Chapter 11: Betty's screams pierce the night air as a homeless man rams his filthy cock into her ass, her masked face grinding against the splintered wood while MRI's voice crackles through the bluetooth vibrator in her cunt: 'Remember baby, if you cum, we tell Roger everything'.
The cold of the wrought iron bench had seeped into her bones, a deep, radiating ache that felt more permanent than the bruises. The rough, industrial-grade tape MRI had used to bind her ankles to the bench’s legs left angry, red welts that stung in the open air. She shivered uncontrollably, the thin silver emergency blanket he’d thrown over her shoulders doing little to combat the chill or the shame. It was over. The men were gone. The park was silent, save for the rustle of a plastic bag tumbling across the path.
MRI stood a few feet away, scrolling through his phone, the screen’s blue light illuminating the satisfied curve of his mouth. “Harrison’s edit is already cutting together. He’s calling it ‘Public Service Announcement’.” He chuckled, a dry, hollow sound. “The shot of your ring finger, Betty… that’s the money shot. Literally.”
Betty didn’t look at him. She stared at the peeling green paint on the bench, at the faint, sticky residue one of them had left on her inner thigh. Her body felt like a used receptacle, hollowed out and soiled. The word “FUCKTOY,” now smeared and fading, still felt branded onto her skin. She could still feel the impatient hands, hear the crude jokes, smell the mix of cheap beer and sweat on their breath.
“Get up,” MRI said, his tone shifting from amused to businesslike. He pocketed his phone. “We’re not done. The night’s young.”
A fresh wave of nausea washed over her. “What? No. You said three hours. It’s been three hours.”
“I said you’d be here for three hours. I didn’t say what would happen after.” He walked over and ripped the silver blanket away, letting it pool on the ground. The night air hit her bare skin like a slap. “The contract stipulates full compliance for the duration of the celebration. The IPO party is just moving venues.”
He produced a small bundle of black fabric from his coat. “Put this on.” It was a dress, if it could be called that. A sheer, black lace negligee, so short it would barely cover her ass. There were no straps, just a single tie at the neck that promised to offer no support.
With numb, fumbling fingers, she obeyed. The lace was scratchy against her sensitive skin. She felt more exposed wearing it than she had naked. Every bruise, every mark from the balcony’s chains and the park bench was visible through the delicate pattern.
He didn’t take her to a car. Instead, he guided her on foot, his hand firm on her elbow, out of the park and onto the deserted city streets. Their footsteps echoed. A few blocks down, they stopped in front of a dive bar she’d never noticed before. The neon sign flickered, buzzing like an angry insect. “The Rusty Nail,” it read. Through the grimy window, she could see a handful of shadowy figures hunched over drinks.
“This is the venue,” MRI murmured into her ear, his breath warm against her cold cheek. “Your final task. You’re going to go in there. You’re going to sit at the bar. And you’re not going to say no to any man who buys you a drink or asks you to dance.”
Her heart hammered against her ribs. “MRI, please. Anyone could be in there.”
“That’s the point.” He pushed the door open, and a wave of stale beer and old smoke hit her. “Remember, Roger is still at the office, probably just now finding the special file Harrison emailed him. Think of how proud he’ll be of his dedicated wife, working so late to secure his promotion.” He gave her a slight shove between her shoulder blades. “Go on. I’ll be watching.”
The door swung shut behind her, cutting her off from the outside world. The bar fell silent for a moment, several pairs of eyes turning to assess the new arrival. She felt the sheer lace like a spotlight. She walked, her legs unsteady, to the bar and slid onto a cracked vinyl stool, keeping her eyes fixed on the sticky wood grain of the counter.
It didn’t take long. A large man in a denim jacket with grease under his fingernails ambled over and dropped onto the stool beside her. “What’s a nice piece like you doin’ in a place like this?” he slurred, his breath a toxic cloud of whiskey.
Betty said nothing. She just stared ahead.
“Cat got your tongue? That’s alright. I like ‘em quiet.” He signaled the bartender. “Get the lady a whiskey. Neat.” He leaned in closer, his elbow brushing against her breast. “So, you a working girl? That what this little outfit’s about?”
She took the glass the bartender slid over and knocked it back in one burning gulp, the liquor doing nothing to warm the cold pit in her stomach.
“Yeah, you are,” he grunted, answering his own question. His hand landed heavily on her thigh, his thick fingers digging into the tender flesh just above the knee. “How much for a dance? And I don’t mean on the floor.”
He didn’t wait for an answer. He stood, pulling her by the arm toward a dark, narrow hallway next to the restrooms. He pushed her into a small alcove housing a payphone and a broken cigarette machine. The space reeked of urine and despair.
“Right here’s fine,” he grunted, already fumbling with his belt.
He spun her around to face the wall, one hand pressing between her shoulder blades, bending her over the dusty top of the cigarette machine. The other hand shoved the flimsy lace of the negligee up around her waist. She braced her hands against the wall, her wedding ring clicking against the plaster. She closed her eyes, trying to disconnect, to go back to the park, to the balcony, to anywhere but here.
He didn’t bother with preliminaries. He spit into his hand, wiped it roughly between her legs, and then she felt the blunt, insistent pressure of him pushing into her. He was thick and unyielding, and she was dry, the friction a sharp, tearing pain.
“Fuck, you’re tight,” he groaned, his hips slamming against her ass with a rhythmic, meaty thud. His breath was loud and ragged in her ear. “C’mon, you fucking slut, move for me.”
He gripped her hips, his fingers leaving fresh bruises, and drove into her harder, faster. The cigarette machine rattled with every thrust. Betty bit her lip until she tasted blood, the metallic tang a anchor in the swirling nausea. She could hear the faint jukebox music from the bar, a sad country song about lost love.
His pace became frantic, his grunts turning into a guttural roar. “Yeah, take it, you whore! Take all of it!”
With a final, shuddering thrust, he emptied himself inside her, his whole body going rigid against her back. He stayed there for a moment, panting, his weight heavy and suffocating. Then he pulled out, the sudden absence a strange, cold relief. He zipped his jeans.
“Not bad,” he muttered, slapping her ass with a stinging blow before turning and walking back down the hallway without another word.
Betty stayed bent over the machine, her body trembling, the man’s release already starting to trickle down her inner thigh. She slowly pushed herself upright, her muscles screaming in protest. She adjusted the negligee, the fabric now feeling filthy against her skin. As she turned to leave the alcove, she saw him. MRI was leaning against the wall at the mouth of the hallway, sipping a glass of whiskey. He hadn’t been watching from a distance. He’d been standing there the whole time.
He met her eyes and gave her a slow, deliberate smile. Then he raised his glass in a silent, mocking toast.