Cravings in Scrubs
The Centerpiece
Zara knelt at the center of the main floor.
The lights were low. The room was full. Dozens surrounded her—watching, waiting, stroking cocks, fingering themselves, whispering about what she was and what she had become.
A woman with no name.
A body with no boundaries.
A toy with a single purpose.
She wore nothing.
No dress.
No gag.
No resistance.
Her dark hair was slicked back into a tight braid that fell down her spine. Her thick thighs were spread wide and secured by a leather bar locked to her knees. Her arms were cuffed behind her back. Her plump breasts were ringed in thin leather straps, forcing them up and out, nipples glistening from oil and spit. Her skin shimmered, a deep bronze sheen under hot lights. Her cunt was swollen and parted—held open with a pair of stainless-steel clamps that made her visibly drip onto the black padded stage beneath her.
The collar around her neck had no tag anymore.
Just a branded word burned into the leather: BELONGING.
A man stepped onto the platform.
He didn’t say anything.
He didn’t have to.
He unzipped, gripped her face, and pushed his cock between her lips.
She didn’t flinch.
She opened wide.
And sucked.
The crowd clapped.
She was fucked from the front first. Then flipped onto her stomach and fucked from behind. Her legs were spread wide. Her breasts were slapped. Her pussy was filled and emptied. One man came. Then another. Then another.
Her body was covered in cum before the second act even started.
Then the straps came out.
Zara was lifted onto a frame—bent over, arms above her head, legs chained apart. Her ass was high. Her cunt was open. Her holes glistened with lube.
The club called it the carousel.
They lined up.
One after another.
Her mouth.
Her pussy.
Her ass.
Over and over.
A bell chimed each time one finished inside her. A fresh body entered. Her moans were music. Her screams were applause. Her orgasms—countless, shaking, overwhelming—were broadcast to every screen in the room.
She begged for more.
She begged with her eyes, her hips, the quiver of her thighs.
They gave it to her.
Ten men.
Fifteen.
Twenty.
She was filled and pumped and flooded—milk white dripping down her thighs, across her tits, into her hair. Her makeup smeared. Her tongue lolled. Her body spasmed again and again, and she never once said stop.
She never once asked for mercy.
Because there was no Zara anymore.
There was only the centerpiece.
And when it ended, when they finally unchained her, wiped her down, and laid her in the center of the platform on satin sheets—
She smiled.
Eyes half-closed.
Thighs still parted.
Breasts streaked with drying cum.
And the final tag was pinned to her collar:
PERFECT.