The lingerie magnifies everything. The ache. The need. The power. Suspense skitters beneath my skin as I dance to the pulverizing beat that swamps my bedroom, eyes cast downward, fixed on myself the whole time.

Sensational.

My reflection smiles with me, muted taps of my toe ring against the glass through sheer hold-ups sweeping toned calves to my slender thighs. The dark bands snapped around them are tantalising, mere whispers beneath the Perthshire District tartan skirt. Vibrant red matches the blood thundering through me; green and blue hatching echoes the dark darts of desire that slice my core. Nanna would throw a fucking fit if she saw how little of her precious clan fabric covers the teal panties that, in turn, shield my freshly waxed pussy.

Beyond where the butterflies play, the swell of my chest strains against the bra. It parallels the panties and complements the burnt hazel flecks in my irises, especially alluring in the glow from the strip of wall lights. Slightly cooler than the 2900K of my precious den, they still deliver an inviting hue. Art house erotic.

Irresistible. Not long now.

I toss back blonde tresses, chin up, and shudder at the vista. Between the expansive ceiling and floor mirrors, light rays bounce endlessly. Me me me, stretching and curving to infinity. Each successive reflection reveals a smaller version of my deliciously lewd display until I'm a thumbnail. A crumb. A speck. Mere atoms.

Swooping hands up my body, I cup my tits. Squeeze, modest flesh spilling from the balcony. I can't resist reaching in to scoop them from the lacy material. Run fingertips around the sensitive areola pigment. Capture the crinkled peaks between knuckles. Pinch.

My mouth falls open, the gasp audible even above the relentless, pounding dance beat that mimics the club – minus the dry ice, lasers and stench of spilled beer – from which my unseen audience were curated.

I allow myself a further smile at the recollection of scrambling over the metal barriers in front of the stage and hauling myself up amid whooping adulation from the throng of hot, sweaty clubbers. On the platform, I swished my hair and gyrated with the music. Performed for them, ever the exhibitionist. I embodied their wet dreams, basking as they idolized my every move until security staff swarmed in to spoil my display.

As the heavies closed, I charged away from them to the front edge, swan diving onto the sea of heads and arms that paid homage to me and the gods of dance. Passed, hand over undulating hand, I was rocked, rolled, and opportunistically groped; ass, belly, tits, pussy, hair, until I was eventually delivered upright at the far side of the dance floor.

Strutting to the bar, mussed and tingling, I ordered a double G&T. Downed it. Ordered another. Watched my reflection in the bar mirror, the zipping heat connecting every scrap of skin where I'd been touched.

In my peripheral vision, they came. Bees to my honey trap; no end of offers. The antidote to the pressures of my day job.

I flirted. Played aloof where necessary. Brushed against potential suitors to excite both them and me. Eye contact here, skin against skin there, until I'd chosen.

All four followed, of course. After agreeing to my terms.

I shiver at the thought of them lined up, dicks throbbing in their hands, poised to unleash their mouth-watering, milky come. Just for me. I could be on my knees, working my way from cock to beautiful cock, slathering my tongue across each shiny, flared tip to collect the sweet pre-come. To savour it, taste buds dancing in its wake. To lean into each man's intoxicating warmth, open my mouth and suck hard, gauging his suitability for my frieze downstairs.

But that's not how it's going to work. Tonight is different. An experiment. New and electrifying.

Wrenching my gaze from the ceiling, I focus forward on where I expect each man to be in the adjoining box room, beyond the expansive two-way mirror. It's already paid for itself in sheer entertainment, the unblinking camera mounted on its tripod capturing my secret videos. I replay them when alone. Masturbate to the immersive opera, cries and groans and slaps and chokes bouncing off the wall upon which the depravity is projected. I writhe and buck on the sheets at every nuance of my performance as I take what I need from each fuck; their power, their photo, their very essence captured in the sheaths of rubber pinned to the wall of my den one floor below.

Tonight though, the mirror that reflects the bed and IKEA furniture alongside me plays a different role. It adds to the anticipation. I know the men are there, stiff cocks primed. Watching. Wanking. Aching to win me. To become one-eighty.

I can almost taste that shot of slippery, silky come from the victor. My prize before I get to fuck him all night, any way he chooses in this very room. To drown in our actions, from any angle, any hole, any kink, as many times as he has the energy. I'll match it. Be his toy. Exemplify his needs. Ruin him for anyone else.

Part of me desperately hopes he chooses to use my mouth. To treat – no, mistreat – me as his come-slut. To lay me back on the bed, head hanging off its edge, my hair cascading to the mirror below. I want to feel his fingers under my chin, angling my head further, stretching my neck taut so I can stare down at the reflection of his cock approaching my lips. Savour that point of contact, sliding each inch further and further until I cough and spray saliva onto the mirror beneath us, distorting licentious behaviour that makes my ravenous cunt drip onto the bed sheets.

That sight of him filling me and taking my air is eye-popping. Drawing out. In. Out. Picking up speed until he's pounding my throat and I morph into a fucked-up, gagging princess, mascara-laced tears of need dripping onto the glassy surface as I choke on the huge prick ramming mercilessly past my lips. I'll take everything until he loses control and groans, unleashing his salty prize into my hungry mouth and pulsing throat.

The music stops, momentary silence before the track changes and I pick up the new beat, swaying, sliding my hands down my body, licking ruby lips and transferring a little of their waxy coating to my tongue. I flash my attention once more to each man's probable location, making him believe he's the only one for me. Drawing fingers level with my hips, thumbs tucking into the waistband of the skirt, I pause, knowing it will amplify their excitement. It does mine.

I turn around, casting my gaze rearward to observe the way I bend at the waist, and tug down. It's thrilling to see my panties ease into view, the curve of my behind filling their arc perfectly just below the dragon tattoo that I swear snarls in anticipation. I let go and the skirt slithers to the mirror at my stockinged feet.

Stepping from the garment, I slink up onto the bed and crawl away to its centre, predatory, wiggling my arse provocatively at my suitors. I'm sure there's an anguished groan and my heart skips a beat at the thought of its owner wanking hard, spewing hot slashes of come against the other side of the mirror. I can barely wait to get my tongue on his sticky, thick spunk, slowly oozing into streaks down the glass as I swipe it to pool on my taste buds. To sit back. Swirl it for my own amusement, shivering at how fucking sexy I am when acting the perfect whore.

I'll do the same for all the runners-up. Show him how much his taste means to me. No point wasting perfectly good spunk.

One down, two to go. Time to step up my game.

I lower my face to the cool plain cotton duvet cover, reaching back between my legs to rub my panties, ensuring the growing damp patch is visible to the men. I want the touches as much as they do and moan into the bed. It's not enough. Never is.

Slipping fingertips under the material, I stare back through my legs to reflect on the way my knickers deform as fingers plunge into the dripping furrow beneath. My imagination runs amok, each brush of my clit or dive of my fingers representing a hard dick teasing, then filling my greedy hole. I gasp and judder with every touch.

The cresting orgasm takes me by surprise and I pull out to lengthen its cusp, peeling sticky fabric down my thighs in the process. Spread. Hold. Pulse. My cunt glistens between my fingers in the glowing light and I hear another groan from the other side of the glass. Not as tortured. He's not spilled yet, but he's close. One of the rules is they can't stop masturbating.

A wicked thought forms. I have to act fast so there are still remnants of warmth in their cream when I hungrily lap up their loads from where they've landed.

Leaving panties behind as I bounce from the bed, I grab my suction cup dildo from the nightstand, stride across, all hips and desire, kneel and slam it dead centre to the lower edge of the glass. I know four sets of eyes are trained on it as the corner of my mouth lifts into a dirty smirk and I engulf the phallus in one swoop.

I gag but don't stop. Choke a little then pull back so they can see the thick loop of saliva break. It stripes my stockings. As I race to rewrap my lips around the rubber cock, each man will imagine it's his veined length disappearing into my wanton cavity. My nose touches the cool of the glass, and I sputter, spraying the surface with a ring of spit. The noises I make are deplorable but oh so sexy. I'm driven, gunning for my aperitif before the main course.

The cocks I crave must be mere inches the other side of the glass. I can almost sense their magnetism. Touch them as the dildo triggers my gag reflex and I cough, pulling back to the halfway point, imagining it's the next guy about to lose it, his hands on my head, pulling me, fucking my face.

Streaks of makeup stain my cheeks, springing from the corner of determined eyes that stare back a few centimetres away.

Riveting.

That brutal power I have over men is at its peak when I'm on my knees, stuffed by their machismo. The voracity in my expression doesn't lie. Without me, they'd be nothing but selfish promises. Nights at home with a right hand. Clumsy fumbles with a prim girlfriend who prefers the lights off. Instead, they're here, slaves to what I represent, offering one hundred percent raw lust at the prospect of breaking me. And that taste of true, unbridled intent permeates every delicious drop of semen that I strive to collect.

My eyes widen and my reflection blurs as I jam the fake cock into my mouth once again, gagging and spluttering until I hear the next man's snarl and know one more has fallen. I pull back and smack my lips, mimicking what I'd be doing if I were the other side of the glass.

Leaving the dripping dildo, I stand and swipe spilled saliva from my chin, turning away and bending at the waist. I gaze over my shoulder at my inviting rear, reaching back to spread my cheeks and swirl a spit-soaked digit across my arsehole.

I'm such a slut letting men take me there, but sometimes I can't help it. Swept up in the moment, I crave that stretch and burn as he enters and exits my naughtiest hole. If I've already captured his spunk for my wall, I may even let him fill me there to intensify its flavour when I dribble it into my palm, lapping and drinking in front of him. I love that combination, similar to when it's infused with juices from my leaking cunt.

The lights catch the gleaming saliva that coats my rosebud and I apply pressure, watching my finger sink to the first knuckle. I gasp, draw out and swipe it across my tongue to wet it further, as much for my benefit as theirs. The forbidden tang crawls over my taste buds and thrills me to the core.

Such a dirty bitch.

Spit dangles from my index finger and I drip it to my arse then push in further. The second knuckle disappears and I cry out over the music, wiggling home. In a flash of lust, I raise my free hand and crash it into my displayed rump. Holding my palm there, I squeeze then draw back and spank my flesh once more, the cheek's redness seeping inward through the curved strata to swirl my clit. I bite my lower lip and stare at my reflection. Through it. Lift. Strike. Soothe. Watch the skin deform as my gasps fill the space between the beats.

Worming my finger fully into my derriere, I grip my arse then deliver a satisfying wallop to the nearby cheek. My cry precedes his and my heart leaps. Showtime.

I withdraw, straighten, grin and stride out of their view into the short corridor, twisting the door handle to the adjoining room.

The space is small, almost claustrophobic with five of us there, its light subdued. It has to be for the two-way mirror to work effectively. More of a blue tone than the harsh white of the bedroom.

Three flaccid men stand beaten, the one smiling nearest me, clutching his rigid cock, clearly the winner. Wordlessly, I sidle past him and sink to my knees, palms to the back of the mirror and stoop to lick up its surface. My tongue stud scuffs the cool glass as delicious cream fills my mouth and I greedily swirl it. Let it permeate; infect me before I swallow and turn to show the first loser my empty mouth.

Tilting my head, I hold out one hand and mime a wave by waggling fingers of the other. He zips up, reaches into his pocket and slaps a hundred into my upturned palm, then trudges out, shutting the door harder than necessary.

I fold the bills into my bra strap and shuffle along the glass to stop at the next dirty streak, slightly translucent now; the first guy to go. His flavour is strong. Like seventy-two, that earthy musk overshadows the sweet high note as his come pools in my mouth. I sample it, rolling it between my upper palate and tongue, smearing the stickiness so every taste bud can respond before swallowing, stooping lower and lapping to capture the entire trail.

It takes a few strokes to remove the glued-on spunk but it's worth every extra moment. He's fucking tasty, and a pang of regret washes over me as I finish up. He's tucked himself away, perhaps embarrassed at losing first, so I don't get to ogle him. Pity. He hands me the money and does the walk of shame without me needing to point to the door.

Stuffing the cash behind the other strap, I focus on the final loser, limp yet thick, his circumcised head shiny from ejaculate. I can't resist crawling to him, ducking beneath it and swiping my tongue over the tip. He draws breath as my tongue stud swirls and I engulf the fat head to the ridge, sucking hard to draw any remnants of come.

He's sweeter than the other guys – probably a higher sugar diet or he drinks more water – and I let the drop linger before turning to the glass and lapping his streaks. There's a lot of it. Viscous and creamy, it coats my tongue, slithering down my throat as I alternately gulp and lick everything he released.

When the mirror contains nothing but my saliva, I stand, turn and hold out my hand. He knows the drill, counts out a hundred, wedding band catching the light with each bill, zips then turns to leave, casting me an expression partway between dolefulness and gratitude.

Excitement fizzes in my belly. I can't believe I'm considering this, but it seems somehow fitting. "Wait."

He pauses. I bite my lip. He's too tasty to lose. "As runner-up you can stay and watch. For another hundred."

He's torn. Young wife waiting for him after he's been out with the lads. A few drinks. Dancing. Letting off steam after the pressures of the working week in the capital. I know how it is. But this. This unexpected turn of events is something even further than he could have imagined.

For a moment I think he's going to decline, his hand jittery in his pocket. Then his wallet appears and he riffles through the notes. "I have sixty-five left."

I tilt my head playfully. Hold out my hand. "Deal." I don't need the money, it's just a bonus.

The notes crinkle in my clutch as I strut to the winner, grab his hand and drag him back to the bedroom.

As we enter, I dim the lights fractionally and turn the music down to a comfortable level. Stashing all the money in my underwear drawer, I pull the straight-backed chair from alongside and spin it to rest at the long edge of the floor mirror, pointing. Runner-up is obedient. Sits as I stride to the bed and perch on its edge, facing them.

Crooking a finger, power surges through me. The winner obeys and pauses a few feet from me.

"Is… is this for real?"

I nod. "She won't find out, lover boy. Promise. I'll only bite if you tell me to." Our eyes lock and I flick my hair back, planting my feet apart to see how long it takes for his gaze to drift between my legs. One-thousand, two-thousand… there it is. I smile. "Now undress and show me how you like to treat filthy sluts."

Eyeing me, mouth slack, he glances at the other guy before self-consciously shucking his jeans. He unbuttons his shirt and leaves everything in a pile on the mirror. He's not in bad shape underneath and I lick my lips. Rove my gaze over his underwear and give the faintest nod. He complies and I take in his glorious nakedness. Not fully hard, he hangs there, thick cock nodding and twitching as if possessed. Leaning forward, I stroke one edge with a manicured fingernail, delighting at the way he responds, then cup his balls and gently squeeze.

"Feels like you have a big load for me."

He stares at his rising manhood and nods absentmindedly. Says nothing.

"So here's the deal." I stoop to one of the drawers under the bed and retrieve a condom, handing it to him. "This is for your first – first – load. I don't want a drop wasted, okay?" Without waiting for acknowledgement, I plough on. "If you have enough energy after that, you can fill me any way you like."

"A… any way?"

"Aha. Use your imagination. And," I grip his cock to help me stand, stroking its firming length, "I guarantee you won't break me." Leaning into his personal space, I whisper in his ear as I eye guy number two, "Make me fucking scream and it could be the best night of your life."

I release his prick and he stands there, hard and dumbfounded. He's going to take some encouragement. Perhaps it's the presence of the onlooker; amusing, given they've all been lined up in a dick-off. I drop to my knees and gaze up as I take him in my mouth. Just the tip, sucking as I creep my lips down his shaft. I think the poor guy expects me to stop when I'm full, but I carry on to the base until I'm stuffed and my nose is buried in his pubic hair. That gasp he emits is electric but only a fraction as exciting as when I pull off and stare up at my reflection in the ceiling mirror. A pair of bubbly saliva strings connect his glistening manhood to my lips and I suck, watching them snap.

My pussy drips to the glass and I shuffle back, altering my view to the soaked mess between my legs. Reaching down I swipe my fingertip across the cool surface to collect a translucent droplet and hold it up to him, tilting my head in a coquettish gesture. He bends to wrap his lips around my digit, relishing me.

"Good huh?"

He returns fully upright and nods. Silent.

"So," I gaze up at him and reach out to smear my juices around his length, "want to put your cock in me again and really show me how you like to treat dirty sluts?"

His cock swells at my words and I stare at it, willing him to take me. Fuck my mouth. My throat. Instead, he reaches for my chin. Tilts it up so our eyes connect and heat bubbles within me, carrying the tails of Chanel Incandescente with it. "Open."

I do and he steps in, brushing my lips with his raging erection. His tip breaches and before I can take a breath, he's in almost all the way. I cough and he pulls out.

"Is that it?" I goad. "I thought you were a fuckimpppffh…"

His cock fills me, bumps my throat, hands clamping the sides of my head as he holds me there, impaled and choking. My cunt drips. Every extra second threatens my very existence and I flap my hands against his taut thigh muscles until he releases me. I collapse onto all fours, gasping and spitting onto the mirror by his feet.

Fuck, even though my vision's blurred and mascara's running I'm hot. I wipe my eyes with the back of a hand and blink at my reflection moments before his fist wraps my locks and hauls me to a kneeling posture. There's a flash of power in his expression.

"Is that better? You…" The word seems to take an age to form. When it does, it's hissed through bared teeth. "Slut."

My smile should tell him everything, but I make it clear, gazing along his forearm and tensed bicep to the steely need behind his ice blue eyes. "Every hole is yours. Make me pay."

Barely before the words are out, he releases my hair, tears open the condom packet and rolls it on. My heart leaps and I open my mouth just as he presses his length to my tongue and glides inside. I'm stuffed with cock encased in the bitter tang of rubber as he places his hand behind my head and pulls me onto him, then draws himself back to exit. In again. Further this time. Deeper, making my throat clamp, then out as I gurgle appreciation.

Picking up speed, he starts to fuck my face until I'm emitting filthy glugs and splutters, dripping pussy juice onto the mirror as he abuses my mouth. His groans fuel me further and as his fingers dig into the back of my neck, he exhales hard and buries himself so my nose is nestled in his pubes.

That gorgeous rippling along the underside of his cock precedes the spunk rocketing into the condom teat wedged against the entrance to my throat. I cough at his invasion, thrilling at the prospect of tasting his cream. Comparing. Contrasting. Pinning it up. Number one-eighty. Another milestone.

He lets go of my head and I tear myself away, watching bleary-eyed at his cock bobbing, its precious payload in the sheath. Hungrily, I reach for it. Roll the base a little then slide it off him, leaning in to lap up stray gooey droplets from his cockhead. Fuck, he's tasty.

Loosely tying the condom to protect its cargo, I place it on the nightstand for later and perch on the bed edge. Wiping my eyes, I lie back staring at my reflection above, make-up smeared, mouth reddened where he stretched me. The perfect slut. I reach to cup my tits, rolling the flesh, squeezing and pinching my nipples, writhing my legs, alternating between crushing them together and parting them, thighs wet at their convergence.

For his part, the poor guy is slack-jawed, still recovering. That war against his conscience; unsure whether to return to his idyllic girlfriend with his gradually withering dick between his legs, or jump on me. Maybe he's convincing himself that a blowjob isn't cheating but anything more is. I crook my finger and splay my sticky thighs. The message, it seems, is received, more powerful than any guilt. He takes the single pace to the bedside and drops to his knees.

In the ceiling mirror, I'm treated to the rapture on my face as his mouth connects with my aching, soaked pussy. His tongue swipes through my slit, a long drag that scoops wetness for him to swirl around my clit and then hungrily slurp. Not once, not twice, but countless times, he laps and kisses and treats my cunt like it's royalty. All I can do is swish my hips, writhing, reaching for his head to clamp him to my core.

A few times I catch the expression of the seated guy, open-mouthed. I steal glimpses as he shifts, cock clearly responding to the debauched scene. Fuck, it's hot being watched. Revered. On a few occasions, his hand hovers to his thigh then back to grip the chair edge. I give him a nod and mouth, "Show me."

His prick is solid when he unzips, wrapping it in his fist. My eyes lock on his as I run fingers through the winner's dark hair, shorter at the nape, crushing him to me and gasping. It's no quid pro quo for the blowjob; this guy adores eating pussy and it shows. He can't get enough of me, kissing and probing and drinking every stray droplet.

"Yes. Fuck! Make me come."

Flitting between the mirror and the guy in the chair, my vision swims as the room closes in. What begins as a throb where his tongue lashes, builds to a sweeping crescendo that paralyses me, fingernails embedded in his skull. I'm not even aware of breathing, eyes glazing at the guy stroking his dick for me, in stasis for fuck knows how long until I exhale noisily, hips convulsing against the winner's tongue.

I mewl, uncontrollable panting as the orgasm tears through my quivering body. When euphoria peaks, flooding my frame, I can't help giggling. It comes from nowhere and I fling one hand to cover my mouth, the other keeping him in position until the sensitivity overwhelms me and I push him away.

Writhing for him, for them, I bask in their adulation, the winner's mouth shiny with my juices.

I switch viewpoint, admiring the way the incandescent light makes my body glow in the ceiling mirror. A flushed arc of skin stretches from the slope of my chest up to my neck, dotted with the occasional freckle. I seem free. Floating, to the extent I almost forget my surroundings. It's only the guy shuffling on his knees that pulls me from the trance.

Mustering energy, I sit. Reach for him and pull his face to mine, tasting the sweet cream on his lips. My tongue breaches his mouth and swirls, his trepidation fading as he joins in and I snake a hand down to encase his dangling cock. I moan into his mouth as it responds. Just a twitch. Then another when I trace my thumb over the tip, a slick dot coating it.

I break the kiss. "Mmmm, you got more for me?" He says nothing. Chews his lip as my scent swirls between us. I lean in, lap his earlobe. "Feels like you want more." His cock jumps as I squeeze it. "Yeah, see?" I drop my voice to a harsh whisper so they can both still hear over the music. "Want my slippery pussy, freshly dripping with come, wrapped around this hardness? Want to fill me? You got the energy to show me how it's done properly?"

He gives a faint nod and I nip his ear with my teeth. Slither my hand up and down his responding shaft, thrilling at the way it firms in my grasp. "Ohhh yes. Think you have what it takes to make me scream? Stretch me around this so I feel every inch pounding into me, air bursting from my lungs?"

Focusing beyond his ear on the seated man stroking his reawakened dick, I try to keep the excitement from cracking my voice. "Or maybe you'd be happier in my arse?" Both their cocks swell, one in my eye line, one in my hand. "Oh yeah, you like the thought of that don't you? Claiming my dirty little arse. Wanna shove this big cock in my tight bum? Make me beg for it harder?" I stroke his rigidity and add, "Maybe he'll have to cram his dick in my mouth to stop the neighbours calling the cops."

The guy in my hand can't take any more. Rears up and shoves me back to the bed. A thrill darts through me at the prospect of being used and I scrabble away so he has to haul me back by the ankles. I kick and escape his grasp, flipping over and rising onto all fours, crawling away in a lazy arc on the bed so they can both see the way I drip. When I'm facing the winner, I kiss the stiff tip of his dick. Lap the sweet bead of pre-come. Swallow, then sing-song, "I'm waiting."

The bed deforms as he clambers on and rounds me. Hands grip my arse and he lines up, brushing my pussy lips with his manliness, pausing as if this is the point of no return for him. Like he's weighed the situation up and I'm worth every inch of infidelity.

All I can do is gaze ahead at number two furiously fisting his fat cock as the guy behind me drives home. I mouth, "Fuuuuck," and he fills me.

The man has no first gear. Wound up to breaking point, he drags out and slams inside, pounding me like I’m of no consequence. A willing hole. A filthy slut. With my head in line with the bed edge, I drop my attention to the floor mirror, hair swishing with every thrust. I'm incredible, mouth open, sighs tumbling free amid groans of encouragement.

The winner pounds me relentlessly, rams deep and stops, clutching my rump. I snap my head back to see what the problem is and watch him fighting his orgasm. It's delicious but I obediently stay still, craving this to continue. Greedy to the core.

The wave passes, his expression softening along with his grip and I taunt him. "You gonna really fuck me now?" I wiggle my derriere in his hands and arch lower to spread my arsehole for his attention. "How about you spit there? Work it in with your thumb? Ever fucked a girl in the arse before?" The shake of his head is swift, and I flash him a dirty grin. "Then don’t waste the opportunity."

To his credit, he doesn't wait. Drips a healthy dollop of saliva onto my upturned hole and smears it with his thumb. Then another, massaging, creeping his digit into me, deeper with every moment, his cock still a flexing ramrod inside my pussy.

Without warning, he pulls both free and I gasp. He slithers a hand between my legs and smears my juices up over the waiting rear entrance, dipping a pair of fingers in. I relax to assist his path, focusing hard enough that his palm connecting with my bum takes me by surprise, the slap ringing out over the beat. I yelp and suck in cool air to temper the heat spiralling inward, the sudden spasm forcing him free of my hole.

Fingertips dig into my cheeks, angling my hips. The delicious anticipation of hot, hard cock pressing to my naughtiest entrance sets off sparks in my belly that meet the eddying flush of the spank.

My breath hitches. "Remember: I won't break."

Another mouthful of spit precedes the stretch as I gradually accommodate his girth. Fuck he's big.

I groan when the flange breaches, and flip my hair back, creeping my hips towards his until we meet. Casting my gaze backward, I flash him a dirty grin. "Yeah. Feels good huh?"

He nods, clearly dumbstruck at how tight I am.

"Feels better when you fuck me." I wiggle my rump and his eyes bulge at my grip around his massive shaft. "Come on."

Our eyes lock as he pulls out half way and forges in again. My mouth drops open and he picks up the pace, the burn of each contraction hooping inward to circle my clit. It aches for my touch and I succumb, propped up by one forearm as the other hand snakes beneath me and connects with the need.

My gasp rings out. I mash and grind my slippery jewel in rhythm with his invasion of my rear. "God yes, fuck me. Fuck my tight arse." As my vision fades in and out with the waves of heat that sweep from butt to scalp, I catch the gaze of number two reflected in the floor mirror. His hand is a blur on his stiff cock, watching us. Fucking thrilling. A new dimension.

I emit a series of sharp cries as my arse is reamed, open-palm swats adding to the heat that careens through my body. My attention locks on the guy across from me, filth tumbling from my lips as I'm pounded. "Fuck. Fuck. Fuck me. Yeah. Fill my slutty body with your spunk." I cry out at his vicious spank. "Yeah don't hold back. I'm yours. Mark me."

There's a flurry of activity behind me, barely registering until I realise he's swiped my panties from the bed and strung them across my throat. He pulls on both ends, tugging my head up so I'm on all fours staring straight at the guy sat in the chair. I arch my back, the cock slamming into my bum as I gasp breathless appreciation.

I stare forward and chant 'fuck me', each louder than the last. On a knife edge, the runner up wastes no more time, rises and strides over, jamming his cock in to silence me. My guttural groan around his girth triggers his orgasm and he unloads lashes of thick spunk across my tongue and down my throat, his hands gravitating to my tits, squeezing hard.

Sensational heat fizzes through me. From the tip of his wedged cock, it swirls to the firm nipples under the guy's pinches as fire zigzags to collide with the rhythm of the man plundering my arse. A whole body shiver begins, freezing me; the only sign I'm conscious is the stifled moan around that delicious cock. The contractions in my empty cunt ripple, winking my adjacent hole hard. With a gasp, he grips my rear and unloads inside me, splashing hot come deep.

None of us move. Joined. Sated. Just the music and syncopated rhythm of three sets of breathing occupying the space.

The winner reanimates first, withdrawing his softening dick ahead of the delightful burn as my muscles contract. Fuck, I love that filthy sensation, chased out by a few droplets of spunk that drizzle between my distended pussy lips. The second guy pulls back likewise, popping from my lips as I give a healthy suck to extract every last morsel.

For my part I flop to the bed, chin over the edge staring at myself in the floor mirror, the glow in my body matched by the grin. I'm an indefinable shape; no insides, no outsides, no ups, no downs, just… connected matter, exhilarated.

Some kind of awkwardness rears between the two men and they shuffle away, zipping up, collecting clothes and redressing while I remain in my blissful stasis. The first mumbles, "Thank you," and heads for the door, followed at a suitable distance by the second so they don't have to talk about what just happened on the way out. Fight Club rules.

When they're gone, I let the music flood over me. Reflect on my performance as I lie motionless. Hot. Quivering inside. Still horny.

Rolling onto my back, I stare up into the ceiling mirror. Draw fingertips down my body and shiver as they brush my breasts and centre on my pussy. So sensitive, I almost recoil at the touch. Explore a little. Gather wetness and taste it. Bask in the musky combination of them and me.

One hundred and eighty. And I've made the most of every single man. Sampled. Savoured. Captured. Drifting my gaze to the condom on the nightstand, I smile. Sit up and lift it, a hollow fluttering in my chest as it dangles in front of the light so the opaque milky fluid shines. A beautiful specimen.

Rocking to my feet I pad naked to the door and descend the stairs clutching my precious cargo and his corresponding Polaroid snap, from those taken when they all arrived.

I pause at the entrance to the den. Breathe. Unlock it, twist the doorknob and flick on the light, bathing the room in a yellowish hue that complements the musky redolence that occupies the space. There they all are. My men. My conquests, their photos and rubber pouches of semen lining the walls. There's space on the end of one of the rows on the East wall. I step to it and pin him up with a thumbtack, stroke the outline of his cheek, aslant in the frame above his dangling essence, then climb onto the bed in the centre of the room and sit cross-legged to observe everything. Contemplate.

It's been one year and one day since they died. Drunk driver. Wet road. Bang. Gone. I blink back a stray tear and wipe my cheek at latent memories of growing up. Day trips to the park. Being tucked in. Mum's floral perfume. A constant in my life, senselessly ripped from me.

I went out that night. A freezing cold Thursday. Hit a club – Mirage – got wasted and seduced the cutest guy on the dance floor. Fucked him ragged. Took his photo, for prosperity, as we ground together against the wall of my living room. Captured the moment, lived it, breathed it and loved it.

The act was freeing. Numbed the pain. So I did it again a few nights later. Then again. And again. Snowballed from there until I couldn't stop. Not sure I wanted to. A year later and I'm… here. Still living every day like it's my last. One-eighty is kind of staggering. About one guy every two days, give or take.

I shake my head. Clamber off the bed to the cupboard and grab some candles. Strike and watch the flame burn closer to my fingers before lighting the wicks, smoke curling into the room from the extinguished match. I flick off the light and sprawl back on the bed naked, observing the shadow patterns dancing on the ceiling and walls across my men.

It's a crossroads, and I kind of know it. Or am I just attaching artificial significance to a number and a date? An excuse to… what? Stop? Carry on? Do I need this to function? Does it keep the pain at bay or is it simply a habit now? The men provide strength. Focus. A new constant in my life. Can I wean myself off the incredible rushes I crave? Do I want to?

Hundreds of conflicting thoughts swirl as the candles gradually burn. By the time they snuff themselves out, I'm left luxuriating in the embers of my earlier performance and the comforting aroma and closeness of all my men. As sleep begins to claim me, I wonder what lies in store tomorrow. The day after. Next week…

I close my eyes.

Maybe I'll decide in the morning.