by David Cain

Cindy checked her phone again as she approached the building it designated. Unconvinced, she pulled a small notebook from her purse and checked the address written there. She compared the written address with the address her phone directed her to. She compared them both with the address carved on the facade of the building. A moment was wasted deciding whether to call Amber, who had given her the address, to make sure it was correct, but Cindy didn’t really want to talk to Amber at this precise moment. Everything checked out. Cindy tugged at the door and it opened with a melodious outburst of bells.

“Hello,” a woman’s voice called from behind a desk. “Welcome to The Shop.”

“I’m not sure I have the right place,” said Cindy in reply. With two sofas, a tall potted plant, a coffee maker surrounded with a pillar of paper cups, sugars, sweeteners, non-dairy creamers and thin wooden swizzle sticks, The Shop looked like a dull mixture of an insurance office, a travel agent, and the waiting room for an auto-repair place.

“We offer a variety of services for the modern woman in need. Have a seat and we’ll find out if this is the right place for you, shall we?”

“My friend, Amber, suggested that I visit.”

“Yes, we’ve been expecting you. Without Amber’s referral, we wouldn’t be talking. We have to be careful, you know.”

“I can imagine.”

“We run a very sophisticated service, totally professional and absolutely discreet. What happens at The Shop never happened.”

“That’s important to me.”

“It is to most of our customers.”

“What about the cost?”

“That will depend on your selections. Here is a form for you to indicate your preferences.” The woman handed Cindy a tablet computer with a display that looked like the kind of form filled out when visiting a doctor for the first time.

“Do I get to select my …” Cindy found herself without the proper word to finish the question.

“Staff, yes, our book of available cock follows the initial preferences form. You can skip ahead if it will help you with the preference selections.”

Cindy turned her attention to the form. Number, please indicate selections in the cock book, 3 to any available. Fellatio. Cunnilingus. Vaginal penetration. Anal penetration. Double penetration. Double vaginal. Double anal.

“Oh, my,” said Cindy softly. “No DVDA, I guess.”

“Our scientists are still working on that one,” the woman said with a smile.

Blindfold (you). Blindfolds (them). Bondage (you) please specify. Bondage (them) please specify. Spanking. Slapping. Choking. Aggressive. Gentle. Verbal abuse. Verbal adoration. Facial orgasms. Creampie orgasms. Anal creampie orgasms. Body orgasms, please specify. Cup orgasms. Costume pirate. Costume business suits. Costume bikers. Costume other, please specify.

Flush and overwhelmed with choices, Cindy touched the box marked “Proceed to Cock Book.”

Seven male faces appeared down the left side of the screen. Stage names like “Biff” and “Thundergun” and “Tyrone” and “Cosmic Captain” appeared along with vital statistics down a column in the center. Cock pics were on the right.

“Touch the cock images and you’ll get a 360 rotating view of each guy.”

Cindy fingered Thundergun’s dick and the screen expanded to a full view of a handsome, physically fit young man. With a gentle swipe, she turned him from side to side. His buttocks were firm, athletic, tight. Cindy moaned involuntarily.

“Dreamy, eh?”

“Oh, yeah. All these guys are available right now?”

“We have seventeen gentlemen on call for the next hour.”

“Oh my. That’s rather too many.”

“Most of our patrons start with three or four. Five is a popular choice.”

“Three sounds about right.”

“Whatever rings your gong.”

Cindy considered the pictured men carefully. Some were very handsome, almost beautiful in a feminine way, while others had a more rugged look. A few of the cocks seemed rather too big. Near the end of the second page, a man called “Fireball,” looked rather like someone she knew. Cindy smiled.

“I never would have pegged Reggie for a gangbanger.”

“Honestly, our guys are remarkably ordinary. They’re the kind of men you might find at the grocers, the mechanics or down at the office.”

A flush of excitement poured over Cindy, contemplating the party she would at any moment embark upon. Denied the ability to think rationally, she quickly made some choices, four men and a handful of perversions.

“Excellent,” said the woman behind the desk as she took the tablet from Cindy and scanned the completed form. “Step right through this door. We’ll brief the men. There is a closet of costumes you can try on while you wait. In about twenty minutes, they’ll enter through this door. At that point, you can debrief them.”


“The party will last about an hour. You can clean up in the dressing room over there. Collect your things and leave by the back door, over there.”

“Thank you,” said Cindy with automated politeness.

“Enjoy yourself,” said the woman with a naughty smile. “I know you will.”


My wife and I are sexual people. I would call us kinky but the word has been stolen by people who wear full body rubber suits with gas masks and flail each other with long strips of beaded leather. I don’t call that kinky. I call that weird. To each, their own. We are, rather, colossal perverts. Deviants. Sexual explorers. Connoisseurs of fleshy adventures. Freaks, going to the Freaker’s Ball.

We met at a sex party, some might say an orgy, some decades ago. For more than a year, all our sexual encounters, almost daily, involved some kind of group sex. That is as bizarre as it sounds. As our love blossomed, our frequent encounters together always included other naked moaning people. This was the foundation of our relationship. Everything since has built upon that unusual start. We are a truly kinky couple.

So when Amber told us about The Shop, we were not disturbed or shocked by the idea. If anything, we were surprised that we hadn’t thought of it first, for it seemed to be the kind of game we would have invented. Cindy made our first appointment within three days of Amber’s confession.

As instructed, I arrived at The Shop some twenty minutes after Cindy. The small-town retail feel of the waiting room amused me endlessly. As I sat, waiting, I almost expected a grease-monkey with a clip-board to appear from the back to explain that, in addition to getting my fluids changed, he was going to have to replace my brakes, water-pump and muffler. Instead, the woman behind the desk smiled, rose and led me to a staircase that proceeded to the husband’s loft.

My language, and theirs, is imprecise. When they say “husband,” they really mean significant other, or mate or partner or fellow pervert. There are no marital requirements, merely a friendly agreement between participants. The “husband” could be a total stranger, if that’s what turns us on.

As well, the phrase I used, “instructed” is misleading. Cindy and I indicated the kind of experience we wanted and the instructions were designed to accomplish that goal. I arrived twenty minutes after Cindy to give her the freedom to select her gangbang in accordance with her desires, without feeling any pressure to somehow amend her wishes to my wants. She would create the performance. I would be the audience.

Using the husband’s loft is also a choice. We also had the option of my participating in the gangbang, in the usual way. We went this route because of the unusual nature of the set-up. The idea of the husband’s loft intrigued us. Perched above the playroom, the husband’s loft offered a wide window view from about eight feet above the action, like a box at a sporting event. In addition, four webcams positioned at the four corners of the play room offered a panoply of views on a wide panel of high-definition screens. An ambitious husband could use the equipment to direct and edit a personalized gangbang video on the fly. For this first encounter, I was content to simply watch.

I took a seat in the provided leather recliner and poured myself a drink. The room below was empty except for a large round ottoman in the center and a sofa along the far wall. Cindy entered wearing a blue silk chemise that barely covered her. Looking up at me, she waved. I took a long sip of my glass of Sherry and dimmed the lights. Another door opened and four strong looking men strode into the room.

There was a Chippendale’s quality to their self-aware presentation as they struck poses in their matching boxer shorts. A fanfare of music seemed determined to give the moment the flair of a majestic opening ceremony. Part of me expected them to go into some kind of gymnastic or juggling routine, but they stood perfectly still and broadly smiling, allowing Cindy to soak up the scene. She dashed over to take a seat on the circular ottoman and the men took their places, surrounding her.

Watching Cindy suck cock has always been a delight for me, the fiery look in her eyes dimming to a smolder as the first dark handful of meat slid in between her smiling lips, with both hands raised to hold and roughly stroke the next rounds of dick. One of the camera views gave an unobstructed view of her swollen and visibly dripping cunt, a well-heated sign of the lust within her thoughts as no one had even grazed the excited slit. Her low moans quickly took form from and accompanied the pounding club-style music that also seemed to control the masculine hips around her.

As the guys began to take turns behind her, thrusting her ass forward with each stroke of a cock into the wide-mouthed fellatio of the second dick poised before her, I recognized Reggie, from the restaurant we frequented. I knew, never questioned, that she had known it was him and selected him from the long list of candidates. Cindy was loving this romp in the excess of naughty. She soon turned to Reggie and pleaded to feel his cock in her tight ass.

Reggie obliged and another dance of dick began to rotate in lusty oscillations into and out of my lovely wife. One man took position on the ottoman and she straddled his cock. Another entered from behind while a third thrust hard into her groaning mouth. Her titties squeezed. Her ass slapped. Cindy came harder in those twenty minutes than her whole life put together. I began to wonder if she would soon pass out.

One by one, the men stroked their dicks with experienced hands, drawing the orgasms from each sturdy quiver with a splash of thick cum across Cindy’s face. She collapsed on the floor, breathing heavily and smiling.

I began to applaud. The men all took their bows.


I first heard about The Shop from one of the guys at the gym. We’d finished a heated game with a rigorous shower when I noticed him staring. I was used to that kind of attention, even from straight guys. A club like mine is a thing to behold.

“Ever done any gangbanging?” he asked after the other guys had moved on.

I threw a fake gang sign and he laughed.

“A bunch of guys screwing a lady,” he said. “That kind of gangbanging.”

“Sure,” I said. “A few times.”

“There’s a place,” he said, “where they’ll pay you good money to participate in a gangbang.”

“No shit?”

“No shit. Good money. It’s like a male stripper gig, but with an audience of one and we don’t waste any time shaking booty.”

I was skeptical, naturally, but the Cinder Pit, the restaurant I worked at wasn’t doing well since autumn kicked in and took away the tourist trade. They’d cut my hours to three nights a week, which effectively cut my pay in half. I could barely make rent. Terry, my roommate, was encouraging me to take a job with him at the factory, but I really didn’t want to lose my hearing. “What?” he’d say.

The guy at the gym gave me a card that sat on my dresser for three days. Every so often, I would pick it up and read the embossed words: The Shop. It sounded so innocuous. I’m going to the shop. I’ve got to take the car to the shop. I’m going shopping. I’m a shopaholic. I’m all shopped out. Shop you, you shopping shopper.

Despite all the understated humor, the interview was rigorous. Tons of extremely personal questions. A very thorough medical exam, requiring no less than six vials of blood. One hundred and thirty-six pages of contracts. A phone-book length manual of practices, procedures, skills and regulations. Seventeen psychological profile tests and another six hour exam on the MPPSR.

And a three thousand dollar signing bonus. I hadn’t even started and I was loving this job.

I was nervous, the first time I showed up for a session. How could I not be? I found myself sitting in the green room, hanging out with a bunch of mostly undressed beefy guys, playing video games and watching television, eating light snacks and trading stories. Some of them told horror stories about really bad sessions with moose-like women sporting bad teeth.

“Stop trying to freak the new guy,” said Otto, one of the team leaders with a light smack to the back of the story-teller’s head.

The first two sessions that day passed me by. With seventeen of us on call and three to five guys to a session, it was bound to happen. Some ladies had favorites. Some ladies had types. All we could do is wait for the call. Part of me didn’t mind being passed over, in part because I was being paid just to be there. Another part of me, the part with an ego, was offended to be not chosen. The part of me that paid the bills was disappointed because each session came with a significant bonus.

Finally, the call came for me. I popped my Viagra and read through the profile. No costume, just our company boxers. I was relieved. I wasn’t ready to dress up like a cowboy or construction worker or cop. Doing the YMCA, we call it. Light slaps and hair pulling. I could work with that. No bondage. I was glad. There was a whole world of scenarios I realized I wasn’t ready for. Facial orgasms. My favorite. Double penetration. I checked my balance.

I had been wary of this dance and pose thing we did as we entered the playroom. It seemed ridiculous for a bunch of manly men to prance in like dancers in a chorus line. I was not eager to look silly. When the time came, however, I was grateful for the choreography. I would have had no idea of how to enter the room. I would have looked like an idiot. With the dance and pose, I had a task to concentrate on and the fact that we were stepping in to gang-fuck a stranger never once crossed my mind. Until I was posed and I took a look at the lady.

I knew her. I mean, I didn’t really know her. I didn’t know her name. It was one of the regular customers at the Cinder Pit. I had waited on her and her husband many times. I looked up at the husband’s loft. He was there. He gave me a nod. I nodded back. She had flirted with me. I had no idea.

In a way, the whole gangbang is a dance. We hit marks. We say lines. We move in a choreographed fashion; left, right, back, forth. Sometimes there were improvised transitions when the lady made a request, but even in that situation, we would form a new rhythm and rotate accordingly. Rotation is the key to a gangbang. Take your turn. Wait your turn. Take your next turn. Dosey Doe. And don’t forget to say your lines.

“Oh, baby, I am fucking you.”

Cindy – I think I knew her first name at the time – was wearing a blue silk chemise that draped over her tits like a thin latex paint pouring down her chest. The hem of the gown stopped an inch or two south of her pale brown bush, mid-cheek when she turned her back to me. She has a beautiful tight round inviting firm ass. Leaning down to grab Larry’s rigid dick, the thick slightly furred swells of her excited labia protruded between her pale thighs, with the pinch of her asshole barely visible between the full globes. I found myself holding my breath. I was so ready to fuck that ass.

“Suck it,” I said as she looked up to greet me. She mumbled through a smile in a way that made me realize how happy she was to have me. I thrust my cock back into her throat, sliding roughly over her tongue, gently and forcefully fucking her mouth. Fucking her face. Cindy quivered as she lapped at my dick.

Listening to the music, I knew when to change. And change. She wrapped her left hand around my throbbing damp stiffy. And one and two and three and four. Cindy rubbed enthusiastically. I began to understand that I was the one making this gangbang work for her. The other guys were doing the work, but I was scoring the glory. Their dicks, she felt, were mine.

And the guy upstairs with his dick in his hand. She was his and she was mine and she was ours and she was going to explode in pleasure and we would never let her stop. I plunged into her dripping wet pussy. My cock plumbed the depths, over the g-spot, past her cervix, into the furthest reaches of her erogenous hole. Her labia lapped at my eagerly thrusting piston. Juices trickled down her thighs. Five six seven eight change.

We were halfway through the pussy rotation when she reached out a hand and grabbed my shoulder. Kyle’s dick fell from her mouth.

“Fuck my ass, Reggie,” she groaned. I nodded and moved. She wasn’t supposed to use my real name. I wondered if it would matter.

“Open wide, baby,” I said, “I’m fucking your tight little ass.”

I had almost called her “Cindy.” I knew that would have mattered. It was on the first page of the MPPSR. My dick slid into her asshole easily. Cindy shuddered and collapsed slightly, taking it in. I picked up the musical rhythm and felt the lady start to shake. The tremor would last the rest of our session.

Double penetration is all about angles. One cock can enter a lady at pretty much any angle, so long as it tends to press in. Two cocks, however, have to compromise in the quest for space. Getting the right angle is the trickiest part. Finding a three-person-mutual-rhythm that doesn’t expel one of the cocks by the third thrust is another matter, one that separates the experienced double penetration team from the rookies. One of my old girlfriends had been a double penetration fiend, so I had plenty of practice. Several of the guys, including our team leader, Otto, had complimented my skills. This is not the kind of praise that anyone is used to getting.

I thought the dude upstairs was going to fall on the floor in convulsions, he was so visibly excited. Considering his perspective, with the big window and cameras, I probably would have too. Given how much we all like porn, how much more exciting is it to watch a live sex show. Particularly with someone you know. It had to be hot.

When it came time to give Cindy her face full of facials, I managed to move to the back of the line. Otto nodded his approval. He understood how Cindy felt about me. By the time it was my turn, she was dripping with spunk. I slid my dick into her mouth and with hardly a tug, I began to pour my load into her delighted mouth. The throbs came in the same rhythm the music provided. She kissed the head of my cock passionately. I took the hint.

Showering with a bunch of guys after a gangbang is not really different than after a game. We were all a little beat, a little pleased and ready to move on. I had two days off until the next time I worked. I gave notice at the restaurant. I didn’t need that.

About David Cain

David Cain, literary author, bon vivant, rogue romantic poet - author of Witch, Song of Songs, Journals of Lord Malinov, Erotic Romances and others ...
This entry was posted in books, fiction, literature, personal, short stories, writing and tagged , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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