Coco Lovelock

Coco wakes up on her birthday and the room is dead quiet. No balloons. No breakfast smells drifting upstairs. For a second her stomach drops. She drags herself out of bed ready to sulk down for toast when ten men step out from the hall, cake blazing, cocks already out and pointing at her like loaded guns. Presents, they say, grinning. She stares at the big black cocks lining up like a feast and the hurt switches off. Happy now, the girl drops to her knees in the middle of the circle. She gulps down the first one and starts vacuum-sucking, spit flying every time her lips reach the root. When the second cock bumps her cheek she switches, lips stretching wide again, eyes watering but never stopping. They yank her into a pretzel on the couch, men taking turns stepping over her shoulders to feed her upside-down throat. Thick veins slide past her tongue while saliva pours over her face, turning her eyes into glassy slits. They pound her open mouth in a hard salsa beat—long, wet strokes, every thrust punching another glug from her stretched windpipe. Coco keeps squirting, knees trembling, throat working nonstop until the first thick rope paints her forehead. Then another, then another—hot, heavy loads blanketing her cheeks, her lashes, her tongue. She swallows what she can, the rest sliding slow down her neck as the men slap their spent cocks against her ruined birthday face. One hell of a memory, locked in for good.