Chapter 29: Another Three Loads

The week crawled.

Monday bled into Tuesday, Tuesday into Wednesday, each day stretching longer than the last. I sat through classes with my thighs pressed together, the phantom ache still throbbing deep in my belly. By Thursday the soreness had faded to a whisper, a memory of being stretched, filled, claimed. I touched myself in the shower that morning and gasped at how ready I felt. How empty.

Friday dinner was roasted chicken and salad. My mother talked about the garden. My father nodded along, his hand resting on hers. But I saw the glances they exchanged, the quick squeeze of her fingers, the way his voice dropped lower when he said “we’ll be back around midnight.”

The front door clicked shut at 8:23.

I counted to sixty, then grabbed my keys.

The gas station lot was half-empty. My father’s sedan sat dark and still in the bookstore’s lot. I crossed the street with my heart hammering against my ribs, the cool night air doing nothing to chill the heat building between my legs.

The bell jingled. Fluorescent buzz. Carl looked up from his magazine and that slow grin spread across his weathered face.

“Megan.” He said my fake name like a secret. “I knew you’d be back.”

“Hi, Carl.” I gripped the edge of the counter. “I want the same booth.”

His eyes flickered—something hungry moving behind them. “Gloryhole again?”

“Yes.” I swallowed. “But I want more this time. I want...”

The words caught in my throat. Carl leaned forward, his fingers drumming on the counter.

“What do you want, Megan?”

“I want three men.” The confession tumbled out. “In my pussy. Raw. One after another. I want them to use the first one’s cum as lube for the next.”

Carl’s hand stopped drumming. His jaw tightened. For a long moment he just stared at me, and I could see the gears turning behind his weathered eyes. Inside his head, a filthy reel was already playing.

Three men, he thought, the words slicking through his mind like oil. Fresh little thing like her, barely legal, wants to be a cum dump for a rotation of cocks. His fingers twitched against the counter, imagining her on her knees in that booth, mouth open, eyes wet. She doesn’t know what she’s asking for. But goddamn if I don’t want to see it.

He pictured her pussy stretched wide, dripping with the first load, the second man sliding in without a break, sloppy, wet, fucking her through the mess. He imagined the sound: the wet squelch, her moans hitching as each new cock pushed past her swollen lips. His own cock throbbed against his jeans, thick and heavy.

She said raw. She said one after another. She wants to be filled and refilled like a goddamn cream pie. He licked his lips, tasting the fantasy. I could watch that all night. Hell, I could be the third one. Pull out and paint her tits, watch it drip down her belly while the next one lines up.

The fluorescent light buzzed overhead. Carl’s eyes traced the curve of her throat, the way her fingers gripped the counter edge. Little slut’s already wet. I can smell it.

“I’ll make sure you get what you need,” he said finally, his voice rougher than before. “Go on back. Same booth. I’ll send them through.”

I pushed through the beaded curtain.

The hallway was dim, red and green lights glowing above the booth doors. My booth, the middle one, two doors, the hole at waist height, was waiting. I stepped inside and pushed the door shut. The lock clicked.

My clothes came off in quick, practiced motions. Shirt. Jeans. Bra. Panties. I folded everything on the bench and turned toward the hole.

This time I didn’t kneel.

I pressed my hands against the wall, arched my back, and positioned my hips against the opening. My pussy lips were already swollen, already slick. The cool air kissed my wetness and I shivered.