Use Me

How did I get myself into a scene like this one, you might ask? Well, see, I love my car. It’s a 2005 Turbo PT Cruiser convertible. Most people laugh, but she’s perfect for me. I adore her—when she’s running, that is. She keeps breaking down, and I don’t make enough to just hand her over to a mechanic and say, “Fix everything.” So she sits while I budget and tinker, one YouTube tutorial and impulse-purchase part at a time.

So when I saw an ad offering $5,000 in exchange for a weekend of ceremonial rituals, I reached out immediately.

The agreement was simple: no touching, no sex, no penetration. Just presence and energy. A symbolic figure for a kink-based ceremony that honored restraint, discipline, and control.

They gave me robes. They positioned me in the center. They surrounded me—eight men in silence. And they kept their promise… at least for a bit, but that’s my fault...

Here’s the part that matters: I am deeply, intensely into cock worship. Not pornographic obsession. Not sloppy lust. Devotion. Art. Ritual. Submission offered—not taken.

So when they bound me to the table, stripped me bare, and closed in around me—when they opened their own robes and started stroking themselves—I could barely breathe.

Their moans. Their grip. Their control—and loss of control. Watching each one pump his cock in focused need until the room filled with groans and heat. It was intoxicating. I wiggled in my restraints, whining from the painful Throb they created in me.

My nipples hardened. My body shook. My pussy throbbed and flooded even though nothing touched me. I couldn’t stop the soft, desperate sounds slipping out as I watched them build toward orgasm, their discipline testing mine.

The denial finally broke me.

“Please,” I begged. “Stop wasting them.”

The Grand Master stepped up to me, his scent masculine and sharp. Like sandalwood and smoke. His soft, full lips are the only thing I can clearly see beneath the mask.

“Wasting them?” His voice is a low growl, sending shivers down my core.

“You’re just manhandling them until they gush — stop it. If this is a ceremony, do it right,” I say.

“And what is right?”

“You unbind me, and let me worship them myself. When one of you cums, it should be at the highest built pleasure — not some ‘wham bam, thank you’ speed. That’s not discipline, that’s satisfying lust, only.”

“You want to worship each of our cocks? But the contract states..”

“I’ll sign a new one,” I tell him, my voice shaking. “As long as each of you is clean, disease-free, and fully consenting. If this doesn’t pull away from your ceremony, I’m offering myself.Use me.”

The Grand Master turns to the others. “Anyone opposed to her offer?”

Not a single man raised a hand. All of them look interested — to my delight.

“Very well, but you will remain bound. This is about our discipline and control.” I nod in agreement as the Grand Master steps up and slides his cock into my waiting mouth.

My eyes roll back. Its smooth warmth fills my mouth and pushes against my throat — a sensation I’ve ached for. It was like tasting a juicy steak after being a vegetarian for two years.

The moan that worked up and out of my lungs was completely unfiltered indulgence.

He thrusts himself in and out with a slow, punishing rhythm. As much as he allows, I work my tongue over him in reply. I can’t not. And as a reward for my non-compliance with letting them be fully in control, he plays with my nipples. All while the other seven men stroke themselves on my body.

To feel all these cocks sliding over my tits, legs, arms, stomach, and face while sucking on one in my mouth—it was an experience I didn’t want to end. I felt so alive, comforted, and desired.

“Look at me, sweetheart. Let me see those eyes.” The Grand Master directed me—his breath panting—his face strained but open in an erotic expression that spelled how close he was to painting me with his release.

“Good girl.”

I watch them all as they use my bound body for their pleasure— tasting each of them on my tongue as the slick slide of their precum spills over my lips. However, their discipline and control only go so far. After the eighth man finishes with my mouth the Grand Master walks over to a cabinet, pulls out a piece of paper, and then returns to me, leaning down to whisper into my ear.

“You react eagerly and creatively, we appreciate that. Your contract is in effect at this point, but would you be interested in exploring further options? We can pay an additional two-grand if you consent to being a willful and reactive, playful fucktoy for my men and me.”

And that is when the moment shifted — from ritual to hunger.

The discipline softened. The air changed. What had been restraint became want.

Gangbang territory never felt like part of the plan, but it felt too good not to embrace. Seven thousand dollars. Enough to resurrect my car and my sanity. And all I had to do was consent.

They’ve been respectful. They’ve kept their promises. I understand what they’re doing — discipline, control, denial. A test for them as much as me.

Fuck, did I want to be the lesson.

“Yes,” I whispered. “Please.”

He mounts the table I’m on and straddles me, reaching forward, he unbinds me. And as he adjusts himself and enters me, I reach up and take the closest man in robes, then the next one beside him. Soon they all catch onto what I’m wanting, and now, I have two cocks in hand, one in my mouth again, and one now thrusting deep into me. The other four are teasing themselves against my body like before—as they watch.

The room is full of breath, heat, and sound — no restraint now. Their moans free mine. So, I stop holding back too. This is what I long for, a sexual space where everything I have to offer and give is wanted and matched.

We become like the sea, each of us a wave crashing rhythmically into each other, building into a turbulent and wonderful crescendo of splashes. With every wave rushing over me, my body opens, my soul soars. Used by them, I feel like more than just a tool—I feel like a goddess.

One after another, cocks slide in deep and fuck me until I’m a happy little puddle on the floor, soaked in their glory and thrumming with my own.

Afterwards, the Grand Master himself took tender care of me. He helps bathe me, then he lays me down next to him and holds me as I doze off in his arms. His smoky sandalwood scent envelops me in comfort and safety.

Later, when I wake I’m invited to stay with them the rest of the night. We dine and get to know each other a bit before they guide me to a room where an oversized bed has been created for all of us to pile in and sleep as one.

In the morning, as we enjoy breakfast, they hand me three things. The money—$8,000, tip included. Another contract offering future arrangements if I choose. And a key card that activates the moment I sign. After each of them hugged me, the Grand Master offered to walk me to my Uber.

“How are you feeling?” His hand at my low back, protective and guiding, caring.

“This might sound strange, but in a way I feel strong, sexy, and confident. I feel a level of being wanted and appreciated I’ve never felt before, owned.”

“Does that mean you’ll sign the ongoing contract?” he asks.

I smile up at him, rise up on my tiptoes, and peck him on the lips. “I already have.” Then hand him back the paper he gave me only a little while earlier, before all the hugging and farewells, when I took a quick second to scribble my signature across the line.