Chapter 2: Tell Me Worse
The glow from the club had faded into the quiet rhythm of Lisa’s apartment. For two weeks, the world outside her windows felt like a bland simulation compared to the velvet-and-sweat reality of the Grotto. Wanda had become a constant, not just as a Thursday night fixture, but as a presence that filled her spaces. They ordered terrible takeout, argued over old movies, and slept tangled in Lisa’s bed, their sleep devoid of performance, just the warm, heavy comfort of shared skin.
It was a Sunday, rain streaking the windows in greasy trails. They were on the couch, a blanket over their legs, a documentary about deep-sea fish murmuring on the panel. Lisa felt a contentment that was foreign in its simplicity. Wanda’s head was in her lap, Lisa’s fingers idly combing through the ink-black cascade of her hair.
“Marcus dropped the edits,” Wanda said, her voice lazy. She was scrolling on her wrist-comm, its pale blue light illuminating her face.
“Of what?”
“The tub scene. Our scene.” Wanda shifted, sitting up. Her expression was unreadable. “You wanna see it?”
A jolt, like a tiny electric fence, went through Lisa’s calm. Seeing it—seeing herself—felt like a different kind of exposure. “Is it… raw?”
“It’s Marcus. It’s artful. And fucking hot.” Wanda’s gaze was direct. “You should see what I see. What the camera sees.”
She didn’t wait for agreement. With a few taps, she slung the video to the main panel. The documentary vanished, replaced by the familiar, saturated tones of a Velvet Grotto production. The title card flashed: “Contributions: A Study in Surrender.”
The opening shot was a slow pan across the white porcelain tub, the harsh bathroom light rendering everything stark and clean. Thom looked small in it, vulnerable, his cock hard against his stomach. Chloe knelt like a priestess, her hand moving with liturgical precision. The audio picked up the drip of a tap, the rustle of the plastic sheet.
Then, the door opened. The camera, positioned high in the corner, captured their entrance. Lisa watched her own form, clad in the black lace, hover at the threshold. She saw the hesitation in her rounded shoulders, the quick, nervous glance she threw Wanda. She looked like a fawn caught in headlights.
But then Wanda entered the frame, a vision in crimson. Confidence personified. The edit cut to a lower angle, shooting up at Wanda as she sat on the toilet. It made her look regal, monumental. The sound of her piss hitting the water, then Thom’s face, was crystalline. The camera on the floor under the toilet seat, the one Marcus had mentioned, captured the most visceral angle: the stream, golden and strong, arcing down from the darkness above to splash directly onto Thom’s waiting, open mouth. His throat worked as he swallowed.
Lisa watched, detached, as if observing a stranger. But her heart began to thud against her ribs.
Then it was her turn.
The cut was seamless. There she was, turning, pulling down the lace. The camera from below caught the intimate shadow between her thighs, the soft, pale curves of her ass. She saw herself sit. The hesitation. Then, the stream.
“Oh, fuck,” Lisa whispered, her hand going to her mouth.
It was obscene. It was breathtaking. The low-angle shot from the floor was merciless. It framed her pussy in extreme close-up as she urinated. The camera focused on the pink folds, the glistening wetness, and the powerful, steady jet that emerged. It tracked the stream’s trajectory out of frame, then cut to Thom’s face as it hit. His eyes were closed in ecstasy. The camera behind Lisa captured the intense concentration on her face, the parted lips, the furrow in her brow that wasn’t disgust, but profound focus.
“See?” Wanda said, her voice husky beside her. “Look at you. Look at that gorgeous, fat cunt, doing that. You’re fucking majestic.”
The word landed. Majestic. Lisa had never associated her body with that word. But on screen, in that brutal, unflinching light, she saw it. The soft swell of her belly, the heavy hang of her breasts under the lace, the powerful muscles of her thighs as she positioned herself—it wasn’t shameful. It was potent. She was a font. A source. She was using her body, all of it, to enact a will that was entirely her own.
As her stream weakened on screen, the edit cut to a slow-motion close-up of the final drops spattering on Thom’s cheek. Then, a jump to the storage closet. The camera must have been a tiny concealed unit. The audio was muffled, but clear enough. It showed Wanda, backed against the shelves, her dress hiked, her face a mask of furious need as she demanded, “Taste it. Taste me. Right now.”
It showed Lisa, without a second of hesitation, burying her face between Wanda’s thighs. The camera caught the desperate, hungry movements of her head, the way her hands gripped Wanda’s hips. It caught Wanda’s climax, the violent shudder that went through her, the choked scream that was Lisa’s name.
Then, the final shot: them kneeling forehead to forehead in the bleach-scented dark, breathing each other’s air, utterly ruined and entirely found.
The video ended. The room was silent, save for the patter of rain.
Lisa realized she was crying. Silent, warm tears tracking down her cheeks. Not from sadness. From a shock of recognition.
Wanda reached over, wiped a tear with her thumb. “Told you,” she said softly. “Fucking hot.”
Lisa laughed, a wet, choked sound. “I look… I look like I know what I’m doing.”
“You do know. You just didn’t know you knew.” Wanda paused, her eyes searching Lisa’s. “When I watch that… when I watch you on your knees for me after… God. It makes me want things.”
“What things?”
Wanda leaned back, pulling Lisa with her so they were lying facing each other on the couch, noses almost touching. The gray afternoon light softened the edges of everything.
“Sometimes,” Wanda began, her voice a low confessional murmur, “when I’m the one in the tub, or on my knees, taking the piss… I fantasize about it being the other way. Not all the time. But sometimes.” She traced a finger over Lisa’s lip. “I think about being the one holding the camera. Telling someone exactly how to degrade you. Watching you break.”
Lisa’s breath hitched. The idea sent a dark, thrilling tendril through her gut. “What would you tell them to do?”
“I’d tell them to make you beg for it. To call you a fat, useless pig who only deserves to drink piss. To make you thank them for every drop.” Wanda’s eyes were black, endless. “I’d tell them to fuck you afterward, hard, while you’re still wet with it. To use your filthy, pissed-on cunt until you scream.”
A pulse of heat, raw and deep, throbbed between Lisa’s legs. She was soaking, instantly. “Fuck, Wanda.”
“Your turn,” Wanda breathed, her hand sliding down, cupping Lisa through her sweatpants. “Tell me a fantasy. The real one. The one you’re afraid to say.”
Lisa closed her eyes. The image from the screen—her own body, powerful and used—collided with a secret she’d barely admitted to herself. The words felt like shards of glass in her throat.
“I want to be in the tub,” she whispered.
Wanda’s hand stilled. “Yeah?”
“Not… not like Thom. Not just… receiving.” Lisa opened her eyes, finding Wanda’s gaze holding her, anchoring her. “I want to be… the centerpiece. For you. I want to be lying there, naked, and I want you to bring people to me. People you choose. I want you to watch them use me. Not just piss. Everything. I want you to point at a man and say, ‘Fuck her mouth,’ and to a woman and say, ‘Sit on her face.’ I want to be your toybox. And I want you to… to orchestrate it all. To give me away.” Her voice broke. “To see how much I can take for you.”
A low groan escaped Wanda. Her fingers hooked into the waistband of Lisa’s sweatpants and underwear, yanking them down in one rough motion. The cool air hit Lisa’s wetness, a sharp contrast.
“Tell me more,” Wanda demanded, her own breathing shallow. She shifted, her hand pushing Lisa’s thighs apart. “What do I do while they’re using you?”
Lisa’s mind spiraled, freed by the permission in Wanda’s touch. “You… you sit on a chair. Like a queen. You give orders. You critique them. ‘You’re not fucking her hard enough. She’s a greedy slut, she can take more.’ You make them… make them call me names. The worst ones. About my body. My… my holes.”
Wanda’s middle finger slid into her, deep and sudden. Lisa cried out, her back arching.
“What names?” Wanda’s voice was guttural. She began to move her finger, a slow, penetrating rhythm.
“Fat… fat cow,” Lisa gasped. “Blubber bitch. Sponge. Cumdump. Ugly, worthless fuck-sack.”
“Yes,” Wanda hissed, adding a second finger, stretching her. “And I’d agree with them. I’d say, ‘Yes, she is. Look at her jiggle. Look at her leak.’” She curled her fingers, finding that perfect, devastating spot. “And what about after? When they’ve all used your perfect, nasty holes?”
Lisa was panting, fucking herself on Wanda’s hand. “You… you inspect me. You make me spread myself, show you the mess. You taste it. You taste all of them on me. And then… and then you clean me. Yourself. With your tongue. Like you own it. Because you do.”
Wanda let out a string of filthy curses. She pulled her fingers out, shiny and slick, and brought them to Lisa’s mouth. “Suck. Taste your greedy, fat-girl cunt.”
Lisa obeyed, swirling her tongue around Wanda’s fingers, the taste of her own arousal sharp and musky. Wanda watched, her own free hand sliding under her leggings, her hips making small, frantic circles.
“My turn again,” Wanda panted. “I want to be collared. By you. A real one, leather, with a lock. Not at the club. Here. In your boring apartment. I want you to make me do things. Humiliating, domestic things. I want you to fuck my face over your kitchen sink while you do the dishes. I want you to make me eat my dinner off the floor. I want you to piss in my morning coffee and watch me drink it, calling you ‘Ma’am.’ I want you to invite someone over—a delivery person, a neighbor—and make me answer the door naked, with your cum dripping down my thighs, and be polite.”
The visuals cascaded, one more debased than the last, each stoking the fire in Lisa’s core. She felt powerful, omnipotent. She reached for Wanda, pulling her leggings down, encountering the soaked heat of her. She mirrored Wanda’s actions, plunging two fingers into the tight, clutching warmth of her.
They were facing each other, a tangle of limbs on the narrow couch, each fucking the other with a desperate, focused intensity. Their foreheads pressed together, their shared breaths hot and frantic.
“Tell me worse,” Lisa begged, her thumb circling Wanda’s clit. “The worst thing you’ve ever wanted.”
Wanda’s rhythm faltered. Her eyes, wide and dark, held a vulnerability that was terrifying. “I want… to be sold,” she whispered, the words barely audible. “For a night. To strangers. By Marcus. Or… or by you. I want to not know the limits. I want to be a thing in a trunk, driven somewhere, used by people I’ve never seen. I want to be broken to the point where I don’t know my own name. And I want you… I want you to be the one who finds me afterward. The one who puts me back together. The only one who can.”
The confession hung in the air, darker and more real than any fantasy before it. It wasn’t just play. It was a shadow in Wanda’s heart, and she had just handed Lisa the map to it.
Lisa answered by kissing her, a deep, claiming, messy kiss. She drove her fingers harder, deeper, her other hand pinching Wanda’s nipple through her shirt. “I would,” Lisa gasped against her mouth. “I would find you. I’d kill anyone who truly hurt you. And then I’d wash every inch of you. I’d own every scar.”
That was the final key. Wanda’s body coiled, then snapped. She came with a sound like a sob, a violent, shuddering release that clenched around Lisa’s fingers, her own hand stilling inside Lisa. Lisa followed her over the edge, her own orgasm a white-hot sheet of lightning that erased thought, leaving only sensation and the smell of their sex mingling with the rain-soaked air.
They lay spent, trembling, a slick knot of exhaustion. The gray light had deepened into twilight.
After a long time, Wanda nuzzled into the crook of Lisa’s neck. “So,” she murmured, her voice rough and satiated. “My place next Thursday. I have a tub. It’s not as nice as the Grotto’s, but…”
Lisa understood. The fantasy was no longer just a story told in the dark. It was a blueprint. She held Wanda tighter, feeling the echo of her own pulse in Wanda’s skin.
“I’ll bring the camera,” Lisa said.
And for the first time, the idea of being the one filmed, the one watched, the centerpiece, didn’t feel like an exposure. It felt like a coronation.