Chapter 6: Betty's screams echo across the rooftop as Mr. Harrison cranks the vibrator to maximum during Roger's speech, her thrashing body sending waves across the pool while her masked face contorts in forced ecstasy.
The rooftop air was a warm, humid blanket, thick with the smell of chlorine and grilling meat. Laughter and the clink of glasses rose above the gentle splash of water in the pool. Roger stood near the edge, a cold beer in his hand, trying to ignore the knot of anxiety in his gut. He’d spent the afternoon avoiding MRI, the memory of his brother’s cryptic comment about “the production side” lurking in the back of his mind.
“Quite the spread, isn’t it?” Mr. Harrison said, sidling up to him. Roger’s boss was a man in his late fifties, his face ruddy from gin and tonics, his eyes constantly scanning for opportunity. “Your brother certainly knows how to throw a party.”
“He does,” Roger agreed, forcing a smile.
His eyes, like everyone else’s, were drawn to the center of the pool. A woman floated there, naked, on a large, inflatable lounger. Her skin was pale against the turquoise water, her body slick and gleaming. A sophisticated, waterproof vibrator was nestled between her legs, its subtle hum lost in the pool’s filtration system. In MRI’s hand was a small, black remote.
“A new interactive campaign,” MRI had announced to a delighted crowd earlier, his voice projecting easy charm. “Real-time audience engagement. The longer she stays afloat, the bigger the bonus for our creative team.”
A ripple of excited, drunken applause had followed. Now, men and women alike gathered around MRI, taking turns with the remote, laughing as they made the woman’s body jolt and arch against the inflatable raft. Her face was turned away, hidden by a mass of wet hair and large, opaque sunglasses.
“Look at her go,” Harrison slurred, his gaze fixed on the woman’s hips as they twitched from a sustained burst of vibration. “What a fucking trooper. I’d give her a bonus, alright.” He elbowed Roger. “You should get in on this, son. Show some team spirit.”
Roger took a long swallow of his beer. The woman’s anonymity was a shield. He could project whatever he wanted onto her. “She’s got stamina, I’ll give her that,” he said, the words feeling crude and unfamiliar in his mouth. It felt good, though, to be part of the crowd, to share in the lewd camaraderie. “Bet she’s used to taking a pounding.”
Harrison barked a laugh. “That’s the spirit!”
In the water, Betty bit down on the inside of her cheek until she tasted blood. The initial shock of the cold water, the exposure, the first jolt from the remote—it had all been a familiar cocktail of shame. But then she’d heard Roger’s voice. He was right there. And he was talking about her, about her stamina, reducing her to a piece of anonymous meat. The heat that flooded her then wasn’t just from the vibrator; it was the same dark, defiant fire from MRI’s office.
She leaned her head back, letting the sun warm her face. With each pulse and buzz from the remote, she leaned into the sensation, amplifying the subtle movements of her hips, making her reactions more theatrical for the crowd. She was giving them a show. Her show. And Roger was her unwitting audience.
MRI watched her, a knowing smirk on his face. He saw the shift in her posture, the deliberate arch of her back. He handed the remote to a junior executive. “Keep it on high,” he instructed, before moving through the crowd to Roger’s side.
“Enjoying the entertainment?” MRI asked, clapping a hand on his brother’s shoulder.
Roger jumped slightly. “Yeah. It’s… creative.”
“It’s market research,” MRI corrected, his voice low. “People are bored of polished perfection. They want raw, authentic depravity. This…” He gestured toward the pool, where Betty was now moaning softly, her fingers trailing in the water. “This is the new currency. And you, Roger, you’re about to become a very rich man.”
Roger’s financial desperation overrode his unease. “How?”
“Later,” MRI said smoothly. He nodded toward Mr. Harrison, who was now stumbling toward the pool’s steps, his eyes locked on the floating woman. “Looks like your boss wants a closer look. Let’s see if our star performer can handle some hands-on market research.”
Harrison didn’t bother to take off his linen trousers. He waded into the shallow end, the water soaking him to his thighs, then his waist. He moved with the clumsy determination of a drunk man, his focus entirely on the naked woman on the raft.
“Hello, darling,” he slurred, grabbing the edge of the inflatable and pulling her toward him. The raft wobbled violently. “Let’s see what all the fuss is about.”
Betty’s heart hammered against her ribs. This was different. This was a specific person, a man she knew, a man who signed her husband’s paychecks. She could smell the gin on his breath.
Harrison’s wet, meaty hand found her breast, squeezing roughly. His other hand slid between her legs, his thick fingers pushing the vibrator aside and plunging into her without ceremony.
Betty gasped, her body seizing up for a moment. This was invasion. This was real.
“Oh, you’re a wet one, aren’t you?” Harrison grunted, his face close to hers. He fumbled with his belt buckle with his free hand. “Knew you would be. Such a good little slut for the whole company.”
From the poolside, Roger watched, frozen. This felt wrong. It was one thing to watch from a distance, to laugh about an anonymous woman. It was another to see his lecherous boss mauling her. He made to step forward, but MRI’s hand tightened on his shoulder.
“Don’t,” MRI said, his voice a cold blade. “This is the deal, Roger. This is what pays for your life. Watch. Learn.”
Harrison finally freed his cock, half-hard and stubby. He pushed Betty’s legs apart wider, the raft dipping precariously under his weight. He wasn’t looking for rhythm or pleasure; it was a crude, possessive act. He shoved himself inside her with a grunt, his body slapping against hers in the water.
Betty cried out, a short, sharp sound that was swallowed by the party noise. The feeling of him, so different from the vibrator, so blunt and selfish, was a violation that cut through her newfound defiance. Tears mixed with the pool water on her cheeks.
Then her eyes found Roger. He was standing there, just watching. His face was a mask of conflicted unease, but he was doing nothing. Absolutely nothing.
The switch flipped again.
A cold rage settled over her. Fine. If this was what she was, then she would own it. She wrapped her legs around Harrison’s waist, locking her ankles, pulling him deeper into her with a force that surprised him.
“Yeah, you like that, you old fuck?” she hissed, her voice low enough that only he could hear. “That’s it. Pump that pathetic little cock. Give me everything you’ve got.”
Harrison’s eyes widened, then glazed over with drunken lust. “You dirty bitch,” he moaned, his thrusts becoming more frantic.
Betty moved with him, meeting his clumsy lunges, her moans now loud and performative for the crowd gathering at the edge of the pool. She looked over Harrison’s shoulder, directly at MRI, and a slow, wicked smile spread across her lips. She rolled her hips, taking control of the rhythm, making the old man her instrument.
MRI’s smirk widened into a grin of pure, unadulterated triumph.
Harrison came quickly, with a shuddering, gasing groan, his body going limp against her. He pulled out, stumbling back in the water, already fumbling to zip his soaked trousers, avoiding everyone’s eyes.
Betty floated there, exposed and used, the vibrator still buzzing faintly between her legs. The crowd began to disperse, the novelty worn off. The party noise returned to its former pitch.
Roger finally turned away, his face pale. He felt sick. He needed another drink.
MRI walked to the pool’s edge and extended a hand to Betty. She took it, letting him help her out of the water. He wrapped a large, clean towel around her shoulders, his touch almost gentle.
She stood there, dripping on the concrete, and looked at the retreating back of her husband. Then she turned to MRI, her voice steady and clear.
“The remote was a good idea,” she said, pulling the towel tighter. “But it’s not enough. Next time, I want a live feed. I want comments. I want them to see my face when I come.”
MRI looked at her, this creature he had forged in humiliation and secrecy, and he knew the game had irrevocably changed. “And your husband?” he asked.
Betty’s smile was a cold, sharp thing. “He’ll watch,” she said. “He always does.”