Midday Sins in Dampoort

Jens stepped into the midday bustle of Gent's Dampoort neighborhood, the kind of place where old brick warehouses loomed like forgotten giants, and the air carried a faint tang of river water from the nearby Scheldt. It was a Tuesday afternoon, the sun slicing through scattered clouds, and the sex theater's faded sign barely registered amid the daytime foot traffic—truckers grabbing lunch, locals hauling groceries. Jens, tall and broad-shouldered with a jawline that turned heads even in his unassuming jeans and button-up, felt his pulse quicken as he pushed open the unmarked door. He'd told his girlfriend he was running errands; the lie sat heavy, but the fantasies that had simmered for years—being used, filled, marked by men—burned hotter.

Inside, the lobby smelled of stale smoke and cheap cleaner. He paid the entry fee to a bored attendant who didn't glance up from his phone, then descended the stairs to the dim hum of the theater. That's where Frank waited, leaning against a vending machine stocked with condoms and lube packets. At 170 cm and carrying extra weight around his middle, Frank exuded a quiet menace, his gray hair cropped short and eyes sharp behind wire-rimmed glasses. They'd connected on a gay chat app weeks ago, Jens spilling his dirtiest secrets in anonymous bursts—craving to be a total slut, covered in piss and seed, no holds barred. Frank had responded with commands, not questions, promising to guide him through it all. "You're mine today," Frank said now, voice low and gravelly, clapping a hand on Jens's shoulder. "Strip in the hetero room first. Let them see what they're getting."

Jens nodded, throat dry, following Frank into the larger space. It was surprisingly active for afternoon—about a dozen men scattered across the forty worn chairs facing a small stage, the air thick with the musk of sweat and arousal. A glory hole wall divided one side, holes at varying heights punched through chipped paint. No one spoke; eyes flicked toward the newcomers. Frank shoved Jens toward the stage, a raised platform with a single pole and faded red carpet. "Clothes off, boy. Now."

Heart pounding, Jens peeled off his shirt, revealing a toned chest dusted with dark hair, then kicked off his shoes and dropped his jeans. His cock hung semi-hard, thick and uncut, but he knew the rule Frank had drilled in: no touching himself, no release. Naked under the harsh fluorescent lights, Jens stood tall, feeling the weight of stares. Frank circled him like a predator, slapping Jens's ass hard enough to sting. "On your knees. Show them your holes."

The first man approached from the chairs—a lanky guy in his forties, work boots still laced, unzipping with a grunt. He grabbed Jens's hair and fed his dick through Jens's lips, not waiting for a signal. Jens sucked eagerly, tongue working the veined shaft as it hardened in his mouth. The man thrust shallow at first, then deeper, gagging Jens until saliva trailed down his chin. Frank watched, arms crossed. "Take it all. You're here for this."

By the time the man pulled out and shot ropes of semen across Jens's face—hot spurts landing on his cheeks and lips—two more had joined. One, a burly type with a beer gut, yanked Jens upright and bent him over the stage edge. Fingers—rough, callused—probed Jens's ass, two at once, twisting in without lube. Jens gasped, the burn mixing with thrill as the man spat on his hole and worked a third finger in, stretching him wide. "Tight little fucker," the man muttered, pumping his hand until Jens's legs shook.

The third man, shorter and wiry, positioned himself at Jens's mouth again, but this time he didn't cum. Instead, after a few thrusts, he held still and unleashed a stream of piss—warm and acrid—straight down Jens's throat. Jens swallowed what he could, the rest spilling over his chin, soaking his chest. The taste was sharp, bitter, but it ignited something primal, his cock twitching untouched. Frank nodded approval. "Good slut. Keep going."

Word spread fast in the room. Another man, bald and tattooed, dragged Jens to the glory hole wall. He pressed Jens's face against the wood, a cock emerging from a hole at eye level. Jens opened wide, sucking as the anonymous dick fucked his mouth. Behind him, the tattooed guy lubed up and slammed in—no prep, just raw entry. It felt like being split, the burn intense, but Jens pushed back, moaning around the cock in his front. The guy behind came quick, flooding Jens's ass with heat, pulling out to let it leak down his thighs. The mouth-fucker followed, painting Jens's tongue with semen before zipping up and vanishing.

Five men down, and Jens was already a mess—face sticky, ass sore and full. Frank hauled him off the wall and into the center aisle, where chairs formed a loose circle. "On the floor. Spread 'em." Jens dropped to all fours, knees grinding into the gritty carpet. A cluster of men surrounded him: one knelt and pissed directly on his upturned face, the stream hitting his eyes, nose, mouth. Jens tilted his head back, gulping it down, the humiliation fueling his denied arousal. Another man—older, with a paunch—straddled Jens's back and jerked off, semen splattering across his shoulders and hair in thick bursts.

The rape play started with the next one, a stocky laborer type who growled, "You're taking it whether you want it or not," grabbing Jens's wrists and pinning them behind his back. It was all part of the fantasy, the rough edge blurring lines in this hidden world, Jens's body yielding as the man forced his way into Jens's ass, pounding hard and fast. Jens cried out, the slap of skin echoing, other men cheering low. The guy didn't stop at one round; he flipped Jens onto his back on a chair, legs over shoulders, and went again, filling him deeper. When he finished, semen oozed from Jens's hole, but no time to recover—another took his place, fingers first, four now, scissoring wide before replacing them with his cock.

Frank orchestrated it all, whispering commands. "Beg for it, Jens. Tell them what you are." Jens, voice hoarse, muttered, "Fuck me... use my holes... piss on me." It drew more. In the hetero room's chaos, a younger guy—maybe thirty, lean and eager—pushed through and knelt by Jens's head, pissing into his open mouth while jerking off. The stream mixed with Jens's spit, overflowing, as the guy came on his forehead, adding to the bukkake mask forming over his features.

They moved to the smaller gay room after about forty minutes, Frank tugging Jens by the arm. This space was tighter, fifteen chairs in rows facing a dark corner where shadows merged into blackness. The air was heavier here, more intimate, with only a handful of men lounging—cigarette smoke curling from one corner. Jens stumbled in, body slick and marked, ass clenching around the remnants inside him. Frank shoved him toward the dark corner. "Crawl in there. Let them find you."

The corner was a void, barely lit, walls closing in. Jens knelt in the pitch, hands on the cool floor, when the first pair of hands grabbed his hips. No face, just a cock pressing against his ass—thick, insistent. It slid in easy now, lubricated by what came before, the man grunting as he thrust. Jens braced, rocking back, the anonymity heightening everything. Another man appeared from the gloom, feeding his dick into Jens's mouth. They synced up, one in each end, using him like a toy. The ass-fucker came with a shudder, pulling out to let the warmth seep out, while the mouth one held Jens's head and pissed—long and steady—down his throat. Jens choked but swallowed, the liquid heat pooling in his gut.

From the chairs, men filtered in. One, a silver-haired regular with a salt-and-pepper beard, sat Jens on his lap facing the darkness, impaling him on his cock. He bounced Jens slowly at first, hands roaming chest and nipples, pinching hard. "Ride it, slut," he whispered, then sped up, filling Jens with another load before pushing him off. Next came a duo: two friends, by the look of them, one tall and slim, the other compact and bearded. The tall one lay on the floor, pulling Jens down onto his dick reverse cowgirl style. As Jens rode, grinding deep, the bearded one stood over them and pissed on Jens's chest, the stream arcing golden in the faint light. Then he took Jens's mouth, fucking it while the bottom guy thrust up, both cumming almost together—one in ass, one across face.

Jens lost count around the tenth man, but Frank kept tally, murmuring encouragements. "Eleven. Keep that ass open." In the corner's depths, a heavier man with rough hands flipped Jens onto his stomach and mounted him, weight pressing down like a blanket. Fingers dug into Jens's sides as he hammered away, no rhythm, just brute force. It bordered on that raw edge again, the man snarling about taking what he wanted, Jens's protests turning to moans in the scripted roughness of it all. Semen followed, hot and plentiful, joining the mess inside.

The room filled out—fifteen now, bodies pressing close. One man, wiry and quick, jerked off over Jens's back while another pissed on his legs, the combined wetness making the floor slick. Jens slipped once, catching himself on a chair, only for a new cock to claim his mouth—deep throating until tears mixed with the drying semen on his face. Frank joined briefly, not penetrating but directing: "Open wider for him." The man obliged, unloading semen straight down, then stepping back.

Sweat poured off Jens, his cock aching, balls tight with denial. He hadn't touched it, per Frank's rule, the edging torment amplifying every sensation. They lingered here another half-hour, men rotating: one fingering Jens's ass deep, knuckles brushing prostate without mercy; another bukkake-style, three spurts hitting his neck and ears. Piss came in waves—a circle jerk of sorts, four men aiming at his torso, soaking him until he glistened.

With an hour left, Frank led Jens to the small shemale room, though it was empty of anyone but men today—no performers, just the wooden bench bolted to the wall, scuffed and stained. The space was claustrophobic, no chairs, just enough room for a few bodies. "Bend over the bench," Frank ordered. Jens complied, ass presented, the wood rough against his palms. The door stayed cracked, inviting wanderers.

First in was a quiet type, mid-forties, who wasted no time sliding into Jens's well-used hole. He fucked steady, hands on hips, cumming with a low groan. Pulled out, and immediately another replaced him—faster, slapping skin loud in the tight space. This one added fingers after, twisting three inside post-climax, stirring the semen like a cocktail. Jens whimpered, body trembling.

The room drew a crowd quick—men squeezing in, lining up. One pissed on Jens's back while fucking him, the warmth running down his crack, mixing with everything. Another grabbed Jens's hair, forcing his face up to take semen on his lips, then more piss, filling his mouth until he spat some out, the rest swallowed. The rape fantasy peaked here: a burly guy with a shaved head pinned Jens's arms to the bench, thrusting like he owned him, whispering filthy nothings about breaking him in. It was intense, consensual in the haze of the scene, Jens's body arching into it despite the ache.

Fifteen men hit the mark across the rooms—a final one, lean and tattooed from wrist to shoulder, finished by jerking over Jens's face, semen striping his nose and eyelids, followed by a quick piss rinse that stung his eyes. Frank watched it all, only stepping in to steady Jens when he faltered. "Two hours, boy. You're done."

Jens collapsed against the bench, body a canvas of semen, piss, and sweat—face crusted, ass throbbing and leaking, skin sticky everywhere. No climax for him, just the raw, unspent need humming through his veins. Frank handed him the bundle of clothes: gray joggers and a black hoodie, nothing else. "Put 'em on. No cleaning. Walk out like this."

Dazed, Jens pulled on the joggers, the fabric clinging to his wet thighs and ass, semen seeping through. The hoodie zipped over his chest, hiding the worst but not the smell or the damp patches. He followed Frank up the stairs, past the attendant who smirked but said nothing. Outside, the afternoon sun hit like a spotlight, Gent's streets alive with oblivious pedestrians. Jens's car was two blocks away, every step a squelch, the mess shifting inside him, face tacky under the hood's shadow.

As he slid into the driver's seat, the reality crashed in—the girlfriend waiting at home, the lies stacking up. But beneath the shame, a grin tugged at his lips. Frank had delivered; the slut fantasy lived, raw and real. Jens started the engine, wondering how long before he craved round two—probably not long at all.