The Object

That gay guy who gave me my men's room initiation was named Tim. Tim was one of the top guys in the local 'scene'. There was a sort of hierarchy of people who knew what was going on and Tim was among them. But he wasn't the top guy. There was another man who wasn't really part of the scene, but provided what you might call "protection" in exchange for certain favors. Sexual deviants who "play in the street" are useful to certain kinds of people. Cops, for instance.

Of course, I had no idea about any of this as I was sitting there for more like 10 minutes instead of the 5 Tim promised. Despite the medication I was on, I was actually a tiny bit anxious. I hadn't heard a sound since he left except the constant drip of a faucet that was like the ticking of a clock. My belly was tight and fluttery. I was horny in a way I'd never been before, but everything was still unknown. I didn't know exactly what they would do to me, but I wanted to know. I was wet and ready to find out.

I stood up from the toilet reflexively when I heard the scrape of a shoe on tile. The stall door was closed most of the way, but not locked. He walked up to it then paused for a second before pushing the door open. He was not at all what I was expecting. I don't know if I was expecting anything in particular, but I certainly wasn't expecting this. He looked like my grandpa. Not quite that old, but he had on a windbreaker and a ball-cap and he had a thick mustache that hid most of his mouth. You had to watch the mustache to see grandpa smile and it was the same with this man. Half his mustache moved up as he gave me a sort of ironic half-smile, then stepped into the stall with me and latched the door behind him.

He looked me up and down. Not quite leering. Too inwardly contemplating to be leering, but definitely taking stock of my body as a sexual object. Tim said he'd appreciate me the way I wanted to be appreciated, and this was it for sure. I was dressed for it, in a short skirt and top that showed off my belly button. With no bra to show off my protruding nipples.

"You're a little slut," he said. "Is that it?"

There was something in his voice that I recognized, but I didn't quite make the connection. I knew from the way he licked his lips as he gazed at my bare legs that he was going to fuck me. My head was buzzing at the thought of it. I'd cleared Tim's clingy cum from my throat but I still didn't trust my voice. I nodded at him.

"Speak up!" he said.

"Yes," I said, clearly and distinctly.

"Sir," he said.

"Yes, sir," I said, automatically obeying.

He made a little grunting sound of approval that was also something more. Almost like a growl.

"Are you wearing panties?" he asked.

"Yes, sir," I said.

"Get 'em off. And bend over the toilet. Show it to me."

"Yes, sir," I said, eager to comply.

The thing in his voice was authority. I didn't recognized it real authority, as in cop authority, but I responded to it automatically. I hiked up my skirt and thumbed my panties over my hips and let them fall to the men's room floor. Then I turned to face the toilet and assumed the position, bending over and grabbing the chrome pipes.

He flipped my skirt up and I looked back over my shoulder to see him squat down behind me so that his face was level with my ass. He told me to show it to him and he was getting an up-close look. I could see what he was seeing in my mind's eye. Shaved and shiny wet. I'd leaked out into my panties and all over myself and I could feel the cool air on my bare pussy. He put his hand between my legs and started groping me, a little roughly. More like digging his fingers into my hole than fingering me. He was prying me open to look inside.

"Feet apart," he said, almost absently.

I widened my stance to let him pry my pussy open wider. His fingers slid around in my cunt-flesh as he pried my tight hole open. I was starting to moan and whimper a little bit, getting off on the rough probing. It was more like an examination than a sex-act. The fact that I didn't fully understand what he was doing increased my excitement. He was using me for his private perversions. I was a thing for him to play with.

He was muttering something under his breath as he poked and pulled at my pussy. My own constant gasps and moans made it hard for me to make out, but one thing I heard for sure.

"Bad girls get checked."

I didn't know exactly what he was checking me for, but I felt like I should be checked. I was a bad girl for sure. The man who checks bad girls needed to see inside my pussy and I had to let him. He was probing in deep with fingers from both his hands and stimulating a place inside me that was provoking sounds from me that were loud and echoing in the tiled men's room.

"No talking," the man said in that same absent tone.

I would have giggled if I wasn't about to cum. He must have known what he was doing to me, the way he got in and worked that spot. I had to be quiet while the man brought me off. Holding in my sounds during an extremely intense orgasm increased the intensity. I could hear the soft slurping of my pussy as his hand settled into a steady rhythm. I wanted to say oh my god but I kept my mouth shut, wanting to obey the man who checks bad girls. I couldn't avoid my muffled whimpers. My whole body was shaking. My inside-flesh quivered on the man's rough, rutting knuckles and a fresh flow of fluid flooded my tunnel. My muffled whimpers were abrupt and quavering. I grunted and huffed and my knuckles turned white as I squeezed the chrome pipes.

Everything made a perverse sort of sense later, when I figured out he was a cop. He obviously had a thing about arresting girls and "checking them." Though I don't imagine he could really get away with this sort of thing when it's official business. I was unofficial business. A bad girl he could enjoy the way he wanted to. I was appropriately submissive and I really had been doing illegal things in a public restroom. But he wasn't just playing with me sexually. He was training me. He was teaching me my place as a female in the men's room. I had to call the men 'sir' and I had to do as I was told. I couldn't be loud when being used by the men made me cum.

His name was Carl, but as he probed me and trained me, I knew him only as 'Sir.' He was the man who checks bad girls the whole thing made my head swim. He made me cum and made a barely discernible grunting sound of satisfaction as he extracted his fingers from my sloppy pussy.

But it seemed that I still needed to be checked some more. I felt a wet finger stroke its way across my anus and fresh shivers rippled through my body.

"Bad girls get checked," he said in a clear but still low tone.

"Yes, sir," I consented.

I wasn't sure if he was going to be as rough in my butthole as he was in my pussy, but I was a bad girl. I was being such a bad girl. I needed checking by the man. He used his fingers to stroke my pussy-wet across my sensitive little orifice and then abruptly pushed on my center and I opened up to be probed. He slid his finger in until I again felt his hard knuckle pressing in a tender part of me. He felt around inside me and muttered to himself about bad little whores. He put his other hand on my butt and began working another finger in beside the other one. His breathing was really speeding up.

"Bad little whores get checked," he said in that low breathy tone.

"Yes, sir," I tried to reply, but my voice caught as he got a second finger through my sphincter and worked me further open.

He hurt me as he began using both hands to pull me open, but I muffled my whimpers. I squeezed the pipes and did my best not to make noise. He was rough with my anus, prying me open and making me gape and let him check inside. He was indulging his fetish and he was training me for my role as a men's room slut. All of my holes were available in the back stall. Sir opened me up and checked me and I worked my anus for him to try and hold myself open. The way he was breathing, I expected that he would soon take out his fingers and put in his cock. I was ready for him. But that wasn't how he wanted to get off. He was merely indulging his own private perversion and using it as an opportunity teach me my place in the back stall. But after using my young body to get himself into a heightened state of lust, he wanted the pussy.

Sir finished checking me and let me turn and sit down so he could show me his cock. I sat down on the toilet feeling dirty as my anus tried to sort itself back out and the man who resembled my grandpa began unfastening his khakis. I shivered at the feeling, momentarily detached and seeing myself as if in an out-of-body experience. I saw myself for what I was sitting there in that toilet stall. I wasn't a person engaged in activities with another person. I was a thing somebody was using for their own personal enjoyment. An object. A toy. A doll that was either blessed, or cursed, with the urgent need to be played with.

Then I saw what it was that was about to put me to use. Carl the cop had a big dick. Not scary huge, but a few notches above average. It looked especially big just a few inches from my face, its one eye seeming to stare at me as a single tear began to emerge. It jumped as I stared at it, making me think of a stallion snorting and tossing its head.

"Before I fuck you with this thing, you have to respect it," he said.

I didn't know exactly what he was getting at, but I was a willing and eager toy. I looked up at him.

Yes, sir," I said. "I respect it."

He just looked at me, waiting. I was still unsure so I tentatively wrapped my fingers around his cock and began to caress it and jack him off a little bit. He took in a quick breath when I grasped him, but still just stared, waiting.

"I respect it, sir," I said. "I want it. I want to be fucked with it. Sir."

I think he was about to smile, but he frowned instead.

"Respect it with your whore mouth," he said with exaggerated patience.

Oh! I guess I should have realized that? I was really in a state during this whole experience. Carl the cop did a lot to shape me into what I would become. Or he simply introduced me to who I really was. Whore mouth? Yeah. That was me.

"Yes, sir!" I said enthusiastically.

I have an issue with thick cocks. I have the same issue with my dentist. I can't open my mouth wide enough. But I'll still do anything I can to get a big cock into my mouth. The problem is the way my teeth scrape across it. This mostly seems to be a 'me' problem because the men don't seem to mind. But it bothers me. It feels like an imperfection in one of my cock-servicing holes. Like I'm a substandard product. The quality assurance inspector who was in charge of mouth-holes on the day I came off the line was shirking his duty.

So my thinking is that the head is the most sensitive part of the penis. That's the part I need to be most careful and considerate of. The thing is just to get it back into my throat. I don't have any teeth in my throat. Just soft, wet tissue. Like my pussy. Once I get the head into my throat, I can provide the cock with proper stimulation.

I've gotten a lot better at it over the years, but back in the day I was still just a newbie. I would start gagging as soon as the penis reached a certain point. My whole body would heave as if it was trying to reject the cock. It bothered me because all I wanted was to be cooperative and willing and eager to please. But, as with the teeth, my gagging and heaving never seemed to bother the men. Carl, in particular, seemed to really get into it. I got about two-thirds of his cock in my mouth and I was struggling to get it all in. My body kept heaving and trying to push it back out. But I was trying really hard and just trying to get all of him into my mouth must have felt really good. He was making the sounds that I like to hear men make. The little grunts and quick inhalations that denote real pleasure.

"That's it, bitch," he said in a low, breathy voice. "Respect it!"

He put his hand on the back of my head and pushed gently. He wasn't trying to force it. He was trying to help me overcome what I saw as one of the defects of my body. He recognized the effort I was putting into respecting his cock, and it gave me encouragement. I really did respect the cock. I worshiped that thing. I was so ready to be fucked. With that incentive, and with Carl's encouragement, and with his hand providing pressure on the back of my head, I was finally able to swallow the end of that big piece of meat.

Carl emitted a satisfied grunt as he finally got himself entirely inside me. And he was all the way in. He had a thick patch of pubic hair that tickled my lips. Later I would pick a pubic hair out of my teeth. And save it. I kept it in a little clear plastic ziplock that originally came with a set of earbuds. I could just look at it and get wet. It was like prized porn that I would masturbate to.

I'm not normal. I know. That's what this whole thing is supposed to be about. And so it is. This is who I am. These are the memories that play themselves over and over in my head.

Like the head of Carl's cock finally making its way into my depths. I couldn't breathe, but I'd managed to huff in a lungful while I could. Which was good, because Carl seemed to be exactly where he wanted to be and now he had both hands on my head and was holding it in place. He was panting. He had something of a belly. It was pressed into my forehead and the smooth fabric of his windbreaker moved against my skin with his panting breath. He began to stroke my hair with his fingers.

"You're a little whore," he breathed. "You have to respect the cock. The cock is your daddy and you're his little bitch."

Yes, sir, I wanted to say, but obviously couldn't. Yes, sir! YES SIR!!!!!

I managed to nod my head slightly against his belly, feeling the need to communicate that I was indeed the cock's little bitch. I was Carl's little bitch in the toilet stall. The situation was more than a little uncomfortable for my poor little mouth, but with Carl's big cock "in my face" so to speak, I could feel my body's purpose. I could experience myself as an object of insertion. And with the sounds Carl was making I could feel myself as a good object. A useful object.

When I moved my head to nod, it moved Carl's cock in my mouth and inspired him to move. He held my head in place and backed out slightly. His big sliding organ almost triggered my gag-reflex again, but I managed to suppress it and take a breath instead. It was cocksucking boot camp. I'd never had something so large in my mouth before, but I was learning fast how to deal with it. Carl was able to get the stimulation he wanted by fucking himself in and out of my throat, and I was able to (mostly) remain still and take it.

I was just starting to get into the rhythm of the thing and feel like I was gaining real control over my rebellious body when Carl's breathing grew suddenly more urgent. And so did his thrusts. He started going harder and faster, hurting my throat and making breathing nearly impossible.

"You god damn little bitch!" he growled through clenched teeth.

He was going to cum. I was disappointed. I needed to be fucked. But I also kind of loved it. The mouth-hole was performing to design specifications. I owed an apology to that quality assurance inspector. Maybe he knew what he was doing after all.

But Carl didn't cum. Not quite. He yanked himself violently out of my mouth. I coughed, a string of phlegm exiting my mouth and draping itself around the cock. Almost in that same instance the cock twitched slightly and spit one small string of cum almost straight into my mouth. It was sublime. It was a moment I would picture in my mind a million times in the years to come. I wasn't sure exactly what had happened. I didn't know men as well as I do now. He'd seemed to cum, but there wasn't nearly enough of it. Could they just let it out a little bit at a time? I would later find out it was more like they could hold in most of it if they caught it in time. They could suppress the ejaculation. But back then I was just sort of amazed, licking a spot of cum thoughtfully off my lip and staring at the cock, hoping it might give me another treat. Then, Carl, his pants still around his ankles, sort of shuffled back a step.

"On your feet!" he commanded.

I obeyed.

His breathing had been heavy, but it was starting to calm down a little bit. He unzipped his windbreaker and started taking it off which seemed to signal that he still had some serious business to take care of, and it sent an excited flutter through my belly.

That was when I saw the gun hanging in a holster under his armpit.

I was such a dumb, horny bitch, the first thing I thought was that he was some kind of gangster. Like The Sopranos or something. Then it finally clicked into place. Feet apart. No talking. Bad girls have to be checked. He'd given me a pervert's version of a body cavity search and I'd been too aroused and dizzy with the whole situation to even guess.

I was sexually servicing a cop in a men's room stall? Holy shit!

"Now strip!" he ordered.

His eyes were on fire. He looked harder than before. Hungrier. Cop or not, this was a man who was about to fuck the shit out of me. I proceeded to strip. Though it didn't really seem necessary. My skirt was so short you could see a sliver of slit and my top was so flimsy it didn't really leave anything to the imagination. But I was more than happy to let him have a full, unobstructed look at my tits, and I pulled my top off over my head, tossing it on the tiled-floor beside my panties. Not that my tits were anything spectacular. But they are each more than a handful. I have just enough there to get a cock in between them and work it to a nice completion. They were especially perky and pretty when I was young and childless. Carl licked his lips and stared at them as I let my skirt drop to the floor and kicked it aside. Now I was completely naked. Almost.

"Everything," Carl said, his eyes flickering to my sneakers before tracing their way back up my body.

"Yes, sir," I said, kicking off my shoes and feeling fresh ripples of excitement in my belly.

I lifted my feet one at a time and pulled off my socks, tossing them into the little pile of clothes beside the toilet. The tile floor was cold and sticky. Carl the cop knew how to make a girl feel vulnerable. And dirty. I imagined the floor was sticky with semen. This stall was a place of cumming as much as it was a place of other bodily functions. I licked my own lips, thinking I could still taste the little bit of Carl's cum that had escaped containment. My body was like this toilet stall. It was a thing made to accommodate men and their bodily functions. It was a vessel made to contain their bodily fluids.

Carl had become fixated on my tits. They'd been there all along but now that he had a full, unobstructed view of them he seemed to want to take a minute and just stare at them with those burning eyes. But no, not just stare. He moved closer to me, his eyes still locked on my tits.

"Bad girls get checked," he said in that low breathy tone that seemed to buzz its way down into my fluttering belly.

Then he just sort of grabbed my by the tits. He started squeezing and pulling kneading them. Maybe he had some strange idea in his mind that he might find something that was unauthorized somewhere in my tits, but really he was just enjoying the feel of them. They were one of the compelling aspects of the body he was enjoying and he wanted to make use of them. But not in any traditional sort of way. He was "checking" them, but not like a breast examination. More like a lewd molestation. Carl just wanted to do things to my body.

I know about fetishes. I know how they can singularly focus the mind. Fetishes are like a secret formula for creating the perfect orgasm. I know about fetishes because I am one. I am my own fetish. I objectify myself to a degree beyond what even a man like Carl does when he looks at me and "checks" me. I am a collection of insertion points. A set of injection ports. But the perfect sperm-receptacle can't just be a jar with a hole in it. It needs to invite the sperm inside it. It needs to entice the sperm and do things to ensure that when the moment of injection comes, it is full and complete, and satisfying.