L'offrande chaude

Théo and his friends dive into a torrid night in Patong, where a ping-pong show leads them to an orgy with Thai dancers. Between forbidden desires and extreme pleasures, their limits are pushed.

Their taxi pulled up in front of the grimy alleyway leading to the nameless bar, its storefront sputtering with a flickering pink neon light. The heat of the Patong night clung to bare arms, heavy with the scent of sweet incense, frying oil, and marijuana. Théo hopped onto the asphalt first, adjusting the khaki shorts that were already molding to the bulge of his cock, and spun his bottle of Singha between his fingers. Behind him, Romain, Julien, and Maxime emerged, hilarious, shouting "Tonight we fuck!" in pitiful English.

Inside, the air smelled of cheap disinfectant and cheap bar perfume. About twenty plastic tables, a bead curtain already half-torn, and on stage, a tiny Thai girl dressed in simple fishnets waited for the musical introduction. Red spotlights streaked the room; the DJ, an old open Mac, slid a 90s funk track into the warped speakers.

Théo paid the entrance fee with hands full of baht. He felt his cock tighten: a large transparent bucket filled with ping-pong balls had just been placed on the edge of the stage. The show was about to begin; debauchery could already be read in the laughter of the girls who came to surround the tables.

The first dancer stepped forward. Her jet-black hair hung down to her lower back; between her thighs, her skin glistened with oil. The music jerked its rhythm, and from her shaved pussy, she expelled a first ball. The little polystyrene "plop" bounced into a drunk tourist's glass. The crowd roared. The girl winked at the table of Frenchmen. She placed a hand on her flat stomach, contracted, and a second ball shot into Romain's chest.

"Fuck... her pussy is a pistol!" Julien laughed, raising his beer. Raising his arm, he hadn't seen the third ballerina already aiming. This one, more robust, had inserted a beer bottle neck. The glass shone. She moved with a swing of her hips; the neck slowly emerged, oozing with her secretions, before clattering against the floor.

Maxime, his cock already stiff, exchanged a wolfish look with Théo: all that was missing was the setting. The boys leaned over the edge of the stage, pressing their knees against the dirty wood to calm the heat boiling in their balls.

The DJ barked a name: Mimi. A rounder, older woman with amber skin stepped forward. She held a scuffed golf ball. Her bare breasts swayed like juicy fruits. With one finger, she signaled the group to be quiet. She arched her back, tensed her abs decorated with a gold jewel, and shot the little white ball into the air. It took off, clattering against a spotlight, and fell back onto the Frenchmen's table. A fleck of paint flew; the ashtrays ignited with applause.

Théo, his crotch engorged with blood, felt his beast through the fabric. He felt ready. When Mimi stood up, her swollen, wet vulva winking at him, it seemed to him that an invisible ring opened: that of forbidden pleasures after the show.

A manager in a Hawaiian shirt appeared. He wore pink sunglasses and a big shark-like smile. He offered a "good time with the girls." The words were simple: 2000 baht for a private room, "full fuck" option. The boys nodded without negotiating; their wallets snapped onto the zinc tray. The manager spread his lips: "Five girls, five boys. Very good teamwork."

Behind a crimson velvet curtain, the corridor smelled of jasmine and lubricant. The Thai women laughed among themselves, mixing English and Phuket slang. They weren't all thin; they had solid thighs, rounded buttocks, and polished toes. But their smiles promised hot asses and tight pussies.

The first room looked like a massage box: three mattresses pushed side by side, a harsh red light, a jug of coconut oil, and condoms scattered everywhere. Lo-fi music floated in the air. The boys stripped in no time. The girls, meanwhile, removed their stockings by slowly rolling the fabric, revealing shiny slits already damp with the flavor of the performance.

Mimi approached Théo, wrapped her fingers around his neck, and pulled him in. He felt the sweat of oil, the heat of an overexcited mouth. Her tongue searched for his. Her hand slid toward his cock, freed, stiff, and veined. She squinted, admiring the thickness.

"Too big," she teased, "you're going to split me open, baby."

She turned her back, placed a knee on the mattress, and spread her plump buttocks. Her anus puckered; her vagina looked narrow as a closed fist. Théo panted. He placed the tip of his shaft against the already soaked entrance. He heard Julien to his left: the poor guy was moaning as his partner buried four fingers at once in her pussy, preparing to receive more.

Théo slid in slowly. His head nestled. The smooth muscle tightened around his glans. He felt the pulsing embrace, like the way those girls expelled balls: the contracted vagina formed an almost painful ring around him, delaying any withdrawal. He pulled back, was caught by a suction, a silent clap. He pushed deeper until his balls smacked against her hip. Mimi let out a hoarse sound, twisted with pleasure. She reached down, caressed Théo's cock where it buried itself. Then two more fingers, dragging her pussy upward, clearing the way.

Théo understood: she was calling for the fist. He pulled back, spat into his palm, lubricated his four fingers, and pressed them against the opening already gorged by his shaft. He withdrew his cock, kept the stem at the entrance, and slid his joined fingers in. The fist was engulfed up to the knuckles. The heat hit him—a wet and delicious furnace. Mimi spread the lips of her pussy with her own hands, offering a wider channel.

"Yes, deeper," she panted.

He tucked his thumb, formed a solid fist, and slowly entered up to the wrist. Vaginal lips swallowed him, sucking at his skin. He felt her pulse thumping against his fingers. He stopped, letting her adjust. Mimi's face contorted between pain and bliss; her sweat-beaded breasts rose and fell. She groaned orders in broken Thai: "Move, fuck me with the fist, go!"

He withdrew a millimeter and plunged back in. The ceiling creaked. Nearby, Romain was shouting to be taken by two girls. One was forced to lie on his back; one girl leaned down to swallow his cock to the tonsils while the other sat astride his face. The entire box reeked of sex and fermenting beer. The latent voyeur in Théo found himself briefly releasing Mimi's hand to watch his friend: Romain's tongue was foraging a glistening anus; hands were intertwined in the sucker's hair. He got even harder.

The evening became a patchwork of bodies. Maxime was being ridden; Julien had managed to slip into a girl from the front while another ate his anus. Positions changed like puzzle pieces fitted into burning pussies. The boys shouted "Go for it" or "Fuck her again"; the girls responded with moans, "aow," "dee mak"—too good. Condoms snapped, replaced in a production line. Oil ran over quivering testicles.

Mimi, satisfied after long thrusts of the fist, sat up and turned Théo around. She wanted the cock, not the fist, this time. She pulled him onto his side. She took in his drenched shaft, lay on her back, and wrapped her legs around his waist; they were so flexible that her feet met at the hollow of his neck, locking Théo in like a pair of living handcuffs. He felt the contraction ripple: her lips sucked the rod like a lasso pulled tighter after each thrust. He drove in, holding back his climax. Around them, the sounds of flesh became a chorus.

The first to come was Maxime's Thai girl: she froze, her pussy clamping down, letting out a sharp trill. This triggered a wave. The men felt sucked in, their cores of cum rising all at once. Théo felt the discharge mounting. He accelerated, clawed at Mimi's braid, and leaned into her ear.

"I'm going to come in your pussy, tell me you want to take it all."

"Yes, come inside, fill me up," she replied in a raspy breath.

He planted one last thrust, hips colliding. A spasm tore through him: he emptied himself, pulse after pulse, each squirt heating the already burning canal. Mimi moaned, her breasts quivering; she contracted, coming herself, imprinting new tears of pleasure around his cock.

Beside him, Julien and Romain were swearing, pulling out just in time to grab their dicks and squirt right onto the girls' bellies, breasts, and faces. The girls laughed, rubbing the sperm in like a fountain of youth cream, licking each other. A second girl, unfulfilled, seized Théo's head, kissed him long and hard, tasting the sperm that still reeked in his mouth.

The curtain parted slightly; the manager, satisfied, signaled them to finish: a new table was waiting at the bar. But there was nothing left of them: the boys were dripping, testicles empty, their soft parts now aching. They crawled back into their shorts, tied their laceless sneakers. The floor stuck to their soles. The girls, smiling, laughed as they picked up the crumpled condoms, presenting them like trophies. Mimi slapped Théo's buttock and slipped a small piece of paper between his lips: her number, a heart, a drawing of a ping-pong ball.

In the alley, the sea air whipped their faces. The sky had cleared with millions of stars. Under a yellow streetlamp, the four friends looked at each other—soaked underwear, crumpled shirts, hair pearled with oil and sperm.

"We... we just fucked five girls at the same time," Maxime breathed, still stunned.

"And I fisted a pussy," Théo added.

Romain raised his bottle, draining the last lukewarm gulp:

"To the next debauchery!"

They burst out laughing, loud and liberated. Their balls were empty, their bare skin shivering. They staggered back toward Walking Street, leaving behind the closed door of the ping-pong show, the haunting echo of slapping flesh, the salty taste of cum, and the indelible memory of a group of friends who had left as simple tourists and returned as men fulfilled by the warm offering of expert vaginas.