Denise doesn't say anything else. She just lifts her chin at Yuki, a small tilt of her head, and Yuki is already moving — down off her stool, unhurried, past the crescent of women who shift to let her through like water parting. She goes to the canvas tote on the bar and reaches in past the sequins' plastic wrap, past something that clinks, and comes back up with a pair of heels dangling from two fingers by their ankle straps.
They're black. Patent. The kind of shoe with a thin stiletto that could go through a floorboard, and Tim has no idea where they came from, only that Yuki is walking them toward him across the marble and every woman in the room has gone quiet to watch.
"Sit," Patty says, and a hand — hers, wide and flat — lands between his shoulder blades and pushes. Tim's knees hit the stool seat before he's decided to sit. The sequin dress rucks up under his thighs, cold against the backs of them, and his cock is still out, still wet, still standing there for the room like a flag.
Yuki kneels. That's the part that gets him — Yuki, forty-three, chef's hands, the silver knife pendant swinging forward off her turtleneck as she goes down on one knee in front of the stool and sets the shoes on the floor beside his bare feet. She looks up at him. Her face is calm. She could be checking the doneness of a steak.
"Left," she says.
He doesn't move his foot. He can't remember how.
"Tim." Denise, from somewhere behind him, warm and patient. "Give her your left foot."
He gives her his left foot. Yuki's hand closes around his ankle — small hand, strong, the grip of someone who has hauled stock pots — and lifts. The patent leather is cold when it touches his toes. She feeds his foot in, wiggles it past the heel, and then her palm presses flat against his sole and pushes him down into the shoe, and his heel seats with a soft click of the strap, and the floor is suddenly much further away than it was.
"Other one."
Rosa has come around to his right side. She doesn't wait for Yuki; she takes his right ankle herself, crimson dress riding up her thigh as she crouches, and she gets the second shoe on with a briskness that feels like a nurse setting a bone. Then she buckles the strap. Then she tugs it, hard, testing. Then she buckles it tighter.
"Too tight?" Rosa asks, and doesn't wait for the answer. "Good."
They stand him up between them.
He wobbles. That's the first thing — the floor lurches like a boat, and his ankles fold outward, and he grabs at Rosa's shoulder because there's nothing else, and Rosa laughs, a big warm laugh that gets taken up by the room, and Patty's hand catches the back of the dress at his waist and holds him upright like a fish on a line.
"Look at that," Denise says. "He's got legs."
He does. That's the joke. In the heels, his calves have gone long and taut and the sequins hang differently off his hips, and when he finds the mirror again — the big one behind the bar, the one he's been trying not to look at all night — there's a woman in it. Sandy hair in her eyes. Freckles. A black dress split up one thigh and two black heels and a cock standing out of the front of the dress like the punchline to something.
"Walk," Yuki says.
"I—"
"Walk. That’s the deal. Men put them on women so now it’s your turn, sweetheart, time to feel it — the ache, the wobble, the whole pretty little punishment.”
He walks. Two steps, hands out, and on the second step his ankle rolls and he goes down onto one knee and the room howls. Not cruel — Delighted at the sight of a man flailing through something made for a woman, failing at it, and the room drinking it in like it’s the best show they’ve had all week.. He gets back up with his face burning and takes three more steps and makes it to the end of the bar and turns, and now he's facing all of them women with their drinks and their crossed legs and their eyes, and he understands that he has just done a lap and they are going to want another one.
"Again," Denise says. "And this time, sweetheart — hips."
He does it again. He puts his hips into it, because what else is there, and the sequins swing and the heels click on the marble and somewhere behind him a woman says what a sexy baby girl in a voice that is genuinely impressed, and Tim — Tim is hard enough that it hurts, hard enough that every step drags the dress across the head of his cock, and he keeps walking because stopping means standing still and standing still means being looked at.
They let him do four laps. By the fourth his calves are burning and he's stopped wobbling, mostly, and that's when Pattyand grabs him and slaps his bum hard
Here's the rule," she says. Patty's voice is the one that hasn't been raised all night and doesn't need to be. "You're gonna keep moving. And the girls are going to keep touching you — every time one of us decides you're getting close — " she reaches down, slow, deliberate, and cups his balls, one broad palm holding them, testing their weight, " — we squeeze.
She pinches.
Not hard. Hard enough. A bright, precise hurt that goes up through his gut and down the backs of his legs, and Tim's whole body curls around it and his cock jumps and the bead of come at the tip stretches
"That one was a warning," she says. "You weren't about to. I just wanted to."
The room laughs at that. "Dance," Denise says. So he dances.
No music. That's the catch. None at all, just the women's noise and the two barmaids shouting orders back and forth, and his own heels on the marble, tick, tick, tick, and he's got to invent it, got to move, because a woman named Carol from the booth on the left has started slapping out a rhythm on her thigh and now the whole room's doing it, a slow build, and Tim spins at the center of the floor and the dress flares and he rakes his fingers through his hair and does something that might pass for dancing if anyone had ever shown him how.
He's good at it. He hates that he's good at it. Twenty-two years of never once being the person in the middle of the room, and here he is, hips rolling, heels clicking, cock out and hard, and the clapping has picked up and Rosa is shouting something he doesn't catch over the noiuse of the woman talking and laughing and Yuki has produced a phone and is filming him, calmly and Denise is leaning back in her seat with her gin and her eyes half-closed like a woman listening to a favorite song.
"Faster," Denise says.
He goes faster. His calves scream. His ankles have gone stupid with the heels and he's compensating with his knees, and it makes his hips do something that the room approves of very much, and he's starting to feel it — the tightness gathering low, the heat crawling up the shaft, the way each step drags the dress across him and each drag is one more turn of a screw. He's going to come. He's going to come just from this, from walking in circles in a borrowed dress with a room full of women watching him, and he can feel it building and he can't stop it and —
He doesn't have to. Rosa moves closer. She gets a hand on the back of his neck and the other between his legs and she takes his balls and she pinches, hard, and Tim makes a sound he has never made before and folds forward over her arm.
"There it is," Rosa says, delighted, holding him up. "I felt it. He was gonna."
"Good girl," Denise says, and the room laughs, and Tim, bent double over a stranger's forearm with his balls aching and his cockstill hard, discovers that being called a girl does something to him he is not going to examine tonight.
Rosa lets go. She pats his cheek twice, brisk, and goes back to her gin.
"Up," Patty says. "You're not done."
He’s not done. He moves again, and this time the women, laughing and mostly drunk, press in and reach for him, their hands closing around him, tugging and teasing, working him up while they joke and call out, and they don’t let him settle — every few seconds, whichever one is nearest grabs him as he sways past, squeezes until he gasps and stumbles, and each squeeze knocks him back to just hard and each one makes the next rise come quicker, and by the sixth pass he’s not moving anymore, he’s just swaying in place, eyes shut, feet planted wide, mouth slack and open.
"Look at him," somebody says. "He's gone."
"He's not gone," Yuki says, from her booth, phone still up. "He's just loving being our toy."
Denise stands.
She takes her time about it. She sets her gin down on the marble, and she smooths the emerald blouse over her boobs, and she walks out into the middle of the floor with the unhurried stride of a woman who has decided the evening is entering its next phase, and the clapping dies out behind her, and every woman in the room turns to watch.
She stops in front of Tim. She looks at him — up and down, the way she did when he first walked in, only slower now, because now she owns the view.
"Sit," she says, and points at the floor.
He sits. The marble is cold through the sequins and the heels splay out in front of him and the dress pools around his hips and his cock stands up out of the middle of it, red, wet, aching, and Denise steps between his knees and looks down at him.
You've been so good," she says. "all the women had their hands on you, one of them nearly took a chunk out of your ass, and you still haven't spilled. You know how fucking rare that is?
No—please—let me go, I can't take any more," and that gets the women laughing and hollering, telling him straight up the night's barely started for him, and if he thinks his balls ache now, just wait a couple more hours.
"Very rare." She crouches. Her perfume comes down over him, jasmine and something under it, ad her honey-blonde bob catches the bar light, and her green eyes are doing that thing they do, crinkled at the corners, amused at something he can't see. "So I'm going to give you something. And then I'm going to take it back. And you're going to thank me for both."
Her hand closes around his cock.
He almost comes right there. He's been edged for so long and her palm is warm and dry and she grips him like she's holding a leash, thumb laid along the underside, and the first stroke takes him from the base all the way to the head and rolls the foreskin back and Tim's hips come up off the floor and Patty's hand lands on his shoulder and pushes him back down.
"Stay," Patty says.
Denise strokes him. Slow. She's not in a hurry and she wants him to know it. Her thumb drags through the slick at the tip on every upstroke and spreads it down the shaft, and her other hand comes up and rests flat on his throat, not squeezing, just there, the weight of it, and Tim's eyes roll back and his heels scrape on the marble and the room has gone completely silent except for the wet sound of her hand.
"You're going to come for me," Denise says. "In front of everyone. And you're going to say my name when you do."
"Yes yes oh my god yes—"
"Not yet."
She stops. Her hand goes still at the base of him, and Tim makes a noise like a kicked dog, and Denise smiles down at him and waits, three full seconds, four, until his breathing has come back down off the ceiling, and then she starts again, faster now, wrist twisting on the upstroke, and the heat is right there, right there, a hand's width away, and —
"Denise—"
She stops again. "Not yet."
Three times. She does it three times, and by the third Tim is past shame, past the mirror, past the room — he's just a body on cold marble with a hand on his throat and a hand on his cock and a voice above him saying not yet, not yet, and on the fourth build he doesn't warn her, doesn't say anything, just arches up off the floor with his mouth open and his heels skidding, and Denise feels it coming and does not stop.
"Now," she says. "Now, sweetheart. Say it."
"Denise—"
It tears out of him. His cock jerks in her fist and the first splash of come lands across her knuckles and the second hits her wrist and the third spatters up the inside of her forearm, and Denise keeps stroking him through it, slow and even, milking him, her thumb pressing just under the head on every pass, and Tim's hips keep jerking long after there's anything left, and his heels have come out of the shoes, and he's making a sound that isn't a word.
The room applauds.
Denise holds him there, twitching, for one beat. Two. She looks at the mess on her hand the way a woman looks at a good pour of wine. Then she lifts her eyes past Tim's head, to the ring of women, and something passes between them — a look that goes around the room and comes back — and Rosa sets down her gin, and Patty cracks her knuckles, and Yuki puts the phone away.
"He's not done," Denise says.
Tim's still coming down. His chest is heaving, his thighs are shaking, the dress is stuck to his stomach, and his cock is going soft in Denise's hand, oversensitive, every air current on it too much — and that's when Rosa's hand closes over Denise's, both of them on him now, and starts to move.
"Nn—" Tim's whole body flinches. "Wait—"
"No," Rosa says, cheerful, and pumps him. "You don't get to wait. You got yours."
She works him fast, her hand riding over Denise's, and it's too much, it's scraped raw, every pull dragging across nerves still sparking, and Tim's voice cracks on a noise that isn't a word, his heels skidding on the marble, and Patty's palm slams flat on his chest and pins him there, and the women in the bar close in around him, circling, laughing as he suffers, folding forward under the torment, and someone spits on him, then another, then another, while his cock is tortured.
Rosa's grip doesn't let up. A brutal fist riding him, dragging over him soft and sore, wrenching him back to half-mast for the audience, and Tim's frame is caving, buckling inward, but there's no give—Patty's hand is welded to his breastbone, his spine grinding against the cold slab, and he's pinned, nowhere left to run.
"There he is," Rosa says, her voice a wet rasp against his ear. "No going soft, sweetie." Her thumb finds the underside of his shaft, pressing hard enough to make his hips buck off the slab. "We want to see wood, and we are going to baby it." The word baby comes out like a threat, a promise of something that will hurt more than help. Her other hand clamps down on his hip, nails biting crescents into the skin, and she leans in, breath hot on his neck. "We are going to ride it until you're raw, until you're begging for a mercy I don't have in me tonight.
"He's got more in him," somebody from the booths says. A woman with a red bob and a wine glass. "Look at his balls."
Denise finally moves her hand. She pulls it out and holds it up, and the come on her knuckles catches the bar light, and she looks at it the way she'd look at a ring she was thinking about buying. Then she wipes it across Tim's mouth.
"Clean," she says.
He doesn't understand for a second. Then he does, and his tongue comes out and takes it off his lip, and the room makes a sound — not a laugh, lower than that, a hum, a lot of women all making the same noise at once.
"Good," Denise says. "Now get him up."
Patty's hand goes from his chest to the back of his neck and hauls. Tim comes up off the floor in one piece but his legs don't get the message and he sags sideways into Rosa, who catches him under the arm and props him against the bar rail like a coat on a hook. His heels are still on, both of them, though the left strap has come loose and is hanging off his ankle. The dress is stuck to his stomach. His cock is out and shiny and the whole front of the black sequins is a mess.
"Look at this dress," Rosa says, plucking at the hem. "Denise, you're going to have to burn it."
"I've burned better."
Yuki appears at Tim's other side. She doesn't say anything. She just takes the loose strap on his left heel and threads it back through the buckle and pulls, and Tim feels the shoe cinch down on his foot again, snug, and he realizes he's been standing in them this whole time and his calves have gone past burning into something numb and far away.
The red-bob woman moves closer . She's got a friend with her, a tall one in a navy blazer with her gray hair cut short, and they come up on either side of him while Rosa is still holding his arm, and the red-bob one — Carol, that's the one who was clapping — reaches down and takes his cock in her hand like she's picking up a piece of fruit to check if it's ripe.
"not fully hard ," she says, disappointed.
"Give him a minute," the tall one says. "They come back."
She's right. She knows she's right. Carol starts working him with two fingers and a thumb, a light, businesslike grip, like she's rolling a cigarette, and Tim's hips jerk and his cock twitches against her palm and the oversensitivity is so sharp it's almost a burn, every stroke pulling a sound out of him he keeps trying to swallow. He's trying to keep his eyes open. He's trying to keep standing. His knees have started doing a thing where they go soft on every downstroke and lock on every up, and Rosa's arm under his is the only reason he's vertical.
"There," the tall one says. "See? He's a good boy."
"He's not a boy," Denise says, from somewhere behind them. She's back at her booth. She's got her gin. "He's a girl tonight. Aren't you, sweetheart.
The room likes that. Carol likes it so much she speeds up, and Tim's cock is filling out again, thick and red and slick with his own come, and it hurts, it genuinely hurts, the nerves still ringing from the orgasm and now being asked to do it all over again, and he makes a noise that's half word and half whine and Patty, still behind him, says, "Breathe through it."
He breathes through it. Carol gets him most of the way hard and then hands him off — just hands him off, turns to the tall one and says your turn, like they're passing a joint — and the tall one takes him with a firmer grip, slower, and she's got a ring on and the metal drags cold along the underside and Tim's heels come up off the floor and he grabs the bar rail with both hands.
"Oh, he likes that," the tall one says.
"He likes all of it," Rosa says. "That's his problem."
They work him between them for a while. Not to make him come — nobody's trying to make him come. That's the thing Tim figures out somewhere around the third handoff, when the tall one passes him to a third woman who's been waiting her turn with her gin in one hand and her reading glasses pushed up on her head. They're just touching him. Passing him around the way you'd pass a bottle at a table. He's not a person right now, he's an object with a pulse, and every woman in the room gets a turn at the object, and the object has to stand there and take it and say thank you.
"You're leaking again," the third woman says. She's got short gray hair and a wedding band and she holds her hand up to show the room, a string of clear slick between her thumb and forefinger. "Look."
"That's not come," Yuki says. She's still standing by the bar with her arms crossed. "That's precum. but he is going to come for us again."
"Then lets make it a show."
"We should," Denise agrees. "Put him on the bar."
Tim doesn't get a vote. Patty's hands take him under the arms and Rosa's take his ankles and they lift him between them — he's not heavy, he's all forearms and no chest — and they lay him on his back along the marble, and the marble is cold, so cold it takes his breath, and the sequins slide on it and he has to put his hands out to keep from rolling off. Above him the ceiling is a long way up. Somewhere past his feet the whole bar has rearranged itself, stools scraping, women standing, and then they're around him, a ring of faces looking down the length of his body, and he's laid out like something on a platter.
His heels are still on. That's the detail that gets him. They laid him out flat and his heels are still on and his legs are spread and the dress has rucked up around his waist and his cock is standing straight up off his belly, and there's no part of him hidden from any of them.
"Hands behind your head," Denise says.
He puts his hands behind his head. The marble bites into his elbows. His cock sways with the movement and a woman at the foot of the bar says oh, softly, like she's seen a bird land.
Then they start.
The first hand is Carol's again, and she doesn't grip him this time, she just drags two fingers up the whole length of him, root to tip, slow, and the drag is dry at the base and slick at the head and Tim's whole body arches off the marble and Patty's hand comes down on his hip and pins him flat.
"Stay," Patty says.
The second hand is the tall one's, and she does the same thing, root to tip, and the third woman does it too, and then somebody's doing it while somebody else cups his balls, and then there's a hand on his inner thigh and a hand on his ankle and a hand flat on his stomach pressing down, and Tim stops being able to tell whose hand is whose. They're all the same hand now. They're the room's hand.
"He's shaking," somebody says.
"He's fine," Yuki says. "Watch his face."
His face is doing something he can't control. His mouth is open. His eyes are open and looking at the ceiling and not seeing it. Every pass up the length of his cock sends a jolt up into his stomach and every jolt is too much and not enough and his hips keep trying to move and Patty's hand keeps pinning them and the marble under his back has gone warm where his body is, and somewhere in the middle of it all he hears himself make a sound, a long low sound, and realizes it's a word, and the word is please.
"Please what," Denise says. She's at his head now. She's looking down at him upside down, her bob hanging, her green eyes upside down, and she's got her gin in one hand and she's not touching him at all.
"Please—"
"Please what, sweetheart."
"Please let me—"
"No," Denise says, and smiles, and takes a sip of her gin. "But you can keep asking. I like the way you ask."
They don't let up. That's the thing that undoes him — they don't let up and they don't finish him either. Somebody's thumb finds the spot just under the head and circles it, slow and merciless, while somebody else's fingers walk down the shaft, and Tim's cock is so hard it's gone a shade darker than it was and there's a fresh bead of precum at the tip that gets spread down the length by the next hand and the next, and his balls have drawn up tight against his body and every time a hand passes over them they ache like a bruise.
"He's close again," Rosa says. She's somewhere down by his feet. "Look at his toes."
His toes are curling in the patent heels. He can feel them do it and he can't stop them.
"Don't," Denise says. "Not yet."
"I wasn't going to," Rosa says, offended. "I'm just saying. Look at him. He's a mess."
He is a mess. There's come dried on his stomach and precum smeared up his chest where somebody's hand went too far, and his hair is stuck to his forehead, and the dress is a wreck, and his cock is standing up out of the middle of all of it like a mast, and the whole room is looking at him, and somewhere in the back of Tim's head — the part of him that's still Tim, the part that hauls milk crates and scrubs espresso machines and blushes when a woman holds eye contact — that part has gone very quiet and stopped objecting.
Then the hands stop.
All of them at once, like they'd agreed, and Tim's whole body jerks up off the marble looking for the next one and finds nothing, and he makes a sound that isn't a word, and the room laughs, and Patty's hand on his hip eases off.
"That's enough for now," Denise says. She sets her gin down on the bar beside his head. "You're going to need something left."
"For what," Tim says. His voice comes out wrecked.
Denise looks down the length of him — his cock, his wrecked dress, his heels, his hands still behind his head because nobody told him he could move them — and her mouth does something at one corner.
"For the rest of the night," she says.
Denise picks her gin back up and walks the length of the bar, and Tim watches her go upside down — her sharp bob, the emerald silk, the tailored slacks — until she's out of his sightline past his own feet, and then he's just looking at the ceiling again, and the ceiling is still a long way up, and nobody has told him he can move his hands.
"He's cute," the red-bob woman says. Carol. She's drifted back up the bar. "Look at him. He close and he's still standing at attention."
"That's youth," the tall one in the navy blazer says. "Waste of it."
"Then let's not waste it."
The first hand comes back before Tim's ready for it. He'd thought the stop was a rest. It wasn't. It was a reload. Carol's got him again, two fingers and a thumb, and she's not rolling a cigarette this time, she's stroking him root to tip with a wet palm — she must have licked it, or dipped it in her gin, because it's slick and cool and the cool is worse than the heat was, it makes every nerve stand up and report in — and Tim's hips come off the marble before Patty's hand even lands.
Patty's hand lands anyway. Flat on his hip. "I said stay."
"I'm trying—"
"Try harder."
Somebody laughs down by his feet. The strap on his left heel has come loose again, or maybe it never got fixed right, because he can feel it swinging against his ankle every time his leg twitches, and his leg is twitching a lot. Carol works him slow and steady and the oversensitivity has faded from a burn into something worse, a raw bright hum that runs up into his stomach and sits there, and his cock is so hard it's aching, genuinely aching, the kind of ache that has weight to it.
"Thats got him," Carol says, pleased, like she's found a road on a map. Her thumb presses it flat and drags.
Tim’s throat works but the sound gets stuck somewhere behind his teeth. His arms stay locked behind his head, fingers laced tight, and he can feel them all around him, palms resting loose on his shoulders, his hips, his thighs, not holding him down exactly but keeping him there, and their voices wash over him in overlapping waves, laughter and chatter and the clink of glasses, and someone’s fingers trail across his chest like an afterthought while they keep talking over him, through him, like he’s part of the furniture they’re all leaning on.
"Pass him," the tall one says.
"I just got him."
"You've had your turn. Pass him."
Carol sighs like a woman giving up a parking space and hands him off, and the tall one takes over with her ring and her firm grip, and she's got a rhythm, she's got an actual rhythm, three strokes and a squeeze at the top, three strokes and a squeeze, and on the fourth squeeze Tim's whole body bows up off the marble and his heels drum against the bar and a sound comes out of him that's mostly air.
"Oh, he's got a tell," the tall one says. "Denise. He's got a tell."
"I know," Denise says, from somewhere behind his head. "I've been watching it since the first one."
They pass him again. A woman with a wedding band and short gray hair — the one who showed the room the string of slick on her fingers — takes him next, and she doesn't stroke him at all. She just holds him. Wraps her whole hand around the shaft and squeezes, steady, unrelenting, and lets his own pulse do the work against her palm, and Tim can feel every beat of his heart arrive at the head of his cock and bounce off her grip and come back, and it's the worst thing anyone has done to him all night, and he says so.
Patty's hand is back on his chest, not pinning now, just resting, and Tim realizes he's been trying to sit up and didn't know it. He lies back down. The marble has gone warm under his shoulder blades and cold everywhere else and his body can't decide which is worse.
He breathes. The woman with the wedding band lets go and somebody else takes him — a younger one, thirties maybe, dark hair, she's been at the edge of the ring this whole time and hasn't touched him once, and now she steps in and does something nobody's done yet: she takes his balls in one hand and his cock in the other and works them together, one slow pump of the shaft matched to one slow roll of the balls, and Tim's vision goes white at the edges and comes back and his heels have come up off the marble entirely, both of them, the left strap swinging free, and he's making a sound that isn't a word and isn't quite a moan, it's lower, it's coming from somewhere under his ribs.
"He's going to come," somebody says.
"He's not going to come," Denise says, and her voice has gone flat and certain, the way it went when she first put her hand on his throat, "because I haven't said he can, and he knows better. Don't you, sweetheart."
"Yes," Tim says. It comes out cracked. It comes out immediate. Some part of him hears himself answer before he's even decided to and files it away for later, for the part of the night when he has time to think about what that means.
The younger woman keeps working him. She's good at it. She's got the rhythm now, the one that gets him, and she's watching his face the whole time with her head tilted, reading him like a recipe, and Tim is right there, right at the lip of it, the whole room tilting, his balls drawn up so tight they're touching his body, his cock dark and swollen
And she stops. Just stops. Takes her hands off him and steps back into the ring, and Tim's hips chase her and find nothing and he makes a noise that the room answers with that low hum again, that lot-of-women sound, and somebody at the foot of the bar claps twice, slow.
"That's twenty-seven," Yuki says.
"Twenty-seven what?" Tim says. He doesn't know why he asks. He asks because he needs something to hold onto and a number is something.
"Twenty-seven women," Yuki says. "That's how many have had their hands on you tonight. I've been keeping count."
"Why?"
Yuki looks at him down the length of the bar. Her face doesn't do anything. "Because somebody should."
Denise comes back into his sightline. She's got her gin and she's got a fresh cigarette going and she looks down at him the way you'd look at a project you're pleased with, and Tim lies there on the marble with his hands behind his head and his cock standing up off his belly and his heels still on and the strap still swinging, and he waits for her to say the next thing, because that's the shape of the night now — he waits, and she says, and he does.
"Get him down," Denise says. "He' ready for the next part"
Patty's hands take him under the arms and haul him off the marble, and Tim's legs don't work right for the first three steps, and the whole room watches him learn to walk again in patent heels with his cock out and his dress wrecked and his hair stuck to his forehead, and somewhere behind him a woman says, "He's got nice shoulders for a girl," and another one says, "He's got nice everything," and Tim keeps his eyes on the floor and lets Patty steer him, and the floor is sticky and cold and it's the first time all night he's been allowed to look at anything but the ceiling.
they hold him down and he’s trembling with it, the shiver running from his teeth to his knees, and Denise pulls out a pink thing five inches long and slick with something that catches the light, and they bend him over the bar like he’s nothing, like he’s a coat she’s about to hang, and he begs—actually begs, the word tearing out of him raw and ugly—and they laugh, low and warm, and tell him he’s going to take it, going to feel every inch and when she presses the tip against him, cold and insistent, he gasps, his fingers scrabbling on the lacquered wood, and they hold him tighter, and he feels the stretch, the burn, the slow, deliberate slide of it sinking into him, and he thinks he might die from it, might split open right there, and they tell him he’s going to come for them again, and he knows he will, knows it’s already building in his gut like a wave he can’t stop, and he lets his head fall forward and just takes it, the heat of his own shame and want crawling up his spine as Rosa grabs him.
he’s already gone, the first hard pulse ripping out of him before she’s even finished driving the dilo all the way home, and Rosa’s fist keeps working him, wet and relentless, milking every last drop while his hips jerk helplessly into her grip, and he can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t do anything but feel the thick, burning stretch of it inside him, the way it hits that spot that makes his vision go white, and the women’s laughter is a hot, stinging chorus in his ears, sharp and filthy, and he wants to hide from it, wants to beg them to stop, but his body betrays him, arching into it, taking it, and he hears himself sob as the second wave crashes through him, his cock twitching in Rosa’s hand, spilling again, hot and shameful, and they’re not done, they’re never done, and he lets his head fall back and just takes it, broken and bare, the ache of his own want burning up his spine like a brand.