Adult Bookstore Slut: 7 Cocks Sucked, 4 Fucked in 6 Hours

The neon OPEN sign buzzed over the blacked-out windows, and Rupert pushed through the door of the adult bookstore at two in the afternoon with a number burning behind his eyes. Six. He had serviced six cocks in a single day once, on a gray Saturday three months back, and the figure had sat in him like an unbalanced ledger ever since. He was thirty-two, an accountant who spent his weekdays making other people's numbers behave, and he had taken a vacation day for this the way other men took one for a ballgame. His cock was already thickening against the fly of his dark pants.

The front room smelled of plastic wrap and cheap cologne. A bored clerk took his cash for six hours of booth time and nodded him down the narrow hall, past the humming video machines, into the dimmer stretch where glory holes were cut into thin plywood.

The light back there was the color of old beer. The floor was tacky under his shoes. Rupert's pulse climbed the way it always did when anonymous male desire filled a room he could taste. He cruised slowly, listening, choosing. At the third booth a thick cock was already pushed through the hole, heavy and flushed, the head shining. A low voice came through the partition, rough from outdoor work.

"You looking, or you working?"

"Working," Rupert said. The word came out hungry. "What's your name?"

"Ambrose. Forty-one. Construction. You?"

"Rupert. Thirty-two. Accountant. I want that cock. I came here to beat a record, and I want to start with you."

Ambrose laughed once, short and pleased. "Then get on your knees and take it. I'm not going anywhere unless you tell me to."

Rupert stepped into the booth and locked the door. He shoved his pants to his ankles. Ambrose's cock waited in the circle of raw wood, thick as Rupert's wrist, veins standing, already hard and offered. He wrapped his hand around the base where it met the hole, and Ambrose pushed forward into his grip, willing, eager, ready.

He sank to his knees on the sticky floor. The boards clung to his skin. He opened his mouth and took Ambrose in, the fat head sliding over his tongue, salt and heat filling him at once. He sucked with sloppy enthusiasm from the first stroke, spit running down the shaft, lips stretched, throat working to take more. Ambrose groaned on the other side and fucked the hole in short, heavy thrusts that bumped Rupert's lips against the plywood.

"Yeah. Just like that. Hungry little mouth."

Rupert moaned around him and stroked himself, fist tight, his own cock leaking onto his wrist. He wanted this load and every one after it. When Ambrose warned him, voice cracking, Rupert stayed down and swallowed every pulse, thick and bitter, not spilling a drop. He licked the head clean, sat back panting, and felt the tally click. One.

Word moved through the arcade the way it always did when a bottom was working hard and not hiding it. A knuckle rapped the door. A clear voice said he was Colin, twenty-five, hard as hell, and asked if Rupert still had room. Rupert said yes, loud enough to carry. The cock that came through was slimmer and curved, and Rupert sucked it with the same wet greed, stroking himself, pulling off only long enough to beg Colin to use his mouth and give him every drop. The load hit his tongue. He swallowed. Two.

Another knock. Owen, thirty-six, deeper voice, thicker than the last, praised the mess of spit on Rupert's chin and held as still as the hole allowed while Rupert worked him. Rupert begged for it. Owen came with a grunt Rupert drank down. Three. Then Warren, fifty-five, heavy and uncut, asked if Rupert wanted him and waited for the yes before feeding a slow, salty finish through the hole. Four. Rupert swallowed that too, licked his lips, and kept his fist moving on his own cock until his balls ached. He refused to come. The record was still ahead of him.

Men from twenty-five to fifty-five had lined up in the dim hall, drawn by the news that a hungry bottom was on his knees and swallowing. Rupert stayed in the tacky dark, chin wet, ass clenching around nothing, those four loads pushing him closer to the number that had owned his thoughts for months. He stroked himself. He begged through the wood for more. Anonymous desire poured toward his booth, and he was not spending himself until he had beaten six and taken what he really wanted after.

The hours stacked in heat and salt. Derek came through the hole next, twenty-eight, voice bright, cock long and smooth, and asked if the mouth was as good as the hallway claimed. Rupert took him to the root, gagged once, then settled into a wet, eager rhythm, fist flying on his own shaft. He pulled off, spit stringing from his lip. "Give it to me. I want it down my throat." Derek cursed and came in thick pulses. Rupert swallowed every drop. Five.

Victor was fifty, heavier through the middle, cock short and fat and already dripping. He had heard booth three would not waste a load. Rupert told him that man was on his knees and starving, then sucked him slow and fast, drool on his chin, moaning for it. Victor slapped the plywood when he finished. Rupert gulped it down. Six. The old record, matched. Not beaten. Not yet.

Liam made seven. Thirty-five, broad and muscular even in the slice of him the hole showed, cock thick and curved, the head broad. He asked once, plain and clear, if Rupert wanted it. Rupert said yes before the question ended and sucked him like the number depended on it, sloppy and deep, stroking himself, begging around the shaft until Liam groaned and flooded his mouth. Rupert swallowed the seventh load, licked him clean, and sat back shaking. Seven cocks. Seven swallows. Nothing he had meant to keep had hit the floor. His ass was empty, and the afternoon was not over.

He stood on weak legs, hauled his pants up just enough to walk, and found the largest booth at the end of the hall, the one with a bench and room to bend. He left the door cracked and said, loud enough for the men who had already used his mouth, that he wanted to be fucked. Four of them, if they wanted his ass. He was not done.

Ambrose came first, still hard, work boots planted, eyes dark. "You sure?"

"Yes. Standing. Rough. I want it."

Rupert dropped his pants, braced his hands on the bench, and pushed his ass out. Ambrose spit into his palm, worked two thick fingers into him until he moaned and opened, then set that heavy head against him and pushed. The stretch burned sweet and huge. Rupert bore down and took him inch by inch until Ambrose was buried and cursing. Then the fucking started, a rough standing doggy that knocked the bench into the wall. Ambrose gripped his hips and drove in, heavy and sure, the wet slap of skin filling the booth. Rupert stroked his leaking cock and begged for harder. Ambrose gave it to him, balls slapping, cock punching deep, until he snarled and came, pumping a hot load into Rupert's ass. He pulled out slow. Cum leaked down Rupert's thigh. One.

Derek was waiting, grinning, naked from the waist down, cock slick from Rupert's mouth and hard again. "On my back," Rupert said. "I want to watch you fuck me." Derek nodded. Rupert lay on the narrow bench, knees up, hole wet and open with Ambrose's load. Derek pushed in missionary, long and smooth, and Rupert's mouth fell open at the angle. He fucked steady, then faster, hands braced beside Rupert's shoulders, stomachs brushing, Rupert's cock trapped and dripping between them. "More. Don't you dare pull out." Derek buried himself and came with a broken sound, a second hot flood. Rupert clenched around him, breathless and wrecked. Two.

Victor took the wall. The fifty-year-old was thicker through the arms than the hole had suggested, cock fat and ready, and he asked, gruff and plain, whether Rupert could take another. Rupert planted his palms on the plywood and said yes. Victor pressed in from behind, the fat head spreading him around the mess already inside, and pounded him against the wall. Each thrust shoved Rupert's chest to the wood. The booth shook. Victor's breath was hot at his ear, his cock a relentless thickness, and Rupert moaned like the bookstore slut he had come here to be, stroking himself, pushing back, taking every inch. Victor finished deep, hips jammed tight, a third load pulsing into him. Three. Rupert's thighs were wet. His hole fluttered open around nothing when Victor stepped back.

Liam filled the doorway last, muscular, cock curved and shining, eyes on the wrecked accountant bent and dripping. "You want the last one?"

"Yes. Creampie me. Finish me. I can take it."

Liam didn't waste time. He hauled Rupert's hips back, lined up, and sank to the root in one brutal stroke. Rupert cried out, pleasure punching through the stretch, and Liam fucked him like the booth had been built for it. Hard. Deep. Relentless. The curve dragged over the spot that made Rupert's knees buckle. Cum from the others slicked every thrust, filthy and hot, and those muscular hips slapped his ass until the sound was all he could hear. Rupert stroked himself in a blur, moaning like a true bookstore slut, begging, shameless. "Give it to me. All of it." Liam growled, slammed in, and came in a brutal creampie, pulse after pulse, until Rupert's own orgasm tore out of him and striped the bench and his fist. He clenched through it, milking the last of the load, shaking, stuffed, used exactly the way he had wanted. Four.

Liam pulled out, and the last drops of cum dripped down Rupert's thighs onto the tacky floor. Rupert stayed bent a moment, breathing, hole fluttering, jaw sore, ass full of the afternoon. Then he checked his watch with a shaking hand. Two o'clock to eight. Exactly six hours. He smiled, wrecked and satisfied, at the simple arithmetic of it. Seven cocks sucked, every load swallowed. Four loads taken in his ass. He had come to beat six. He had shattered it.

He cleaned himself as well as the booth allowed, pulled his pants up over the mess, and walked out of the arcade without a word to anyone. The clerk did not look up. Outside, the neon still buzzed.

He was already scheming the next time. The first Friday he could take off next month, he would be back at the same door at the same hour, a harder number written down like any account he meant to close. Eight cocks sucked. Five fucks. He would claim the large booth earlier and would not leave until both counts were broken. He got into his car smiling, already choosing which hole he would kneel at first.