spat on her tits, the glob trickling down her cleavage, smearing more paint. Kira rubbed it in, moaning, her pussy clenching to push out another glob of cum that splattered her heel.

The port-a-potties loomed like filthy confessionals, doors banging open and shut, the air thick with the tang of bodily fluids. Kira’s bladder twitched again—ecstasy’s curse—but Jax grinned wickedly. “Hold it, piss-pet. You’ll leak more than cum soon.” He shoved her into an empty stall, the door clicking shut behind them, the space cramped and foul, walls scrawled with graffiti: “Suck here,” arrows pointing to crudely drilled holes at crotch level—gloryholes, ragged edges splintered like hungry mouths waiting to devour. Kira’s heart raced, the deranged high twisting fear into arousal, her clit swelling at the sight. “On your knees, gloryhole bitch—time to gag on anonymous meat,” Jax commanded, setting up his phone on a ledge for the perfect angle, filming her descent into depravity.