Chapter 5: Cleanup
Cathy cleaned up in the bathroom while Jason lurked in the hallway. No one else was in there with her, so she took a moment to really stare at herself. It was hard not to. The boss man had really slathered her. And she had barely touched him, really. He had tasted salty, when she first licked him, but then his cum had caught her by surprise. It was bitter. But stuck to her face like that, she looked like those women in those videos she'd seen Jason watching. That she'd watched with Jason once or twice. Whores. She looked like a whore.
That man had been married, she thought.
Cathy had sucked two other dicks. Jason's, and Evan's. And now, the random security guy at the movie theater, to get out of trouble.
She wiped at her face with a damp paper towel, then patted her face clean, looking for traces in her hair. It was like the man had been saving up all year for that moment. At least there wasn't a lot on her shirt.
Should she feel bad? Worse? Jason didn't seem too upset. A little embarrassed maybe, but she knew how he really felt. Jason was fine with it. More than fine. He was probably trying not to come in his jeans right now.
Cathy decided she could sort out her feelings later, while she was masturbating. Or maybe while Jason was going down on her. That would be a better time to really think through the complicated sociosexual dynamics of being sexually blackmailed into a back room blowjob. Later.
She put on a big smile for Jason, who was holding himself in a ginger posture in the hall, furtively casting glances at the other patrons. No one glanced at them twice. With her hoodie zipped up, she was just a mousy girl with a damp face. Not a whore with her tits hanging out.
"You zipped up," Jason said.
"Yeah." Cathy kept her voice flat.
"Probably a good choice," said Jason. "It's probably cold outside."
"Can you make it to the car without creaming in your jeans?" Cathy asked. A couple of teenagers passing them in the hallway looked at them oddly, but Cathy hardly noticed them.
Jason blushed. "Yes," he said. "If we walk slow."
They walked slow through the parking lot. It wasn't actually that cold, and with her hoodie zipped up, she was plenty warm. People did glance at them, but they didn't stare, not like they did when her neckline plunged to her navel and her breasts threatened to tumble out into the night air with every twitch of her shoulders. They strolled away from the ticket booth. Evan wasn't there to notice her messy face, thank God. No one seemed to notice her damp strands of hair or her smudged cheeks, but if anyone would spot an errant streak of jizz on her collar, it would be her ex.
They crossed the street and headed through the overflow lot to the back alley, behind iHop. The lot was mostly empty, now. The late showings were ended, and their dalliance in the back offices had given time for all but the most hardcore moviegoers to clear out.
"That was crazy," Jason said as they approached their car. "You were... I've never seen you do anything like that before."
"You mean get her tits out?"
Cathy spun to look behind them.
The three figures emerged from between two SUVs, their shapes blotting out the distant glow of a streetlight in the parking lot beyond the alley. It was the same three guys from the theater, the crashers who had caused the scene. The one in the center was the ringleader, the daredevil who had escalated things the most by taking off his shirt and pulling out his dick. The smell of vodka still emanated strongly, from all three of them.
“Think you can get us kicked out? Banned?” slurred the ringleader, his words thick and mean. “Think there's no price for that?”
Jason instinctively stepped in front of Cathy, his movement more habit than actual defense. God bless him, but he was two sizes too small to be much good in a fight against them, and Cathy knew it.
”We don't want a problem, guys," he said. "We're just out for little fun, right?"
A second man--the tall one who had gotten out his camera took a step forward, Cathy thought--stepped forward, his boots scraping on the asphalt. He wore a dark t-shirt and a gold chain. “Fuck your fun," he muttered. "We're the ones that got kicked out. We want our own apology. A proper one.”
Cathy’s throat tightened. "Sorry," she said.
It didn't matter that she wasn't. Not right now it didn't.
“Sure you are.” The ringleader grinned. “A sorry little slut who likes an audience. Now you got one, the pair of you.”
He lunged forward, not at Cathy, but at Jason, shoving him hard in the chest. Jason stumbled back into the side of their car, the impact knocking the wind from him with a pained oof. The keys he’d been clutching clattered to the pavement.
The tall one kicked them, sending them skittering under a nearby truck. “Oops.”
The third one grabbed Cathy’s upper arm, his grip a vice of calluses and heat. She cried out, a short, sharp sound that vanished into the vast night. "Don't you move," he said. "We've already decided how we're going to settle this."
Jason didn't seem to like the sound of that. He struggled, trying to resist. The others overpowered him easily. They slammed him against the cold side of the car, one clamping a hand over his mouth to muffle his shouts while the other grabbed the collar of his shirt. There was a brutal, ripping sound as the fabric gave way. "Get his fucking pants, too," the ringleader grunted, pinning Jason's thrashing legs.
Cathy begged.
"Stop it, please. We're sorry--just stop!"
Her words were useless, swallowed by the night and their laughter. Then the man holding her slapped her once, and she was quiet.
They worked with a rough, efficient cruelty, peeling his clothes off like skin until he was naked and shivering on the asphalt, his glasses knocked into the shadows. He instinctively curled in on himself. His hands flew down to shield his groin, a feeble defense against the exposed night. The ringleader, his breath still vodka-raw, seized both of Jason’s wrists in one large hand and wrenched them up above his head, pinning them to the car’s door with brutal force.
“Let’s see what we’re dealing with here,” he sneered, peering down.
A beat of silence hung in the alley, thicker than the tension. Then the tall one who’d kicked the keys snorted, a sharp, incredulous sound. “Wait. Are you fucking kidding me?”
The third man, still holding Cathy, leaned in for a better look, his grip slackening in sheer surprise. His laughter started low, a disbelieving chuckle that erupted into a full, roaring guffaw.
“Holy shit. That’s not a dick. That’s a cute little button. A fuckin’ belly button!”
Jason writhed, a desperate, pathetic motion, trying to twist his hips away. His exposed flesh, a small, underdeveloped clutch of skin and tiny, hairless testicles, seemed to shrivel further under the stark, unforgiving glare of the distant security lamp.
“Covering it won’t help, man, we already saw!” the ringleader howled, tears of mirth in his eyes. “What is that? Did it get scared and hide? Did you check if it’s even attached?”
“It’s like a peanut,” the tall one crowed. “A cold, scared peanut. No wonder your girlfriend’s doing theater tricks for extra kicks!”
Cathy jerked against the arm holding her. “Stop it!” she shouted, her voice cracking. “He has a condition, you assholes! It’s a medical thing. It’s not his fault.”
Her words only fueled them.
“A medical thing?” the ringleader echoed, mimicking a concerned tone. “Oh, that’s tragic. A real tragedy. Here I was thinking nature just forgot to finish him.” He looked from Jason’s tear-streaked face to Cathy’s defiant one. “So what’s your medical condition, sweetheart? Nympho? Because a guy packing that ain’t doing it for you. We saw you in there. You need real work.”
Jason stopped struggling, going utterly still except for the violent tremors that wracked his frame. His eyes, wide and unseeing, were fixed on the dirty sky above the alley. The laughter washed over him, a physical scourge.
The man holding Cathy gave her a little shake. “He’s got a medical condition, and you’ve got a public indecency condition. You two are a perfect match.”
The ringleader finally released Jason’s wrists, wiping his own eyes as he straightened up. "Actually, you've got a point, Drew. They are a match. Take off her clothes, too."
The man holding Cathy didn’t hesitate.
His hands, which had been gripping her arms, now tore at the front of her zipped hoodie. The zipper gave with a sharp, plastic crack, and he yanked the fabric down her shoulders, trapping her arms at her sides.
“Get the rest,” the ringleader said, his earlier laughter now a flat, hungry command.
The others stepped in, grabbing the hem of Cathy’s thin shirt. They didn’t bother with finesse. The cheap cotton ripped along the seam with a sickening tear, exposing her bare breasts to the night air. She gasped, the sound swallowed by the vast, indifferent dark of the alley.
“Please,” she whispered, but the word was meaningless.
They wrestled her out of the rest of her clothes easily; she stopped resisting. Her jeans and underwear were peeled down her thighs in one rough motion, the denim scraping against her skin before pooling around her ankles. A cold knot of traffic air hit her fully, raising goosebumps across her stomach and legs.
She was naked.
“Hands down. At your sides,” the ringleader barked, his humor gone, replaced by a clinical cruelty. “Don’t you cover up. You wanted to be seen, now be seen.”
He shoved her toward the car, next to Jason. Her shoulder bumped against his, and she felt the violent tremor running through him. “You too, button-boy. Stand up straight. Hands down. Let’s get a proper look at the pair of you.”
Jason uncurled slowly, his movements robotic with shame. He, like her, seemed to sense that the only way to get through this was to cooperate. He straightened his spine beside her, his pale, soft body glistening with sweat under the security lamp. His hands, clenched into fists, reluctantly fell to his sides.
Cathy mirrored the stance, the asphalt cold and gritty beneath her bare feet. The distant hum of the freeway was the only sound apart from their ragged breathing. She stared straight ahead at the brick wall of the iHop, focusing on a dark stain there, anything but the three pairs of eyes raking over her body.
A wave of pure, mundane horror washed over her, utterly incongruous with the violence of the moment. God, she wished she had shaved her pubes. The thought was idiotically vivid. The dark, messy thatch of auburn hair between her legs felt obscenely public, a personal untidiness exposed under the brutal, unflattering light. It was worse than the nudity, somehow.
“There,” said Drew, his voice holding a note of grotesque satisfaction. “You're right, Carrey. They're a matching set." He already had his phone out. The screen’s glow lit his chin from below, making his face a ghastly mask. He tapped the record button. A tiny red dot began to pulse. “Smile for the folks,” he said, his voice flat.
“Look at the rack on this one,” the third guy said, stepping closer to Cathy. He didn’t touch her, just circled, his finger hovering an inch from her nipple. “I’ve seen bigger tits in junior high. These are sad.”
Cathy’s breath hitched. She kept her eyes on the brick wall, on the stain, her vision blurring. The cold air pebbled her skin, making her breasts feel even smaller, tighter. A useless defense.
“He's the real show, tough,” the ringleader crowed, directing Drew’s phone toward Jason’s groin. “Jesus, come in for a close-up on this. Get a fuckin’ microscope.”
Drew obliged, zooming in. The digital whirr was obscenely loud. Jason made a sound, a choked sob that he swallowed back.
“That is a baby dick,” the ringleader continued, his tone one of mock scientific fascination. “No, seriously. That’s what a baby’s dick looks like. Is it even all the way out? Did it get scared and turtle up forever?”
“Turn around,” Drew ordered, his voice devoid of emotion. “Both of you. Show the full product.”
For a moment, neither of them moved. The third guy solved it by shoving Jason’s shoulder, spinning him roughly to face the car. Cathy followed, her movements stiff, each rotation a fresh wave of exposure. The gritty asphalt bit into the soles of her feet.
“Hands on the hood. Arch your backs. Let’s see the goods from behind.”
They complied. The metal was shockingly cold against Cathy’s palms. She heard Jason’s teeth chattering beside her. She pressed her forehead against the chilled paint, shutting her eyes.
“I mean, at least she as an ass though,” the third guy mused, his commentary for the video. “A fat white ass at least. And his… look at that. Him too. A fat, jiggly white ass."
Drew panned the phone slowly, capturing every angle. “Move your feet apart. Wider.”
They shuffled their feet apart. The stance was deeply vulnerable, humiliating. Cathy felt a hot trickle of urine threaten, born of pure terror, and clenched every muscle to stop it.
"Get their clothes together," said Carrey, the ringleader. The third man, David they called him, scurried away. "And bring me their key. It went under the truck over there. "
David returned, a bundled heap of their clothes and shoes clutched to his chest. He didn't need to be told what to do, apparently. He just tossed everything he had gathered straight into the noxious-smelling dumpster by the car, and all their torn clothing tumbled in to mix with the iHop garbage with a rustle. Cathy thought she heard Jason whimper. She felt bad for him, and more than a little afraid for herself. He was so ashamed of his little dick, and now it was on display in front of these bullies. Who knew what they would do, to make themselves feel square? Jason was beside himself, totally melting down.
David snickered and dangled Jason’s key fob from his finger, its little silver loop catching the weak light. Carrey snatched it, his thumb finding the button. The car behind them chirped, the locks sliding open with a definitive, echoing thunk that sealed their fate more completely than any spoken threat.
“Okay,” Carrey said, pocketing the keys. He glanced at Drew, who was still panning the phone across their trembling, exposed bodies. “Drew. Stop recording.”
The red light on the phone vanished. The screen went dark. Drew lowered the device, his expression unreadable in the shadows.
A thick, terrible silence filled the alley, broken only by Jason’s shallow, wheezing breaths. Cathy slowly turned her head from the hood, the cold metal leaving a pattern on her skin. She looked at Carrey, her voice a frayed thread of sound. “What are you going to do?”
Carrey took a step closer. He looked from her naked form to Jason’s, then back to her face. He rubbed his chin, the stubble making a sandpaper sound. A slow, considering smile spread beneath his eyes, which held no warmth at all.
“We’re still owed,” he said, his tone conversational, as if discussing a bar tab. “A real apology. Not that weak shit you said before.” He gestured loosely toward Jason, who had begun to weep silently, his shoulders shaking. “Since your boyfriend here clearly isn’t equipped to handle you… maybe we should all take a turn having sex with Cathy while Jason watches. Call it a practical demonstration.”
The words didn’t seem real at first. They hung in the cold air, mixing with the scent of dumpster rot and asphalt. Cathy blinked, her forehead still pressed to the car’s cold metal. She processed the sentence, word by awful word.
A turn.
All of them.
While Jason watched.
Her mind, scrambling for any ledge to grip, landed on a bizarrely practical question. It fell from her lips before she could stop it, her voice hollow and flat.
“Are you serious?” she asked, the words barely a whisper. She turned her head to look at Carrey, his features hard under the security lamp. “If I have to… if I fuck all of you, then you’ll let us go? Just like that?”
Carrey’s eyebrows lifted, a flicker of surprise at her bluntness. He shrugged, a slow roll of his shoulders. “Sounds good to me. Clean transaction. You get your freedom, we get a real apology. Everybody wins.”
He glanced at his friends for confirmation, a smirk playing on his lips. Drew was staring at the ground, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. David, who had tossed their clothes, looked suddenly pale, his earlier bravado gone. The alley felt different now, the silence heavier.
“Whoa, hold on, man.” Drew’s voice was low, strained. He wouldn’t meet Carrey’s eyes. “Getting even is one thing. This is… that’s a different thing.”
David nodded fast, rubbing the back of his neck. “Nah, Carrey. We’re not rapists. That's is fucked up.”
Carrey’s smirk only widened into a grin. "Yeah, you're right. But did you see how quick this bitch got ready to do it? And she would do it, too, wouldn't she? You could tell she's the type, right?"
The others laughed, a strained, nervous sound that echoed off the brick. David shuffled his feet, relieved. Drew just watched, phone still heavy in his hand. Carrey was silent for a few minutes, thinking. Then he nodded.
"I have a better idea," he said. "And something that won't leave our DNA evidence all over her, too." He pushed a button on the key fob. Beside them, the trunk of their car popped open.
"Alright, little dick," he said to Jason. "You get in first. You're going for a ride."