Nocturnes (6 page)

In this moment, I get her. Whatever her reason for being here, the whore writhing under the men before me is not Lola. Her essence is bigger than this insignificant little puppet. Someone much stronger lives inside her body. And I’m guessing that person left the building so as not to endure the humiliation.

Smart woman.

That’s my Lola.

A guttural “Ahhh…” interrupts my intoxicated musings and yanks me back to the reality I want to escape. When my vision returns, I look down, and my guts initiate some Olympic-worthy gymnastics.

Fuck. Me. Two cocks. Lola’s asshole. Right here. Right now.

“Lube,” Giraffe growls as he slips out again.

Wanker
número cuatro
arrives right on schedule, unleashing his love lard at the dead center of his moving targets. Lola’s face contorts for a split second as Giraffe docks and rams her alongside Argyle. Their rockets rub together, filling Lola over capacity.

I stare through the windows of her eyes, but nobody’s home. She must be off in her own headspace, somewhere safe. I’m kind of glad of it. My urge to protect her from herself is about to trump my desire to help her.

You don’t seem to mind using groupies the way these guys use Lola. What gives?

Fuck you, devil on my shoulder. Groupies are different. They’re not Lola.

You mean they’re not whores like her because they don’t get paid?

I clench my rippling jaw.

Pinballing aimlessly between my nagging conscience, violence-inducing jealousy, and butt-hurt disappointment, I steel myself and blow all these goddamn feelings to smithereens with a few sticks of mental dynamite. Time to focus on finishing this godforsaken “job” so I can ditch this popsicle stand, run home, and whack off for six days straight.

I glance to Lola for moral support. Lost in La La Land, expression glazed over, she’s no help. Wish I could join her.

Toupee mounts the bed, stabs his feet on either side of Lola’s prone form, and crouches with his hairy ass in Giraffe’s face, poised over her slick cunt.

He’s gonna fuck her pussy while the other two ream her ass. I feel sick.

He lowers himself, bending his knees at an awkward angle, and summons more minions from the wall. “I need three of you. Put it right here.” He chokes his veiny, engorged cock, points it toward Lola’s ass, and groans loud and proud when the trio showers his schlong with spunk. Toupee smears the jizz over his length.

I’ve lost track of the cum count. Rubbing my eye in complete and utter disbelief, I cast my gaze on the party in Lola’s ass crack and swallow several times in quick succession.

And then there were three…

Three motherfucking dicks in my woman’s ass. She’s stretched so wide, she could birth a fucking grapefruit from that hole. And the physics behind how the guys manage not only to
get
inside, but to
stay
inside, boggle the mind.

Balancing precariously in front of Giraffe, Toupee hurls a triumphant laugh toward the ceiling, and then squeezes the fuck out of Lola’s tit. “Yeah, bitch, take those cocks. We’re so deep inside, I’ll bet you can taste them, huh?”

Lola smoothes her wince into an accommodating smile. “Yes, Sir. You taste like heaven.” Her voice is breathy. She moans and pries open her legs even wider.

No one pays attention to her bald pussy begging to be licked, stroked, and worshipped. More saliva floods my mouth. She deserves so much more than this. She deserves me. If I had her to myself, I’d treat her like a fucking goddess. I’d make the bed a shrine to her. My mouth her slave.

And unlike these selfish twats, I’d make her come.

Because you’re the King of Generosity.

My eyes drift shut for a few seconds. When I open them, I center the camera’s frame on the Vienna sausages plumping Lola’s can. The only word that comes to mind is “sobering.” Fuck knows that even drunk, I’m way more sober than I want to be. There’s not enough bleach in the world to white out the stains I’ll walk away with when I exit Nocturnes.

Degrading banter continues between the three guys. More lube arrives. Slaps, verbal abuse, and derision give humiliation its fuel. I can’t look away. My stomach rolls down an endless hill, waiting, waiting, waiting to hit the valley that kills the momentum. It doesn’t come.

Moments later, when Lola’s brutalized and battered by cocks that have no business being where they are, Giraffe rambles off a string of curses, straightens his back, slows his pumps, and steals the show from the waiting Lube Guy parked at the foot of the bed beside me. His business finished, he dismounts and moves out of the way. I zoom in on the remaining two dicks mining her ass. White fluid leaks from between them, dribbling onto the sheets.

Lola’s face relaxes a tad. Must feel good to be one cock lighter after the pounding her caboose has taken. Giraffe runs a finger through the mess and stuffs it in her mouth. She sucks greedily, pulling hard on the digit like she’s giving it a blow job to remember.

I’m thoroughly disgusted, yet my own cock plays battering ram against the door of my zipper. It’s so hard and sensitive, I’m afraid to move for fear of blowing my wad. My balls tighten to the edge of pain.

“You’re up next,” Toupee says to his friend.

“Please fill me with your cum, Sirs,” Lola begs. She reaches for her pussy, but stops before making contact. She crosses her arms at the wrists and rests them above her head. Totally exposed.

I want to kiss the bruises on her breasts. And be a Sir who fills her with cum. I adjust the boner clubbing the inside of my pants, which only rouses the bastard more.

“Take it, whore.” Argyle’s eyes roll back as he fights his way to climax inside her.

His legs are still quaking through the tail end of the orgasm when Toupee bellows, “You want cum, Lola?”
Stab, stab, stab. Slooow down. Push. Exhale. Push. Exhale. Push.
He roars like a lion and grins down at his captured prey. “Now your ass is brimming with it.”

Toupee pulls out, spreads her cheeks wide and admires his handiwork. Rivulets of sex stream from her like a white waterfall. Next thing I know, there’s a wall of guys interfering with my line of sight, shooting skeet into Lola’s ass. Toupee holds her open, giving them a target. He looks to the phone to see if I’m still with them.

The term, “Action!” doesn’t do justice to this particular situation.

Slack-jawed, I’m past the point of sanity and have officially dipped my toes into the raging river of Whatthefuck. I watch in amazement as one after another, the guys from the wall approach with completely blank expressions and unload like well-trained dogs onto Lola’s split pussy and gaping asshole.

This bed would be a crime scene investigator’s wet dream.

Lola meets my eyes as she takes a long, lazy lick off her index finger. She moans around it, swirls her tongue, and playfully kisses the tip. More cum flies. Staring at me and fondling her nipples, she doesn’t seem to notice the onslaught below.

Her lips part slowly, revealing perfect teeth and a stunning smile. Something clicks between us. A connection is made. A sudden urge to own her—to humiliate her too—seizes me, and I hose the inside of my pants without a single second of physical stimulation. Clenching my jaw, I hold my breath through the orgasm, imagining it’s all my cum on her pussy.

She fucking got me off with a goddamn grin.

I’m not sure how I managed to hold onto the camera through the most erotic sexual experience I’ve ever witnessed, but thank God for small miracles. I don’t think anyone other than Lola really noticed me cum-pissing myself. I shift my weight. Cold, sticky shit drips down my leg, glues my balls to my jeans. I need to start wearing underwear if I’m going to spend any more time around this woman.

When the last lube drone glazes Lola’s donut hole, Toupee laughs and claps. “Good show, Lola. Good show. I’ll be back for more very soon.”

His buddies slap each other on the shoulders, nodding. The guy snatches his phone from my fingers and plays back several seconds of the footage. Apparently satisfied, he and his friends dress. None of them acknowledges Lola or me. They just laugh and make lewd jokes about Lola’s “whore ass” and “open for business cunt.”

I’m afraid to look at her, but I do. I expect her to be self-conscious or embarrassed. She simply towels off globs of jizz as if it’s nothing more than shaving cream. No sign of vulnerability anywhere on her.

And the surprises keep coming.

I wait for her to say something. To apologize. Make excuses. Maybe to throw herself at me and cry on my shoulder.

She puts on her clothes.

What am I? Invisible? After everything I just witnessed, she can’t speak to me? Must be in shock.

When the guys clear the room, I shuffle closer to the bed. “Are you okay?” Not sure what else to say.

Snapping the straps of her top into place, she looks up and smiles, her cheeks flushed. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?” Her gaze darts to the hand twitching at my side. I still it. “Are you?”

I’m no expert at the “rules” of BDSM or hard-core play, but I’ve always heard Doms should administer aftercare for their submissives. Hell, even with Toombs, I always took the time when we were alone to—

Doesn’t matter.

“You want…” God, I almost ask if she wants a fucking hug, but I’m sober enough to know how ridiculous that would sound given what she’s been through. “You want to split a cab home?”

She stands from the bed, her lovely hair matted and clumped, makeup running, and streaks of drying cum marring her otherwise flawless skin. But none of it dims her glow by even a lumen. Even used, she’s an angel. “I gotta pass, Rex.”

“It’s Rax,” I bite out.

She strides to me and stops a foot away. “Thanks for filming. I’m sorry for putting you on the spot. I had no other choice.” A shiver passes over her, and she wraps her arms around herself.

I close the distance between us. Soberly drunk with cum sliding down the inseam of my jeans, I want to hold her. And kiss her. And yes, fuck her. “You can make it up to me with a quickie.”

Her open expression closes like shutters banging into place. Okay, I deserved that. She gives me her back, picks up the last of her belongings, and strides to the door on the far side of the room. The innocent piano music continues to play.

“Do yourself a favor and forget what you saw tonight. If anyone asks, you were never here. It’s probably best you don’t come back to Nocturnes again.” She presses the bar and opens the fire door. “Trust me.” And then, she’s gone.

Side B: “Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap”

I rush into the cool night air filled with laughter and music from distant parades winding down. The sounds are a welcome distraction from the pulse hammering in my ears and nightmarish memories from moments ago replaying in high definition inside my brain.

The fire door from Hell dumps into the courtyard behind Nocturnes. The place is run over with tourists, so it’s easy to melt into the crowd. I slink behind a group of loud yuppies, whipping out their verbal measuring sticks for whatever ongoing pissing contest they’re involved in. Leaning against a wall for support, I try to catch my breath.

The stench of vomit tinged with high notes of urine wafts on the breeze. I cover my nose and round the corner into a narrow, vacant alley. It won’t take much to convince me to contribute to the smell. The back of my head propped against the bricks, I close my eyes and focus on circulating air through my lungs.

In and out, Eve. Deep and slow. You’re okay.

Pressing a wrist to my clammy brow, I remind myself I knew it would be like this. A small price to pay for big things down the road. Without sacrifice, there’s no reward.

Images of the three men in Hell shuffle through my mind like a deck of cards. Cocks and cum everywhere. Disgusting breath. Sweat. My ass. God, how did I manage to—?

I wake from my reverie and pat my sore backside. Jesus, what have I done to myself? Rico gave me advice for how to prep for my “shows,” and I took it. I’ve been walking around for weeks on my days off with a butt plug fit for King Kong up my ass, hoping it would make anal easier should the need arise to perform in Hell. Imagine what tonight would have been like had I
not
prepared.

Guffaws from the main street warn of oncoming party traffic. I clutch my tiny purse to my hip and realize I’m still dressed in my “angel” clothes. White feathers and satin. Too small. Too vulnerable. What I wouldn’t give for a three-sizes-too-big sweatshirt, fluffy socks, and sweatpants.

The laughter passes to the tune of stumbling feet and demands for tits in exchange for beads.

I glance in the direction of Nocturnes. If this is what it’s going to be like every time, I might become a statistic like so many of the other girls in Hell. No way I can do that shit again. No fucking way.

A drop of water hits my toe. I twist around to search for the source and realize in my dazed state it came from my eyes. They’re both dripping. I guess this is what I get for bragging to myself earlier about never crying.

Fuck it. I open the dam. So much emotion courses through me, I can’t do anything else. Shoulders quaking, mouth screwed up, I inch down the wall to rest my brutalized butt on the filthy alley pavement. I lay my head on folded arms over bent knees and let it all out.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. I tried to cover up my pride—to hide it away from the light where it couldn’t be found. No feelings are allowed where Hell is concerned, only idyllic promises of a rich future with the occasional smattering of unpleasantness. Sweep it under the rug to make it all better.

I thought I was strong enough to carry myself through difficult times. But Lola’s darkness eclipses Eve’s pure light.

I hold up my arm. The white skin is mottled with filth. No, no, no. This won’t do at all.

All Heavenly bodies must be untainted. No plastic surgery, tattoos, piercings, scars, hair below the neck, tan lines, or markings of any kind. Heaven provides a flock of angels for its devilish clientele to choose from. We pride ourselves on perfection, and we always deliver. Satisfaction guaranteed.