Chapter 13: Betty's vomit mixes with the fourteenth stranger's urine as MRI forces her head back, growling 'Open wider, bitch' while Mr. Harrison adjusts the camera angle to capture the golden stream splashing off her wedding ring.
The chemical taste of bleach and rust lingered in the back of Betty’s throat for days. It was a phantom stain, a reminder of the cold subway tunnel and the warm, acrid streams that had filled her mouth. Roger had left the company holiday card on the kitchen counter, a glossy, cheerful thing with a generic snowscape. He had no idea that the digital version, the one he’d enthusiastically emailed to the entire department, contained a three-second splice of her, masked and chained, gulping down a stranger’s piss while "PUBLIC PROPERTY" gleamed on her chest.
The memory should have filled her with shame. It did, but it was a distant thing, a weak signal from a past self. A new, hotter current was threading through her now. The absolute certainty of her anonymity, proven by the card’s dissemination without a single raised eyebrow, had become a potent drug. The fear was still there, a sharp, thrilling edge, but it was no longer paralyzing. It was catalytic.
MRI sensed the shift. He watched her over the rim of his whiskey glass in his sterile, modern apartment, the city lights sprawling behind him like a bed of jewels. “You’re quiet,” he remarked, his voice a low purr. “Still thinking about your public service?”
Betty didn’t look away from the view. “I was thinking it was… contained. A closed set.”
“It was.”
“Boring,” she said, the word hanging in the air between them.
MRI’s eyebrow twitched, a barely perceptible flicker of surprise. He set his glass down with a soft click. “Boring? You screamed yourself hoarse.”
“I faked it.” She finally turned to face him, her expression neutral. “After the third one, it was just a job. A wet, salty job. There was no risk. Just a camera and a puddle.”
A slow, predatory smile spread across MRI’s face. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “And what would constitute a risk, Betty? Tell me.”
Her heart hammered against her ribs, but her voice was steady. “Somewhere with witnesses who aren’t on your payroll. Somewhere where if the mask slipped, even for a second, someone might actually recognize me.”
“You want an audience.”
“I want the possibility,” she corrected him, her gaze intense. “I want to know that every moan, every filthy word, is a gamble. That’s what you get off on, isn’t it? The control. The dangling me over the edge. Well, I want to feel the wind from the fall.”
He was silent for a long moment, studying her. The obedient, shame-filled wife was gone, replaced by this calculating, hungry creature. He found her infinitely more fascinating. “The annual industry gala,” he said finally. “It’s at the Grand Meridian next week. Roger’s table is on the periphery, of course. Mine is front and center.”
Betty’s breath hitched. She knew the event. Roger had been nervously preparing his one suit for weeks.
“The women’s restroom on the mezzanine level,” MRI continued, his eyes gleaming. “It’s large. Marble. There’s a private lounge area with a chaise. Far enough from the main ballroom to be quiet, but not so far that people don’t wander in.” He stood up and walked to his desk, pulling out a small, sleek black remote. “I’ll have a client, a very important, very married client, who needs a moment to… decompress. You will be there waiting for him. You’ll wear a mask, something elegant for the venue. A domino. And nothing else but your heels and a coat. The coat stays on until he arrives.”
He tossed the remote to her. She caught it, the cold plastic solid in her hand.
“This controls a high-frequency receiver in the earplug you’ll wear,” he explained. “I’ll be at my table, watching. I’ll tell you what to do. Every word. Every movement. And you, my dear, will perform for me. With half the advertising industry just a thin wall away.”
The chandeliers in the Grand Meridian ballroom blazed, casting a million diamond shards of light across the sea of black ties and sequined gowns. Roger, sweating slightly in his rented tux, sipped his champagne and tried to laugh at a joke his boss, Mr. Harrison, was telling. His eyes kept drifting to the head table where MRI held court, effortless and cool.
“Your brother is quite the rising star,” Harrison slurred, clapping Roger on the back a little too hard. “You must be proud.”
“Very,” Roger said, his smile feeling tight. He’d asked Betty to come, but she’d claimed a migraine. He hoped she was feeling better.
On the mezzanine, Betty leaned against the cool marble sink, her body trembling. The coat was a weight of pure potential. Beneath it, she was naked, the air whispering over her skin. The black domino mask felt flimsy, a mere suggestion of concealment. The tiny, flesh-colored plug in her ear was silent.
Then, a crackle. MRI’s voice, smooth as silk, filled her head. “He’s on his way. Bald, red cummerbund. His name is Mr. Thorne. Unbutton the coat. Leave it open. Sit on the chaise and spread your legs. Now.”
Her hands moved automatically, fumbling with the buttons. The heavy wool fell away, exposing her body to the empty, opulent room. She walked to the plush chaise lounge in the antechamber and did as she was told, leaning back and letting her knees fall apart, her high heels digging into the velvet. The air was cool on her most intimate skin. She heard the main restroom door open and close, the click of dress shoes on tile.
A man rounded the corner. He was in his fifties, with a florid face and the described red cummerbund straining over his belly. He stopped dead, his eyes widening. “What in God’s name…”
“She’s a gift, Alistair,” MRI’s voice murmured in Betty’s ear, and she repeated the words, her own voice a throaty echo.
“I’m a gift, Mr. Thorne.”
Thorne’s shock melted into a leering, greedy expression. He glanced back towards the door, then stepped closer, his eyes devouring her. “From MRI?”
“From MRI,” she confirmed.
“Tell him to get on his knees,” MRI commanded.
“Get on your knees,” Betty said, the authority in her voice surprising her.
Thorne, a powerful man in his own right, hesitated for only a second before sinking to the floor between her spread legs. The sight of him, in his expensive tuxedo, kneeling on the bathroom floor before her naked, masked body, sent a jolt of pure, undiluted power through her.
“Now,” MRI’s voice was a sharp, exciting order. “Tell him to eat your cunt. Use the word. Be crude.”
Betty looked down at the top of Thorne’s bald head. “Eat my cunt, you greedy old man. Don’t stop until I tell you to.”
Thorne moaned, a low, desperate sound, and buried his face between her legs. His tongue was clumsy and eager, lapping at her. The sensation was secondary to the context, to the terrifying, exhilarating reality of the situation. She could hear the faint, muffled sounds of the orchestra from the ballroom below. A woman’s laugh echoed from the main bank of sinks just outside the lounge.
MRI’s narration was relentless. “He’s sloppy. Tell him. Guide his head. Harder.”
“You’re sloppy,” Betty gasped, her fingers tangling in his thin hair. She shoved his face harder into her, grinding against his mouth. “Use your tongue, you useless fuck. Right there. Yes.”
She lost herself in the performance, in the dual reality of the physical act and the hidden voice in her ear commanding it. This was nothing like the warehouse or the tunnel. This was a live wire. Every sound from beyond the door was a potential discovery.
“Enough,” MRI said after a few minutes. “Turn over. On your hands and knees. Present yourself to him.”
Betty pushed Thorne away, a string of saliva connecting his mouth to her thigh. She turned, getting on all fours on the chaise, her back arched, offering herself. Thorne fumbled with his belt, his breathing ragged.
“He’s going to fuck you now,” MRI stated, his own breath slightly audible over the receiver. “And you’re going to scream. Not a little scream. I want them to hear you in the ballroom. I want my brother to wonder what the hell is going on upstairs.”
Thorne entered her from behind in a single, rough thrust. Betty cried out, a genuine sound of shock that she then amplified, pouring all the built-up tension and dark excitement into it. It was a raw, filthy scream that echoed off the marble.
“Again!” MRI demanded, his voice tight with arousal.
As Thorne pounded into her, his grunts syncing with the thrusts, Betty screamed again, louder. She heard the main restroom door open and a woman’s voice say, “Good god, do you hear that? Some people have no class.” The door swung shut.
The near-miss sent a fresh wave of adrenaline through her. She began to move back against Thorne, meeting his thrusts, her screams turning into loud, obscene moans. “Yes! Fuck me! Harder! Don’t you dare come yet, you old bastard!”
She was lost in it, a creature of pure sensation and risk. The chaise groaned under their weight. Thorne was muttering incoherently, his hands gripping her hips, his rhythm becoming frantic.
“He’s close,” MRI hissed. “Tell him where to come.”
“On my back,” Betty commanded, her voice guttural. “I want to feel it on my skin.”
Thorne pulled out of her with a wet sound and spun her around. His release shot across her stomach and breasts in hot, sticky stripes, his body shuddering. He collapsed back onto the floor, panting, his tuxedo a ruin.
Betty lay there, breathing heavily, the smell of sex and expensive cologne thick in the air. The receiver in her ear was silent. Then, a single, soft click.
Down in the ballroom, MRI took a slow sip of wine, a faint, satisfied smile on his face. At his brother’s table, Roger frowned, looking towards the ceiling. “Weird. Sounded like someone was having a hell of a time in the bathroom.”
Mr. Harrison chuckled, leering. “Lucky bastard, whoever he is.”
Roger nodded, oblivious, and turned back to his cold chicken, a vague sense of unease settling in his stomach that he couldn't quite name.