They had stripped him naked and blindfolded him with a leather hood. They gave him something to drink through a straw. It tasted sour and then sweet. The blood seemed to rush to the surface of his skin. Every pore was suffused. They tied him down. He could feel their fingerprints. They were running their hands all over him. Hundreds of hands. Freezing hot. And tongues, licking. Sucking mouths. He felt their stubble raking his sensitive flesh. Their breath on him. Then an explosion of pain rang through his body. It chimed and echoed through every piece of him. He could feel the sweat erupting out of his face and armpits. Then the hands returned, caressing, stroking. He tensed, rigid, waiting for the next onslaught. He wanted it. He needed it. When it struck, the semen shot out of him, splattering his chest, trickling down. And then nothing. Silence. He wondered if he was unconscious. Then he felt his hands being untied; his body was being sponged with a soft towel soaked in fragrant cologne. Then nothing. When he removed the hood, the twins were gone. The towel was tossed at the foot of the bed. There was blood on it. He slowly dressed himself. There was fifty dollars, he said, in the pocket of his jeans.