Strip Poker Night

You’ve prepped the room, yourself, set out the snacks, all in your white jock. At least, white-ish. When was the last time you were allowed to wash it?

Tucked neatly inside the pouch you are wearing the new cage you were given for the night’s events. Its metal is still cool to your skin. The design is of a dragon’s head and you can see the metal of its ears poking out of the mesh.

The men all arrive promptly at seven. Seems they may have had a few beers already; you can smell it on their breath as they push past you.

They take their seat at the table and you take your place under the table. You can’t quite remember who is who because your only view now is of torn jeans, used sweatpants, flip flops, and the occasional hand grabbing to adjust a thickening boner.

It’s strip poker night and the guys are laughing and drinking cheap beer as you see hats, sweaters, tank tops, all fall to the ground one after the other.

The first pair of jeans unzips and you, on hands and knees, open your mouth to receive. The meaty member, commando in the jeans, flops forward semi-hard.

The smell of sweat and weed grows heavy. You inhale it as you bear down on the bulbous head of the enlarging cock.

You swallow hard, up and down, stroking with wet lips. A hand grips firmly on your head and pushes. You take a deep breath. You feel the cock slide across your tongue, slip past your tonsils, and enter your throat. You can’t breathe. You don’t struggle, but you don't control your breathe. He does. You are his toy. You are all of their toy.

He releases you and pushes you aside where the next cock emerges from a grey pair of sweatpants. He reeks of musk, he came directly from a basketball game and you can taste the sweat. His cock is slender, hairier, you like how its softer on the underside, but firm enough to penetrate your sinuses.

He pushes you aside and a pair of bare hairy feet grip at your chest, hoist you across the table. You turn; this one is fully nude waste down. His pants were first to go, stank top and jacket hanging over his hairy belly. His uncut cock highlighted by tattoos splashing his lower abdomen and upper thighs. The balls jiggle as the cock bounces in anticipation.

It pushes into your throat, brushes slightly against your teeth. He wraps his legs around you and pulls your body close, your arms restricted. Squeezing. You stumble, it gores the back of your throat. You cough and pre-cum saturated saliva splashes the corners of your mouth.

You move around the table in turn, slicking up each cock, edging them cock by cock. You trace each vein with your tongue, taste their manhood. You don't get a break.

The redhead is the first to cum. He bellows an ejaculation before announcing, “I’m out, guys.” His cock grows limp as you move to the next.

The guy with the biggest balls unloads in torrents of sweet and spicy cum. His balls tense with each blow.

You move around the table in no particular order as each player calls. One by one they give you their loads. You swallow every drop. One by one they call “out” until they have a winner.

It’s getting late. The men celebrate. The winner, the last one out, can collect his winnings.

You.

You are his winnings, for the next week, until the next poker night.