The hand on his shoulder was not gentle. It never was. Tim came up out of the black wet nothing of sleep with his mouth already open, a sound halfway between a gasp and a whimper, and Denise's voice arrived before his eyes did.

"Up. You've had your rest."

He blinked at the bedroom ceiling. The sheets under him were still damp in a cold patch near his hip, and the pink satin had gone dark and stiff where he'd sweated through it.

Rosa was standing in the doorway with a glass of water and a look on her face like she'd just watched a dog do something clever. "There he is. ready for more fun baby."

"I'm not—" Tim started, and his voice came out wrecked, sanded down to nothing. He swallowed. "What time is it?"

"Time for you to get dressed," Denise said. She crossed to the foot of the bed and dropped something on it — a small pile, folded, dark red. "Everything you need. Stockings, garter, the heels from the closet. Five minutes."

"Where are we going?"

"You'll see." She was already turning away. "Five minutes, pretty girl. I'll be counting."

He sat up and the room swam. His ass ached in a wide, hot band where Dana's belt had landed, and when he swung his legs off the mattress something deep behind his balls pulled tight and he had to breathe through it. The pile on the bed was a red mini skirt — short enough that he knew, before he touched it, exactly what it was for — a matching cutoff top with a raw, frayed hem, and stockings the color of smoke with a black garter belt threaded through the loops. No underwear. There was never underwear.

He pulled the stockings on sitting down, because standing was still a negotiation. The nylon slid up his legs and the garter belt cinched at his waist and the whole apparatus pulled snug against his skin, and then the skirt went on and he understood the point of it: it sat high, barely covering him, and every step he took would move the hem up another half inch.

The top was worse. It came down to just under his ribs and the sleeves were cut off at the shoulder and there was nothing to it at all, so that his freckled chest and his flat brown nipples were just — out. On display. Like they'd been ordered that way.

The heels were the black patent ones from the night before, and his left strap still hung loose. He bent to fix it and couldn't get the buckle to catch, and he was still fighting it when Rosa showed up in the doorway again and let out a laugh, then motioned for him to lift his foot so she could pull the strap tight.

Denise looked him over once in the living room, the way she'd look over a piece of furniture she was thinking about moving. Then she took a lipstick out of her bag — deep red, the color of the skirt — and stepped in close.

"Hold still."

Her thumb pressed his chin up. The lipstick was cold and waxy and she dragged it across his mouth in two slow strokes, top lip then bottom, and when she was done she used her thumb to smear the corner where it had gone over, and then she just — left her thumb there, on his lip, for a second longer than the job required.

"There," she said. "Now you're presentable."

Rosa laughed from the couch. "Presentable. He looks like a hooker who lost a bet."

"He looks like ours," Denise said, and picked up her keys.

The car was a black Mercedes parked in the underground garage, and the leather was cold through the thin red skirt when Tim slid into the back seat. Rosa rode up front with Denise. They didn't put a seatbelt on him and they didn't tell him to, and Tim sat in the middle of the back seat with his knees pressed together and his hands flat on his thighs, watching the city go by through the tinted glass — streetlights, a closed laundromat, a man walking a dog, all of it sliding past like it belonged to a different life than the one he was in.

They drove for twelve minutes. Tim counted, because counting was something to do with his brain that wasn't thinking about the skirt or the lipstick or the ache still moving slow and deep through his ass every time the car took a turn. The neighborhood got smaller and older, storefronts packed shoulder to shoulder under a sky the color of wet newspaper, and then Denise pulled up in front of a narrow building with a hand-painted sign over the door — CLARAS, in gold script, the C missing a fleck of paint — and killed the engine.

"Out," she said.

The sidewalk was cold on his bare ankles and the air smelled like rain that hadn't fallen yet. There was a light on inside the shop, one warm rectangle of it through the glass, and when Denise pushed the door it swung open without a bell and the smell hit him all at once — hairspray and bleach and something chemical and sweet underneath, and under all of it the wet animal smell of a room where women had been sweating for years.

"Denise, honey!" A woman came out from behind a beaded curtain with her arms already open. She was enormous — not fat so much as built like a refrigerator, wide through the shoulders and wider through the hips, in a pink smock with a name tag that said CLARA and a cigarette tucked behind her ear. Her hair was a stiff copper helmet of curls. "You said seven, it's seven, you're a miracle."

"Clara." Denise let herself be hugged. "This is Rosa. And this—" she turned, and her hand found the small of Tim's back and pushed him forward into the light, "—this is the project."

Clara looked at him. She looked at him for a long time, from the painted mouth down to the loose strap on his left heel, and Tim felt his face go hot and his nipples go tight in the cold air of the shop, and he couldn't decide where to put his hands.

"Oh, he's pretty," Clara said, and her voice had gone soft and awful, the way you'd talk about a puppy. "Tina! Come see what Denise brought us."

The second woman came through the curtain with a bottle of wine in one hand and two glasses hooked in the other. She was smaller than Clara but built on the same plan — thick arms, a soft heavy belly under a black apron, gray hair chopped short and practical. She set the bottle down on the counter and looked Tim over and made a small, considering sound.

"Huh," Tina said. "He's got good skin. That's a waste, what they did to his hair."

"That's why we're here," Denise said. She took the wine from Tina and poured two glasses herself, unhurried, and then she and Rosa settled onto the little couch by the window like two women at a matinee. Denise crossed her legs and took a sip and said, "Strip him down and do the works. Everything. Hair, nails, wax. All of it."

"And the—" Clara gestured vaguely at Tim's crotch.

"Everything," Denise said. "he may get hard but who cares."

Clara pointed at a cracked vinyl chair in the middle of the tiled floor. "You. Here. Clothes off, all of them, and fold them on the counter like you were raised right."

Tim looked at Denise. She was watching him over the rim of her glass and she didn't nod and she didn't blink and that was the answer — there was no permission to ask for, because he'd already been given the instruction. He reached behind him for the garter belt and his fingers were clumsy and Clara made an impatient noise and came over and did it herself, unclipping the straps and peeling the stockings down his legs one at a time with hands that were warm and dry and completely uninterested in him. The skirt next. Then the top.

He stood in the middle of the beauty parlor with his hands at his sides and the cold tile coming up through his bare feet, and his cock was half-hard and getting harder, and he could feel it happening and he couldn't stop it, and Clara saw.

"There he goes," she said, to Tina, not to him. "Denise, he's going." and the women laughed but ignoed him and he felt himself soften

"Sit," Clara said finally, and he sat.

She took his left hand first and bent over it with a file and started shaping his nails, and Tina took his right and did the same, and for a while there was nothing but the scrape of the file and the smell of the wine and the low murmur of Denise and Rosa's conversation, and Tim sat in the cracked vinyl chair with his knees together and his hands held out like a child at a birthday party and let it happen. Clara's hands were rough and quick. She pushed his cuticles back with a wooden stick that hurt a little and she didn't apologize. Tina worked a buffer across his knuckles and then flipped his hand over and looked at his palm.

"Calluses," she said. "What do you do?"

"I work in a cafe."

"That's why." She went back to work. "You'll want to keep those soft from now on. Nobody wants a girl with rough hands."

Tim didn't say anything. He was watching Clara's hands move on his own and thinking about the word girl and about the fact that it had landed somewhere in his chest and stayed there, warm and wrong, and he didn't have a name for what that was.

The polish was pink. Not red — pink, a soft bubblegum pink that Clara uncapped and held up for Denise's approval, and Denise tilted her head and said, "Good. That's the one." Clara painted ten fingers in three careful coats and then moved down to his feet and did the same, and Tim sat with his heels on a rolled towel and his toes spread and watched his own toenails go pink one by one, and by the time she was done his hands and feet looked like they belonged to someone else.

"Hair now," Clara said. "Stand up. Walk to the sink."

The sink was a deep porcelain basin with a black rubber hose and a chair in front of it, and Tim sat down and Clara pushed his head back into the rim and the water hit his scalp cold and then warm. Her fingers were in his hair up to the knuckles, scrubbing, and Tina was standing at his shoulder with a timer and a bowl of bleach, and Tim closed his eyes and let the two of them work.

"This is going to burn," Clara said. "Don't squirm."

It burned. The bleach went on in sections, Clara's brush moving fast and even, and the chemical smell filled his nose and his eyes stung and he gripped the arms of the chair and didn't move. Tina watched the timer and Clara kept painting and at some point Rosa came over and stood behind the chair and put her hand flat on Tim's forehead, holding him still, and her thumb stroked once across his temple and that was the only gentle thing that happened to him all night.

"Good boy," Rosa said, quiet, so only he could hear it. "Almost done."

The rinse took forever. Clara washed it out in cold water and then wrapped his head in a towel and sat him up and made him look in the mirror, and Tim looked at a stranger — a blond stranger, his sandy hair gone pale and bright, and then Clara took a second bowl and a smaller brush and started at the ends.

The pink went on last. Just the tips — a half inch of bubblegum pink at the ends of every strand, the same pink as his nails, and Clara worked it in with her fingers and then wrapped his head in foil and made him sit under a dryer for twenty minutes while the women drank the rest of the wine and talked about someone named Deborah who had apparently done something unforgivable at a baby shower.

When the foil came off and the second rinse was done and Clara blew him dry with a round brush, Tim looked at himself in the mirror and didn't recognize the person looking back. Blond, with pink tips that curled around his jaw, and pink nails on his hands where they lay on his bare thighs, and the red lipstick had smeared and gone waxy but it was still there. He looked like a girl. He looked like a girl who had been used all night and hadn't slept and had a cock standing up between her legs, because he was hard again, he'd been hard for the last ten minutes of the blow-dry and he hadn't been able to do anything about it, and Clara saw it in the mirror and laughed.

"Denise, he's up again."

"I can see that." Denise set down her glass and stood up and came over, and she stood behind Tim and looked at his reflection over his shoulder, and her hand came down on the back of his neck and squeezed — not hard, just enough. "You've got no self-control at all, do you."

"I'm sorry," Tim said, and his voice cracked.

"Don't be sorry. Be still." She let go of his neck. "Clara. The wax."

The wax was the worst of it. Clara warmed a pot of it on a little burner and Tina laid a plastic sheet on the floor and Tim lay down on it on his back with his arms out, and Clara started at his shins and worked up. The strips came off in quick, brutal pulls and each one took a stripe of hair and a layer of skin with it, and Tim's eyes watered and he bit down on the inside of his cheek and didn't make a sound because Denise was watching and Rosa was watching and he had already learned that the sounds were part of what they came for and he wasn't going to give them any more than he had to.

His chest next. His stomach. Clara did his armpits and he did make a sound at that, a short high one, and Rosa said "There it is" from the couch and Tim felt his face burn hotter than the wax.

"Legs apart," Clara said. "Wider. Wider than that."

She did his pubes in three strips and each one hurt more than the last, and Tim lay on the plastic sheet with his knees fallen open and his cock soft now, finally soft, and Clara's hands moving between his legs with the wax and the cloth and the quick pulls, and then she did his balls. She lifted them one at a time in her fingers and painted the wax on and Tim stared at the ceiling and counted the water stains and felt every single hair come out by the root.

"There," Clara said, and wiped him down with a cool cloth. "Smooth as a baby. Denise, come look."

Denise came and looked. She stood over Tim on the plastic sheet with her wine glass in her hand and looked down at him — hairless now, from the neck down, pink nails, blond and pink hair fanned out on the floor — and she smiled, and it was the first real smile he'd seen from her all day, and that was somehow worse than the wax.

"Perfect," she said. "Now the thank-you."

Tim didn't know what that meant until Clara pulled the beaded curtain aside and pointed him through it, and he got up off the plastic sheet and walked naked through the curtain into the back room, and the back room was small and dim and smelled like old cigarettes and older dust, and there was a mattress on the floor in the corner — bare, stained, gray with age — and a single bulb hanging from a cord.

"On the mattress," Clara said. "On your back."

Tim lay down. The mattress was cold and it gave under him and something in it crunched. Clara came in and stood over him and untied her smock and let it fall, and under it she was wearing a huge faded bra and nothing else, and her breasts when she took the bra off were heavy and low and the nipples were dark and wide, and Tim looked up at her and his mouth went dry.

"Denise says you're good at this," Clara said. "Let's find out. Gentle, now. Start gentle."

She knelt down over him and brought her breast to his mouth, and Tim lifted his head off the mattress and took her nipple between his lips, and it was soft and warm and tasted of soap and skin, and he licked it the way he'd learned to lick — slow, flat tongue, no teeth — and Clara made a low sound in her throat and settled her weight more comfortably onto her knees.

"That's it," she said. "That's nice. Suck a little."

He sucked. She tasted like nothing and everything and her hand came up and rested on the back of his head, not pushing, just there, and Tim worked her nipple with his tongue and his lips and felt it stiffen against his mouth, and Clara's breathing changed above him, got slower and deeper, and she said, "Good. Other one."

He turned his head and gave the other breast the same, and his jaw was already starting to ache from the afternoon before, that deep bone-tired ache that had never really gone away, and he ignored it and kept going, and Clara rocked a little on her knees and her hand moved in his new blond hair and petted him.

"Enough," she said finally. "Now lie still."

She swung her leg over him. Tim had a second to see it coming — Clara's wide soft thighs coming down on either side of his head, her belly hanging over him, the dark shadow between her legs getting closer — and then her cunt was on his mouth and his nose was pressed into her and she was heavy, so much heavier than he expected, and he couldn't breathe for a second and then he could, through his nose, in short pulls, and Clara settled her weight down and said, "Lick."

Tim licked. She was wet already — she'd been wet since she took her bra off, he realized, wet from watching him get waxed — and she tasted strong, salty and thick, and her pubic hair was wiry against his lips where the wax hadn't reached, and he dragged his tongue up through her folds and found her clit and worked it with the flat of his tongue the way he'd learned to do.

"Oh, that's good," Clara said, and rocked her hips forward, grinding down onto his face. "That's good, keep that, don't stop."

Tim kept it. His hands came up and gripped her thighs because he needed something to hold and she didn't tell him to stop, so he held on and licked and sucked and let her ride his mouth, and Clara's hands were in his hair now, both of them, and she was moving in a slow heavy rhythm that pressed his head back into the mattress and filled his mouth with her and cut off his air in little pulses and then gave it back.

"Harder," she said. "Use your tongue, right there, right— oh, that's it."

Tim pushed his tongue up into her and felt her clench around it and Clara made a sound like a door opening and her thighs tightened on his ears and she came with her weight bearing down on his face and her fingers knotted in his hair and her cunt pulsing against his mouth, and Tim kept licking through it because stopping was worse than continuing, and she rode it out slow and then lifted off him and sat back on her heels and breathed.

"Jesus," she said. "Denise was right."

Tim lay on the mattress with his mouth open and his face wet and his own cock hard again, straining up off his stomach, and he heard Rosa laugh from the other side of the curtain and Denise say something he couldn't make out, and then Clara stood up and Tina came through the curtain and sat down on the edge of the mattress.

"My turn," Tina said. "And I like it rougher."

She pulled the apron over her head and let it drop, then shucked her jeans and her underwear and climbed up over Tim's face, settling down on him with a heavy sagging breast pressed into his mouth, and she made him lick it all over, work the nipple, while his hand found the other one and kneaded it gentle, and then she shifted and gave him the other side and he licked that as well

Then she put her hand on the top of his head and shoved him down the mattress, hard, and he barely had time to grab a breath before she lowered herself onto him, and her cunt was on his mouth, heavy, pressing, and she was heavier than Clara, denser, and she wasn't wet yet, not really, just the faintest hint of salt and heat, and he had to work for it, had to dig in with his tongue flat and broad and drag it up through her, slow, deliberate, feeling every ridge and crease, and she shifted her weight, grinding down, and his jaw already ached from the pressure, and he tasted the dry slick of her and wanted more, wanted her to open up for him, to soften and flow, and he pressed his tongue deeper, harder, circling, lapping, while she sat there above him, still, waiting and he kept at it, kept licking, kept pushing, because that was the only way she'd give him anything, and he wanted it, wanted her to break open and drench him, wanted to feel her come apart against his mouth, and his tongue burned and his spit ran down his chin and he didn't stop, couldn't stop, not until she gave him something back.

"Come on," Tina said. "Earn it."

He earned it. He licked her slow and then fast and then slow again, and he pushed his tongue into her and then dragged it back up to her clit, and he used his lips and his chin and his nose, and Tina sat on his face with her hands on her own knees and watched him work, and after a while she started to get wet and after a while longer she started to move, and Tim's jaw screamed and his tongue ached and he kept going because that was the only way it would ever end.

"There," Tina said. "Right there. Don't you dare stop."

He didn't stop. He sucked her clit between his lips and flicked it with his tongue, fast and light, the way he'd learned worked, and Tina's breath caught and her hips bucked once and then she ground down hard and came on his face with a long, low, satisfied sound, and Tim swallowed what he could and let the rest run down his chin and onto the mattress, and Tina lifted off him and stood up and stretched.

"He's good," she said, to nobody in particular. "Denise, he's actually good."

"I know," Denise said from the doorway. She was leaning against the frame with her wine glass empty in her hand and she looked at Tim on the mattress — naked, hairless, blond and pink, face wet, cock hard and untouched, jaw trembling — and she looked at him the way she'd looked at him in the mirror. "Get up. Get dressed. We're going home."

Tim got up. His legs were shaking and his face was wet and he didn't wipe it, because nobody had told him to and he'd learned not to do things nobody had told him to do. He walked back through the beaded curtain into the front of the shop and Clara handed him the red skirt and the top and the stockings and the garter belt, all folded, and he put them on standing in the middle of the tiled floor with the two old women watching and Denise and Rosa watching and the fluorescent light buzzing overhead.

The skirt went on and the top went on and the stockings went up his smooth legs and the garter belt clipped and the heels went on and the left strap still wouldn't catch and Tim left it. Clara came over and fixed it for him without being asked, one quick competent motion, and then she patted his hip and said, "You come back any time, sweetheart."

"Say thank you," Denise said.

"Thank you," Tim said. His voice was wrecked and his mouth tasted like both of them and he could feel the lipstick had smeared all over his chin and he didn't care.

In the car on the way back, Rosa turned around in her seat and looked at him for a long time without saying anything. Tim watched the city slide past the tinted glass — the laundromat again, the man with the dog gone, the streetlights orange and indifferent — and he could feel the seat leather cold on the backs of his thighs through the short red skirt and he could feel his own smooth skin everywhere the wax had been and he could feel the pink nails on his own hands where they lay in his lap.

"You did good tonight," Rosa said finally.

"Thank you," Tim said, again, because it was the only thing he had.

"Don't thank me yet." She turned back around. "Denise, are we stopping at the store?"

"No," Denise said. "We're going home. He's got one more thing to do before he sleeps."

Tim looked at the back of her head and didn't ask what. The car turned onto her street and the garage door rolled up and the lights of the city disappeared behind them, and Tim sat in the back seat with his hands in his lap and his pink nails catching the light from the dashboard and his mouth still tasting of two women, and he understood, with a clarity that felt almost peaceful, that he was not going to be asked what he wanted for a long time.

The garage door rattled down behind them and the engine ticked itself cool, and Denise was already out of the car, heels sharp on the concrete, not waiting. Rosa came around and opened Tim's door like a valet and stood there with her hand out, and Tim took it because there was no version of this where he didn't, and she pulled him up onto his feet and held his wrist a beat longer than the getting-up required.

"Inside," she said. "Go on. Straight through to the living room, don't touch anything."

The elevator ride was five floors of nothing but the hum and Rosa's thumb moving slow circles on the inside of his wrist. Tim watched the numbers. His left heel strap had come loose again somewhere between the car and the lobby and he didn't fix it, because fixing it wasn't a thing he'd been told to do.

Denise had the lights on in the apartment and her bag on the counter and a glass of water already poured, which meant she'd been thinking about this in the car. She sat down on the arm of the sofa and crossed her legs and looked at him the way she'd looked at him in the mirror at Clara's — measuring, satisfied.

"Strip," she said. "Everything. On the floor where you stand."

Tim got the garter belt unhooked and the stockings peeled down and the red skirt stepped out of and the top over his head, and he folded them anyway, out of habit, and laid the little stack on the coffee table, and Rosa laughed at him for it and he felt his face go hot.

"Look at that," Rosa said. "He folds."

"Leave him," Denise said. "He's housebroken." She nodded at a garment bag hanging off the back of the dining chair, black canvas, zipped. "That's for you. Bathroom's down the hall. Put it on, come back out, and let us see."

Tim carried the bag into the bathroom and shut the door and stood for a second with his forehead against the cool mirror. Then he unzipped it.

Black. All of it black. A lace bralette with no cups to speak of, just two triangles of black lace and a strap to go around his ribs, and matching panties cut high on the hip with a little bow at the front that he knew, before he touched it, was there to be looked at. A garter belt, black, with six straps instead of four. Stockings, sheer black with a seam up the back. And the heels — not the patent ones from last night, but a pair of black stilettos with a thin ankle strap, new, still with the tag, four inches at least.

He put it on. The panties were tight across the front and did nothing to hide the shape of him, and the bralette sat on his flat chest like a joke someone had told at his expense, and the garter straps pulled the stockings taut up the backs of his smooth waxed legs, and when he got the heels on and stood up and looked at himself in the mirror, the tag still hanging off the ankle strap, he saw the whole thing at once: the blond-and-pink hair, the pink nails, the black lace, the four inches of heel putting an arch into his back he hadn't asked for.

He looked like a girl. A tall, flat-chested, hard-cocked girl with a red mouth, and the sight of it did the same thing to him it had done at Clara's — landed somewhere in his chest and stayed there, warm and wrong, with no name.

He came back down the hall with his weight on the balls of his feet, careful, and both women turned to look, and Rosa put her wine down.

"Oh, there she is," Rosa said.

"Turn around," Denise said. "Slow."

Tim turned. The stockings whispered against each other and the seams ran straight up the backs of his legs and he could feel the bow on the front of the panties sitting against him like a fingertip.

"Stop," Denise said, when his back was to them. "Bend over. Hands on your knees."

He bent. The garter straps pulled and the stockings went tight and he heard Rosa make a low sound behind him, and then a hand — Denise's, cool and dry — landed flat on his ass and stayed there, weighing him.

"Say it," Denise said.

"Say what?"

"You know what."

Tim's mouth was dry. The words were in his throat already, they'd been in his throat since the mirror, and he made himself wait one second longer than he had to, and then he said them anyway. "I'm a sexy girl."

"Again."

"I'm a sexy girl."

"Good." Her hand came off his ass and she stepped back. "Stand up. Look at me."

He straightened and turned and she was holding something. She'd gotten it out of the closet while he was changing — a harness, black leather, and threaded through it a black silicone cock, five inches, matte, thick at the base and tapering to a blunt head. She was buckling it on over her slacks with the ease of a woman who had done this before, and Rosa was doing the same thing on the other side of the room with a harness of her own and a cock that was striped in bands of red, orange, yellow, green, blue, violet, the colors glossy under the lamplight, and Tim stood in the middle of the living room in his black lace and his heels and watched the two of them get ready and felt his own cock push against the front of the panties, hard, the head slipping up above the waistband and staying there.

"On the bed," Denise said. "Face down. Knees under you, ass up. You know the shape."

Tim knew the shape. He crossed to the bedroom and climbed onto the pink satin and put his knees under him and his chest down and his cheek on the sheet, and the heels made it awkward, the points digging into the mattress, and he kept them on because nobody had said to take them off. The stockings pulled tight across his thighs. The bow pressed into the sheet. He could hear the two of them come in behind him and the leather of the harnesses creaking and the little click of a bottle cap.

Denise's hand landed on his lower back and slid down over the lace of the garter belt and hooked a thumb under the strap of the panties and pulled them down over his ass, and the elastic dragged across his cock on the way down and he made a sound into the sheet.

"Lube," Denise said, and it was Rosa's fingers, cool and slick, that came first, two of them, working into him without ceremony, twisting, spreading him open while Denise watched, and Tim's hands fisted in the sheet and his breath went ragged and his cock jumped against the mattress.

Rosa's hand came down flat between Tim's shoulder blades and pressed, and Tim felt the mattress dip as Denise got up behind him on her knees, and then the blunt head of the black cock was against him, and Denise didn't tease it. She pushed.

It went in slow and it went in all the way, five inches of matte silicone opening him up in one long steady stroke, and Tim's mouth came open against the sheet and the sound that came out of him was not a word. The stretch was the whole world. He could feel every inch of it, the taper, the base going wide inside him, and Denise's hips settled against his ass and stayed there, and she held it in him without moving, letting him feel the size of it.

"There," she said. "That's what a girl takes."

Then she started to fuck him.

Not fast. Hard. Long strokes, all the way out until just the head stayed in and then all the way back in with her hips behind it, and every stroke drove the breath out of him in a grunt and every pull back dragged a whine out of his throat, and the harness slapped against her thighs and the slap carried up through his whole body. His cock was pinned under him against the sheet and every thrust ground it into the satin and he couldn't do anything about any of it.

"How's that," Denise said, and it wasn't a question, and she picked up the pace, and the bed started to creak.

"Please—" Tim got out.

"Please what."

"Please, I—"

"You don't know what you're asking for," Denise said. "That's fine. You don't have to know." She drove in harder, angled up, and found the spot, and Tim's whole body jerked and a sob came out of him, high and thin, and Rosa laughed from somewhere above him.

"There it is," Rosa said. "Do it again."

Denise did it again. And again. She fucked him at that angle, slow and deep and merciless, and Tim cried into the sheet — not from pain exactly, though there was pain, the stretch and the burn and the deep bruised ache where Dana's belt had landed, but from the sheer size of it, the way it kept going, the way his body kept opening and taking it and wanting it, the way his cock kept leaking onto the sheet like it belonged to somebody else. He begged. He heard himself do it. He didn't know what he was saying and it didn't matter, and Denise kept her rhythm and didn't answer him and didn't stop.

By the time she pulled out he was shaking, his ass in the air, his face wet, his mouth open and stupid, and the emptiness when the cock slid free was its own kind of ache.

"Turn over," Denise said. "On your back. Legs up."

He turned. She straddled his face without preamble — slacks off now, nothing but the harness and the black cock jutting up over his mouth, her cunt right there, and she lowered herself onto him and Tim lifted his head and put his mouth on her and started to lick.

She was wet. She tasted like herself and like the wine and like the last two hours, and Tim dragged his tongue up through her folds and found her clit and worked it, and Denise rode his mouth in a slow grind with her hand braced on the headboard, and the black cock bobbed over his face, dripping lube onto his cheek, and he could feel her thighs tightening on his ears and her breath going deep and slow above him.

"That's it," she said. "Flat tongue. Don't stop."

He didn't stop. He pushed his tongue into her and licked back up and sucked her clit between his lips and flicked it, and Denise's hand came down on the top of his head and held him there, and she came with a low sound that she didn't bother to hide, grinding down on his face, her cunt pulsing against his mouth, and Tim kept licking her through it until she lifted off him and sat back on her heels and breathed.

"Rosa," she said. "Your turn."

Rosa was already up on the bed, the rainbow cock standing out from her hips, and she got Tim by the hair and pulled his head around and put him on his back again with his legs up and his knees over her arms, and she didn't bother with the fingers. She pushed the head of the striped cock against him and went in with one long roll of her hips, and Tim's back arched off the mattress and he cried out.

"Yeah," Rosa said. "There you go."

She fucked him differently than Denise. Faster, choppier, her hips snapping, and every color band on that cock seemed to land somewhere new inside him as it went in and out, and she talked the whole time — "look at you, look at this girl, taking all of it, you love it, don't you, say you love it" — and Tim said it, he said yes and please and I love it, and Rosa laughed and fucked him harder and the bed knocked against the wall and Tim's heels had come off somewhere and he didn't know where and didn't care, and his cock was slapping wet against his own stomach

Rosa pulled out when she was done with him and flopped onto her back beside him and said, "Eat me. Now. While you're still open."

Tim rolled over and got between her legs and put his mouth on her, and Rosa hooked one leg over his shoulder and held his head with both hands and used his face, and he licked her slow and then fast, and he was still hard, still leaking, and the black lace bralette was soaked through with his own sweat and Denise sat on the edge of the bed and watched the two of them with her arms crossed and her harness still on, and Rosa came on Tim's mouth with her heel digging into his back and her fingers knotted in his pink-tipped hair.

"Good girl," Rosa said, and let him go.

They gave him a minute. That was all. Tim lay on his back on the wet satin with his chest heaving and his cock standing straight up and his mouth tasting of Rosa, and then Denise got up off the edge of the bed and said, "On your back. Same as before. Legs up and open."

He got his legs up. She knelt between them and pushed the black cock back into him in one stroke and Tim's hands fisted in the sheet and his head went back and he made a sound that was half sob, and Denise settled into a hard steady rhythm and said, over her shoulder, "Rosa. His mouth."

Rosa came around and knelt over Tim's face facing Denise, straddling his head, and the rainbow cock hung down over his mouth, and she got her hand in his hair and pulled his head back and said, "Open."

Tim opened his mouth and Rosa pushed the striped cock in.

It was too big for his mouth at the base and it tasted of latex and of him, of his own ass, and Rosa worked it in and out past his lips with her hand on the back of his head, not deep enough to choke him but deep enough that he couldn't close his jaw and couldn't speak and couldn't do anything but lie there and take it from both ends at once. Denise was fucking him hard below, long deep strokes, and Rosa was fucking his mouth in a different rhythm above, and Tim's whole body was a single open thing being used in two places and there was nothing left in him that was separate from it.

His jaw ached. That old bone-tired ache from the women and then from Clara and from Tina came back and went past aching into something bright and hot, and tears ran down the sides of his face into his ears, and he made sounds around the cock in his mouth that weren't words, and Rosa said, "Listen to her. Listen to that."

"Don't stop," Denise said, and drove in harder. "He can take it."

Minutes. It went on for minutes, long ones, and Tim stopped counting them and stopped trying to breathe around the rhythm and just let it happen, let the two of them use him, and somewhere in the middle of it his cock started to jerk against his own stomach with nothing touching it, and he knew he couldn't come, he knew, and he held it, and his thighs shook and his jaw screamed and the tears kept coming and Denise kept fucking him and Rosa kept her hand in his hair and her cock in his mouth, and neither of them came. They just used him. They used him until Denise decided she was finished, and then she pulled out and Rosa pulled out and Tim lay on his back with his mouth open and his legs fallen apart and his cock purple and twitching and leaking onto his own belly, and he hadn't come, and he hadn't been allowed to, and the not-coming was its own kind of full.

"Swap," Denise said.

They swapped and Denise knelt up over Tim's face facing Rosa and lowered her cunt onto his mouth, and Rosa got between his legs and pushed her rubber cock into him, and this time it went in easy, he was so open, and Tim licked Denise's cunt while Rosa fucked him, and Denise rode his mouth and reached back and got her hand around his cock — the first hand on it in what felt like hours — and started to stroke him, slow and tight, and said, "You can come. Now. With us."

Tim came with Rosa's cock buried in him and Denise's cunt on his mouth and Denise's hand working his cock, and it went up his own chest and onto the black lace bralette and into Denise's fist, and his whole body locked and shook and he sobbed around her clit, and Denise ground down on his face and came a second time with her fingers in his hair, and Rosa drove in hard three more times and held it deep and made a sound through her teeth, and then it was done.

Denise lifted off him and sat back. Rosa pulled out slow and the rubber cock came free with a wet sound and Tim felt the emptiness open up behind it and lay there with his legs still up and his mouth still open and his own cum cooling on his chest and his cock softening against his thigh and his jaw trembling and his eyes closed.

Nobody said anything for a while. The bed creaked as the two of them got up and unbuckled the harnesses and dropped them on the floor, and Tim heard water running in the bathroom, and the lamp clicked off, and then Denise's voice from the doorway, tired and pleased and final.

"Shower. Then sleep. Tomorrow is another fun day."

Tim could not move. He lay on the ruined satin with the black lace resting soft on his chest and his pink nails curled loose against the sheet and his mouth tasting of Denise and of Rosa and of himself, but after a minute he got up and showered and then returned to the bed and drifted off drained hollow by the women,.