Seven inches is supposed to be just perfect—at least as far as Subway’s polls regarding the gustative insult they dare call ‘sandwiches’ go.

“You and I are through,” her text reads. Timestamp o-dark-hundred this morning.

I raise one eyebrow and curl my lips into a pissed-off duck face at my girlfriend’s text—or rather ex, go figure. “Fuck Subway and their statistics,” I mutter, thinking about how she’s always kept reassuring me that I should not worry about her former boyfriend—or his horse-sized dick for that matter. How do I know? Ask the life-size replica I keep next to the fleshlight molded from her pussy, well hidden in the drawer labeled ‘worn underwear’. Squirting, naturally, because what good is a dick that doesn’t fill your holes with steamy white gunk?

“Two years,” I murmur to myself, “only to get dumped with about as much class as a high school drop-out.”

Abso-fucking-lutely grand! And on the most unnecessary of all the commercial holidays at that!

Judging from her Instagram feed, she’s already horse-riding her ex again—after his experimental venture in gay territory he never disclosed to her. Why would he, given some of his trysts involved her current... uh... ex-boyfriend. Habits die hard, don’t they, the linguistic ones being the peskiest of them.

We all have our secrets. Being with her never really stopped me from following my own fuck-agenda, now did it? Given how she just played me in the end, I was right all along—or had it coming, depending on the point of view. I leave the spiritual aspects of ‘justice’ to the experts. Maybe she found out and this is her payback? Pretty pathetic if you ask me. Also, since she’s back with Mr. fluid of all people (not judging, scout’s honor!), I rule out that she got word about anything. Still, my ego is a wee bit hurt as I was looking forward to getting laid big time this night of all nights. Why not wait until tomorrow to rub her poor life choices in my face?

Sporting a stubbly impression of the resting bitch face, I open the fridge. If they say that, in the first few weeks after a breakup, you’ll get constant reminders of your ex, that’s a blatant understatement With much delight, I notice that the three unopened bottles of milk are expiring today.

“Even my fucking milk has a Valentine’s date!” I hiss, frustrated while the spark of an appropriate revenge plan is beginning to form in my mind. As my eyes fall on my laptop whose stand-by LED is lazily blinking, a smile creeps over my face. I eyeball the Hello Kitty sticker that covers the built-in webcam, then at the two bottles in my hands and the one lying on the fridge’s bottom shelf.

Hurriedly, I put them on the kitchen counter, slam shut the refrigerator and damn near tear off the cupboard door where I suspect the corn starch. “Please still be here, please still be here,” flows my desperate mantra while I’m rummaging through likely moth-infested packs of powdered goods, almost knocking down half of them in the process.

When I finally find an unopened pack, I nearly jump with joy as, in the back of my mind, my plan has fully formed in the meantime. While mumbling something like “Thought I still had some...” I throw a quick glance at the dusty shelf designated for the unused, and habitually rotting culinary curiosities everyone seems to be having, where I spot exactly what I'm looking for.

“Coloring E129—bingo!” I exclaim, delighted to have saved some.

As for the final ingredient, I press my eyes shut, throwing an ejaculatory prayer to whoever might be listening—don’t lecture me on this obvious contradiction to previous statements; everyone knows that panic and excitement alike strip all rationality of one’s mind—and open the fridge again. Here it is, almost shining and singing an angel choir: a pristine bottle of lemon juice—much more, even, than I dared ask for! A few drops would have been enough but who’s complaining?

“This ought to do just fine for the period fetishists,” I chuckle. It’s for the audience; blame me! From experience, though, I know blood makes fantastic lubricant but hasn’t made it into my personal kink list. Anyway, whoever is gonna be watching is in a very poor position to kink-shame me. Heck, kink-shaming, per se, is poor etiquette!

An hour later, I’m standing in front of a large pot of nice, thickened milk that will find its good use before turning and a much smaller, nicely scarlet-colored half-clotted portion. It looks close enough to the real thing and the coagulated gooey chunks give it all a genuine texture.

I lay out the tarp on the floor, place my laptop in a hopefully not too awkward angle... Really dilettantish, tell me about it, but I think that like this, it’s a lot more immersive for the viewers, and that’s exactly what I’m aiming for: a live stream of genuine homemade fake-cum solo porn.

I proof my list again. Bryan’s cock’s dildo—check! The extra-sized cum reservoir filled... to the brim. Does it dispense the slimy liquid on demand? Yes. Becca’s fleshlight—check! Is it prepared? Yup. Visible traces? None. Is my ass squeaky and no weird rumblings in my stomach? Good thing I didn’t opt for Taco Bell yesterday. This sort of accident on live streams is a guaranteed lifetime ban. How is the room’s light? Awkward enough and yet not crappy. Purrfect!

I log into my OnlyFans. To my surprise, almost all my regular viewers are indeed online. “Likely practicing the post-nut-clarity trick on their upcoming dates like the good little pervs they are,” I chuckle to myself, delighted.

I change into my fishnet leotard and knee-high socks, ultramarine satin cuffs, tie my hair into two girly fuck-me pigtails and apply just enough blush to make me look shy and demure. The strain on my package is already enough to make my heart pump right into my growing member. One quick glance into the full-body mirror confirms how I feel I look: like a perfect little twink boy-whore, ready to get ravaged by his abusers—by proxy.

Once ready, I kneel on the tarp, test the camera and put my toys on obvious display. Heart intensely pounding in my chest and cock throbbing, futilely trying to snake its way through the coarse-meshed garment, I start the stream and begin to sensually lick the toys.

Usually, it takes a while until the first viewers start watching. From there on, the numbers grow pretty quickly; the news about unannounced niche shows, much like bad news, spreads like fire in dry grass—or faster than light, some would argue... and, possibly, try to use it as a means of propulsion for interstellar travel.

No more than five minutes into the stream, just over three hundred viewers have joined—enough by my taste.

“Hey pervs,” I address my audience, “I welcome you to my Valentine’s Day show.” I have to pull myself together not to burst into nefarious laughter on the spot. “Sadly, my two besties Boy-B and Girl-B couldn’t make it. That’s why they were so kind to send me their silicone reproductions. Meet Girl-B’s cock-craving cunt and Boy-B’s monstrous schlong that can’t wait to tear my little asshole apart.”

Slowly, I bring both toys to my face, making sure not to tilt Becca too much and ruin the gory surprise by spilling it. Tentatively, I give her clit a lick, acting abashed and reserved while Bryan is poking me, rubbing my cheek with his glans.

I giggle. “Quit being impatient. You’ll get plenty of me.” I lower my head to trace his shaft from base to tip and take him deep into my mouth right away. I keep him there until he makes me gag but the dirty bastard won’t let me go. Instead, he fucks my face until I have to slap him away, leaving a thick, slimy web of phlegm hanging between us.

“Greedy boy!” I chide him and lay Becca on the floor, catch my spit with my free hand, and smear the slime over his shaft. There’s enough to spread over Becca’s puffy lips as well.

I undo the crotch button of my leotard. Becca now being slippery enough, I penetrate her with a slow, sensuous thrust. “B is a size queen but she needs preparation with my little weenie first,” I muse in a childish voice as I slow-fuck her, making sure I don’t dive too deep so I don’t spill the blood prematurely.

Meanwhile, Bryan feels neglected and shoves himself right down my throat again. Hungrily, I schluck him down and force him deeper into my œsophagus.

“Be careful, big B, I know you’ve got a hair trigger,” I say when he pulls out but no later than the last syllable has left my lips, he drenches my face with seemingly endless streaks of cum.

“Beee, you are impossible,” I whine in my sluttiest voice as his slurry trickles down my neck and chest. “I’ll never get your cum out of my hair.”

I scoop the sticky fluid from my face and make a show of spreading it over the dildo.

“No wonder you’re cumming so much, B. You love it when I use your cum as lube, yes? Naughty boy! Good thing there’s so much more where that came from,” I muse, making sure my voice is filled with playful chuckles.

Using the suction cap at its base, I fix the faux cock onto the tarp so I can still hold the fleshlight in place. Probably, my obsession with not spoiling the surprise is a tad exaggerated and all-too-forced but at this point, it’s a matter of principle. In the end, I’m doing this for a certain target audience that is not seldom very observant of such details and loves the subtle tease—and tips generously.

As I slowly lower my bottom onto Bryan’s head, I feel the familiar stretchy sensation of it trying to push past my entrance. A deep breath and a moan through clenched teeth and I feel my sphincter protest.

“Don’t come again just yet, B, don’t let my tight pucker push you over the edge,” I mewl to hide the habitual pain of the first penetration.

For good lubrication measure, I give the cum supply a healthy squeeze. No one needs anal fissures after all. “Nooo, you meanie,” I purr, squirming as a splash of the cum splooshes out when Bryan leaves my hole. “I told you to hold it.”

“What are you saying? You didn’t have enough of my little ass?” I add happily. “You were just lubing me up more? You’re spoiling your little boytoy rotten, B.”

Indeed, with my rectum adequately creamed up, I feel almost no resistance as he pushes past my sphincter that now willingly relaxes and lets him mold himself into me.

“Fuuuck, you’re so deep inside me,” I sing and begin bouncing my ass up and down ever so slowly while pumping my own cock with Becca.

“Oh, Girl-B, what was that? There’s something you didn’t tell me?” I act all surprised. “Oh no, you’re not, you naughty, naughty little girl. Tsk, tsk.”

I slowly pull out of Becca’s cunt with a loud plop, squeezing her so the blood preparation flows out. “Are you so horny you just forgot you're on your period, dummy?”

Making a show of it, I smear the partly clotted red goo over my dick and lick the remains off my fingers. “Tastes yummy, Girl-B. Oh, you want me to eat you?”

I bring the rubber snatch to my mouth and noisily slurp out all the blood I can, moaning while Bryan is still fucking my ass.

Soon, I remove him from my boyhole. “Don’t be jealous Boy-B, you can fuck her too, but only if I can suck you afterward. You know I love the taste of my ass and her bleeding cunt on you.”

The thick and disgusting cum fart that sprays out of my ass the moment he leaves me makes me squeal in dirty delight. As I see the trail of cum he’s leaving, I catch it with my fingers and spread it all over my belly, soaking it into the meshes of the barely-existent fabric.

Violently, I mash Bryan into Becca while fondling his inflated balls. “Just look at how big your balls still are, so full and ready to burst,” I say just before a sludgy mix of red and white ooze seeps out of the squelching hole that’s being properly massacred.

I pull out Bryan and immediately suck him off, obscenely slurping and moaning. “You taste so good with us both on you, Boy-B!”

Feeling ready to cum myself too very soon, I prepare for the grand finale. “Girl-B sit on your throne and ruin my face with your yummy, dirty juice while Boy-B fucks my ass and spray-paints my entrails white.”

Happily, they oblige. They know full well that being treated to such intense pleasure, I won’t last much longer. Before long, I’m adding volleys of my own cum to the spunk that’s already coating my upper body.

I heave in ecstasy as the twitching slowly subsides and I feel the goopy milk begin to congeal in my hair. Giggling, I smear my cum with the fake one on my chest and rub it into my nipples. “Thank you so much, Boy-B and Girl-B,” I sigh, exhausted and happy, literally as a pig in the mud, saturated—no, baptized—with filthy mock love sauce.

I mouth a few words to acknowledge the audience and say goodbye before switching off the stream.

No sooner than the camera is off, my phone goes into a buzzing frenzy.

“So they were watching,” I chuckle, wiping the curious mixture off me. I would love to wallow a little more in it but experience has taught me the dried stains are a real pain to clean—not to mention the persistent smell.

Still, I’m impatient to see what my friends have to tell me à propos my little show. In fact, there are texts from three people on my phone. The first two are, predictably, from Becca and Bryan with a variation of, essentially, the same message: an f-word-heavy introduction followed by a tirade of rather creative genital curses, death wishes and requests that I go see a therapist. Nothing I can’t just shrug off—not after what they’ve done to me anyway. The timestamp seems a bit off—by a whole year, actually—but I dismiss this as an effect of the post-orgasmic doze.

The third text, however, arouses my attention. It’s from my roomie.

Scorcher of a show, dude, but I think you forgot about your condition again, didn’t you?

It dawns on me through the slowly clearing haze of my mind. Sounds of screeching tires, bits of flashbacks...

Yeah, spending exactly one year in a coma post-accident does a fucked-up number on one’s memory. Oops.