Chapter 17: The Expansion
The whiskey bottle on the coffee table was half-empty, but Arthur hadn’t touched it. He sat in his armchair, the same one he’d read the paper in for a decade, and stared at the liquid amber inside. It was Tuesday. The echoes of Saturday night lived in his body like a low-grade fever—a persistent ache in his lower back, a raw tenderness that made sitting an exercise in careful positioning. The silent, gone place the sober client had described had become his permanent address.
Vivian had been different since the club. Not kinder. Just more proprietorial. She moved around him like he was a valuable, if slightly temperamental, appliance. She’d bought him a tube of expensive hemorrhoid cream and left it on his pillow without a note. She’d also, he’d discovered, cleared out a drawer in her sleek, modern dresser. In it, she’d placed the pink lace panties, the stockings, the fake breasts. A dedicated uniform.
The doorbell chimed, a cheerful two-tone sound that made Arthur flinch.
“That’ll be them!” Vivian called from the kitchen, her voice bright with hostess energy. She emerged, wiping her hands on a towel. She wore a silky black jumpsuit that hugged every curve. Her hair was perfect. “Arthur, be a darling and get the door. I’m just finishing the olives.”
He didn’t ask who ‘them’ was. The list of possible guests had narrowed to a single, terrible category. He pushed himself up, the motion stiff, and walked to the foyer.
Through the peephole, he saw a distorted cluster of figures. He recognized two of the regulars from Vivian’s earlier, more discreet gatherings: Mark, the smug finance guy, and Dave, the loud one who always talked about his boat. With them were three other men. One was huge, with a shaved head and a neck so thick it strained the collar of his denim shirt. He had the resting, placid expression of a bulldog.
Arthur opened the door.
“Arthur! My man!” Dave boomed, clapping him on the shoulder as he brushed past. The others followed, a wave of cologne and bullish energy filling the sterile space. The big man had to duck slightly to clear the doorway. He looked at Arthur, his eyes a pale, disinterested blue, and gave a slow, silent nod.
Vivian swept in, a martini shaker in hand. “Everyone, welcome! Drinks are in the living room. Arthur, take coats.”
It was a familiar command, a relic of their old life. He held out his arms, and the men dumped their jackets on him—a puffy down vest, a leather bomber, a flannel. The big man just shook his head, keeping his denim shirt on.
In the living room, Vivian had dimmed the lights and turned on the gas fireplace. Its fake flames danced, casting long shadows. On the couch, looking utterly at home with a martini already in hand, was Chloe, Vivian’s friend from the real estate office. She was a redhead with a sharp laugh and eyes that missed nothing. She waved her glass at the men.
“The entertainment committee has arrived, I see,” she said, her tone light.
Mark laughed, pouring himself three fingers of Arthur’s good Scotch. “You know it, Chloe. Heard the new recruit here is a real team player.” He winked at Arthur, who stood frozen by the archway, an armful of coats feeling like the only shield he had.
The big man, Brick, finally spoke. His voice was a low rumble, like stones grinding together. “This the guy?” he asked Vivian, not even glancing at Arthur.
“This is him,” Vivian confirmed, placing a hand on Brick’s massive arm. “We thought you might like to break him in properly. He’s… tight.”
Brick’s lips curved into something that wasn’t a smile. “I don’t do tight. I do ruined.”
A cold nausea, deeper than any he’d felt at the club, pooled in Arthur’s gut. This wasn’t a commercial transaction anymore. This was sport. In his own home.
Chloe patted the couch cushion beside her. “Come sit, Vivian. Best view in the house.” Vivian joined her, crossing her legs, sipping her martini. From the coffee table, she picked up the small black remote. The one that had been at the club. She must have brought it home.
“Arthur,” she said, her voice sweet. “Why don’t you be a good host and get on your knees? Brick came a long way.”
The other men chuckled, settling into armchairs, drinks in hand. Spectators.
Arthur’s legs moved him to the center of the room, onto the polished hardwood. He knelt. The floor was unforgiving.
Brick unzipped his worn jeans. What emerged was not human. It was a thick, veined, and ruddy shaft of flesh, already fully erect, monstrous in its proportions. It seemed to defy the room’s dim light, a brutal fact.
“Open,” Brick said.
Arthur’s jaw trembled. He parted his lips.
Brick didn’t guide himself. He simply stepped forward, grabbed a fistful of Arthur’s hair, and shoved himself into his mouth.
It was an immediate, violent invasion. Arthur gagged, his throat seizing, tears springing to his eyes. The taste was salt and skin and sheer overwhelming presence. He couldn’t breathe. His hands came up, fluttering weakly at his sides.
“Whoa, look at him choke!” Dave laughed, pointing.
“Tiny mouth for a tiny dick,” Mark added, taking a sip of Scotch.
Brick held him there, buried to the hilt, watching Arthur’s face turn mottled red. He slowly pulled back, then thrust forward again, setting a rough, deep rhythm. Each drive hit the back of Arthur’s throat, triggering a wet, frantic gag. Spit dripped down his chin. His eyes rolled, seeking some anchor, and found Vivian and Chloe on the couch.
Vivian was smiling. She held the remote loosely. “He’s trying so hard,” she murmured to Chloe.
“Needs encouragement,” Chloe said. She leaned over and tapped the remote screen.
A familiar buzz ignited deep inside Arthur’s core, the plug from the club now reactivated in his own living room. The dual violation—the brutal fullness in his mouth, the electric intrusion in his ass—short-circuited his nervous system. A muffled, pathetic sound escaped him around Brick’s girth.
“Oh, he liked that,” Chloe giggled.
Brick picked up the pace, his hips pistoning. Arthur became a thing of pure function, a vessel for this pounding. He focused on the fireplace, the fake logs, the meticulously arranged flames that produced no heat. He was drowning on dry land.
After what felt like an age, Brick grunted, a sound of deep satisfaction. He pulled out, glistening and slick, and released Arthur’s hair. Arthur slumped forward, coughing violently, strings of saliva and pre-cum connecting his lips to the floor as he gasped for air.
“Okay,” Brick said, wiping himself on his jeans. “Flip him over. I’m ready for the main course.”
Hands—Mark’s and Dave’s—grabbed Arthur. They rolled him onto his stomach on the hard floor. Someone yanked his sweatpants and boxers down to his ankles. The cold air hit his exposed skin. The vibrator hummed, a cruel parody of anticipation.
Vivian’s voice, conversational, cut through the buzzing in his ears. “We did stretch him, but you’re… impressive, Brick. Be gentle at first.”
Brick knelt behind him, his knees cracking. “Gentle’s a waste of time.”
Arthur felt the blunt, enormous head press against him. It was like being prodded with a rolling pin. He clenched instinctively, a last, futile act of defiance.
Brick spat into his hand, slicked himself, and leaned his weight forward.
The pressure was catastrophic. It wasn’t a stretch; it was a splitting. Arthur screamed, a raw, tearing sound that echoed off the tasteful neutral walls. The invading thickness burned, shredding, a white-hot lance of pain that vaporized every other thought.
“Damn,” one of the men whispered.
Brick pushed harder, grunting with effort. There was a sickening, internal give, and he was inside, buried to the root. Arthur’s scream dissolved into choked, airless whimpers. The world dissolved into a single point of searing agony.
Then Brick began to move.
It was a slow, deliberate, devastating rhythm. Each withdrawal was a fresh torment, each thrust a brutal re-opening. Arthur could feel a hot, wet trickle down his inner thigh. Blood. He could smell it, coppery and intimate, mixing with the scent of polished wood and alcohol.
“Viv, get a shot of this,” Chloe said, her phone now up, its screen glowing. “The lighting is actually really good.”
“You’re right,” Vivian said, her own phone rising. She aimed it, her face a mask of casual concentration. “Arthur, honey, look at the camera. Show them how much you love it.”
Arthur couldn’t turn his head. His forehead was pressed against the cold hardwood, his body being rocked forward and back by Brick’s relentless, pile-driving thrusts. Each impact jolted a soft, involuntary cry from him.
“You hear that?” Brick panted, addressing the room. “Sounds like a stepped-on puppy.”
The men laughed. Mark refilled his glass.
Brick’s pace increased, becoming furious, punishing. The pain began to blur, edged with a shocking, unwanted flicker of something else—a deep, electrical connection to the still-buzzing plug, a grotesque full-circle violation. A long, shuddering moan was torn from Arthur’s throat, a sound of utter abject ruin.
That seemed to send Brick over the edge. He slammed home one final time, held himself there with a guttural roar, and emptied himself inside.
The room was quiet for a moment, save for the hum of the vibrator and Arthur’s ragged, wet breathing. Brick pulled out with a slick, obscene sound.
Arthur didn’t move. He lay on the floor, feeling the warm seep of blood and semen on his thighs, the cooler trickle of tears from his unseen face. The vibrator finally stopped; someone, probably Vivian, had turned it off.
“Hell of a show,” Dave said, breaking the silence.
“Need a towel, big guy?” Mark asked Brick.
Chloe was reviewing footage on her phone. “Oh, this is gold. The whimpering is just perfect.”
Vivian stood up, smoothing her jumpsuit. She walked over and looked down at Arthur. She nudged his hip with her toe. “You’ll need to clean this floor. And yourself. We have another group coming Thursday for the premiere.” She glanced at the others, a brilliant hostess smile on her face. “Who’s for another round of drinks? We’re celebrating.”
As the men migrated back to the bar, chatting about sports, Arthur slowly, agonizingly, pushed himself onto his hands and knees. The room swam. He looked at the small, dark red streaks on the pale hardwood. He looked at the half-empty whiskey bottle, so close yet utterly meaningless.
He saw the advertisement for the swinger's cruise. It promised days of sexy fun. He knew it wouldn't be fun for him.