Fiction. Sort of.


She climbs out of the car after her long trip.

Short skirted and heeled, she wears nothing on top. She’s had to endure the honking attentions of passing cars.

Her big breasts bounce as she walks up to his front porch. She takes a deep breath. She rings the doorbell.

There on the concrete, she kneels, placing her hands behind her, pulling her shoulders back as she’s been trained to. This thrusts her breasts outward, her nipples already erect with anticipation.

She hears the plodding of heavy feet in the house. She sees the doorknob being turned from inside. She prepares herself.

Her mouth opens and her tongue extends.


The man opens the door, looks down, and immediately laughs at her.

He likes making her blush, and it pleases him that she doesn’t change her posture and that she keeps her mouth open despite his derision.

The man steps onto the porch and walks around her. He lifts her skirt from behind. She is not wearing panties. Good — he has trained her to be uncomplicated.

Without words, the man positions himself in front of her, this time closer. She is pink soft flesh in folds and curves. Wet, and so very willing.

The man unzips his pants.


She feels herself tremble, not from the weight of her body stressing her knees but from his presence. He is thick and muscled and commands her without uttering an order.

She watches as he pulls himself out and strokes. Even open to the outside air, her tongue waters — she longs to taste his flesh, feel his cock between her lips.

She waits.

He has now made his manhood into a missile, long and steely, and she imagines it, heat-seeking, plunging into her — she cares not where. She just wants him inside her.

She watches his slow steady stroke become more rapid.

Her tongue waits expectantly.

The man pierces the silence with a yell: “Hey, guys… out here!”


Two men appear in the open doorway. One man, short and heavy, says, “Look what the cat dragged in.”

The other man, sporting salt-and-pepper hair, laughs at the scene unfolding on the porch and reports, “She’s got big tits.”

“Join me,” the girl-master says, his cock out and hard and ready. He slows his stroke. He will time it all perfectly.

The others unzip.


She is red-faced now, surprised by these other men, strangers to her. Their crude comments are matter-of-fact and nonchalant, suggesting they had been told about her. They knew what she was. They knew what she did.

These two have their cocks out. Pumping fast, they’ve made themselves quickly hard, so the shame she feels now is not about their witnessing her debasement but about their participating in it.

Even so, she knows she must do this and remains kneeling, obedient, tongue extended.

The man who rules her steps close. She breathes his familiar musk, bought balsam mixed with earthy lust.

She hears him say to the others, “Let me show you how it’s done.”

She waits, overcoming her worry about these strangers, accepting her place to be docile and willing for his use of her. And theirs.

He strokes himself three more times, then stops, holding his cock steady an inch from her face. He jerks thick stripes of heavy white cum across her tongue neatly.

She feels it land there, warm and oozy. She leaves her tongue out, obediently, knowing he has worked his art on it like brushstrokes.

The man with salt-and pepper hair steps forward, and she sees his cock big and purpled and ready. He continues stroking as he erupts. She feels the spurt splattering her cheek. Another spasm shoots into the back of her mouth. She keeps her tongue out, receiving yet more as he milks additional dollops of himself onto it.

The man who rules her says to the others: “You have to stop stroking the moment right before. That way you have better aim and can paint her the way you like.”

Her tongue, extended all this time, now bears a full puddle of cum, and she feels some dribbling off the sides and onto her breasts.

The short, squat man now steps forward, and she sees his cock close up, inches in front of her face. He is thick and fleshy. He too is ready. He stops stroking and squeezes himself. He grunts, and she receives his ejaculation — he sprays her face in a drenching of thick white froth.

So quickly, they are done with her.

Striped and covered, she remains kneeling, deep in humiliation. She cannot bear to look at them. She draws her tongue, finally, back into her mouth, and swallows the flavor of moss and shame.

Looking at their feet, she says in a frail voice, “Thank you, sirs.”

This is her training, which she is determined to follow even in the midst of surprise.

He will be proud of her. She is sure of it.


The man who rules her tells her to stand.

Yes, he wishes to do her more and again, overnight and through the weekend, days and nights. Indeed, he knows she would do anything, and the three of them could have their fun. But, patience, he tells himself. He is cultivating her for more, much more. That will be another time.

“You may not clean yourself until Altamont,” he says to her. “There’s a rest stop there. An hour away. You will have to ask in the store for the restroom key. Let him see you like this… Go now…”

He knows she will do so to the letter of his law. He knows she will feel and taste the men all the way to Altamont. He knows she will imagine his buddies talking about her tits after she leaves, laughing about her utter submission to their perversion of her. He knows she will pray tonight that he was pleased with her today.

He watches with admiration as she walks in dripping disgrace to her car in the driveway, engine still warm, ready for her three-hour journey back.

6 thoughts on “sextet

  1. I sense the subtleties that divide reality from fiction in this piece by the way you chose your words.

    It feels like you have your writing groove back…for a while, it felt like a struggle to get the words to sound, and feel, just so.

    They do here. 🙂

    Liked by 2 people

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