Chapter 13: The First Taste of Humiliation
Consciousness returned to Barbara as a sickening lurch, her head throbbing where it had struck the floor. The first thing she felt was the cruel bite of the black vinyl bustier constricting her ribs and the shocking chill of air on her thighs, exposed by the impossibly short miniskirt.
She pushed herself up from the cold floor, her muscles aching with an unfamiliar weakness. The room was dim, lit only by a single bare bulb swinging from the ceiling. From beyond the door, she could hear the distinct, wet slapping of flesh on flesh, punctuated by the throbbing bass of loud music.
Muffled laughter and the coarse jokes of thugs lounging around seeped through the walls, making her skin crawl. She stumbled towards a grimy full-length mirror leaning against the wall. Her reflection made her breath catch in her throat.
Her reflection made her breath catch in her throat. The woman staring back was a grotesque caricature of Batgirl, wrapped in layers of humiliating artifice. A skin-tight vinyl bustier, emblazoned with a pink heart-shaped symbol, squeezed her torso so tightly that each shallow breath was a struggle.
Below it, a microscopic pleated miniskirt in garish yellow did nothing to cover the tops of her fishnet-clad thighs. She teetered on impossibly high-heeled platform boots, their shiny plastic surface making every step a potential disaster. A wide, pink utility belt hung low on her hips, but instead of Batarangs, it held a vibrating dildo, a set of leather cuffs, and a bottle of lurid pink lube.
Her usually practical hair was teased into high, stiff pigtails, each one tied with a sparkling ribbon that caught the dim light. Thick, clumpy mascara coated her lashes, and glittery blue eyeshadow was slathered up to her eyebrows. Her lips were painted with a sticky gloss that made them look perpetually puckered and swollen.
A small, sequined handbag was strapped crossbody over her shoulder, its chain digging into her skin. With trembling fingers, she clicked it open to reveal a jumble of condoms in every color, several small bags of white powder, and a clear plastic bottle labeled 'anal douche'. The sight sent a hot flush of shame across her chest, visible above the bustier's plunging neckline.
Every element of this costume was engineered to render her powerless, to make even walking an awkward, hip-swaying performance. The vinyl creaked with her slightest movement, a constant reminder of her exposure. She tried to take a step forward, but the heels threatened to twist her ankles, forcing her to grab the wall for support.
She carefully stepped into the main room, the vinyl of her bustier groaning with the motion. The cacophony hit her first: the throbbing bass of industrial music, wet slapping sounds, and guttural moans that seemed to come from every shadowed corner. Her eyes adjusted to the dim, strobe-lit chaos, taking in the scene of systematic debasement.
A group of women, clad in variations of latex and lace, knelt in a row along a stained velvet couch, their mouths busy servicing a line of leering men. One, with tear-streaked mascara and a collar around her neck, gagged as a thug fisted her hair, forcing himself deeper down her throat. Nearby, another woman was bent over a pool table, her abbreviated skirt shoved up around her waist as a man ruthlessly fucked her from behind, his fingers leaving bruises on her hips.
The newer acquisitions were easy to spot, their movements stiff with resistance and their whimpers less practiced. A blonde girl, no older than twenty, trembled on her knees before a heavyset man, her hands bound behind her back with zip-ties. “Please,” she sobbed, turning her head away from his thrusting hips, “I have a boyfriend waiting for me.”
The thug gripping her hair laughed, a harsh, nicotine-edged sound. “This is your life now, sweetheart.” He yanked her head back, making her cry out. “But tell that boyfriend of yours he can get a taste of used goods if he pays like everybody else has to.” He shoved her face forward, and her protests were muffled against his groin.
Barbara’s gaze swept past them, landing on Kara and Diana, who were on their knees beside a threadbare armchair. Kara’s modified costume stretched taut across her back as she deep-throated a brutish-looking man, her eyes glazed with a drugged submission. Diana, seemingly more aware, met Barbara’s horrified stare for a fleeting second before she lowered her head back to her task.
The sight of Diana’s defeated glance ignited a surge of defiant anger in Barbara’s gut, cutting through the fog of her own discomfort. She took a determined step forward, the ridiculously high heels making her wobble unsteadily on the grimy floor. “Kara! Diana! We have to get—” her command was sliced short by a stinging, open-handed smack on her ass that resonated through the thin vinyl of her skirt.
A large, tattooed man with a leering grin stepped around her, his fingers lingering on the heated skin he’d just struck. “Whoa there, Bat-babe,” he chuckled, his breath reeking of cheap beer. “The only thing you’re getting is on your knees.” Rage, pure and hot, flashed behind Barbara’s eyes, and her body coiled to retaliate despite its strange new weakness.
He saw the resistance and merely smiled wider, pulling a small plastic bag of glowing purple powder from his pocket and dangling it temptingly before her. “Don’t be like that. One little suck, and you get a hit of this pretty dust. Makes everything feel real nice.” Barbara’s protest died in her throat as a dizzying craving, an alien hunger that felt like it was crawling under her very skin, suddenly overwhelmed her righteous fury.
Her eyeslocked on the bag, her mouth inexplicably watering. The man’s smug expression widened into a victorious smirk as he saw her will crumble. “That’s my girl,” he purred, unzipping his jeans with his free hand.
She sank to her knees, the rough concrete biting through her fishnets, a shudder of self-loathing wracking her frame. He shoved his thick, semi-hard cock towards her gloss-smeared lips. “Open wide, junkie,” he commanded, and she obeyed, taking him into her mouth with a practiced desperation that horrified a still-coherent part of her mind. The taste of salt and sweat filled her mouth as he groaned, his hands gripping her pigtails like reins.
“Yeah, just like that,” he grunted, thrusting deeper, the head of his dick hitting the back of her throat. Her eyes watered, but her focus was on the baggie clutched in his fist, her entire world narrowing to the promise of that purple glow. He fucked her face with rough, rhythmic strokes, his hips pistoning as she gagged around him, a slave to the need he was holding just out of reach.
He grunted, his thrusts becoming erratic and deep, forcing the head of his cock to hit her throat with each jarring movement. "Yeah, take it all, you fucking whore," he snarled, his fingers tightening in her hair until her scalp burned. A hot, bitter flood filled her mouth as he came, pulsing down her throat while she choked and swallowed reflexively, her eyes squeezed shut against the humiliation.
He pulled out with a wet pop, wiping himself on her cheek before tucking himself away. "Good girl," he muttered, tossing the small bag of purple powder onto the floor beside her knees. She scrambled for it, her hands trembling as she tore it open, ignoring the cum dripping from her chin. Using a credit card from her sequined handbag, she hastily arranged a line on the back of her hand and snorted it deeply, the chemical burn a familiar comfort.
The high hit instantly, a wave of electric warmth that washed away the shame and sharpened every sensation in her overloaded body. She staggered to her feet, the drug-fueled clarity fueling a fresh surge of anger towards Kara and Diana, who were still servicing their men across the room. "We need to—" she started, her voice raspy from the abuse, but a sharp, stinging slap on her ass cheek cut her off. A different man, reeking of cigar smoke and sweat, grabbed her hip, his grip firm and possessive. "Where you off to in such a hurry, sweetheart?" he drawled, his other hand already sliding under her miniskirt. "The party's just getting started."
The man’s hand slid from her ass to the small of her back, applying pressure to guide her toward a cleared space near the stained couch. "Time for the main event, girls," he announced to the room, his voice cutting through the grunts and moans. "We're seeing who's got the strongest guts tonight."
Four other women were already being shoved into position, their bodies trembling on all fours in a neat, pathetic line. Barbara recognized the blonde from earlier, her face pale and streaked with tears, and two others in similarly ridiculous vinyl outfits. A thick-necked thug held a magnum of cheap champagne, its foaming top already popped. "Rules are simple," he said, his eyes scanning the row of upturned asses. "The bottle goes in, we empty it, and you hold it. Last one to shit herself wins a fat line of the good stuff."
Revulsion, sharp and acidic, rose in Barbara's throat. "Go fuck yourself," she spat, trying to step back, but the man behind her held her firm. "I'm not doing that." He leaned in, his lips close to her ear, his voice a low, persuasive rumble. "That prize isn't just dust, Barbie. It's the pure, uncut Kryptonite blend. One hit and you'll forget you even have a spine." He let the promise hang in the air, a toxic temptation that slithered into the craving part of her brain. Her resistance wavered, the memory of that purple powder's bliss eroding her will. "Fine," she whispered, the word tasting like ash. She dropped to her hands and knees, taking her place at the end of the line, her head bowed in defeat.
The sharp pop of five corks echoed in quick succession, a hollow sound that made Barbara flinch. A man moved behind each girl, the cold, wet glass of a champagne bottle pressing against their exposed skin. On a gruff cue, they shoved the necks inward, forcing them past tight rings of muscle with a brutal, practiced efficiency. Barbara gasped as the unyielding glass stretched her, a sharp, invading cold that burned deep inside her. "Fuck, that's it, take it all you filthy sluts," one thug grunted, his voice thick with amusement. Icy bubbles began to fizz and churn within her, a carbonated flood expanding her bowels with relentless pressure. The blonde girl to her left let out a choked whimper, her body trembling violently. "It's so... humiliating," Barbara heard herself slur, the words dripping with a shame that felt alien yet utterly consuming, "feeling my bum filled up like this, like a fucking trash can." The liquid poured in a continuous, cold stream, making her feel impossibly full and stretched. Another woman groaned, a low, helpless sound of surrender as champagne threatened to leak around the bottle's edge. Barbara clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms, fighting the overwhelming urge to expel the invasive volume. "Look at that, they're all gonna burst," a voice laughed from the sidelines. She could feel the fizzy liquid sloshing inside her, a bizarre and degrading internal bath.
The bottles were withdrawn with a slick, popping sound that made Barbara flinch. A collective gasp rippled through the line of women as the void left by the glass was instantly filled by the churning, icy pressure. "Oh god, I'm so fucking full," the blonde girl whimpered, her body trembling from the effort of containment. One of the thugs chuckled darkly and positioned a large champagne flute directly behind her exposed asshole. "Don't you dare spill a drop, sweetheart. This is the expensive stuff." Another man leaned close to Barbara's ear, his breath hot on her neck. "Bet your tight little ass has never felt this stretched, has it, Bat-bitch?" he sneered, pressing the cool rim of his glass against her skin. Barbara clenched every muscle, feeling the carbonated liquid slosh violently against her strained limits. "Looks like they're all learning to hold their liquor," a voice joked from the couch. "A few more weeks of this and their shitholes will be so loose they'll need a cork." The man behind Barbara grinned. "New rule, ladies. The three who lose get to drink this champagne right back. All the best whores in my clubs do their enemas this way." A wave of nausea, sharp and acrid, rose in Barbara's throat at the thought. "It's how hot girls recycle," another added with a laugh. She could feel the pressure building to an unbearable peak, a carbonated volcano ready to erupt. Her body was betraying her, the muscles fatiguing under the degrading strain. The fizzy torment inside her churned, a ticking clock of humiliation. She knew, with a sinking certainty, that she would be one of the losers.
A violent, involuntary spasm wracked Barbara’s body, her clenched muscles surrendering all at once. A torrent of fizzing, cold champagne erupted from her with a loud, wet burst, splashing violently into the waiting glass. “N-no, it’s coming out! My body is— it’s just shooting out everywhere!” she cried out, her voice a high-pitched wail of disbelief.
The man holding the glass laughed, steadying it as her bowels emptied their humiliating load. “Look at that, Bat-babe’s the first to fucking blow!” he shouted to the room, earning a chorus of jeers. Barbara could only stare, horrified, as the glass filled with the cloudy, bubbly liquid that had just been inside her. “I... I really lost,” she stammered, her words trembling with shame, “and now I have to... to drink my own butt-champagne?”
Another thug grabbed her by the hair, forcing her head back. “Every last drop, you filthy junkie,” he growled, pressing the rim of the glass to her lips. The sharp, acidic smell of it—mixed with the faint, unmistakable scent of her own body—made her gag. “This is so degrading! I can’t believe I’m really going to drink from my own ass!” she moaned, the words tasting like poison.
She opened her mouth, and the cold, fizzy liquid hit her tongue, a bizarre and vile cocktail of shame and surrender. She choked it down, the carbonation stinging her throat as the crowd roared its approval.
The fizzy, foul liquid burned its way down her throat, and she coughed, sputtering as the men laughed. Her body trembled with a mix of shame and the drug's creeping euphoria, the purple mist already fogging her resolve. "That's my good little whore," the thug sneered, patting her cheek with a calloused hand.
Pushing herself up on unsteady heels, Barbara's eyes locked onto Kara's form across the room, still dutifully bobbing her head. She took a shaky step forward, the vinyl of her bustier creaking in protest. "Diana," she croaked, her voice raw, but the Amazon's gaze was vacant, lost in the rhythm of her task.
Another step, and a heavy hand clamped down on her shoulder, spinning her around. "Where do you think you're going, Bat-babe?" a new voice growled, this one belonging to a brute with scarred knuckles. He shoved her back against the cold brick wall, the impact jarring her teeth.
"I need to... talk to them," she protested weakly, but his laugh was a short, harsh bark. "Talk?" he mocked, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of her thigh under the miniskirt. "Your mouth is for better things than talking, junkie."
His grip tightened on her shoulder, spinning her away from the wall and toward a cleared space where the stained carpet had been rolled back. "Time for you to earn your next hit, cunt," he grunted, his breath hot and sour in her ear. He shoved her downward, and her knees buckled, sending her collapsing onto the floor between three other women.
Their bodies were already arranged in a pathetic row, thighs splayed wide, each impaled on a monstrously thick black dildo that disappeared into their slick, stretched openings. A high-pitched buzzing filled the air as the vibrating plugs in their assholes hummed against the bare skin of their inner thighs. The flickering light from a large television screen cast shifting shadows across their glistening bodies, the screen displaying a graphic close-up of a woman being relentlessly throat-fucked.
"Get that fake cock in your needy little cunt, Barbie," the thug commanded, slapping a cold, lubed-up dildo into her hand. Her fingers trembled as she positioned the rubbery head against her own entrance, a shudder of revulsion and unwanted anticipation wracking her frame. She pushed, feeling the immense girth tear into her, a sharp, filling stretch that made her gasp. Another thug knelt and efficiently shoved a buzzing plastic plug into her ass, the sudden vibration jolting up her spine.
"Whoever is the last greedy bitch to scream and come gets a whole bag of the pure stuff," a voice announced from the couch.
The thug's boot nudged her thigh, spreading her legs wider against the grimy floor. "Any of you sluts think you can resist?" Barbara’s mind, hazy from the champagne and the drug, clawed for a sliver of control. "What if… what if I just don't move?" she whispered, the words thick on her tongue. "If I can keep from fucking myself on it… I won't come."
A laugh echoed from the couch. "Sure, princess. You win your prize if you can manage it. But your hungry cunt has other ideas." The thug grinned, nodding toward the massive television where a woman moaned around a thick cock, her glossy lips stretched to obscenity. "On my mark, whores."
A sharp whistle cut the air. The vibrations in her ass intensified, a brutal, relentless buzz that made her muscles clench uncontrollably around the dildo buried inside her. She locked her arm, gripping the dildo's base, fighting the instinct to thrust. Another woman’s sharp, guttural scream tore through the room only a minute in, her body convulsing as she lost. "Fuck, it's too much!" the woman wailed, her hips pumping frantically.
Barbara’s resolve shattered. The pornographic images on the screen seared into her brain—the flawless, pouting actress, the way she took her punishment with eager submission. A raw, animal need erupted from her core. Her arm, no longer her own, pistoned the thick rubber in and out of her soaking cunt, the squelching sounds joining the symphony of degradation.
Her arm jerked the dildo in a frantic rhythm, each thrust sending a jolt through her overheated nerves. A low, guttural moan escaped her lips, joining a discordant chorus of whimpers and choked cries from the other women. The blonde girl to her left was sobbing openly, her body rigid as she fought the vibrations, while another bit her lip until it bled, her knuckles white where she gripped her own thighs.
Wet, squelching noises echoed thickly in the close air, each sound a testament to forced arousal. The high-frequency buzz of the buttplugs drilled into the space between moans, a persistent electronic hum that made teeth ache. "I can't... hold it," a woman gasped, her voice cracking as her hips began to buck involuntarily.
The thugs circled them like predators, their laughter sharp and intrusive. "Listen to that symphony," one sneered, kicking the sole of a woman's boot. "Soundtrack of broken bitches." Barbara's world narrowed to the slap of flesh on vinyl, the ragged edge of her own breathing, and the overwhelming need building in her core. Every gasp from the television porn felt like a command she had no choice but to obey.
Her concentration shattered as the woman beside her let out a sharp, keening wail, her back arching violently as she climaxed. The defeat was contagious, unleashing a wave of surrenders; bodies convulsed, and the air filled with the sharp scent of release. Barbara felt her own muscles clench, the pleasure a tidal wave erasing her last shred of thought. "Fuck!" she screamed, the word tearing from her throat as orgasm ripped through her, leaving her shuddering and empty.