Chapter 1: The Office of Despair
The air tasted like dust and cheap perfume. Bethany felt the grit of the worn-out carpet digging into her knees. Each small movement ground it deeper. Her pigtails, tied too tight at the nape of her neck, swung forward with every desperate rock of her hips. The low hum of the building’s failing lights was drowned out by their own voices. Moans. High-pitched, artificial, echoing off the cracked plaster walls and rows of broken, skeletal office cubicles. Hers and Chloe’s. A constant, jarring soundtrack.
The massive silicone shaft stretching them both burned. Not with pain, not exactly, but with a raw, screaming sensitivity that obliterated thought. Every millimeter, every ridge, sent electric shocks radiating outwards, coiling deep in her belly, making her clench involuntarily around the intrusion. It wasn't just there; it was everything. It vibrated with their shared motion, a relentless thrum that turned nerve endings into live wires. She felt Chloe’s answering tremble through the connection, a shudder that traveled up the dildo’s core and into her own body. Chloe whimpered, the sound catching in her throat before morphing into another gasping moan. Her glossy red lips were parted, slick with spit, chin damp.
Bethany tried to focus on the carpet pattern beneath her hands. Faded grey swirls. Anything. But the relentless, amplified sensation between her legs pulled her back. Her tiny skirt, already shoved high above her hips, offered no modesty. Cool air brushed her exposed skin, a brief contrast to the internal fire. She arched, pressing her ass back, seeking more contact, more of that punishing friction that felt like both agony and absolution. Her body wasn’t hers anymore. It was a vessel overflowing with sensation, wired to crave only this.
Across the void of the dildo, Chloe’s face was a mask of garish makeup. Thick streaks of black eyeliner were smudged, bleeding into the layers of heavy foundation and bright blue eyeshadow caked beneath her eyes. Tears had carved pale tracks through the makeup, but her expression flickered between pained grimace and vacant, slack-jawed ecstasy. Her own pigtails, unnaturally stiff with hairspray, bobbed wildly. She met Bethany’s gaze for a fleeting second. Fear. Shame. Then a fresh wave of sensation hit them both, Chloe's eyes rolling back as a sharp cry tore from her throat. Bethany mirrored it, her own forced moan rising higher, louder, filling the cavernous room.
"You see that flinch? Little jump she did?" A man's voice, rough, amused. Chuck. He leaned against a cubicle partition, the cheap laminate peeling under his elbow. He took a slow swig from a bottle of cheap beer, condensation dripping onto the floor. "Like a fuckin' live wire."
"Yeah, the doc really cranked their dials to eleven," another voice replied. Marco. He scratched his stubbled jaw, his eyes never leaving the spectacle. "Sensitivity mods. Whole fuckin' system. Hits 'em everywhere. Makes 'em… eager."
Bethany heard the words, processed them through the haze. Sensitivity mods. It explained the constant, unbearable hum in her nerves, the way the slightest touch felt like a brand, the impossible hunger that gnawed even now, even here. She remembered needles. Cold tables. Bright lights. Screaming. Then… nothing but this endless, aching need.
Chloe let out another choked sob that dissolved into a shuddering gasp as Bethany rocked forward again. The movement ground the base of the dildo harder against Bethany’s own sensitive flesh, a fresh jolt tearing through her. She cried out, the sound high and thin.
"Told ya they wouldn't give a shit," Chuck said conversationally, nodding towards the girls. "Once the juice hits, they're gone. Just holes needing filled." He took another drink. "Remember those boyfriends? The mouthy one, Jared? Blond kid?"
Marco snorted. "Shit, yeah. Thought he was tough shit. Talkin' big about finding his girl." He gestured vaguely with his beer bottle towards Chloe. "Found him alright. Dumbass was sniffin' around the old docks."
Bethany froze. Jared. Chloe’s Jared. The name sliced through the fog of sensation like ice. She felt Chloe stiffen violently against her, the dildo shifting painfully inside them both.
"What'd you do?" Marco asked, a lazy curiosity in his voice.
Chuck shrugged, the movement casual. "Took care of it. Him and the other one… what was his name? The quiet one always lugging books?" He snapped his fingers. "Ethan."
Ethan. Bethany’s breath hitched. Her Ethan. Quiet, gentle Ethan with his worn paperbacks and shy smile. A tremor started deep within her, unrelated to the dildo.
"Put 'em in the trunk," Chuck continued, his tone flat, matter-of-fact. "Drove 'em out to the quarry. Quick.Clean. Dropped 'em in. Water's deep there. Cold." He took a final swig, emptying the bottle. "Problem solved. They ain't lookin' anymore."
Silence fell for a beat, thick and heavy. The moans had stopped. Bethany stared at the filthy carpet. Ethan. Quarry. Cold water. The words echoed, each one a hammer blow against the fragile walls containing the ocean of sensation inside her. She felt Chloe trembling violently now, a low, animal whine escaping her lips.
Then the hunger roared back. Stronger. It surged up, a tsunami obliterating grief, shock, horror. The sensitivity, the desperate, chemically amplified need, flared white-hot. It demanded action, demanded relief. The pause, the moment of devastating understanding, was ruthlessly crushed under the biological imperative they had no power to resist.
Chloe moved first. A desperate, jerking thrust backwards, grinding herself onto the dildo with a ragged gasp, her eyes squeezed shut, tears streaming through the ruined makeup. The movement jolted Bethany violently forward. The intense friction sparked a fresh, blinding wave of sensation. It hurt. It felt like tearing. It felt like the only thing that mattered.
Bethany moaned. Long, low, and utterly broken. Not pleasure. Not grief. Just the raw, involuntary sound of a body pushed far beyond its limits, responding to a command etched into its rewired nerves. She pushed back against Chloe, matching her rhythm, the obscene slapping sound of flesh on flesh resuming, filling the silence left by the gangsters’ casual confession. Her vision blurred, the broken cubicles, the watching men, the tear-streaked face of Chloe mere inches away, all dissolving into a smear of color and light.
The dildo stretched, burned, consumed. The moans started again, higher now, edged with a new kind of frantic desperation. Echoing off the empty walls. Bethany kept her eyes fixed on the grey swirls in the carpet, a single, traitorous tear joining the sweat on her cheek. Ethan’s face flickered in her mind – his quiet smile, the way he tucked her hair behind her ear – then vanished, swallowed whole by the relentless, screaming void between her legs. She pushed harder. Faster. Seeking the oblivion only the next impossible shock of sensation could bring.
The slapping sounds resumed, wet and rhythmic, drowning out the ragged gasps that weren't quite moans anymore. Bethany kept her eyes glued to the grey swirls in the carpet, the pattern swimming. Chloe’s frantic rocking vibrated through the thick silicone core connecting them, each jolt sending fresh bolts of amplified sensation arcing through Bethany’s rewired nerves. Oblivion was a receding tide, leaving only the burning stretch, the impossible hunger, and the echo of Chuck’s flat voice: Quarry. Cold water. Ethan.
"Christ, look at 'em go," Marco chuckled, lighting a cigarette. The acrid smoke curled upwards, mingling with the cheap perfume and the coppery scent of exertion. "Like fuckin' wind-up toys. Just keeps winding tighter."
Chuck grunted, pushing off the cubicle wall. He crushed his empty beer bottle under his boot, the glass crunching loudly. His eyes, flat and assessing, scanned the girls still desperately impaled on the shared dildo. He walked a slow circle around them. Bethany flinched as his shadow fell over her.
"Winding down though, ain't they?" he observed, his voice rough. He stopped behind Bethany, his presence a heavy pressure. "Need a recharge. Juice wears off, the bitchy comes back." He nudged her hip with the toe of his boot. "Hey, Sweetcheeks."
Bethany whimpered, the vibration in her throat triggering another ripple of unwanted sensation low in her belly. She couldn’t stop rocking. Didn’t dare.
"Got somethin' for ya," Chuck said, a low laugh rumbling in his chest. His hands went to his belt buckle. The metallic clink cut through the rhythmic sounds and Chloe’s choked whimpers. "Little pick-me-up. Marco, hold Blondie steady."
Marco stubbed his cigarette out on the cubicle partition and moved with lazy efficiency. He crouched in front of Chloe, gripping her shoulders firmly. Her wide, terrified eyes darted to his face, then back to Bethany, pure panic flaring through the glaze of artificial need. "Easy there, sunshine," Marco murmured, his tone devoid of warmth. "Just hold still for Chuck."
Bethany felt the shift behind her. Chuck’s large, calloused hands gripped her hips, thumbs digging into the dimples above her ass. He yanked her back, adjusting her position, angling her higher. The dildo shifted violently inside her, a fresh wave of blinding sensitivity making her cry out. Then came the unmistakable pressure of something else, blunt and hot, pressing against the stretched, hypersensitive ring of muscle already occupied by the thick base of the dildo.
"No," Bethany breathed, the word barely a whisper, lost in the gasp that followed as he forced his way in. It wasn’t penetration for penetration’s sake. It was intrusion. Violation amplified a thousand times by the chemical modifications screaming through her nerves. The pressure was immense, unbearable, filling the space beside the silicone, stretching tissue already raw and screamingly alive. It burned with a different kind of fire. A hot, insistent pressure building deep inside her rectum.
She froze. Every muscle in her body locked rigid. The only movement was the frantic trembling she couldn’t control. She felt impossibly full, stretched to splitting, the internal pressure mounting like a dam about to burst. Behind her, Chuck grunted, a sound of effort and base satisfaction.
"Feelin' that, ain't ya, Sweetcheeks?" His breath was hot on her neck. "Good medicine. Gotta take it all." He shifted his stance, groaning softly. The internal pressure surged, a deep, liquid heat flooding the cramped space, adding weight, scalding the already overloaded nerves. Bethany’s vision greyed at the edges. She tasted bile. The humiliation was a physical blow, worse than any punch.
"Hold her tight, Marco," Chuck ordered, his voice thick. Marco’s grip on Chloe’s shoulders tightened, pinning her in place. Chloe’s eyes were wide saucers of terror, fixed on Bethany’s face.
Bethany felt Chuck withdraw, the sudden emptiness almost as shocking as the intrusion. But the pressure inside her remained, a heavy, urgent fullness that her modified body instinctively recognized as violation yet also as a deep, perverse trigger. Her system screamed. Not just in protest, but in a terrifying, traitorous demand for release. The pressure had to go.
"Alright, Sweetcheeks," Chuck said, stepping back. He zipped his fly with a decisive rasp. "Pay it forward. Give it to Blondie. Now."
The command punched through the haze. Her body obeyed before her mind could form a protest. The unbearable pressure demanded expulsion. It overrode grief, horror, the echo of Ethan’s name. It overrode everything but the biological imperative seared into her altered nervous system. Release.
With a guttural groan that was part sob, part animal reflex, Bethany bore down. Hard.
The warm, acrid flood surged out of her with shocking force. Not a trickle, but a stream, propelled by the violent clenching of muscles reacting to impossible stimuli. It shot straight across the scant foot of space separating her from Chloe, propelled by the raw mechanics of her expulsion.
Chloe had no chance. Marco held her head firmly, his hand tangling in her stiff blonde pigtails, forcing her face forward. Her mouth was open in a soundless scream choked off as the stream hit her full in the face. It splashed over her heavy makeup, over her wide, horrified eyes, over her gaping mouth.
For a second, Chloe froze, gagging violently, her body convulsing. Her eyes, wide with utter terror and disbelief, locked onto Bethany's. Then, the biological imperative struck her too. The hypersensitive nerves in her mouth, throat, and stomach, wired for constant stimulation, reacted. Her gag reflex was brutally suppressed by the overwhelming flood of sensation hijacking her system. Her throat worked.
Swallowing.
Once. Twice. A desperate, convulsive gulp forced by the chemical prison screaming for satisfaction inside her. A tear, thick with black mascara, cut a clean track through the mess on her cheek.
Chuck laughed, a harsh bark echoing in the hollow space. "See, Marco? Works every fuckin' time. Reset the bitch." He slapped Bethany hard on the ass, the sting merging with the fading internal burn. "Good girl."
The slap stung, a sharp counterpoint to the fading internal burn. "Good girl." Chuck’s approval tasted like bile in Bethany’s throat. She was still braced on all fours, the massive silicone shaft buried deep, Chloe’s trembling form inches away. The acrid reek of ammonia hung thick in the dusty air, mixing with cheap perfume and cigarette smoke. Warm wetness trickled down her inner thighs.
Chloe choked. Gagged. Thick, dark streaks of ruined makeup ran from her eyes, mingling with the viscous yellow stream coating her chin, her neck, the front of her tiny skirt. Her chest heaved. She tried to retch again, her body convulsing against Marco’s iron grip on her shoulders, but only a thin whimper escaped her glossy red lips. Her eyes, impossibly wide, darted from Marco’s impassive face to Bethany’s. Utter devastation swam beneath the chemical glaze.
Then, the twist. The familiar, terrifying surge deep in Chloe’s belly. The mods. The wiring. The need. It slammed into her like a freight train, obliterating revulsion, obliterating horror. Her hypersensitive nerves screamed more. The taste, the smell, the sheer sensory overload flooding her mouth and skin – it wasn’t rejection. It was fuel. A vile, forbidden charge to the system already primed for constant fire.
Her glazed eyes locked onto Bethany’s mouth. A desperate, animal whine vibrated in her throat. Her tongue, shockingly pink against the mess, darted out, swiping across her own slick lips. Tasting. Swallowing convulsively again. A shudder ran through her, but her gaze didn’t waver. Hunger, raw and terrifying, burned through the tears.
"See?" Chuck chuckled, lighting another cigarette. His voice was a gravelly rasp. "Told ya. Reset."
Marco’s grip on Chloe’s shoulders relaxed slightly, a cruel smile playing on his lips. "Do it, Blondie. Clean up your mess. Share the wealth."
The command hung in the air. Chloe didn’t hesitate. The compulsion was absolute. She lunged forward, her stiff pigtails swinging. Not towards Bethany’s eyes, but straight for her mouth.
Bethany flinched back instinctively, a sob catching in her throat. But Chloe’s hands, clumsy in their platform heels, grabbed Bethany’s face, fingers digging into her cheeks. Her thumbs pressed painfully near the corners of Bethany’s mouth. Forced it open.
Then Chloe’s lips were on hers. Hard. Insistent. Not a kiss. An invasion.
The taste hit Bethany like a physical blow. Acrid. Salty. Bitter. The unmistakable tang of urine, thick and cloying, filled her mouth, coated her tongue. She gagged, tried to twist away, but Chloe held fast, her own mouth opening wider, forcing her tongue past Bethany’s lips. It pushed the vile fluid deeper.
Revulsion surged, hot and acidic. Bethany’s stomach clenched. Tears welled, blurring the image of Chloe’s ruined face pressed against hers. She could feel the sticky wetness on Chloe’s chin smearing against her own skin. Smell the cheap floral perfume drowned by the ammonia.
But the wiring. Oh God, the wiring. The sheer, overwhelming sensation.
Chloe’s tongue was a desperate, searching thing, driven by chemical imperative. It slid against Bethany’s, probing, demanding, spreading the warm, salty fluid between them. Every point of contact – lips, tongue, the slick press of skin – was amplified a thousandfold by the mods. Nerve endings Bethany never knew existed screamed into life, not just in her mouth, but radiating outwards, a sickening echo of pleasure-pain blooming in her core, her breasts, the stretched, burning space between her legs still occupied by the dildo. It was a feedback loop of violation. The taste was abhorrent, but the physical sensation… it was intense. Consuming.
A low moan vibrated in Chloe’s chest, transmitted through the pressure of their mouths. Her grip tightened on Bethany’s face. She sucked Bethany’s lower lip into her mouth, worrying it, her teeth scraping lightly, sending another jolt of unwanted, amplified sensation through Bethany’s body. Bethany’s own traitorous nerves responded. A shiver ran through her, unrelated to the cold. Her hips gave an involuntary, tiny rock against the dildo still connecting them. A small, choked sound escaped her, muffled by Chloe’s mouth. Not quite a moan. Not quite a sob.
The gangsters watched. Chuck blew a perfect smoke ring. Marco nudged Chuck’s arm, nodding at the girls locked in their obscene embrace. "Fuckin' efficient. Cleans up the mess and keeps 'em busy." He grinned. "Doc deserves a bonus."
Bethany squeezed her eyes shut. The world narrowed to the punishing stretch inside her, the relentless vibration thrumming through the silicone, the wet, sucking sounds of Chloe’s mouth moving desperately against hers, the impossible, nauseating taste they shared. She could feel the damp patch where Chloe’s skirt pressed against her thigh. Smell the chemical floral scent clinging to Chloe’s hair beneath the reek.
Chloe pulled back slightly, gasping, a thin strand of saliva – tinged yellow – stretching between their swollen, red-stained lips. Her eyes, still wide, flickered with a terrifying mixture of profound shame and an insatiable, chemically-programmed craving. Her gaze dropped hungrily back to Bethany’s mouth. She leaned in again, her tongue seeking the lingering taste.
The taste lingered. Bitter salt. Ammonia sharp. Chloe’s tongue pushed deeper, frantic, desperate to reclaim every trace of the violation, driven by the chemical firestorm in her nerves. Bethany’s own body betrayed her, a low hum building despite the revulsion tightening her throat. The massive dildo still connected them, a constant thrum beneath the chaos.
A harsh laugh cut through their tangled breathing. Chuck loomed over them, the smell of cheap beer and cigarettes thick on him. "Look at these two lovebirds," he sneered, nudging Marco with an elbow. "All kissy-kissy after their little golden shower."
Marco grinned, his teeth yellow in the dim light. "Guess they got a taste for it. Real connoisseurs."
"Shame their boyfriends ain't here to see it," another voice called from the shadows near a gutted filing cabinet. Rico. He stepped forward, already unzipping his fly with deliberate slowness. "Bet Jared woulda loved this show. His precious Chloe, lapping up piss like a bitch in heat."
Chloe flinched violently against Bethany’s mouth at Jared’s name, a choked sob muffled by their kiss. But her tongue didn’t stop its frantic exploration. The compulsion overrode the fresh stab of grief.
"Yeah," Chuck drawled, his own hand going to his belt. "What about your quiet little bookworm, Bethy? Ethan? Wouldn't he just love seeing his shy girl getting painted by the whole crew?" He laughed, a harsh bark. "Bet he thought you were sweet. Pure. Bet he never dreamed his little scholar was born to be a toilet."
The words hit Bethany like physical blows. Ethan. Sweet. Pure. Images flickered – his gentle hands turning pages, the shy smile he saved only for her. Obliterated by the image Chuck forced into her mind: Ethan witnessing this. The shame was molten, searing. She tried to pull away from Chloe, but Chloe clung tighter, her moan deepening, hips grinding unconsciously against the shared dildo, seeking sensation to drown the horror.
"Get 'em on their knees proper," Rico ordered, his voice thick with anticipation. "Facing each other. Let's give 'em a proper baptism."
Rough hands grabbed them. Marco hauled Chloe upright by her stiff pigtails, eliciting a sharp yelp. Chuck yanked Bethany back, disengaging the dildo with a slick, obscene pop that sent fresh shocks through her oversensitive body. The sudden emptiness was almost as shocking as the intrusion. They were dragged forward, knees scraping the rough carpet, and shoved to face each other, mere inches apart. The shared dildo lay discarded on the filthy floor between them, glistening.
The circle tightened. Five men now, shadows coalescing around the dim light filtering from the broken ceiling fixture. Zippers rasped. The acrid scent of anticipation mixed with the stench of sweat, cheap perfume, and lingering urine.
"Keep kissing," Rico commanded, his voice flat. "Show us how much you love it. Show us how much better this is than anything your dead boyfriends ever gave you."
Bethany’s eyes met Chloe’s. Terror. Utter desolation. And beneath it, the insatiable, burning need the mods had wired into their very cells. Chloe’s lower lip trembled, slick with the remnants of their last kiss. Her gaze flickered down to Bethany’s mouth, then back up, a silent, agonized plea.
Bethany moved first. A small, broken noise escaped her as she closed the gap. Their lips met again. Not passionate. Desperate. A shared act of survival and surrender. Chloe responded instantly, her mouth opening, tongue seeking, a low whine vibrating in her chest. They kissed like drowning women sharing the last gasp of air, clinging to the only familiar anchor in a sea of violation – each other's ruined mouths.
A hot stream hit Bethany’s shoulder first. Stinging. Scalding against her bare skin. She jerked, but Chloe’s hands flew up, tangling in Bethany’s pigtails, holding her in place, forcing her to keep kissing even as the liquid heat splashed over her collarbone, dripped down her back.
"Look at that," Marco chuckled, adjusting his aim. "Like fucking target practice." His stream joined Rico’s, hitting Chloe square in the chest, soaking the flimsy fabric of her micro-skirt, plastering it to her skin. The warm fluid pooled in the hollow of her throat, trickling down between her breasts.
Chloe moaned into Bethany’s mouth, the sound vibrating against Bethany’s lips. Shame warred with the intense sensory feedback lighting up her rewired nerves. The warmth, the wetness, the sheer sensation – it registered, amplified, triggering involuntary tremors that weren't entirely revulsion.
Another arc hit Bethany’s face, splashing across her cheek, getting in her eye. She squeezed it shut, her lips still locked with Chloe’s, tasting salt and ammonia anew. The liquid ran down her nose, dripped onto Chloe’s chin. Chuck’s stream joined the deluge, hitting the top of Bethany’s head, warm liquid soaking into her scalp, running down her neck in rivulets, mingling with the streams already coating her body.
"What's Jared thinking now, Chloe?" Rico taunted, his stream unwavering, aimed at her bowed head. "Down in that cold quarry water? Thinking about his girl getting hosed down by real men? Bet he's jealous."
Chloe whimpered, a high-pitched sound lost in the wet smack of their kiss and the steady hiss of liquid hitting skin and fabric. Her body shuddered violently, but she pushed her tongue deeper into Bethany’s mouth, seeking, needing.
"And Ethan?" Chuck’s voice dripped with malicious glee as he aimed lower, the hot stream hitting Bethany’s lower back, running down the curve of her ass, soaking the waistband of her skirt. "Bet he thought you were clever. Bet he thought you were good. Look at you now, Bethy. Look what you really are. Just a piss hole. A warm place to dump our waste. Tell me he'd still want you. Tell me he wouldn't puke seeing this."
The words were knives. Each one carved deeper than the last, flaying her soul. Good. Clever. Ethan. The image of his gentle eyes filled her mind, so clear for a second it hurt more than the scalding streams. Would he puke? Yes. God, yes. And she wanted to puke. The taste, the smell, the overwhelming wet heat covering her, the relentless violation…
But her body. The goddamn wiring.
A fresh, heavier stream hit her directly in the face, forcing its way between her tightly closed lips pressed against Chloe’s. She had to open her mouth to breathe, choking as the warm, acrid fluid flooded in. It triggered a gag, but the hypersensitive nerves in her throat seized the sensation, twisting it. The gag morphed into a deep, guttural moan she felt vibrate up from her core. Her hips bucked forward, seeking friction against nothing but air, the phantom memory of the dildo’s stretch still echoing in her abused flesh.
Chloe mirrored the movement, grinding against the empty space between them, her own moan escalating, a sound of utter despair and impossible, chemically-induced ecstasy. Their kiss became a frantic, sloppy mess of tongues and shared fluid – saliva and urine mixing, dripping from their chins onto their chests, their exposed thighs.
The gangsters laughed, a chorus of harsh amusement echoing off the bare walls. The streams continued, relentless, marking them, erasing them. Dousing the last flickers of Bethany and Chloe, leaving only the desperate, hollowed-out shells that moaned and ground and swallowed whatever was offered, whatever was forced upon them. Under the downpour, locked in their degrading embrace, the only truth left was the burning need and the echoing question hanging in the stinging air: What would your boyfriends think? The answer drowned in the flood.