The largest man's fingers hooked the damp lace aside, the rasp of the fabric against her slick skin loud in the stifling dark. She felt the cool air on her wet cunt, felt the sudden exposure like a small shock, and then the head of his cock nudged her lips. It was thick, blunt, and it pressed against her mouth with an insistence that left no room for negotiation. His hand fisted in her hair, tilting her face up.

"Open," he said.

She opened. Her jaw stretched wide, wider than she thought it could go, and he pushed inside. The taste of him hit her tongue first—salt and skin and the faint musk of his unwashed body. He was thick, and she felt the head of his cock press against the back of her throat, and her body rebelled. She gagged, a convulsive spasm that made her eyes water, and tears slid down her cheeks, hot against her flushed skin.

Behind her, the second man's hands spread her thighs. His palms were rough, calloused, and they slid up the inside of her legs, pushing them wider apart on the cold marble floor. She felt his fingers brush her wet cunt, felt the slick heat of her own body, and she heard him make a low sound in his throat, a sound of approval that made her stomach clench. He hooked a finger inside her, and she gasped around the cock in her mouth, a broken, gurgling sound.

The first man held her head still, his fingers twisted in her hair, and he began to move. He thrust into her mouth with a slow, deliberate rhythm, each push driving deeper, each pull leaving her gasping for air. She felt the head of his cock hit the back of her throat again, and again, and each time she gagged, her body convulsing, tears streaming down her cheeks. She kept her eyes open, fixed on the red dot glowing in the dark corner of the room, the only light in the suffocating gloom.

The old woman was watching. Of course she was. The red dot was steady, unblinking, a small red eye that saw everything. Neha looked at it as she choked on the largest man's cock, her jaw aching, her throat working, and she felt the shame burn through her like a fever.

His rhythm quickened, the slow deliberate thrusts turning rougher, hungrier, and she felt the change in the way his fingers tightened in her hair. He was using her now, fucking her mouth with a purpose that made her knees ache against the cold marble. Behind her, the second man's fingers curled inside her, crooking against that spot that made her hips twitch, and she heard herself whimper around the thickness in her throat.

"That's it," the second man muttered, his thumb finding her clit and pressing in slow circles. "Suck him good, and I'll make you come while you do it."

She didn't want to want it. That was the shameful truth that burned hotter than the fever in her cheeks. Her body was betraying her, responding to the rough hands and the cock in her mouth with a slick, aching heat that pooled low in her belly. She felt herself getting wetter, felt the second man's fingers slide easier inside her, and she hated how her hips rolled back to meet them.

The largest man groaned above her, a deep sound that vibrated through his cock and into her throat. "Look at her. Look at how she takes it."

She kept her eyes on the red dot. It was the only anchor in the dark, the only thing that reminded her who she was supposed to be. But even that was blurring, the edges of her shame dissolving into something else, something that made her push her throat forward and take him deeper.

The second man's fingers worked her faster, his palm slapping against her wet cunt with every thrust of his hand. She could hear it, the obscene wet sound of her own body, and she felt a flush crawl up her chest. The largest man's rhythm stuttered, his hips jerking against her face, and she felt him swell in her mouth, felt the pulse of him against her tongue.

"Swallow it," he growled, and she did. She felt the hot burst of him hit the back of her throat, felt him pump again and again, and she swallowed around him, her throat working convulsively. Tears streamed down her cheeks, but she didn't stop looking at the red dot.

He pulled out with a wet sound, his cock slick with her spit, and she gasped for air, her mouth open, her jaw aching. A thin thread of saliva connected her lower lip to the head of his cock, and she watched it stretch and break as he stepped back.

The second man withdrew his fingers from her, and she felt the sudden emptiness like a small loss. She was still wet, still aching, and she heard him make a sound of approval as he wiped his hand on his thigh.

"She's ready," he said.

She barely had time to catch her breath before a third hand closed on the back of her neck. It was rough, calloused, and it turned her head, forcing her to look up at the man who stepped out of the gloom. She couldn't see his face in the dark, only the shape of him, broad and tall, and the glint of his eyes as he looked down at her.

His thumb found her chin, tilting her face up to the dim light. She could smell him now—sweat and tobacco and something sharp, like the oil he used on his skin. He didn't speak for a long moment, just looked at her, and she felt the weight of his gaze like a hand on her throat.

"You swallow well," he said finally. His voice was low, almost gentle, which was worse than the roughness of the others. "The old woman said you were a good girl. Is that true?"

She didn't answer. She couldn't. Her jaw ached, her throat raw, and the taste of the first man's cum still sat on her tongue. She kept her eyes on the red dot, on the steady unblinking eye in the corner, and she felt the third man's grip tighten on her neck.

"I asked you a question." His thumb pressed into the soft hollow under her jaw, and she gasped. "Are you a good girl, or are you a whore?"

"Whore," she whispered. The word came out cracked, broken, and she felt a flush of shame burn up her chest. "I'm a whore."

He made a sound, low and satisfied, and he pulled her to her feet. Her knees buckled, the blood rushing from her head, and she swayed against him. His hands caught her hips, steadying her, and she felt the hard length of him against her belly through his trousers.

"Good," he said. "Then you know what comes next."

Behind her, the other men shifted in the gloom. She could feel them moving closer, their heat pressing in on her from every side, and she knew the red dot was still watching. She kept her eyes on it as the third man's hands found the clasp of her lace underwear, as he pulled it down her thighs, as he lifted her and set her on the edge of the bed with a roughness that made her gasp. The silk was gone, the cool air on her bare cunt, and she heard him unbuckle his belt as the others closed in.

Her thighs trembled against the mattress edge, the worn cotton of the bedspread rough beneath her. The cool air kissed her bare cunt, and she felt the slickness of her own arousal cooling on her skin, a shameful testimony to what her body had already done. The third man's belt buckle clinked, a small metallic sound in the dark, and she heard the rasp of his zipper. Behind her, the other men's breathing had changed—quicker, hungrier, the sound of wolves circling a kill.

"On your back," the third man said. His voice was still that low, almost gentle thing, and it made her skin prickle. "I want to see your face when I take you."

She didn't move. Her body felt frozen, her knees still weak from the marble floor, her jaw aching. The red dot pulsed in the corner, steady and unblinking, and she fixed her eyes on it as she slowly lowered herself onto the bed. The mattress sagged beneath her, the springs groaning, and she felt the rough fabric of the bedspread against her bare back, her bare ass, the exposed wet heat of her cunt. She kept her legs together, a futile gesture of modesty that made the third man laugh—a low, rumbling sound.

"Spread them," he said. It wasn't a request.

She opened her thighs. The air hit her wet cunt, and she felt a flush crawl up her chest, up her neck, burning her cheeks. She could feel the men's eyes on her, could feel the weight of their stares even in the dark, and she heard one of them mutter something low and appreciative. The third man stepped between her legs, his hands finding her knees and pushing them wider apart, and she felt the calloused roughness of his palms against her inner thighs.

He didn't enter her right away. He stood there, his cock hard and heavy in his hand, and he looked at her. He looked at her like she was a meal he was deciding how to eat, and she felt the shame burn hotter, felt her cunt clench around nothing, a betrayal of her own body. She kept her eyes on the red dot, on the steady unblinking eye, and she tried to find the part of herself that should be afraid.

She couldn't find it.

That was the worst part. Somewhere between the marble floor and this sagging bed, between the first man's cum on her tongue and the third man's gaze on her bare cunt, the fear had dissolved into something else. Something that made her hips shift on the bedspread, made her thighs fall open a little wider, made her cunt ache with a hunger she couldn't name.

The third man saw it. His eyes narrowed, and a slow smile spread across his face. "There it is," he said softly. "There's the whore the old woman promised." He stepped closer, the head of his cock nudging her wet entrance, and she felt the heat of him against her slick skin. "You're going to take all of me, randi. And you're going to thank me for it."