I turned around the corner and walked straight through the levitating arrow. The heritage facade stood out across the street, framed by glass skyscrapers that spread into the low clouds. The bakery was busy, a line of people stretching out into the street in the early morning rush.

A physical sign above the door read: Our Daily Bread. Under it, hovering above the white bricks, a virtual spray painted tag dripped in bright pink: c.a.r.b. Stop #50. In smaller letters underneath: Order a glass of hot milk.

I could flick between modes to see other augmentations. There was the standard view set up by the business owner (a clean facade, with a serif font announcing daily specials). Or the most-voted art installation applied to the building (a colourful data visualisation of the vital signals of every customer inside).

A few other people stood near me at the sidewalk looking in the same direction but seeing something different, each of us immersed in our individual perspectives. I felt a little special: it was unlikely anyone else could see the c.a.r.b tag. The experience was only accessible to a select few.

I opened the map with a small gesture. It floated in front of me, titled in beautiful round letters: collective association of rude bakers. The interface was deeply satisfying. I had ticked off all but one in the 50 experiences across the city. I was so very close to completing the quest.

Just the night before I’d relived one of the recordings. It was a small store that made the best quindim. I’d bitten into the yellow jelly surface of the sweet while watching the baker remove their apron. When they bent me over a table and struck me with a chopping board, I could see their distorted reflection on the stretched belly of the amber coffee machine.

I kept looking at that mirror image when they pulled out their glass cock and penetrated me, and when I rubbed my clit on the edge of the table and orgasmed, camera finally pointing to the neon chandelier above. Detecting the electrical wave spreading through my brain, the virtual landscape lit up in digital confetti, and another star in my map was filled. Another experience collected.

HER…

I closed the map, and walked into Our Daily Bread, looking around to capture the details of the exterior. Standing in line, I saw a small, delicate person taking the orders, next to the huge coffee machine where the barista worked away. She smiled in a flirty way to every customer as she thanked them – Lowering her chin slightly, widening the eyes, looking down a little. Pretending to be coy. I recognised the fake shyness I use all the time. As I got closer her voice got louder, and so did my heartbeat. I tried to see if she had a name tag. My brain started imagining all the things she could do to me.

When I was already rehearsing the words in my throat, only two people left between her and I, a mountain of a man invaded my field of vision. He smeared her perfect aura with his presence, his apron covered in charcoal dirt and arms covered in thick hair. The virtual name tag on his chest read clearly: The Baker. He relieved the small creature with a tap on the shoulder and started taking the orders instead, no smiles or happy eyes to anybody. I tried to hide my disappointment when my turn came around.

“Good morning. Can I please have a glass of hot milk?”
The Baker looked up at me, eyes wide with an expression of disgust. It cut me and I shrank. “What did you say?”
It took me a moment to dare to reply: “I asked for a glass of hot m…”

In a split second, he snatched the milk jug from the barista’s hand, and in a brisk violent movement covered my face and torso in milk. I squealed in shock, recoiling and rubbing the white liquid off my eyes.

“Do you think I serve filthy little sluts here?”

Speechless, I looked around to the people sitting in the shop and in line behind me, but it was as if no one had noticed what just happened. “I… I don’t know. The tag outside…” My voice trailed off as he inhaled loudly, ready to scream at me if I continued talking. “…I …May I have a tissue?”

“It’s a warm day. If you stand here long enough, it will dry off your face. But please stand aside. I have decent, hard-working customers I need to serve.”

I hesitated with my mouth open, wanting to say something but not having the courage to. I stepped to the side of the line, and stood there, not sure what to do. I felt my face flush with shame. As customers placed their orders, their eyes glanced at me briefly with varying degrees of disapproval. After a while, the Baker spoke again:

I walked out of the bakery, not looking behind me. I flicked on a filter to hide my smeared mascara and the fringe strands stuck to my forehead. I followed the ghost arrows through the glowing city only I could see, and tried to make sense of what had just happened.

None of the experiences had been like this. Sure, some were rough or strange, but none like this. Maybe it was a bug in the app and the Baker was not participating in the experience at all. Maybe he was genuinely angry at people mistaking his shop for a stop in the map.

Home….

I got home and made myself a cup of coffee and some toast with the cheap white bread from the supermarket. I sat down to eat at the kitchen table. Eventually, I found my hand hovering over my lap, and started stroking myself. I opened the day’s recording, isolated the words “filthy little slut”, and played them over and over until I came.

The Next Day

The following morning, I was standing in line at Our Daily Bread again.
“May I please have a glass of hot milk?”
“Fuck me, it’s you. Again! Does it look like I serve filthy little sluts here?”
This time, I replied: “Yes. I think you do.”
He leaned over the counter: “So what? Do you think you’re a filthy little slut now?”
“…Yes.”
“I didn’t hear you.”
The shop seemed to quieten: “…Yes. I am a filthy little slut.”
“You don’t look like a slut to me. Get out of my way and stop wasting my time.”

Once again, I stood aside by the counter. The baker greeted each customer, and asked them: “Does this look like a slut to you?”. They each looked at me up and down, and gave their assessment: “No, she looks like she would faint if she saw my pussy.” “Ah, look at that sweater, it says frigid little bitch all over it”.

When the whole line had come through and weighed in on my appearance, he dismissed me again. At home, I didn’t bother to make breakfast, and instead had my hands down my pants as soon as the door closed behind me.

3rd time lucky?

On the third day, I wore a vanilla coloured top and no bra, tight sheer coloured pants, heels and cheap eyeliner. The baker looked me up and down: “You sure look more like a whore today. I wonder if it’s genuine though.” I started to protest, but he interrupted me: “Stand aside, we’re very busy here.”

The small human that had so enchanted me on the first day mopped the floor where I’d been, but I was distracted by the painful swelling of my own pussy. This time, when the next customer placed their order, the Baker asked them: “What do you think, is this is a real slut?”.
“I am not sure. Anyone can look like one, right? It’s so easy to pretend to be something you’re not these days, all you have to do is slap on a filter.”
“You’re right. Why don’t you help me see if she feels like one?”
“Of course, I love helping small businesses.”

Not like 2023

The customer stood next to me to wait for their order, and started fondling my body intently. They looked at me like a scientist studying a new specimen: dispassionate and concentrated, evaluating me. As the line progressed, more and more people joined them. They each stroked me, groped me and ran their hands over me. Once their orders were ready, they gave their assessment to the Baker before walking away: “Her nipples were very hard, she was definitely enjoying being touched by strangers.” or “She sighed when I touched her butt, I could’ve fucked her then and there if I wanted to. What a whore.” or “She sure wants to be a slut, but I think if she was the real deal her holes would be a little more accessible…”

When rush time was finished and no more customers were arriving, the Baker sent me on my way again. My pussy ached and all I could think about was arriving and releasing all their words into an orgasm.

The 4th day

On the fourth day, I placed my order again, this time with only a short skirt covering my hips.
“You’re back again, slut. Every fucking day this week. Don’t you have anything better to do?”
“… No. This is all I am good for.”
“Oh, all you’re good for? Who rated you as a good ? Did your holes get five star reviews anywhere?”
“I…”
“Aside, now.”

I dutifully obeyed, standing ready to be inspected again. The baker took the next customer’s order, and gestured towards me, asking her if she thought I was good enough to be used. She approached me and inserted her fingers into my mouth, as deep as they’d go, making me gag. “This is a really cute little whore mouth, but it could definitely be a little hungrier”.

As the line progressed, they each inspected my mouth, and slid under my skirt to inspect my pussy and my butthole with their fingers. After receiving their coffees or toasted pastries, they gave their judgement. “This asshole is too tight, I’m not sure it’d be any use to me.”

I felt myself sweat and tense up with their digits inside me – violated, rejected, and horny. I wanted to protest each negative comment and justify myself, but as soon as I took a breath to say something more hands would force themselves into my lips, wetting the fingers before trying my other orifices. When the line was done, the Baker sent me off with contempt: “I don’t think anyone would pay for you, slut. It’s no wonder you let randoms finger you for free. Don’t come back here.”

But I Remain Persistent

When I returned the next morning, he seemed genuinely surprised to see me. “What the fuck are you doing here again?”
“May I please have a glass of hot milk? I will be more useful today.”
“You better. You don’t seem to have any other purpose in life. Aside.”

This time I had initiative: I leaned on the counter next to him, resting my breasts and face on the fake stone surface. Bent over, my short skirt was pulled up, exposing my naked hips, giving easy access to my holes. A shiny, large butt plug reflected the sunlight into a pink kaleidoscope on the white walls. When the first fingers entered my mouth, I licked and sucked eagerly and allowed them to touch the back of my throat, holding back any resistance. I was proud when the positive remarks started flowing in: “Oh wow, what a hungry little mouth she has!”

Soon someone had removed my plug, and customers marvelled at how fingers slid easily in and out of me, and how juicy my cunt felt. They tried sliding multiple fingers in, until someone pulled out a hairbrush from their bag to penetrate me with. The growing crowd collaborated to find increasingly bigger things to place inside me while waiting for their breakfast.

Soon a shiny rolling pin found its way slowly into my c^&t, and the handle of a photogenic spatula went in and out of my asshole. I was increasingly turned on, sweat running down my forehead, and desperately wanting to cum. But the hands all over me were not concerned with pleasuring me, only themselves.

When everyone had remarked on my holes, and sat down to eat or left with their orders, the Baker placed the plug back inside me, pulled down my skirt, forced me up and sent me on my way. Back home, I played the audio of the customer’s comments over and over, but also the glimpse of the Baker’s forearm and he lifted me off the counter.

And on the 6th day

On the sixth day, I opened my mouth to order, but the Baker interrupted me. “You’ve been here all fucking week ordering, but so far haven’t spent any money. How about you pay for all the time and space you’re been taking up?”
“How do you want me to pay? I will do anything.”
“I know you will, whore. How about you lay down here and make yourself useful?”

I laid back on the counter, hips over the edge. When the next customer placed their order, the Baker pointed to me. “We have a special today. Would you like to have our new fuck toy with your order?”
“Oh, I’m not sure, is it good? I am very picky with those…”
“It’s completely free. It’d be a shame for it to go to waste.”
“Oh, free? I guess I can’t really say no then. Thank you!”

The customer approached, climbed onto the counter and unceremoniously sat on my face, grinding her cunt against my mouth while the barista prepared her turmeric latte. I soon felt a stranger’s erection rubbing steadily against my pussy and heard the sound of a zipper undone. A swollen cock plunged easily into my wet cunt, hammering my sensitive cervix.

A series of customers made use of my body parts to please themselves. Each member, hole and surface of my skin became a useful toy. My c&nt and asshole were popular stops, but I discovered that even a wrist or a knee could get someone off if they rubbed it enough.

The customers sometimes seemed to find a joint rhythm, going faster and harder together, suffocating me and tearing me as a collective. But they all came at different times, and I’d feel individuals quiver, scream, or drip out of me with a string of juice. As each was finished, they’d pull up their pants or pull down their skirts, grab their orders, and walk away.

Cum flowed down my legs into my heels, and down my face into my ears. Where a cock or finger or cunt had been it was quickly replaced by another, or maybe it was the same again – I couldn’t tell anymore, as they all blended into a raging mass of hungry parts.

I heard the shop quieten as rush hour finished, and as the last customer in line finished themselves in my asshole. I opened my eyes and they burned, lashes glued together with cum and tears. I didn’t want to move, afraid if I did my joints would break and my organs would fall through me. I saw the Baker’s upside down image when he leaned over me.

“Look at that, the whole neighbourhood emptied their balls and c*nt juice in you, for free, and they didn’t even know your name or look you in the face. You’re just a cheap thing, like the toilet paper roll I jerked off into in my break yesterday.”

I felt pain in my pussy again. Not the pain of being used beyond my limit, but the pain of being too turned on and having no release.

I whimpered: “May I please have a glass of hot milk?”
“And how would you like to pay for that, slut?”
“However you want.”
“You think using you is worth the same as a glass of milk? You just let all my customers use your holes for free, I don’t think they’re worth anything.”
“Please“

He let out a hearty laugh and undid his filthy apron. He heated up a jug of milk, walked around the counter, and forced me to kneel. As he slid his cock into my mouth, he poured the liquid slowly in between my legs and continued talking: “Look at your filthy cu$t… How much of a worthless whore would you have to be to cum just from sucking my cock?”

The hot milk flowing over my clit, his words and his meat raised me up and up, until the world exploded in pleasure and digital confetti.

My collection was complete.