Chapter 4: The Phone Call
The fluorescent lights buzzed like angry hornets trapped in the ceiling tiles. Mark’s knuckles were bone-white where he gripped the edge of his cheap particleboard desk. The Barclay files lay untouched, a grey smear in his peripheral vision. His phone felt hot, radioactive, against his ear. Ringing. Endlessly ringing. Each tone drilled into his skull.
Pick up. Pick up. Pick up.
The party noise bled through the connection – a muffled roar of laughter, thumping bass, the distant shriek of someone having too much fun. It sounded alien, hostile. Then, a click.
"Hello?" Becca’s voice. Distant. Thick. Like syrup poured over gravel.
"Becca!" Mark’s voice cracked. He cleared his throat, tried to sound normal. Failed. "Becca, it’s me. Are you… are you okay?"
Silence stretched. He could hear her breathing, slow and heavy. Then, faintly, the rustle of fabric. "Mmmhmm." The sound was drowsy, unconcerned. "Yeah. S’nice."
"Nice?" The word tasted like ash. "Becca, listen to me. Where are you? Are you inside?"
"Outside," she murmured. "Stars… pretty."
Mark squeezed his eyes shut. The deck. The bonfire light. The image from Dave’s video slammed back – her kneeling, exposed, vacant eyes fixed on Chad. "Becca, honey, I need you to focus. Are you alone?"
Another pause. He strained, listening. Beyond her slow breaths, he heard the crackle of the bonfire, the murmur of other voices drifting closer. Then, horrifyingly close to the receiver, Dave’s voice cut in, loud and cheerful, dripping with false innocence.
"Hey Becs! Want a popsicle? Found some in the freezer!"
Mark’s stomach lurched violently. No. No, no, no. The word ‘popsicle’ echoed in his head, Chad’s smooth, poisonous voice overlaying Dave’s stupid, oblivious one. Just a popsicle, Becca.
Becca’s response was immediate, dreamy. "Mmmhmm. Cold."
Dave chuckled, the sound gratingly close. "Yeah! Real cold. Here ya go."
Then, silence. A terrifying, loaded silence. Mark pressed the phone harder against his ear, straining until the plastic dug into his skin. The party noise faded into a dull, underwater roar. All he could hear was the faint hiss of the connection… and then…
A wet, soft sound. A gentle suction. Followed by a slow, rhythmic slurp.
Mark froze. Every muscle locked. His breath stopped dead in his lungs. The sound was unmistakable. Intimate. Obscene. It echoed the movements from the video – that slow, sensual glide, the hollowing of cheeks. Only now, it was amplified, horrifyingly close, transmitted directly into his ear through the cold plastic.
Slurp… suck… slurp…
It wasn’t frantic. It was deliberate. Almost… languid. Enjoyable. Becca emitted a soft, muffled hum of contentment. "Mmm. Sweet."
Dave’s voice again, closer than ever, a conspiratorial whisper that carried perfectly. "See? Told ya. Best popsicle ever, right?" A low chuckle followed. "You look good like that, Becs. Real good."
The rhythmic wet sounds continued. Slurp… suck… slurp… Each one was a physical blow. Mark could see it. He couldn’t not see it. Her lips wrapped around something thick and cold, her vacant eyes staring blankly ahead, Dave leering down at her. The image burned, warring violently with the treacherous heat coiling low in his own belly. Shame flooded him, hot and acidic, mixing with the bile rising in his throat.
He wanted to scream. To smash the phone against the grey cubicle wall. To vomit. His free hand clenched into a fist so tight his nails bit crescent moons into his palm. The fluorescent lights seemed to intensify, bleaching the color from the world, highlighting the cheap sterility of his prison. The hum of computers, the distant cough of a colleague – it all felt like a sick joke.
Slurp… suck… slurp…
Becca’s soft sigh drifted through the phone. "So cold… good."
Dave chuckled again. "Yeah? Wanna make it feel warmer?" There was a rustle, the distinct crinkle of plastic wrapper. "Open wide."
A fresh wave of nausea crashed over Mark. He tasted copper. His vision swam. The sounds – the wet sucking, the crinkling wrapper, Dave’s insinuating tone – merged into a single, unbearable assault. The arousal that had warred with his horror earlier shriveled, replaced by pure, unadulterated revulsion. This wasn't just Chad exploiting her trance anymore. Dave was in on it. Participating. Enjoying it. Turning his fiancée into a party trick.
He couldn’t listen. He couldn’t breathe. He ripped the phone away from his ear, gasping for air that tasted like dust and despair. The screen showed the call was still connected. The timer ticked upwards. Seconds stretched into an eternity filled with the phantom sounds echoing in his skull.
With a trembling hand, he jabbed the red 'End Call' button. The silence that followed was deafening. Oppressive. He stared at the black screen, his reflection distorted and pale in the glass. Sweat beaded on his forehead, cold and clammy.
The popsicle wrapper crinkle. Dave’s leer. Becca’s vacant hum. Slurp… suck… slurp…
It played on a loop behind his eyes. He lurched forward, hand flying to his mouth. A dry, wrenching heave convulsed his body. Nothing came up but bile and terror. He slumped back, trembling violently, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
The Barclay files. Gerald’s deadline. His career. It all dissolved into meaningless static. The only reality was the image of Becca kneeling outside that barn, lost somewhere inside her own head, surrounded by predators wearing friend’s faces, sucking on a goddamn popsicle while Dave watched and laughed.
Dave found some in the freezer. The thought sliced through the haze. Literal popsicles. Ice pops. The cheap, brightly colored kind. The absurdity of it – the sheer, stupid banality – hit him like a physical blow. Relief warred violently with a fresh wave of fury. Relief that it wasn't… that. Fury that Dave would do this. That he’d let it happen. That he’d film it. That he’d call him and make him listen.
But the relief was thin, brittle. It didn't erase the violation. It didn't bring Becca back. It didn't change the fact that she was out there, vulnerable, hypnotized, being used for cheap thrills.
The stale air in the cubicle felt thick enough to choke on. Mark stared blankly at his phone’s black screen, the phantom sounds of sucking and Dave’s voice still echoing, a sickening soundtrack stuck on repeat. His hand trembled violently against the cheap particleboard desk. She was still out there, lost, hypnotized, Chad’s stupid magic trick twisting her into this… this doll for their amusement.
His stomach roiled. Becca. His Becca. Kneeling in the dirt? Sucking on a goddamn popsicle someone handed her? The image was ludicrous, horrifying. He pictured her pirate wench costume, the white blouse probably smudged now, that confident spark in her eyes utterly extinguished, replaced by that terrifying vacancy from the first video.
The phone buzzed in his damp palm. Once. Hard. He flinched, nearly dropping it. A notification bloomed on the screen: Dave 🎃: lol check this out!! Proof! Not a popsicle!!
Mark’s breath hitched. Proof? Not a popsicle? The words swam before his eyes. Cold dread, sharp as ice, sliced through the lingering nausea and confusion. His thumb hovered over the screen, slick with sweat. Don’t open it. Don’t look. He knew. Oh god, he knew exactly what it would be. But the compulsion was a physical force, dragging his thumb down onto the notification.
The screen lit up, instantly loading the video Dave had just sent. The image was shaky, filmed vertically, obviously surreptitious. Grainy darkness, lit only by the flickering orange glow of the bonfire. And there she was. Becca.
She knelt on a patch of flattened grass near the barn’s shadowed wall. Her brunette hair tumbled forward, obscuring part of her face, but the vacant stare was unmistakable, catching the firelight like dull glass. Her pirate blouse was fully open now, pushed aside, her breasts bare and pale in the gloom. But that wasn’t the focus.
Dave stood awkwardly in the frame, mostly just his torso and legs visible from the waist down. He was facing her, hips slightly thrust forward. And Becca… her head was bowed. Her lips, slightly parted, were pressed against Dave’s exposed, erect cock. The angle was clear, obscene. Her mouth moved slowly, deliberately, taking him in. Up. Down.
The screen burned in Mark’s hand. Dave’s cock, thick and erect, filled the bottom half of the frame. Becca’s lips, flushed and parted, moved with deliberate, sensual slowness against Dave’s shaft. Up.Down. A smooth, practiced glide.
"See?" Dave’s voice hissed, barely audible over the distant party noise, thick with smug satisfaction. He shifted his stance, angling himself slightly for the camera. "Told you it wasn’t a popsicle, buddy. Proof positive."
Mark’s breath vanished. The fluorescent buzz of his cubicle seemed to intensify, merging with the ringing in his ears. His knuckles pressed white against the cheap desk edge, the Barclay files a forgotten blur. He watched, frozen, as Becca’s head tilted back slightly, her throat working.
She took him deeper. Her eyes, when they flickered towards the camera for a split second, held that same terrifying vacancy Chad had induced. Empty. Obedient. Yet her movements… they weren’t mechanical. They were… affectionate. Lingering. She paused at the base, her lips pressed against Dave’s skin, then began a slow, sucking ascent.
"Fuck yeah, Becs," Dave muttered, a low groan escaping him. He reached a hand down, not quite touching her head, hovering possessively. "That’s it. Just like that. Love that mouth."
Mark’s stomach clenched like a fist. Acid rose, scalding the back of his throat. He tasted copper. The heat that had warred with horror moments before evaporated, replaced by a cold, sickening dread that seeped into his bones. This wasn't just exploitation anymore. This was participation. Dave wasn't just watching; he was orchestrating. Reveling in it.
Becca hummed softly around Dave’s length, a low, contented vibration that carried faintly through the phone’s speaker. Her hand came up, not to push away, but to cradle Dave’s balls through his jeans, her touch seemingly tender. Loving. Her lips formed a tight seal as she pulled back, a soft, wet pop echoing in the recording before she sank down again, taking him fully.
"Goddamn," Dave breathed, his voice trembling with arousal. He shifted his hips forward, urging himself deeper into that warm, welcoming mouth. "Suck it, baby. Love that cock, don’t you?"
Mark felt the world narrow to the phone screen. The office vanished. His fiancée, the woman who laughed at his stupid jokes, who planned their wedding, whose eyes sparkled with fierce intelligence… she was gone. Replaced by this hypnotized doll, lovingly servicing his friend. Her brunette hair cascaded over Dave’s thigh, her bare breasts jiggling faintly with the motion. Loving. The word echoed in Mark’s shattered mind. She looked like she loved it.
Dave’s breathing hitched, growing faster, shallower. His free hand clenched into a fist at his side. "Yeah… yeah… just like that, gorgeous. Show Mark what you can do. Show him how good you suck."
Becca tilted her head back further, opening her throat, and took Dave’s entire length with a slow, deep swallow. She held it for a moment, eyes fluttering closed in a parody of bliss, before withdrawing with agonizing slowness, a strand of saliva connecting her lower lip to Dave’s glistening tip. Her tongue flicked out, swirling around the head with intimate precision before her lips enveloped him again in a slow, deep, loving suck.
Her tongue flicked out, swirling around the head with intimate precision before her lips enveloped him again in a slow, deep, loving suck. Dave’s breath hitched, a low groan escaping him as his hips jerked forward. "Oh fuck, Becs... gonna... gonna blow!"
Mark’s knuckles ground against the cheap particleboard, the Barclay files forgotten smears under his trembling forearm. He couldn’t tear his eyes from the phone’s glowing rectangle, the flickering bonfire light painting horrific shadows on the screen. Becca’s vacant eyes stared past Dave’s thrusting hips, her movements languid, unhurried, devastatingly intimate.
Dave suddenly tensed, his frame rigid in the shaky video. "Pull back, baby," he gasped, his voice thick and urgent. "Pull back now. Show me that pretty face."
Obediently, Becca slid her mouth off with a soft, wet pop, her lips slick and parted. She tilted her head up, looking at Dave with that unnerving, doll-like vacancy, a strand of saliva still connecting her lower lip to his glistening tip. Her pirate blouse hung open, breasts exposed to the cool night air and the camera’s voyeuristic gaze.
Dave shuddered violently. "Yeah, just like that. Eyes on me." His hand gripped himself, angging his hips. A thick rope of white cum jetted onto Becca’s cheek, just below her left eye. Another spurt hit her chin, then another landed messily on her lips.
Mark felt the air leave his lungs in a silent scream. His stomach heaved, bile scalding his throat. The fluorescent buzz overhead seemed to pierce his skull. Becca didn’t flinch. Didn’t react. Just stared blankly at Dave as the warm fluid trickled down her skin.
Dave panted, spent, a smirk twisting his lips as he surveyed his handiwork. "Look at you," he breathed, voice ragged but satisfied. "Perfect."
Becca blinked slowly, the cum glistening on her pale skin. Then, with a languid, almost tender motion, she raised her right hand. Her fingers, delicate and sure, traced the mess on her cheek, scooping up the viscous fluid. She brought her fingertips to her parted lips.
Her vacant eyes drifted downwards, watching her own hand. Her pink tongue slid out, slow and deliberate, licking the cum clean from her fingers with a soft, sucking sound. She gathered another dollop clinging to her chin. In it went.
A soft, almost childlike murmur escaped her. "Mmm." Her tongue darted out again, catching a stray drop on her upper lip. She met Dave’s gaze, her expression still eerily blank, yet her voice held a note of dreamy satisfaction. "Yummy."