Chapter 14: The party continues
The collective shudder of their climaxes still hung in the air, a thick mist of sweat and spent pleasure. "Looks like you greedy cunts all finished together," a thug announced, his voice cutting through their ragged breaths. "No one gets the dust." A wave of pathetic whimpers rose from the women on the floor. "But since you tried so hard," he continued, a cruel smile in his voice, "you get the champagne."
Boots shuffled on concrete as the men moved with practiced efficiency. Rough hands grabbed Barbara, forcing her onto her hands and knees, positioning her ass high in the air alongside the other girls. The cold, wet rim of a fresh champagne bottle pressed against her already tender entrance. She flinched, remembering the violating fullness from before. "No, not again," she slurred, but the protest was weak, swallowed by the pop of another cork.
The bottle neck shoved inward, a brutal and familiar invasion. Icy bubbles flooded her, the carbonation fizzing violently against her sensitive inner walls. She could hear the same happening to the other girls, their sharp, choked gasps echoing her own. The liquid poured in a relentless, cold stream, distending her bowels with a pressure that bordered on pain. "Hold it, you filthy sluts," a voice commanded. She clenched, muscles straining, feeling the liquid slosh and churn inside her. Then, the bottles were withdrawn. The command came sharp and clear. "Now, drain them." A collective groan of effort and shame filled the room as the women obeyed, expelling the fizzy torrent into waiting glasses. The man holding Barbara's glass laughed, swirling the cloudy liquid.
“Alright, party girls, pair up,” a thug barked, his voice cutting through the exhausted silence. Rough hands shoved Barbara toward the trembling blonde she had seen earlier. “You two look thirsty.” He thrust a frothing glass into each of their hands, the contents swirling with a faint, ominous cloudiness. “New game.”
He leaned in, his grin a predatory slash. “You’re gonna take a big mouthful, but you don’t swallow.” Barbara’s stomach churned as his meaning became horrifyingly clear. “You spit it into her mouth, then she spits it back into yours.” The blonde girl, whose name she still didn’t know, let out a pathetic whimper. “You keep swapping until you’ve both swallowed half. Then you do it again until these glasses are fucking empty.”
Barbara’s fingers trembled against the cool glass, the memory of its origin making her gorge rise. The blonde’s wide, terrified eyes met hers, a silent plea for a resistance neither of them possessed. With a shuddering breath, Barbara brought the rim to her lips. The acrid, fizzy liquid flooded her mouth, a vile cocktail of shame and carbonation that burned her tongue.
She leaned forward, their faces inches apart, and opened her mouth. The warm, foaming stream transferred into the blonde’s waiting mouth in a messy, spurting flow. Some of it dripped down their chins, painting their skin with their shared degradation. The blonde’s eyes squeezed shut as she received it, her throat working convulsively.
Then it was her turn to lean in, to spit the now-warmed mixture back. Barbara accepted it, the liquid now carrying the faint, alien taste of another girl’s saliva. Back and forth it went, a grotesque pendulum of shared humiliation. The third exchange ended with Barbara swallowing, the gritty, warm fluid a final surrender.
They continued the ritual, glass after glass, until the last drops were gone.
The final, warm swallow of the swapped champagne felt like a poison settling in her soul. She wiped her glistening chin with the back of her satin glove, its fabric now stained and sticky. Her legs, unsteady in the high-heeled boots, carried her past other scenes of weary debasement toward the couch where two familiar figures knelt.
Kara’s modified costume stretched taut across her back as she bobbed her head with a frantic, practiced rhythm, a low, eager moan vibrating around the cock in her mouth. Diana, moving with a slower, more resigned tempo, had a vacant stare fixed on the grimy floor. A third thug, lounging beside them, noticed Barbara’s approach and grinned, idly stroking himself through his jeans. "Want a word with your friends, Bat-babe?" he asked, his voice a lazy drawl.
He gestured to the space on the floor beside them. "The price is on your knees." Barbara’s gaze flickered between Kara’s blissful expression and Diana’s defeated posture. Without a word, she sank down, the vinyl of her miniskirt riding up her thighs.
A different man immediately stepped forward, freeing his erection and guiding it toward her waiting lips. The first salty touch of his skin against her mouth made her flinch, but she opened up, accepting the thick weight. The room filled with the wet, sloppy symphony of their concerted efforts, a chorus of gagging sounds and deep-throated groans.
Kara’s noises were the loudest, a continuous, slurping drone of enthusiasm as she worked her man with a feverish intensity. Barbara focused on the repetitive motion, in and out, the world narrowing to the strain in her jaw and the lewd, sucking sounds echoing in her ears. Time dissolved into the rhythm of cocks pistoning into their throats, over and over, for what felt like an eternity.
Finally, with a series of guttural shouts and pulsing releases, the men finished and withdrew, leaving the three heroines on their knees, coughing and spent. They were alone, a trio of broken icons in the strobe-lit silence.
Barbara spat a thick, stringy wad of cum onto the stained concrete, her throat raw. "We can't stay here," she rasped, the words scraping out. She glanced toward a rusted emergency door, half-hidden behind a stack of crates. "My old bike tunnel... it leads to a secondary location."
Kara didn’t even look at her, instead tracing a finger through a stray drop of semen on her own glossy lower lip. "Why would we leave?" she murmured, her eyes drifting back toward the flickering pornographic images on the screen. "The party's just getting good."
Diana’s gaze was more measured, her ancient eyes cataloging the new, desperate twitch in Barbara’s fingers and the uncontrollable quiver in her thigh. She saw the irrevocable fracture behind Barbara’s determined facade. "She is right, Kara," Diana stated, her voice a low, weary monotone. "This place is a septic tank."
"It's secure," Barbara insisted, her voice cracking as she adjusted the ridiculous push-up bustier digging into her ribs. "We can... we can plan there." A powerful, involuntary shudder of need wracked her body, her enhanced nipples rubbing torturously against the tight vinyl.
Kara finally turned her head, a slow, condescending smile spreading across her face as she watched Barbara struggle. She exchanged a knowing, almost bored look with Diana. "Fine," Kara sighed, as if agreeing to a tedious errand. "Let's follow the broken bird."
She rose smoothly on her heeled boots, her every movement a parody of her former grace. "Maybe the new place has better drugs." Diana stood with her, a silent pillar of resignation, already moving toward the shadowed exit. They moved as one, a unit of two predators herding their damaged third, who trembled with every step toward potential freedom.
They pushed through the rusted emergency door into the alley’s biting cold, the sudden silence a shock after the warehouse’s relentless noise. Barbara’s old muscle car, a relic from a life before fishnets and chrome, sat under a flickering sodium light, its paint scarred by grime and neglect. She fumbled with the keys, her satin gloves slipping on the metal, the click of the unlock echoing like a gunshot in the quiet.
“Just get in,” she hissed, yanking the driver’s door open and sliding onto the cracked leather seat. Kara and Diana moved with a languid, unsettling synchronicity, folding themselves into the back with the eerie grace of creatures who owned their captivity. The engine coughed to life, a raw mechanical sound that drowned out Barbara’s shaky exhale.
She pulled onto the desolate street, the tires crunching over broken glass, the warehouse shrinking in the rearview mirror. A soft, wet sound began behind her, a rhythmic slickness that needed no explanation. Kara’s low, eager moan vibrated through the chassis, followed by Diana’s deeper, more resonant sigh.
Barbara’s knuckles turned white on the steering wheel, gripping it to stop the tremors in her hands. “Can’t you two wait?” she snapped, her eyes darting to the mirror. Kara’s head was thrown back against the seat, her fingers working frantically under the tight fabric of her miniskirt. “Don’t be a prude, Babs,” Kara slurred, her voice thick with artifical pleasure. “It makes the ride go faster.”
The car filled with the scent of their arousal, a musky, intimate fog that clung to the stale air. Diana’s quiet, rhythmic panting joined Kara’s louder exhibitions, a dual soundtrack of surrender. Barbara stared straight ahead at the empty road, trying to convince herself this escape was different from the last time.
Barbara’s knuckles ached from their grip on the steering wheel, every moan from the backseat vibrating through the frame like a physical taunt. “I can smell you from here,” Kara purred, her voice slick with a lazy arrogance. “Your need is practically dripping onto the upholstery.”
“Just shut up,” Barbara whispered, her eyes fixed on the road as she took a hard turn into a narrower, darker alley, the buildings pressing in on them. She slammed the gearshift into park with a jarring crunch, the headlights illuminating a dead-end wall scrawled with graffiti. “We need to be clear-headed.”
“We are clear,” Kara said, her door swinging open before the car had fully settled. She stood in the alley’s grime, heels sinking into something soft, and hitched her miniskirt up around her waist with a deliberate, theatrical slowness. “You’re the one who’s fuzzy.” She leaned back against the cold brick, spreading her legs and tapping a finger against the damp, blonde hair between them. “This will focus you. Come on, Babs. You know you want to taste it.”
Barbara’s body moved without her consent, the door handle cold in her trembling hand. The pavement was rough and gritty against her knees as she knelt, the posture a devastating echo of the warehouse. She hated the way her own fingers immediately dipped beneath her skirt, seeking her own swollen clit as she leaned forward.
The first touch of her tongue to Kara’s folds was a revelation of salt and musk, a flavor that made her stomach clench and her own cunt pulse. Kara let out a satisfied sigh, one hand tangling in Barbara’s pigtails to guide her rhythm. “See?” Kara murmured, looking down her body at the desperate figure between her thighs. “Isn’t this better than planning?”
Barbara could only answer with a muffled groan, her face buried deep, her own frantic fingering becoming punishing and rough. She was fucking herself on her hand while she serviced her former ally, the dual sensations short-circuiting her thoughts. Kara’s smug laughter echoed off the alley walls, a sound of absolute, corrupted victory.
Kara’s body seized, a raw, shuddering climax wracking her frame as she ground herself against Barbara’s mouth. Her moan was a guttural, satisfied sound that died into the alley’s damp silence. She pushed Barbara’s head away, a slick strand of saliva and arousal breaking between them.
She pushed Barbara’s head away, a slick strand of saliva and arousal breaking between them. "Now wasn't that a better use of your mouth?" Kara breathed, her voice husky and self-satisfied. She straightened her miniskirt with a practiced flip of her wrist, the motion effortless and dismissive.
Kara slid into the backseat of the car, her smirk visible in the dim light as Barbara wiped her mouth with a trembling hand. "Drive us to your little hideout, Babs," Kara purred, her fingers already tracing patterns on her own thigh. Barbara gunned the engine, her knuckles white on the wheel, navigating the slick streets toward the last vestige of her old life.
The car finally stopped in a quiet, unremarkable neighborhood, its normalcy a stark mockery of their condition. Barbara led them up a fire escape to a nondescript door, her hands shaking so badly the key scraped metal before finding the lock. The apartment inside was clean, sparsely furnished, and utterly silent, a mausoleum for her former self.
“Home sweet home,” Kara drawled, her heels clicking on the hardwood as she surveyed the sterile space with disdain. She immediately dropped onto the plush grey sofa, hiking her skirt up to her hips. “Now, where’s the entertainment?” Diana moved to the large television, her movements fluid and automatic, and turned it on.
The screen flickered to life, flooding the quiet room with the garish colors and amplified, wet sounds of hardcore pornography. Kara’s head fell back, a low moan escaping her as she pressed her palm hard against herself through her underwear. “That’s more like it,” she sighed, her eyes already glazing over.
The porn’s relentless rhythm pulsed through the sterile room, a metronome for their decay. Kara’s back arched, her fingers a frantic blur beneath her skirt, while Diana watched the screen with a fixed, hungry intensity, her own hand moving in a slow, deliberate circle over her vinyl-clad stomach. Barbara stood frozen by the door, her own body humming in traitorous sympathy.
The porn’s audio, a chorus of slapping flesh and high-pitched, performative moans, seemed to warp the very air in the clean room. Barbara’s traitorous hand drifted from the doorframe to her own hip, her fingers pressing against the vinyl as if to quiet the ache beneath. “This is… we can’t just…” she stammered, but the words dissolved into a shaky sigh as her other hand rose to mimic Diana’s, cupping her own breast through the stiff bustier.
“Your pussy is begging, Babs,” Kara murmured, not even looking at her, her own movements becoming more frantic and shallow. Barbara’s breathing hitched, her focus narrowing to the screen where a woman with impossibly glossy lips was being roughly taken from behind. “It’s so… crude,” Barbara whispered, yet her thighs tightened together, creating a friction that sent a jolt straight to her core. She took one trembling step away from the door, then another, drawn by the hypnotic rhythm of degradation.
She collapsed onto the floor beside the couch, her back against its firm edge, knees falling open in a mimicry of defeated presentation. A thin, desperate sound escaped her lips as she finally gave in, mirroring Kara’s desperate motions with a ragged urgency. Her consciousness fragmented into the base sensations of the vibration humming up from the floorboards and the slick sound of her own fingers moving. The resolve she had clutched during the escape now felt like a silly, distant memory, utterly divorced from the raw need contorting her body now.
Weeks bled together in a haze of flickering screens and relentless physical need. Barbara found herself scrolling through websites showcasing sheer bodysuits and extreme platform heels, her heart pounding with a weird mix of revulsion and excitement. She spent hours in salon chairs, emerging with hair extensions as rigid as plastic and nails shaped into sharp, glittery claws.
Her old jogging suits and sweaters gathered dust as her closet filled with lace and latex. She now understood the precise, addictive agony of a vibrator on her hyper-sensitized clit, her eyes glued to the same kind of hardcore scenes that now played on a constant loop in the apartment. The once-sterile safehouse was now littered with charging cords for toys and glossy shopping bags from adult boutiques. She was becoming a perfect echo of the broken icons she now called roommates, her own reflection in the dark television screen a wide-eyed, pouting stranger.
That pouting stranger in the screen watched as Kara uncurled from the couch, her movements a liquid threat. “This place is too quiet, Babs,” Kara murmured, her voice a low purr that vibrated through the floorboards. She traced a finger along the back of the sofa, stopping directly behind Barbara. “It’s missing the… energy.”
Diana looked up from the screen, her dark eyes meeting Kara’s in a silent, understanding exchange. “We need people,” Diana stated, her tone flat and final. “The right kind of people.”
Kara’s hands came to rest on Barbara’s shoulders, their weight both comforting and imprisoning. “Remember the fun we had?” Kara whispered, her lips close to Barbara’s ear, the memory of the champagne challenge a hot flush of shame on Barbara’s skin. “We could have that here. Your place. Your rules.”
Barbara’s heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a vinyl cage. “I don’t know…” she breathed, but the protest was weak, smothered by the image of a line of glowing purple powder on her new glass coffee table. Her body throbbed in agreement with the idea.
“Just a few guys,” Kara coaxed, her fingers kneading the tension from Barbara’s shoulders, a tension born of constant, unmet need. “They know how to bring the good stuff. The pure blend.” She let the promise hang in the perfumed air, a toxin tailored just for them.
Barbara’s gaze dropped to her own lap, to the short, shiny skirt that had replaced her tactical pants. She saw the woman in the reflection, the one with the glossy lips and vacant eyes. “Maybe…” Barbara heard herself say, the word a quiet surrender that changed the air in the room. “Just a small one.”
Kara’s triumphant smile was a sharp, bright thing in the dim room. “That’s my girl.”