The Deviants' Room

"I don't usually dress...in public." And this was an understatement. I dressed at the club on Thursday nights. Crossdresser Night. But I arrived and left in street clothes. On a good night I could clear fifty bucks in tips. As much as a hundred if enough customers wanted lap dances. These guys were offering double that.

On the other hand dancing at the club didn't involve giving blowjobs or bottoming. And four guys was...four guys. Twice the number of my one and only threesome. Would my hole hold up? Over the course of three days? I wasn't particularly a fan of hemorrhoids, let alone prolapse. Just a smidgen of a thought about backing out crossed my mind. Then Brad hammered another nail.

"What then? I want you dressed for us at all times. I like how you look. No bullshit, though."

I cleared my throat. My mind was racing. Where? On a Saturday morning...? "Um..."

"You gonna dress for us or what? I need an answer, like, now."

"You could...you could, um, pick me up at my apartment."

"Where's that?"

I told him.

"Fuck that! I'm not driving to fucking Jersey."

"No it's kinda...kinda on the way based on what you...where you told me the cabin was. Sort of." I pressed on, proud of my extemporaneous idea: "I live in a basement apartment. I could run out—it'll be early right? I could run out fem and jump in your car."

"Rover."

"Rover?" envisioning a floppy-eared dog.

"It's a Land Rover. Just paid seventy thou for it."

"Jump in your Land Rover," I corrected. "Chances are, if anybody sees me, neighbors, they'll just think I'm some girl leaving my...I'll wear...I have a little summer dress thing I could pull on over my..."

"What'll you be wearing underneath?"

"Like you saw in the pictures I sent. Thigh-highs..."

"Good. I like thigh-highs. And you look just like your pics, right?"

"Absolutely."

"You better. Otherwise I'll leave you standing on the curb. You obedient? Follow orders well?"

"Absolutely," I repeated.

"Good. I like to hear that. Six hundred is a lot of money and we expect a lot from you in return."

"You'll get it."

"I like your positive attitude...Nikki is it? You like to suck cock, Nikki?"

"I love cock," my reply.

"Well you'll be getting a mouthful and assful of it next weekend, Nikki. Capiche?"

Capiche? How trite can you get? Brad concluded:

"Email me your address. I'll Mapquest it. Plan on us picking your ass up about nine. Be ready. Be punctual. I hate waiting for people. Especially people I'm paying good money to."

Good money? Six hundred is a lot? For a guy who just bought a seventy thousand dollar Land Rover? Whatever, dude...

Brad wasn't quite done. "Ciao," he said in cellphone parting, to my eyeroll.

It was the end of the first quarter and Brad returned from the lone cabin bathroom sans pants. Briefs too. His penis was engorged—somewhat—but drooped down at about four o'clock. Like the other three he was circumcised. That was a plus. I hated uncut cock. It was...unattractive. Sometimes grotesque. Like some kind of tropical lizard had been let loose. And was headed for your open mouth.

A droplet of fresh pee clung to the tip of head's swell, the eye. The others looked around, in horror.

"Brad, get that thing out of here!"

"Really, Brad. That's disgusting!"

"Brad, I really don't care to know you this well, OK?"

Brad ignored them. Went back to his chair, a pile of chicken bones on a plate sitting atop one of the wide redwood arms. "Nikki, come over here," he said. "I want you to get on your knees and suck my cock."

Groans all around.

"Take that in the bedroom, dude!"

"That's what the Deviants' Chamber is for, Brad. Get outta here with that!"

"Brad! You're disgusting, dude! Knock it off!"

Brad seemed to wince as he landed in chair's low, upward slanting bottom. Perhaps his bare ass had picked up a splinter? "No. I want our weekend bitch to take turns sucking us while we watch the games."

"No!"

"I'll pass!"

"Take it in the Deviant's Chamber, Brad. For christsake!"

"Nikki...," bending fingers at me. "You said you like cock. Come over here. Prove it."

I was standing, mortified, at the entrance to the kitchen. Glancing, wide-eyed, from Hamad to Simon to Jared. All three of their mouths hung open. But no other protests emanated from them. Perhaps, like me, they were struck dumb.

I went around to the front of Brad's chair, kicked off my flats, and sank. The floor was hard wood. It hurt. But it was a good hurt. I didn't mind pain in the pursuit of pleasure. Giving it, that is. I tucked the blonde wings of my wig behind my ears. Leaned forward. Bent over. Closer. Lifted Brad's thick cock by its base and took it in my mouth. It tasted—smelled—of urine. But it was fresh urine so, once again, it was OK. I actually like the taste of pee, especially beer pee. But it's gotta be fresh. Pristine. Primo.

My head bobbed and bobbed until Brad was hard—pointing straight up. Well, a throbbing one o'clock. Which is just about the time it was on his analog Tag. Then, finally, to applause, he and I retreated to the Deviants' Chamber.

By my count this was sloppy fifths. And Brad said in a kind of wonderment as he fucked me on the stack of pillows, forgetting himself for a moment. Or rather, forgetting what I was: "Goddamn, dude! Look at it! I'm, like, pumping the cum out of you. Look at it all! I'm gonna have to take a fucking shower after this!"

It was true. I could feel it running down my crack—the admixture of all the previous deposits of semen. I could feel it running down my little cluster of bouncing balls, and dripping from them. I looked between my arms and could see a greyish spot beginning to form on the sheet. Actually several of them, between my knees, each about the size of a quarter, scattered.

Goddamn indeed.

After Brad finished adding his load to the creamy soup, and while he scrubbed himself in the shower, I wiped the mess from my crack with a hand towel. It was hopeless. My hole was dilated and it kept oozing out. I pulled my panties up, indifferent now to the stain spreading out over their microfiber seat. Pink turning grey. Everyone would just have to deal with it.

Hamad was next. Sloppy sixths.

Simon, not to my surprise, took a pass. He waved me away. His hand as heavy as if we were under the spell of moon gravity. Jared did not. But he wanted his blowjob while sitting on cot's edge. The floor was no less hard in here and the knees of my black stockings were turning greyish-white. They already had a run in them. Which is the problem with thigh-highs. Black ones especially. That and their expense.

I'm not sure if the temperamental Jared added his load or not. He pulled out after robotically fucking me for several minutes, gulped some breath and said, "Give me your hands."

"What?" I was on knees. And elbows. I needed my hands. My arms anyway.

"Give me your hands," Jared repeated. "Put them behind your back."

"But..."

"Put them behind your back!"

The only way to accomplish this acrobatic feat was to lean forward on my...face. The side of my face anyway. With one hand, his left, Jared grabbed first one then both of my slender wrists and pinned them together at the small of my back. It hurt. My knees hurt. My jaw ached from all the sucking. Now my mashed face hurt, too.

"Ow."

All of which left Jared's right hand free. This was his spanking hand. He'd spanked me intermittently while fucking me—both times. But now he was spanking me independently of everything—except spanking. He was spanking me for spanking's sake.

The "Ows" multiplied. Jared said: "Shut up!"

I tried. I whimpered against the sheet as blow after blow rained down. Left buttock, right buttock. Left, right. Left...

Like the guys' dripping cum earlier my tears began to stain the sheet. I loved a good spanking but...

I began to pray, silently, that Jared's sadistic right arm would give out. My prayers went unanswered. In the medium term, at least. I wondered what the others were thinking, outside the Deviants' Room. Probably they were smiling. "Sounds like Jared's having a grand old time in there..."

"Probably couldn't get it up."

(Laughter)

"Poor Nikki..."

"Hey. She knew what she was getting into." Spoken like a true unyielding advocate of the free market system, that.

"I almost feel sorry for her."

"Maybe we should stop it."

"She'll be OK. Turn the sound up. Drown 'em out. Who's got the remote."

"Jared did."

"Fucking asshole..."

It was tight, speaking of assholes. It had tightened up like a fist. That was one thing you could say for an endless spanking. No more leakage, aside from tears. The last few blows approached the unbearable. We had no safe word, my new Dom and I. I would just have to shout, scream: Stop it! Can't take it anymore! Please!

But as if on cue Jared's right arm went limp. His hand fell silent.

He was kneeling to my left and, opening my bleary eyes and looking back, I watched as the sperm oozed rather than shot—involuntarily ejaculated in other words, from his half-hard penis. He came and came—though not in me. It was very pearly white, very thick. A big load considering it was his second in just a few hours.

Jared gave my arms a wicked tug. Until I was up on my knees and bent-under toes, my back straight. No, arched. He practically kissed my ear. Hissed in it, I should say:

"Lick it up, you crybaby," he said. Then, after another wrist yank: "If you think today was bad...just wait till tomorrow."