The town slut(4)

I’m already naked on the pool table, legs in the air, Sharpie tally marks climbing my inner thighs like a ladder to hell.

Word spread faster than chlamydia at a frat house, $500 cash to the first man who puts a baby in Kaylee Mae Parker.

No rubbers, no pulling out. Winner takes the pot and bragging rights forever.

The line starts at the jukebox and snakes out the back door into the parking lot. Farmers in Carhartt, truckers in mesh caps, the married mechanic still wearing his wedding ring, even Big Lisa the bartender who swears she’s gold-star lesbian but brought her thickest black strap-on “just in case.”

I prop my phone on a stack of coasters, hit GO LIVE on the Riverbend Buy-N-Sell F******k group, and blow the camera a kiss.

“Evening, y’all. Place your bets and your loads. Clock starts now.”

First up is Tommy Lee, diesel mechanic, grease still under his nails. He drops his jeans, lines up, and slides home in one thrust. I’m already wet from the tequila shots and the sheer filth of what I’m doing.

He groans like he’s dying, pumps exactly eight times, and unloads so hard I feel it splash my cervix. One.

He pulls out, slaps my clit with his sloppy cock, and writes a fresh tally on my thigh with the Sharpie chained to the table. The chat explodes, 73 fire emojis in ten seconds.

Next is Mr. Delgado, Spanish teacher from the high school, whispering “puta sucia” while he rails me missionary-style, hips snapping so hard the table scoots an inch across the floor. He comes with his thumb on my clit and I squirt all over his khakis. Two.

By the tenth guy I stop counting names. Just dicks and loads and the wet slap of skin on skin. Somebody’s phone flashlight is pointed right at my pussy so the livestream can see every rope paint me white inside. The comments are pure poetry:

“God bless America”

“My wife’s asleep, don’t tell her I’m #19”

“Zoom in I wanna see it leak out”

Big Lisa finally takes her turn around hour twenty-six. She straps on this monster veiny black dildo the size of my forearm, slicks it with my own cum, and fucks me so hard my eyes roll back.

The room cheers louder for her than for any real dick all weekend. I come screaming, squirting in a perfect arc that splatters the lens. Lisa leans down, kisses me deep, and whispers, “That’s for every time you flirted for free beers, bitch.”

I lose count somewhere after twenty-seven. Could be thirty. Could be fifty. Time turns into a blur of hands, mouths, cocks, tongues, and the constant drip of cum down my ass crack onto the felt.

Somebody feeds me watermelon soaked in vodka just to keep me hydrated. Somebody else braids my hair back so it doesn’t get yanked so much. Small-town love language.

Hour forty-three, Sunday morning sunlight slants through the broken blinds. My pussy is so swollen it looks like it’s waving hello. The pot’s up to $1,200 now, late entries paid double. I’m on my back, legs over the shoulders of a bearded trucker who smells like diesel and Skoal, when my phone battery dies mid-thrust.

Doesn’t matter. Half the town’s in the room anyway, stroking, filming, waiting their turn.

Hour sixty-eight I can’t walk. They carry me to the bathroom on a throne of sweaty arms, set me on the sink like a broken Barbie. Big Lisa holds the pregnancy test while I piss on it, golden stream hitting the stick and running over her fingers because I can’t aim anymore.

We wait three minutes, I’m chewing on a lime wedge somebody found in the bar well.

One line. Negative.

I start laughing so hard I almost fall off the sink. Lisa catches me, kisses the tears off my cheeks, and I scream to the entire bar:

“DRINKS ON ME, MOTHERFUCKERS! STILL UNDEFEATED!”

The roar shakes the walls. Somebody pops champagne that’s been sitting in the cooler since New Year’s 2019. It tastes like pennies and victory.

I limp back to the pool table naked, cum crusted on every inch of me, and climb up like it’s a stage.

“Last call for the pot!” I holler, voice hoarse. “Double or nothing, whoever knocks me up by closing time gets the bar too!”

Old man Jenkins, eighty-two, shuffles forward with his walker and a grin full of dentures. “Been savin’ this load since ’98, baby girl.”

I spread my legs, wink at the crowd, and the line forms again.

Rusty’s doesn’t close for three more days and somewhere in the chaos my phone, dead on the floor, still has 400+ reactions frozen on a livestream that’ll live in Riverbend legend forever.

I’m not pregnant but damn if I’m not the richest whore in three counties, swimming in cash, cum, and the kind of love you can only get from a town that bets on your fertility and still buys you breakfast.