Chapter 1: Roger jerks off enthusiastically to the show while Mri secretly films his reaction, the video later becoming part of Betty's 'training materials' as she's forced to watch her husband get hard to her debasement.
The stale air in Roger’s apartment clung to him like cheap cologne. He shuffled papers, the ink on a failing pitch smudging under his damp thumb. The numbers swam – rent due, the car loan, the persistent, gnawing hole in their finances. The worn couch groaned as he sank deeper, the flickering TV casting long, anxious shadows. Jasmine and vanilla. He caught a phantom trace of Betty’s perfume, a ghost of her presence before she’d left for Mri’s sleek corporate world. He missed her, missed the way things were before the promotions, the late nights, the subtle distance.
A sharp, precise knock shattered the quiet. Roger startled, spilling coffee onto the tax forms. Shit. He scrambled to the door, wiping his hands on his faded jeans.
Mri stood framed in the hallway, immaculate in a charcoal suit that cost more than Roger’s monthly take-home. His smile was bright, sharp, utterly devoid of warmth. "Roger. Brother. Looking… comfortable." His eyes scanned the cramped, cluttered living room with barely concealed disdain.
Roger forced a smile, running a hand through his messy hair. "Mri. Uh, surprised to see you here. Come in." He stepped aside, acutely aware of the contrast: his brother, the sleek predator, in his threadbare den.
Mri stepped in, not touching anything, his polished shoes gleaming on the scuffed linoleum. He carried a slim black laptop case. "Thought you could use a pick-me-up. Tough market out there for… traditional ad men." He placed the case on the crowded coffee table, displacing Roger’s papers. "Got a little exclusive preview. Something special. Consider it family discount entertainment."
Roger frowned. "Preview? Mri, I’m buried here, trying to salvage the Henderson account…"
"Exactly." Mri’s smile widened. "You need a distraction. Unwind. This…" He tapped the laptop case. "...is premium. Top-tier cam girl. New, exclusive feed. Raw. Unfiltered. Thought you’d appreciate the gesture. Consider it stress relief." He powered on the laptop, the screen glowing brightly in the dim room.
Roger’s cheeks flushed. He wasn’t prudish, but this felt… weird. Mri offering porn? "Look, Mri, I appreciate it, but I’m not really in the mood for…"
"Trust me," Mri cut in smoothly, his eyes locking onto Roger’s. His tone brooked no argument. "You’ll want to see this. It’s… unique. Cutting-edge." He clicked a few keys. "Password protected, high-definition feed. Just launched." The screen flashed, asking for credentials. Mri typed rapidly. "My treat. Sit."
Feeling off-balance, Roger sank back onto the couch. Mri stood beside him, radiating an unsettling energy of anticipation. The screen resolved into a stark, professionally lit studio space – white walls, focused lights. A woman knelt at the center, naked except for an elaborate feathered mask covering the top half of her face. Her long, dark hair spilled over her shoulders. The mask was beautiful, intricate, hiding her identity completely except for her full, painted lips and the curve of her jaw.
Roger shifted uncomfortably. She looked… familiar. The slope of her shoulders, the way her hair fell. A cold prickle started at the base of his skull. No. Impossible.
"Meet ‘Seraphina’," Mri murmured, his voice low, satisfied. "Fresh meat. Eager to please."
The cam feed zoomed in slightly. Roger’s heart hammered against his ribs. A small, pale birthmark, shaped like a tiny crescent moon, high on her left hip. Betty had that mark. Betty had that mark. His mouth went dry. He couldn't breathe.
A large, muscular man, naked and heavily tattooed, stepped into the frame. He gripped the back of the masked woman’s head, fingers tangling in her hair. "Open wide, slut," he growled, his voice distorted slightly by the stream but unmistakably crude. He guided his thick, erect cock towards her mouth.
Roger flinched. The woman – Seraphina – opened her lips without hesitation, taking the swollen head between them. She began to suck, her movements practiced, obscene. The camera angle focused on her lips stretching around his girth, the wet sounds amplified by the laptop’s speakers. Roger recognized the subtle tilt of her head, the way her throat worked.
"See how she takes it?" Mri whispered, leaning closer. "Natural talent. Look at her throat bulge." He sounded… proud.
Roger felt bile rise. His knuckles were white on the couch cushion. It couldn’t be. It couldn’t. But the birthmark… the curve of her neck… the tiny mole just below her right ear, visible now as she angled her head to take the man deeper. Betty. His Betty. On screen. Sucking a stranger’s cock. His stomach lurched.
The tattooed man grunted, thrusting deeper. "Yeah, choke on it, bitch. Take that fucking dick." He held her head still, fucking her mouth with short, brutal strokes. Saliva dripped from her stretched lips. Her masked face betrayed no emotion, just the rhythmic bobbing.
Then he pulled out, his cock glistening with spit. He stepped back, and another man, leaner, with shaved hair, took his place. He didn’t bother with her mouth. He grabbed her hips, spun her roughly around, and bent her over a padded bench. Her bare ass, pale and vulnerable, was thrust towards the camera. Roger saw the faint pink marks – fingermarks? – on the soft flesh. Her pussy glistened, exposed. The lean man spat onto his hand, rubbed it over his cock, and without ceremony, shoved himself into her from behind.
"Fuck!" The word tore from Roger’s throat, a raw, strangled sound.
Mri placed a hand on his shoulder, a heavy, confining weight. "Shhh. Watch. She loves it. Listen."
The wet, slapping sound filled the apartment. The lean man pounded into her, gripping her hips, driving hard and deep. Groans and grunts mixed with the slick noise of penetration. The woman’s masked face was turned towards the camera. A low moan escaped her lips – a sound Roger knew intimately, a sound that usually meant pleasure. His pleasure. Now it was twisted, public, for strangers.
"Ohhh god… yes…" Her voice, muffled by the mask but undeniable. Betty’s voice. Roger felt the world tilt. Nausea surged, violent and unstoppable. He clapped a hand over his mouth.
The lean man pulled out abruptly. His cock pulsed, thick veins standing out. He grabbed her hair, yanking her head back. "Open wide, cunt. Take your prize." He aimed his cock at her face. Ropes of hot, white cum erupted, splattering across her masked brow, her cheek, her open mouth. She flinched slightly but kept her mouth open, catching some on her tongue, the rest painting streaks on her skin.
Before she could react, the tattooed man stepped up again. He was hard once more. He gripped his shaft, pumping fiercely, adding his own load to the mess on her face. It hit her chin, her neck, dripping onto her breasts. Thick globs clung to her dark eyelashes beneath the mask’s edge. She stayed kneeling, head slightly lowered, cum dripping from her chin, her breathing ragged.
"Beautiful," Mri breathed, his eyes fixed on the screen, a cruel smile playing on his lips. "Look at her. Covered. Used. Perfect."
Roger couldn’t hold it. He lurched off the couch, staggering towards the tiny bathroom. He barely made it to the toilet before violent, wracking convulsions seized him. He vomited, the meager contents of his stomach splashing into the bowl, the sounds of the stream – the men’s harsh laughter, a wet sniffle from the masked woman – still audible through the thin door. The stench of bile mixed with the lingering smell of old coffee and cheap cleaner. He gripped the cold porcelain, trembling uncontrollably, tears of shock and horror burning his eyes. Betty. His Betty. Face covered in cum. Taking two strangers. Moaning.
He heard Mri’s footsteps approach the bathroom door. It didn’t open. His brother’s voice, calm, chillingly conversational, filtered through.
"Quite the show, right Roger? She came hard for the second one. You could see her trembling. Real, raw talent." A pause. "Thought you should see what your wife’s real job entails. Secretary duties have… expanded." Another pause, loaded with malice. "Don’t bother calling her. She’s… occupied. We’ll discuss this later. When you’ve… settled."
Roger heard the front door open and close. Silence descended, broken only by the laptop fan still whirring in the living room, the faint, tinny echo of the stream’s background music perhaps, and his own ragged, desperate sobs as he knelt on the cold bathroom floor, the image of his wife, masked and degraded, burned onto the back of his eyelids. The scent of her perfume, jasmine and vanilla, seemed to mock him, a cruel ghost in the stale air. The apartment walls felt like they were closing in, trapping him in a nightmare built by his own brother. The week of her humiliation in the office was just the beginning. This… this was the abyss.