“Oh,” she uttered, not really wanting to ask the old woman anything further. “Where is the room?”
“Go through the double doors; it’s the second door on the right.”
Patrice found the room with little difficulty, stuck the key in the lock, and opened it. She walked in and surveyed her surroundings: beige walls, a brown leather chaise with a blanket and pillow, a small cherrywood side table, on which there was a silver lamp with a white shade. Next to the lamp was also a first aid kit. She opened it, seeking anything that might get rid of her horrible headache. Nothing.
It occurred to Patrice that the only thing she probably needed was a short rest. Things had gotten so unbearable at home, and dealing every night with someone you despised could definitely be a contributing factor to consistent headaches. As much as she hated screwing her pot-smoking, nonworking, lazy-ass husband, Patrice was as horny as a fucking rabbit. She had taken to masturbating at every opportunity. Although she was horny—headache and all—she knew that this was neither the time nor the place for satisfying her basic desires. However, there were often things even your own mind couldn’t control.
Surprisingly she drifted off to sleep almost immediately after lounging on the chaise and pulling the heavy gray wool blanket up to her chin. It didn’t take long for her dreams to take hold.
“Drink it!”
“Drink every last bit of it!”
“Mine tastes just like vanilla milkshake, baby.”
“Here it fucking comes. Open your mouth wide…wider!”
“Ahhhh.”
She sat outside at an ordinary sidewalk café in Paris, except, instead of being clothed in her usual fashionable best, she was completely naked, without even a pair of panties. And as she sat sipping a thick white liquid from a long-stemmed champagne flute, at least a dozen men of various colors and sizes stood circling her, their dicks in their hands, jerking feverishly. One, a tall, bald, chocolate, strapping brother with granite pecks and a cock that could bench-press a barbell, had maintained quite a rhythm, sliding his right hand up and down his burgeoning erection, allowing his pre-cum to lubricate his efforts. He aimed directly for Patrice’s mouth, hoping to make the money shot.
“Open wide, sugar. You’ve never tasted joy juice like this before,” he uttered breathlessly.
Patrice obeyed every word and kept her mouth as wide-open as was physically possible—anxiously awaiting her reward.
All sorts of men were in the circle, some were white, some Hispanic, some tall, others short. Some looked like they spent hours in the gym while others were of average physical condition. But none of that mattered one bit to Patrice. Her focus was on their dicks and the circle-jerk that they were all engaged in.
One short man with long, black, wavy hair, who appeared to be Mexican, gripped his café-au-lait cock so tightly she was sure the strangled look on his face wasn’t passion, but pain.
“Fffuckkkk!” he groaned as he blasted Patrice’s swollen, ample globes with his sweet, sticky offering.
She ran her index finger over her breasts and retrieved a dollop of cum. The paltry appetizer only left her more famished than before, and she lifted her left breast and began devouring what was left with her own mouth, enthusiastically lapping at her now rigid nipple with her tongue, nibbling and biting until her nipple was raw and her pussy sopping wet.
While others aimed for the long-stemmed flute she was holding, still others seemed intent on splattering her pert, erect nipples with their cum, as she waited for each of them to explode one by one. Her dark chocolate man of steel appeared to be close to detonation, so Patrice removed her lips from her breast and opened up as wide as her mouth would stretch.
“Here it comes, sugar!” he bellowed.
His aim had a perfect landing directly inside Patrice’s eagerly awaiting mouth.
“Drink it all!” he bellowed. “Don’t waste a fucking drop. You never tasted nectar like that, baby. Never!”
As Patrice reached out in an attempt to milk Man of Steel’s cock of any remaining cum, it was as though an invisible barrier kept them from touching. This game had rules. She could watch them hand-fuck themselves and they could spew their lava at Patrice, but she couldn’t touch them, nor them her.
However, Patrice enjoyed acting as “orchestra leader.” She pretended she was the leader, conducting the orchestra and the multitude of dicks stretched out before her, the instruments. As she barked instructions, she reveled in the overwhelming feeling of control.
“Faster, faster,” she called out to a tall white man with a long dick that curved ever so slightly to the right. Patrice wondered what that curved cock would feel like bouncing off the walls of her cunt. As quickly as she noticed
this arched appendage and began fantasizing about what wonderful things it could do for her G-spot, she was distracted by a dick of modest length with more than impressive width. This display brought new meaning to the words beating his meat. The sight of his large, masculine hands wrapped around what could easily have been a tasty slab of beef made Patrice hungry beyond words. When his sudden forceful jet began gushing toward her, Patrice graduated from plain old hungry to ravenous. The crescendo of cum sputtering and spurting forth was her rewarding melody, but she needed more.
Suddenly her pussy began to feel painfully neglected, and Patrice threw her left leg over the arm of the silver chair she was sitting in. She played with her protruding button of bliss. The hard metal against her pliable flesh only made her hotter. Her pussy was starving for one of these dicks to fill her up to the hilt; maybe even two or three. After all, she did have three holes to accommodate.
To her right, a 6'9" Schwarzenegger look-alike, with the most beautiful chiseled jawline, cleft chin, and olive-colored skin, intermittently slid his hand slowly up and down his adequately sized cock, taking turns jerking himself off and slapping his cock against the flat of his left hand. It seemed as though each time he slapped his cock against his hand, he swelled to cum-inspiring proportions, causing Patrice to finger-fuck herself with mounting enthusiasm. He slapped, and she plunged first one, then two, then three of her fingers deep inside her pussy, flicking at her clit with her thumb and causing a rush of juices to flood the hard, cold metal chair she was now glued to. The suctioning noises of several hands wrapped around several cocks and the assortment of masculine grunts and groans that formerly filled the area of the café were now drowned out by Patrice’s moans and the slapping of one rapidly swelling dick against one open hand. However, the slapping sound suddenly changed to more of a knocking sound. Patrice assumed the heavy weight of his ever-expanding cock had caused the shift in timbre, yet the sound increased in such severity it was almost deafening. That’s when she awoke.
Outside the locked door of the Quiet Room, someone was urgently knocking.
“Are you okay?” came the call.
“Oh, shit!” Patrice muttered to herself.