"You did good," Denise says. "You did real good.” she says. "But we're not done with you yet. The ladies want to see another sexy dance, and this time you play with yourself to keep it up, and baby, you smile."

His bare feet find the cold floor, and the shock of it shoots up his spine, wakes something in him he wishes would stay asleep. He tries to dance, but his cock stands half hard, sore and not his any more, and the women feel it in the air around him. They smell it on him. They make a space, a tight ring of heat and perfume and smoke, and they laugh, low and mean, and jeer at the way he can't come when he wants, can't perform, and is their toy. Some of them open their tops, show him their breasts, heavy and bare and offered like a taunt, a reminder that this is their power, their game, their male toy to wind up and watch stumble. He looks, because he can't not look, and his mouth goes dry and his stomach clenches and he hates that his eyes want them even when his body won't obey.

Then a few of them start to pinch his bottom, sharp little nips that make him flinch and gasp, and somebody spits on his shoulder, warm and wet, and it slides down his skin like a brand. They demand he plays with himself, laughing, and he has to do it, has to reach down and take himself in his own hand, and his fingers are clumsy and cold and he feels so sore, so empty, so hollowed out that the touch is almost a shock. He rubs himself, slow, reluctant, his hips twitching without his permission, and he can feel how raw he is, how used, and the ache in his jaw throbs in time with his pulse. When he finally stops hard and trembling, they laugh harder, a wall of sound that presses in on him, and their hands are everywhere — pinching his ass, petting his thighs, and worse, several of them stick fingers up into him, hooking and curling, and he sways and dances because he has no choice, his eyes dazed and wet, his body broken open and dancing for them, and he smiles because they told him to.

Then Rosa shoves a thick, studded dildo up into him, and the women take turns on it, and worse, they find the heels and make him strap them on, and then he’s dancing while they work the toy in and out of him, their palms sliding over his slick skin, his aching cock pumped raw and relentless by one after another, and the drag of each pull burns up his spine, and they spit on his face and he lets it drip, lets it sit there, warm and wet on his cheek and all the while he’s grinning because they said so, his jaw tight, his eyes glassy, and the studs catch and scrape inside him with every sway of his hips, and he feels every ridge, every turn, the ache in his thighs spreading up into his gut, and he keeps moving, keeps smiling, because their laughter is a current and he is pulled along in it, and he doesn’t know where he ends and they begin, and he doesn’t need to.

Then to his releif Rosa yanks the dildo out and says "Denise wants you back at the bar," she says. "She's got three more who've been waiting, and they're not the patient kind."

"Three more."

"Three more." She lets go of his hand and pats his cheek, twice, the way you'd pat a dog that fetched. "You're not going anywhere yet."

the women’s laughter is a rope around his wrists, and they haul him back to the bar, their heels clicking on the wood like a countdown. one of them runs a nail down his spine, slow, and he shivers because he can’t tell if it’s a promise or a threat. the other one leans in close, her breath hot on his ear, and says, “you’re not done yet, sweetheart. you’ve got more pussy to please” he feels the bar’s edge press into his hip, the sticky ring of a spilled drink under his palm, and the low hum of the crowd is a wall he can’t climb. “keep it up,” she says, and it’s not a request. it’s a fact, like the weight of her hand on his shoulder, pushing him down, and he doesn’t know if he’s being held up or held under, but he nods, because that’s what he does now.

"Good girl," Denise says. She's got a fresh drink in her hand and she takes a sip of it and looks him over from his bare feet to his hair

"Three more." She sets the glass down. "They've been waiting all night, same as Margaret. They're friends of hers. They came in together and they've been watching you work and they've decided they want their turn the same way she had it."

"On top," Tim says.

"On top. On the bar. On your back or on your knees, whichever they want, and you don't stop till they're done, and you don't come but keep it up, and you don't ask." She tips his chin up with one finger. "You understand?"

He climbs back onto the bar. His knees are shot and his thighs are shaking and he gets up onto the marble on all fours and then sits back on his heels, and the sequins drag cold under his ass and the dress is wet through the front and sticking to his stomach, and he waits.

The first one comes out of the crowd near the jukebox. She's enormous — the biggest woman Tim has ever seen up close, wide through the shoulders and the hips and the arms, with a great shelf of a chest under a purple blouse and a face that's been in the sun for seventy years, brown and creased and grinning. She's got dirt on her hands, actual dirt, garden dirt worked into the knuckles and under the nails, and she wipes them on her slacks and then wipes them again and then gives up and climbs onto the bar with one knee and a grunt and lies back on the marble like it's a bed she's been meaning to get into.

"Come on then, sweetheart," she says. "I've been on my feet since six this morning."

Tim crawls up over her and settles between her thighs and she's big enough that his knees have to go wide and his chest comes down on her soft belly, and she smells like soil and sweat and lavender soap, and her cunt is wet and warm and open under his mouth and she tastes like the earth smells after rain — dark and mild and a little sweet — and Tim puts his tongue into her and works.

"Oh, that's it," she says. "That's the stuff."

She's got one hand on the back of his head and the other flat on the marble and she moves under him in slow heavy surges, and her thighs come up around his ears and squeeze and she grinds herself up onto his mouth and Tim licks her in long flat strokes and his jaw screams and he does it anyway. Her dirt-smelling hand slides down off his head and onto his shoulder and grips the sequins and pulls, and the dress tears somewhere at the seam and she doesn't notice and neither does he.

"Harder," she says. "Put your tongue in me."

He puts his tongue in her. She's wet enough that it slides, and she clenches around it and groans and her hips come up off the marble and she rides his face with her hand fisted in his hair, and Tim's nose is buried in the gray thatch above her clit and he can't breathe and she doesn't care, and she comes with a long low growl that he feels all the way down her thighs and into his own chest, and Tim licks her through it and keeps licking until she lets go of his hair and shoves his head away.

"Bless you, boy," the woman says, and sits up and swings her legs off the bar and stands, and she pats Tim's ass on the way down like he's a horse she's finished with.

The second one is already climbing up. She's shorter but just as wide, with a great soft bosom under a flowered housecoat and hair like steel wool and a face Tim can't read at all, and she doesn't lie back. She kneels up on the marble facing him and pulls her housecoat open and takes his head in both hands and puts his mouth on her breast first — heavy, warm, the nipple soft and wide — and holds him there while she breathes, and then she pushes him down between her legs and lies back and hooks her heels over his shoulders.

"Go on," she says. "Same as she had."

He goes down on her. She's wet and she's ready and she takes it without a word, one hand resting on his head like it's just sitting there, and she comes fast — faster than any of them, a quick tight shudder and a grunt — and then she pushes his head away and sits up and looks at him with her mouth pursed.

"Again," she says.

"What?"

"I said again. That was one. I want two."

Tim looks over at Denise. Denise takes a sip of her drink and doesn't say anything,, and the watching women laugh and demand he do it better and this time they want to see him wiggling his cute ass for them, and the sound of their voices is a hot wire in his gut, and he feels the ache of it, the raw pull of it, the wanting that sits low and heavy and tight in his chest like a fist. He can feel the heat of their eyes on him, all of them, and Denise's silence is the loudest thing in the room, and he wants her to look at him, wants her to see him, wants her to want him the way they do, and the laugh comes again, sharp and bright and cruel, and it digs into him, and he thinks about her mouth, about the way she said again, and he wants to give them everything, wants to be good for them,

So Tim drops his mouth back down on her and gives her a second go-round, tongue flat and jaw working and eyes squeezed shut, and this one takes longer, and she talks to the room right over his head — "See, this is exactly it, they don't make them like this anymore" — and while he's pleasing her he's got to wiggle his ass for the women watching, and he feels their hands grabbing and squeezing it, rough and greedy, fingers digging into the muscle like they're testing fruit, and then a hand slides around and catches him between the legs and yanks at him roughly, a hard pull that makes his hips jerk forward into nothing, makes his breath catch sharp in his throat, and he lets her do it, lets them do all of it, and then she comes again, harder and wetter this time, her fist knotted in the torn sequins at his shoulder and her heels kicking against his back.

The third one is the oldest and the fattest of the three, and she can't get up onto the bar by herself. Patty lifts her — actually lifts her, both hands under her arms, up and onto the marble like a sack of flour — and she settles back against the bar rail with her legs spread and her dress bunched up around her waist and her great soft belly hanging down over her thighs, and she looks at Tim kneeling there with his mouth wet and his face wrecked and his dress torn at the shoulder, and she opens her arms.

"Come here, baby," she says. "Come here and put your face in it."

He crawls up between her legs and puts his face in it. She's wet and heavy and her cunt is soft and open and she tastes like the other two, mild and warm, and she takes his head in both hands and holds him against her and grinds down slow, and Tim's tongue works her clit in small circles and she breathes hard through her nose and her belly shakes against his chest and her hands are gentle on his head, gentler than the others, and she hums to him the whole time, a low tuneless hum, like a woman rocking a baby.

"That's right," she says. "That's right. Don't stop."

He doesn't stop. His jaw is past hurting now, past everything, and his tongue is thick and his mouth is full of her and she rocks on his face in long slow rolls and the bar is quiet and the hum goes on and on, and then her hands tighten and her breath catches and she comes — a long, soft, rolling thing that goes through her whole body and into his — and Tim licks her through it and she holds him there afterward with her hand on the back of his head, not letting him up, just breathing.

Patty lifts her down. The three of them gather at the end of the bar with their drinks and their coats and their dirt-stained hands, and the oldest one blows Tim a kiss, and the whole bar laughs, and Tim kneels on the marble with his mouth open and his chest heaving and his cock hard as a rail against his stomach and his dress torn and wet and hanging off one shoulder.

Denise comes around the end of the bar and stands in front of him and looks down at him kneeling there, and she takes his chin in her hand and turns his face up.

"Twenty women baby," she says. "That's a good night's work."

The word settles over the room like a held breath. Denise lets her hand fall from his chin and steps back, and for a moment Tim thinks it's over, thinks she's going to let him down off the bar and find his jeans and walk out into the night with his keys and his t-shirt and whatever's left of his dignity.

Then Rosa calls out from somewhere near the jukebox, "Lights!" and the pendant lights go off in sections, dimming the bar from the back forward, until the only light left is the warm glow over the bar itself and the neon sign in the window that says OPEN in pink script.

"Last call," Yuki says, and she's not talking to Tim. She's talking to the room. "You've got ten minutes to finish your drinks."

"Up," Denise says.

It takes Tim a second to realize she's talking to him. He's still on his knees on the marble, his dress torn at the shoulder and wet through the front, his cock a hard, sore weight against his stomach, his face a wreck of dried tears and other women's come. He looks up at her.

"Up," she says again. "On your feet. We're closing."

Patty hauls him up by the arm before he can move on his own, and his bare feet hit the cold floor and he staggers, and the sequin dress slides down his body and catches on his hips, and he stands there in the middle of the bar with his cock out and his face wet and the whole room looking at him.

They're all looking at him. All of them. He counts them without meaning to — the women at the bar, the women at the booths, the women by the jukebox, the women who've been standing at the rail all night with their drinks in their hands and their eyes on him. Twenty-nine. Thirty. He loses count somewhere around the woman with the swallow tattoo and the two red-bobs and the old woman with the cane who's being helped into her coat.

They're not leaving.

They're not even moving toward the door. They're standing where they are, and they're looking at him, and Denise says, "Form a line," and they do.

It's not a line like a queue. It's a line like a gauntlet. They arrange themselves in a loose row that curves from the bar toward the door, a crescent of women in their coats and their dresses and their work clothes, some of them still holding their drinks, all of them watching him.

"What—" Tim starts.

"You're not leaving yet," Denise says. "We close at two. That's ten minutes away. And you've been a very good girl all night, so we're going to give you a send-off."

The first woman steps forward. She's the one with the swallow tattoo, the tall one who fucked his face standing up, and she reaches out and takes his cock in her hand like she's picking up a pen — no ceremony, no preamble, just her fingers wrapping around his shaft, and Tim's breath catches and his hips jerk forward without his permission.

"Still hard," she says, to the room, and there's a ripple of laughter. "Look at that. Still hard after everything."

"He's a good boy," someone says.

"He's a stupid boy," the tall woman says, and she starts to pump him — slow, easy strokes, her thumb dragging over the head, and Tim's knees go weak and he grabs the bar edge to hold himself up, and she works him for about thirty seconds and then lets go and steps back, and the next woman is already there.

The next woman is the short round one who sat down on his face like she was sitting down to dinner. She takes him in her hand and squeezes, testing, and Tim makes a sound that's half moan, half whimper, and she laughs and pumps him twice, quick and hard, and lets go, and the next woman steps up.

It goes on like that.

Woman after woman, all of them taking their turn. Some of them are gentle — the old woman with the cane pats his cock like she's patting a dog and says, "There, there, good boy," and moves on. Some of them are rough — the woman with the steel-wool hair grabs him by the shaft and yanks, hard, and Tim's whole body lurches and she laughs and says, "That's for making me wait," and lets go. Some of them just touch him, fingers trailing down his length, testing the weight of him, the heat of him, and then moving on like they've satisfied a curiosity.

And all of them, all of them, are talking. One of them says, and she's not talking to her friend. She's talking to Denise. "If you're doing this again, I want in."

"He's not a rental," Rosa says, from somewhere behind him, and her voice is warm with amusement. "He's a project. You don't get to book him like a hotel room."

"I'm not booking him. I'm asking."

“He's free whenever we say he's free," Denise says. "But I'm sure he'd love to see you again. Wouldn't you, baby girl?"

The woman smiles and gives his cock one last squeeze and lets go, and the next woman steps up. This one is older, maybe sixty, with a flowered dress and a face that's been through some weather, and she takes him in her hand and looks at him — at his face, not his cock — and says, "I've got a cabin up north. You could come stay for the weekend. I'd take care of you."

"He's not for rent," Rosa calls out, and there's laughter.

"I'm not renting him. I'm offering him a vacation."

"He's had enough vacation tonight."

The woman laughs and pats his cock and moves on, and the next woman steps up, and the next, and the next. The line is moving slowly, each woman taking her time, and Tim's cock is being passed from hand to hand like a baton, like a thing that belongs to all of them, and he's so hard it hurts, so hard that every touch is a bright wire of sensation, and he's making sounds he can't stop, little whimpers and gasps, and the women are laughing and talking over his head

And it's that — it's the casual way they're talking about him, like he's a thing they're discussing, a project they're planning, a toy they're already deciding how to share — that does something to Tim. His stomach clenches. His mouth goes dry. His cock jumps in the hand that's currently holding it, and the woman holding it — a younger one, maybe thirty-five, with a sharp bob and a sly smile — notices and laughs.

"Oh, he likes that," she says. "He likes being talked about."

"He likes being planned for," Denise says.

The woman pumps him twice, quick, and lets go, and the next woman steps up. This one is the quiet one in the denim jacket, the one who came thirteenth in the line, the one who rode his face facing the room. She doesn't touch him right away. She stands in front of him and looks at him, and Tim looks back, and there's something in her eyes that he can't read.

"You remember me?" she says.

"Yes."

"What's my name?"

Tim's mouth opens. Closes. He doesn't know her name. He's never known her name. She's just the one in the denim jacket, the quiet one, the one who watched him from the stool by the jukebox all night and then rode his face without a word.

"Didn't think so," she says. She reaches out and takes his cock in her hand, and her grip is firm, almost proprietary, and she looks at him while she pumps him — slow, deliberate strokes, her eyes on his face — and Tim's knees go weak and he grabs the bar edge and she keeps going, keeps looking, and the room has gone quiet around them.

"I'm Dana," she says. "You're going to remember that name by the time the weekend's over."

She gives his cock one last squeeze and lets go and steps back, and the next woman steps up, and Tim stands there with his cock hard and his face flushed and his heart hammering, and Dana's name is burning in his head like a brand.

"Dana," he says, and his voice comes out wrecked.

She looks back over her shoulder at him and smiles — a small, private smile, like she knows something he doesn't — and then she's gone, pulling her denim jacket on, and the next woman is already taking her turn.

The line goes on.

Woman after woman, hand after hand, and Tim is losing track of the faces, losing track of the names, losing track of everything except the rhythm of it — the touch, the squeeze, the pump, the release, the next hand closing around him. His cock is a raw, aching, overused thing, and it's still hard, still standing,

And Tim stands there and takes it, because that's what he does now, that's what he's for, and his cock is being passed from hand to hand and his name is being passed from mouth to mouth and his weekend is being planned out from under him like he's not even in the room.

And the laughter rolls over him like a wave, and Tim's eyes are wet again, and he doesn't know if he's crying from the pain or the humiliation or something else entirely, something he can't name, something that lives in the place where his cock meets all those hands and his heart meets all those voices.

The last woman in the line is Carol.

She steps up to him with her blouse still hanging off her elbows and her tits out and her face unreadable, and she takes his cock in her hand one last time and looks at him — really looks at him, the way she did when she had him on the edge, the way she did when she was working him raw under the bar.

"You did good tonight," she says. "You did real good."

"Thank you."

"I mean it." She pumps him slow, once, twice, and Tim's hips jerk and he makes a sound he can't stop. "I've been doing this a long time. I've seen a lot of boys come through. Most of them break by the third hour. You lasted all night."

"I didn't have a choice."

"That's the point." She squeezes him at the base, not hard, just there, just reminding him, and Tim's whole body goes still. "You didn't break. That's worth something."

She lets go and steps back, and the line is done, and Tim stands in the middle of the bar with his cock out and his face wet and his dress ruined and his body shaking, and the women are gathering their coats and their bags and their drinks, and the lights are coming up, and the bar is closing.

The bar is closing around him, and Tim is still standing in the middle of it with his cock out and his dress ruined and no idea where his jeans are. The lights are up now, bright and unforgiving, and the women are moving past him in a steady stream, coats and bags and half-finished drinks, and none of them are looking at him anymore. He's already been used up. He's already been passed over.

Then Denise's hand closes on his arm, and it's not gentle.

"Come on," she says. "You're coming with us."

Tim's stomach drops. "What—"

"You heard me." She's already pulling him toward the door, and Rosa is on his other side, and Yuki is behind him with a hand flat on his spine, and Patty brings up the rear like a sheepdog, and Tim is being moved through the crowd whether his feet want to cooperate or not. His bare feet. He still doesn't have his shoes. He still doesn't have his jeans.

"My clothes—" he starts.

"You don't need them." Denise doesn't slow down. "You're not going home."

The night air hits him like a slap. It's cold out here, colder than he expected, and the sequin dress does nothing against it, and Tim's bare arms come up in goosebumps and his cock shrivels against his thigh and he makes a sound that's half gasp, half whimper. The street is mostly empty. A streetlight buzzes overhead. A taxi is idling at the curb with its engine running, and the driver is a woman with gray-streaked hair and a face that's seen everything, and she doesn't even look surprised to see a boy in a sequin dress being hauled out of a bar by four middle-aged women.

"Where to?" she says.

Denise gives her an address. Tim doesn't catch it. He's too busy trying to get his feet under him, trying to find the ground, trying to remember how to be a person who has any say in where his body goes next.

Patty opens the back door and shoves him in.

Tim lands on the seat in a heap of sequins and bare legs, and then Rosa is in beside him, and Yuki slides in on his other side, and Patty gets in front next to the driver, and Denise is the last one in, pulling the door shut behind her with a solid thunk that sounds like a verdict.

The taxi pulls away from the curb.

Tim sits between Rosa and Yuki with his dress rucked up around his hips and his bare thighs sticking to the vinyl seat, and his cock is half-hard again from the cold and the fear and the way Rosa's hand is resting on his knee like it belongs there. The driver glances at him in the rearview mirror once, twice, and then she just drives, like this is normal, like this happens every night.

"Where are we going?" Tim asks. His voice comes out small.

"Somewhere private," Denise says. She's sitting by the window with her legs crossed and her hands folded in her lap, and she looks at him the way she's been looking at him all night, like he's a problem she's solving. "Somewhere we can finish what we started."

"I thought—" He swallows. "I thought I was done."

Rosa laughs. It's a low, warm sound that vibrates through her hand into his knee. "Oh, sweetheart. You're never done."

Yuki doesn't say anything. She just reaches over and takes his hand, and her fingers are cool and small and they lace through his, and Tim doesn't know if it's comfort or control, and he doesn't ask.

The city slides past the windows. Streetlights, storefronts, a late-night diner with two people in the window, a laundromat with its lights still on. Tim watches it go by and tries to remember the last time he had any say in anything, and he can't.

"My wallet," he says. "My keys. My phone."

"I have them," Denise says. She pats her bag. "You'll get them back when you've earned them."

"Earned them—"

"When you've been good." She smiles at him, slow, and it doesn't reach her eyes. "You've been good tonight. But good isn't enough. Good is the baseline. Good is what you have to be before we start."

Tim's mouth opens. Closes. He looks down at his bare thighs, at the sequins catching the streetlight, at Yuki's hand still holding his.

"Where are we going?" he asks again.

Denise tells him the address again, slower this time, and Tim recognizes it — it's a building on the edge of downtown, a block of condos that went up a few years ago, the kind of place with a doorman and a gym and floor-to-ceiling windows. He's never been inside. He's walked past it on his way to work and wondered what it would be like to live somewhere like that.

"That's yours?" he says.

One of mine," Denise says. "I've got a nice place out in the country, and if you're real good, maybe you'll see it. But this is my city spot—modern, comfortable, plenty of rooms for my friends to crash in.

Tim's breath catches. His heart is hammering against his ribs, and his cock is hard again, and he hates it, hates how easily his body betrays him, hates the way Rosa's hand is sliding up his thigh and the way Yuki's fingers are still laced through his and the way Patty is sitting in the front seat like a wall of stone.

"I don't have a choice," he says. It comes out flat.

"No," Denise agrees. "You don't." She lets go of his chin and settles back in her seat. "But you can choose how you feel about it. You can fight it, and it'll be harder. Or you can lean into it, and it'll be—" She pauses. "It'll be what you make it."

The taxi turns a corner. The building rises up ahead, all glass and steel and warm light spilling from the lobby. The driver pulls up to the curb and puts the car in park.

"Here we are," she says.

Patty gets out first. She holds the door open, and Denise gets out, and then Rosa is tugging Tim out by the hand, and he stumbles onto the sidewalk on his bare feet and the cold concrete bites into his soles and he gasps. Yuki is behind him, one hand on his spine, steadying him, and the four of them are a tight square around him, and the doorman — a young man in a navy uniform — looks at them and then very deliberately looks away.

"Evening, Ms. Caldwell," he says.

"Evening, Marcus." Denise doesn't slow down. She sweeps through the lobby with Tim in her wake, and the marble floor is cold and polished under his bare feet, and he can see his own reflection in it, a blur of black sequins and pale legs, being herded toward the elevator like livestock.

The elevator doors open. They step in. Denise presses a button, and the doors slide shut, and Tim stands in the middle of the four of them with his dress rucked up and his cock hard and his heart going like a trapped bird, and the elevator rises.

No one speaks.

The elevator is warm and close and smells like Rosa's perfume and Patty's leather jacket and the faint sour smell of Tim's own sweat and fear. He watches the numbers climb and tries to breathe and can't quite get a full breath in.

The elevator dings. The doors open.

The hallway is quiet and thickly carpeted, and Denise leads them to a door at the end and unlocks it with a key from her bag, and the door swings open into a dark apartment that smells like cedar and lemon polish. She steps inside and flicks a switch, and the lights come up over a living room that's all clean lines and soft furniture and a wall of windows looking out over the city.

"Welcome home," Denise says, and she's not talking to Tim. She's talking to the other three. "Make yourselves comfortable. I'll get him sorted."

Rosa and Yuki and Patty move into the living room, shedding coats and settling into the furniture like they've been here a hundred times. Tim stands in the entryway on the cold tile, barefoot and half naked and completely lost.

Denise turns to him.

"Come here," she says.

He goes. He doesn't know why he goes. His feet carry him across the tile and into the living room, and Denise takes his arm and leads him past the others, down a hallway, into a bedroom that's all white linens and soft lamplight and a bed that looks like it's never been slept in.

"Strip," she says.

Tim's hands come up to the torn shoulder of the dress. He doesn't know how to take it off. He's never taken off a dress before. It's been put on him and taken off him by other hands all night, and now he's being asked to do it himself, and his fingers are clumsy and cold and the sequins catch on his knuckles.

Denise watches him. She doesn't help.

He gets the dress off eventually, peeling it down over his shoulders and letting it fall to the floor, and he stands there in nothing and his body is covered in dried sweat and other people's come and he feels like something that's been wrung out and hung up to dry. and Denise looks at him for a long moment, and then she nods. "Good," she says. "Now lie down."

Tim looks at the bed. The white linens are pristine, untouched, and he's filthy, and he doesn't want to ruin them, and he says so — "I'll get it dirty" — and Denise's mouth quirks.

"I know," she says. "Lie down."

He lies down. The sheets are cool and smooth against his bare back, and he feels the dirt and sweat and come transferring from his skin to the white linen, and he closes his eyes and waits.

Denise doesn't touch him right away. She stands at the foot of the bed and looks at him, and Tim can feel her gaze moving over him like a hand, and he doesn't know what she's looking for, and he's afraid to ask.

"You did good tonight," she says finally. "You did better than I expected."

"Thank you."

"I'm not done with you yet." She moves around the bed, and the mattress dips as she sits on the edge beside him. Her hand lands on his bare chest, warm and heavy. "You've got a lot left in you. I can feel it."

Tim's breath catches. "I don't—"

"You don't know what you've got left. I know. I always know." Her palm slides down his chest, over his stomach, and her fingers wrap around his cock, and Tim's hips jerk and he makes a sound he can't stop. "There he is. Still hard. Still ready."

"Please—"

"Please what?"

"I don't know." His voice cracks. "I don't know what you want me to say."

"You don't have to say anything." She starts to pump him, slow and easy, and Tim's whole body goes tight and then loose, and his eyes fall shut and his head falls back and he just lies there and takes it. "You just have to be here. You just have to let us take care of you."

The door opens. Tim's eyes fly open, and Rosa is standing in the doorway with her dress already half off, and Yuki is behind her, and Patty is behind them both, and Denise doesn't stop moving her hand.

"He's ready," Denise says.

"Good," Rosa says, and she pulls her dress the rest of the way off and drops it on the floor, and she's naked underneath, all warm skin and full hips and dark hair, and she climbs onto the bed and settles over Tim's face before he can even think about saying anything.

"Hello again, sweetheart," she says, and she lowers herself onto his mouth, and Tim's tongue comes up automatically, because that's what his tongue does now, and Rosa sighs and starts to rock.

Denise keeps pumping him. Yuki is at his side, her hand on his chest, her thumb tracing small circles over his sternum. Patty is at the foot of the bed, watching, her arms crossed, her pale blue eyes unreadable.

And Tim lies there in the middle of all of them, naked and hard and used, with Rosa's cunt on his face and Denise's fist on his cock and Yuki's hand on his heart and Patty's eyes on his body, and he doesn't know where he ends and they begin.

And he's not sure he wants to.

Rosa's hips find a rhythm against his mouth, and Tim's tongue works her the way he's been trained to all night—the flat of it pressing up against her clit, the tip of it circling, the way Yuki taught him to listen for the small sounds that mean he's doing it right. Rosa makes one of those sounds now, a low hum that vibrates through her thighs, and she rocks harder, grinding down on his face like she's trying to press herself through him.

Denise's palm works his length, slow and deliberate, her thumb dragging wet across the tip each time she pulls back until Tim's hips are jerking off the mattress. He's right there and still so raw and hollow. He's been right there for so long that the edge is just where he lives now, a constant hum of almost, and he's given up on holding it, given up on anything but riding it out.

"Good boy," Rosa murmurs, and she reaches down and grips his hair, pulls his face harder into her. "That's it. Right there. Don't you stop."

Tim doesn't stop. He can't stop. His jaw aches and his tongue is numb and there's a slick trail of her running down his chin and onto his neck, and he keeps licking because that's what he does now, that's what he is, a mouth and a tongue and a cock and nothing else.

Yuki's hand moves from his chest to his jaw. Her fingers are cool against his heated skin, and she tilts his head slightly, adjusting the angle, and Rosa makes a sound that's almost a gasp and says, "Oh, that's better," and Tim learns something new about what his tongue can do.

Patty hasn't moved from the foot of the bed. She stands there with her arms crossed, watching, and Tim can feel her eyes on him like a weight, like a hand, like something that's judging him and finding him wanting and maybe liking that about him. He doesn't know what she's thinking. He doesn't think he's allowed to know.

"Patty," Denise says, and her voice is low and easy, like she's commenting on the weather. "Come here. I want you to hold his hands."

Patty uncrosses her arms. She moves around the bed with the unhurried economy of someone who's done this before, and she climbs onto the mattress and takes Tim's wrists in her hands, presses them down into the pillow on either side of his head. Her grip is iron. It doesn't hurt, but it doesn't yield, and Tim's whole body goes still under it.

"There," Denise says. "Now he can't touch anyone. Now he just has to lie there and take it."

Rosa laughs against his mouth — Tim feels it more than hears it, the vibration of it against his lips — and she grinds down harder, wet and hot and demanding, and Tim's tongue is buried in her, and he can't breathe, and he doesn't want to breathe, he just wants to keep doing this until she's satisfied.

"Yuki," Denise says. "His nipples. He likes that."

Yuki's hand moves from his jaw down his chest. Her thumb finds his nipple and circles it, light and precise, and Tim's back arches off the mattress and he makes a sound against Rosa's cunt that's muffled and broken and desperate. Yuki does it again, and again, and each time his body jerks like he's been touched with a live wire.

"He does like that," Yuki says, and there's something in her voice that Tim hasn't heard before—approval, maybe, or amusement, or both.

"I told you." Denise's hand speeds up on his cock, and Tim's hips are bucking now, chasing it, and he can feel himself spiraling toward the edge, that familiar cliff, that familiar fall, and he knows Denise is going to stop him, knows she's going to pull him back, and he wants it and hates it in the same breath.

"Please," he gasps against Rosa's thigh. "Please, I—"

"Please what?" Rosa's voice is breathless, amused. "You want to come, sweetheart?"

"Yes. Please. I've been so good—"

Rosa laughs, and the sound vibrates right through him, but then Denise slows, and Tim's whole body screams at the betrayal of it, that cruel, beautiful pressure pulling back to almost nothing. "Me first, sweetie," Rosa says, and Tim's already nodding, already desperate, his mouth opening before his brain catches up.

He buries his face between her thighs, tongue flat and hungry, lapping at her like he's dying of thirst. He can taste himself on her, can taste the night they've had, and it makes him groan against her skin. Denise's hand is still on him, barely moving, just enough to keep him hovering on that razor's edge, that agonizing plateau where every nerve is screaming and nothing releases. His hips jerk uselessly, chasing friction that isn't there, and Denise tuts softly, a warning he feels in his balls.

"Slow down, Tim." Her voice is calm, almost bored, and it's the hottest thing he's ever heard. "You want Rosa to come first, don't you?"

Yes. No. He doesn't know anymore. He just knows his tongue needs to keep moving, needs to find that rhythm, that spot, and Rosa's fingers are in his hair now, gripping hard, pulling him closer, and he's drowning in her, in the slick heat of her, in the way she's starting to shudder against his mouth.

Denise's thumb traces a lazy circle over the head of his cock, and Tim whimpers, a pathetic, broken sound muffled against Rosa's flesh. He's so close. He's been so close for what feels like hours, and his thighs are trembling, and his stomach is tight, and every muscle in his body is coiled and aching.

Rosa's hips start to rock against his face, and he matches her, desperate, sloppy, doing anything to push her over. He feels the first flutter of her orgasm against his tongue, feels her clench, hears her gasp, and he redoubles his efforts, sucking, licking, devouring her. She comes sweet and hot all over his face, and he swallows her down greedily, moaning at the taste of it, at the way her thighs clamp around his head and hold him there.

And through it all, Denise's hand is still on him, still holding him back, still keeping him on that knife's edge of agony and ecstasy, and he's shaking now, shaking and crying out against Rosa's skin, begging without words, begging with every fiber of his being for permission, for release, for anything.

"You have been good." Denise's hand starts to rub him, and Tim whines, a sound he can't stop. "You've been so good, Tim. That's why you get to come."

Tim's brain short-circuits. "What?"

"You heard me." Denise's hand is moving again, fast now, tight, and Tim's whole body is clenching, his toes curling, his hands twisting uselessly in Patty's grip. "Come for me, Tim. Come for me and say my name."

He's already gone. He's been gone for hours, and now the edge is finally, finally crumbling, and his spine lifts off the mattress and his lips part against Rosa's thigh and he comes so hard his vision blanks, his cock jerking in Denise's grip but he's hollow and only a single bead leaks out. "Denise—" he chokes, the word wrenched from him, and Denise's hold cinches and she pumps him through it until he's drained and quivering and weeping.

Rosa slides off his face. She settles beside him on the bed, her hand on his chest, her thumb tracing lazy circles through the mess of his come. "Look at him," she says. "He's beautiful when he comes."

"He is," Yuki agrees. Her hand is on his hip now, soft and possessive.

Patty lets go of his wrists. She doesn't say anything. She just looks at him for a long moment, and then she reaches out and wipes the drop of come off his sensative cock with her thumb and brings it to her mouth, and Tim's breath catches and his cock twitches despite everything, despite being empty, despite being wrung out like a rag.

Denise leans over him. She's still holding his cock, still stroking it gently through the aftershocks, and she looks at him with those green eyes that see everything.

"That was for you," she says. "That was a gift. Do you understand?"

Tim nods. He can't speak. His throat is raw and his jaw aches and his whole body is trembling.

"But we're not done," Denise says. "We're nowhere near done. I told you—you're a project, Tim. And I don't leave projects unfinished."

Then, to his relief, the women finally pull back. They're smiling, looking down at him like he's something they've broken and found amusing. Denise leans in close, her breath warm against his ear, and she says, "Sleep now, pretty girl. Tomorrow will be more fun. Well, at least for us."

He watches them leave, the door clicking shut behind them, the light snapping off. The darkness swallows him whole. He hears their footsteps fading down the hall, then nothing but the sound of his own ragged breathing. His body is a wreck—every muscle screaming, every joint aching, his skin slick with sweat and other things he doesn't want to name. The sheets are twisted beneath him, damp and rough against his raw thighs. He tries to move, to curl into himself, but his limbs won't cooperate. He's just a pile of broken parts on a mattress that smells like sex and surrender.

His eyes close. His mind goes quiet. And he passes out, totally broken by them, completely theirs.