Chapter 2: Market Price: A Grocery Trip in Trade
The afternoon sun was a pale, wintry disc, casting long shadows across the cobblestones of the weekend market. It was a place of curated bounty: artisanal cheeses, racks of vintage clothing, the earthy smell of root vegetables. Adam held Val’s hand, strolling past stalls with the easy grace of a young couple. He carried a canvas tote bag over his shoulder.
Lily followed three paces behind, as per protocol. But her progress was not a walk. It was a slow, agonizing roll.
Between her legs, fixed to the modified saddle of a vintage bicycle, was a thick, veined dildo made of rigid silicone. It was buried deep inside her, stretching her painfully with every rotation of the pedals. The bike itself was a absurd, garish thing—pink with a wicker basket. Val had chosen it. “It suits you,” she’d said, smiling.
Adam had instructed her before they left: “You will ride it the entire time. You will not stop. You will not dismount. If you come, you will keep pedaling. If you feel faint, you will keep pedaling. This is your function here. A moving display.”
So she pedaled. The hard silicone shaft dragged against her inner walls, an intrusive, unreliding friction. The marketplace sounds—the chatter, the music from a busker—faded into a buzzing backdrop behind the roar of blood in her ears and the soft, wet squelch that seemed deafening to her with every downward stroke of her legs. Her dress, a demure floral print, was hiked up around her waist, leaving her naked from the waist down, exposed to the chill air and anyone who cared to look. Most people didn’t. Or pretended not to. This was a city, after all.
Adam and Val paused at a stall selling handmade pottery. Val picked up a mug, holding it to the light. “It’s a bit crude, don’t you think?”
“Charming,” Adam mused. He didn’t look back at Lily, who had stopped her bike a careful distance away, trembling as she tried to balance, the implement inside her keeping her anchored to the seat. A deep, unwanted throb of pleasure-pain pulsed through her core. She bit her lip.
They moved on. Lily pedaled again, the movement forcing a sharp gasp from her throat. She followed them to a spice merchant, the air thick with the scents of cumin and cinnamon, then to a flower stall bursting with bright tulips. All the while, the dildo worked her, a relentless, robotic violation.
Finally, they approached the butcher’s stall at the far end of the market. It was a more serious affair—white tiled walls, stainless steel counters, whole animal carcasses hanging in a cold room behind a plastic curtain. The butcher, a man in his fifties with thick, beefy forearms and a stained apron, was weighing a rack of lamb. He looked up, his eyes flicking from the attractive couple to the disheveled woman on the ridiculous bike behind them. A knowing, greasy smile touched his lips. He’d seen them before.
“Afternoon,” the butcher said, his voice a low rumble. “The ribeyes? I’ve set them aside, just like you asked.” He reached under the counter and produced a package of two thick, marbled steaks, their red flesh bright against the white paper.
Adam took the package, inspecting it. “Perfect. As always.”
Val leaned on the counter, a conspiratorial glint in her eye. “We’ve had a little change in payment today, Leo.”
The butcher, Leo, wiped his hands on his apron, his gaze drifting to Lily. She had stopped the bike, her knuckles white on the handlebars. She was dripping, a mixture of her own slickness and the silicone, onto the cobblestones between her feet. Her face was flushed, her breath coming in shallow pants.
“Is that so?” Leo said, his smile widening.
Adam nodded casually. “The pet has incurred a small debt. She was slow polishing the silver this morning. We thought she could work it off.”
Leo’s eyes roamed over Lily’s body, lingering on her exposed lower half. “The usual rate?”
“The usual rate,” Adam confirmed.
Leo didn’t hesitate. He untied the strings of his apron, letting it fall to the floor behind the counter. He unfastened his work trousers, pushing them and his stained boxers down just enough to free his cock. It was already half-hard, thick and uncut. He beckoned Lily with a curl of his finger.
A familiar, cold dread pooled in Lily’s stomach, but it was entwined now with a sharper, more immediate humiliation. Here, in the open air, with the smell of raw meat and sawdust choking her, it was different from the private degradations of the apartment. Pedaling forward, the dildo shifted inside her, drawing a choked whimper. She dismounted clumsily, the toy jolting as she stepped onto the cobblestones, and approached the counter.
“On your knees, pet,” Val said softly, almost sweetly.
Lily knelt on the hard, dirty ground. The cold stone bit into her knees. She looked up at the butcher’s swollen cock, bobbing just at her eye level. It smelled of sweat and animal fat. Grease and blood were smeared on his hands.
“Go on,” Adam urged, his voice devoid of emotion. “Pay for the ribeyes.”
Lily closed her eyes for a second, then opened them. She leaned forward, her tongue darting out to lick the salty tip. Leo let out a satisfied grunt. She took him into her mouth, working him with a practiced, hollow-cheeked rhythm born of four years of forced expertise. The taste was musky, overwhelmingly male. She could feel the coarse hair of his pubis against her nose.
“Use your throat, slut,” Leo muttered, his hands coming down to fist in her hair, not with Adam’s controlled precision, but with a rough, proprietary greed. He pushed forward, bypassing her mouth, forcing himself into her tighter passage. She gagged, tears springing to her eyes as he hit the back of her throat. He held her there, his hips jerking shallowly, fucking her face with short, brutal strokes.
Adam and Val watched, arm in arm, as if appraising a piece of performance art. Val whispered something in Adam’s ear, and he chuckled.
Leo’s breathing grew ragged. “Gonna fucking come, you filthy little cunt,” he snarled, his fingers tightening in her scalp. He shoved deep one last time and held, his body tensing. A hot, bitter flood shot down her throat. She swallowed convulsively, the fluid burning as it went down. He pulled out with a wet pop, smearing the last drops across her lips and cheek.
Panting, he tucked himself away and hoisted his trousers. He picked up his apron, putting it back on as if nothing had happened. “Pleasure doing business,” he said to Adam, who handed him a few folded bills—a nominal gesture, a tip.
Adam took the ribeyes and placed them in his tote bag. He looked down at Lily, who was still on her knees, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, her body trembling. “Back on the bike.”
Her legs were weak as she stood. The dildo felt even larger, more intrusive now, a grotesque plug. She mounted the bicycle, a fresh wave of sensitivity making her gasp as she settled onto the seat, forcing the toy even deeper. She began to pedal, the motion now a slick, sore misery. Adam and Val turned to leave.
“Wait,” Val said, a playful idea lighting her features. She walked back to the counter where Leo was now casually sharpening a large knife. She spoke to him in a low voice. He listened, nodded, and a dirty laugh escaped him.
He reached into a bucket below the counter and pulled out a handful of something raw, cold, and slimy. Offal. Pink and slippery liver, maybe, or a piece of heart. He came around the counter and stood before Lily on her bike.
“Open,” he commanded, his voice still thick with spent arousal.
Lily, her mind numb, obeyed, opening her mouth. He shoved the cold, metallic-tasting organ meat onto her tongue. It was freezing, textured, blood already seeping onto her taste buds. “Chew.”
She chewed, the act nauseating, the coppery taste of blood filling her mouth. She gagged but kept chewing.
“Swallow.”
She forced the cold, rubbery mass down her throat. It lodged for a terrifying second before slipping down.
Val smiled. “For the road. Now, let’s go home. You can cook these,” she said, patting the bag with the steaks, “while we discuss tonight’s new game.”
Lily pedaled, the offal sitting heavy and cold in her stomach, the dildo a constant, brutal reminder inside her. She followed them out of the market, past the staring and averted eyes, a moving sculpture of shame, her body no longer her own but a public, payment-ready vessel. The cobblestones gave way to pavement, the crowd thinned, and the only sounds were the whirr of the bicycle chain and the liquid, rhythmic betrayal of her own body.
The cobblestones gave way to pavement, the crowd thinned, and the only sounds were the whirr of the bicycle chain and the liquid, rhythmic betrayal of her own body. They did not head home. Adam steered them back into a different, more bustling aisle of the market, his stride purposeful. “One more stop,” he said to Val, his hand resting on the small of her back. “The French place. For the Brie you liked.”
Lily’s legs trembled with a deep, muscular exhaustion, each pedal stroke a labor. The raw offal sat in her gut like a cold stone. She followed them to a quaint fromagerie, its window adorned with woven baskets and wheels of cheese. The bell above the door jingled as Adam and Val entered, leaving the door ajar.
Adam did not look back at her. His command, given earlier that morning, was absolute: she was not to dismount unless explicitly ordered. So she stopped the bike beside a wrought-iron bistro table outside the shop, her body humming with strain, the silicone inside her an undeniable, shameful anchor. She waited, her head bowed, the floral dress a cruel parody of normality.
Inside, Adam was already chatting with the cheese monger, a lean man in his forties with a precise mustache and bright eyes. Val pointed to a specific cheese. The monger nodded, selecting a large wheel of Brie from the display case. He began expertly cutting a wedge, wrapping it in waxed paper. Their conversation was low, pleasant. Then Adam leaned in, his voice dropping. The monger’s hands stilled. He looked past Adam, through the glass, his eyes finding Lily on her pink bicycle.
A slow, intrigued smile spread beneath his mustache. He gave a single, curt nod.
Adam turned and spoke through the open door, his voice casual. “Pet. Inside. On your knees. Now.”
A jolt of fresh dread, colder than the butcher’s offal, shot through her. She clumsily dismounted, the dildo shifting with a sickening internal slide. She entered the shop, the rich, pungent smell of aging dairy enveloping her. The floor was cool tile.
“There’s a discrepancy in the pricing,” Adam announced, as if to the room. A middle-aged couple examined a block of cheddar nearby, oblivious. “The pet failed a basic math protocol this morning. She needs a practical lesson.”
From his apron, the cheese monger produced a heavy, metal-handled pricing gun. Adam took it. He knelt before Lily, who was now on all fours on the clean tile floor. With a leather strap from his pocket, he fastened the cold metal gun to her right thigh, snug against her bare skin. The weight of it was a shocking contrast to her exposed vulnerability. “This is the correct price,” he said, tapping the gun. “Don’t forget it.”
He stood and nodded to the monger. The man came around the counter. He didn’t speak. He simply unbuckled his belt and let his trousers fall, his cock already stiffening. It was thinner than the butcher’s, but longer. He walked to the display case, leaning back against it, and beckoned.
“Service him,” Val instructed from beside a shelf of chèvre, her voice a smooth, unruffled command. “And be quiet. We have customers.”
Lily crawled forward. The pricing gun knocked against her thigh with each movement. She reached the monger, the glass case cool against her forearms. He placed a hand on the back of her head, not roughly, but with a firm, artistic certainty, as if positioning a final ornament. He guided his cock past her lips.
She began to move her mouth, the rhythm automatic, a hollowed-out skill. The taste was clean, faintly salty. He let out a soft sigh of pleasure, his hips giving slight, involuntary thrusts that tapped the back of her throat. She stared at the gleaming glass, at the perfect wheels of Camembert and Port Salut just inches from her face. Her reflection was a blur of blonde hair and hollow eyes.
The bell on the door jingled. The middle-aged woman from the cheddar section approached the counter, her husband in tow. “We’ll take this one, please,” the woman said, pointing to the Brie that had already been cut.
The cheese monger, his fingers tangled in Lily’s hair, did not miss a beat. “Of course, madam,” he said, his voice perfectly steady, even as he pushed Lily’s head down further, forcing her to take him deeper. With his free hand, he reached for the waxed paper packet and placed it on the scale. “A superb choice. It’s particularly ripe today.”
Lily moaned around him, the vibration involuntary. The sound was muffled, lost beneath the conversation. The woman chatted about a dinner party. The monger nodded, agreeing that a fig compote would pair beautifully. All the while, his cock slid in and out of Lily’s working mouth, his pace increasing minutely with his rising excitement. She could feel his tension building, a tightening in his groin, a quickening of his breath which he controlled masterfully, letting only the slightest sharp inhale escape.
“Will that be all?” he asked the customer, his voice tight.
“Yes, thank you.”
He processed the payment one-handed, giving change, all while fucking Lily’s face with slow, deep, professional strokes over his display case. The customers took their cheese and left, the bell jingling again. The moment the door shut, the monger’s composure cracked.
“Oh, fuck,” he grunted, his hips snapping forward. He held her head locked in place and came, his release spilling hot and thin down her throat. She swallowed, the act now a muscle-memory reflex. He softened and withdrew, tucking himself away with efficient movements. He adjusted his apron, then picked up a cloth and polished the spot on the glass case where her hands had been.
Adam tossed a few extra euros onto the counter. “For the lesson.”
“Any time,” the monger said, his smile returning, professional and warm.
Adam glanced out the fromagerie’s front window. Across the cobblestone aisle, in the window of the small bakery, the elderly baker was wiping his hands on a towel. He caught Adam’s eye and gave a slow, almost imperceptible nod.
“Val,” Adam said, tilting his head toward the bakery. “Let’s get an espresso. The pet has one more errand.”
He turned to Lily, who was still on all fours, the pricing gun heavy on her thigh. “You see the bakery? Go to the back door. The baker is expecting a delivery. Offer him the product. Use the code phrase: ‘I’m here for the sourdough starter.’ Go.”
Lily crawled out of the fromagerie onto the rough pavement. Her knees, already raw from the butcher’s stall, screamed in protest. She crawled the twenty feet to the bakery’s shaded side alley, where a heavy wooden door stood ajar. The smell of yeast and baked sugar poured out.
Inside was a small, flour-dusted workroom. The elderly baker, a man with tufted white hair and thick, powerful forearms dusted with white, stood over a massive wooden table. He was shaping dough. He looked at her, his eyes pale and assessing.
“I’m… I’m here for the sourdough starter,” Lily whispered, the code phrase ash in her mouth.
The baker said nothing. He simply pointed a floury finger at the center of his worktable. Then he walked to the front of his shop, turning the sign on the door to ‘Fermé’ and drawing the blind. The room dimmed.
He returned, his movements slow and deliberate. He unbuckled his belt. Lily, understanding, pulled herself onto the table. The wood was hard, grainy with dried flour that puffed into the air around her. He pushed her onto her back. Her head knocked against a sack of grain. He pushed her dress up to her waist, his old, strong hands parting her legs. He did not look at her face.
He spat into his palm, slicking himself, and pushed into her with a single, unceremonious thrust. She was loose from the bike, wet from the earlier violations, and he slid in easily. He fucked her with a steady, kneading rhythm, like working dough. His breath huffed, flour from his apron floating down onto her belly and thighs with each movement. The pricing gun on her thigh dug into the wood.
Across the aisle, seated at a small café table, Adam sipped his espresso. Val stirred a tiny spoon in her macchiato. They had a perfect view through the bakery’s front window, which looked directly into the workroom.
“He’s methodical,” Val observed, taking a delicate sip.
“Efficient,” Adam agreed, watching the old man’s back flex as he pistonned into Lily on the table. “No wasted motion. It’s almost artistic.”
Inside, the baker’s pace increased. His hands, gripping her hips, left white, floury prints on her skin. He grunted, a low, rasping sound, and shoved deep, his body locking as he emptied into her. He held there for a moment, then pulled out. He turned away, buckling his trousers, and returned to his ball of dough as if she were no longer there.
Lily lay on the flour-dusted table, staring at the ceiling streaked with cobwebs. She felt the warm trickle between her legs, a mix of him and the butcher and the monger and the cold silicone gel from the bike. She felt the weight of the pricing gun. She felt nothing else.
After a moment, the baker spoke without turning. “The delivery is complete. You can go.”
She slid off the table. Her legs nearly buckled. She stumbled to the alley door and out into the crisp air. She crawled back to the café table where Adam and Val were now standing, finishing their drinks.
Adam looked down at her. Her dress was filthy, covered in sawdust, flour, and other stains. Her hair was a tangled mess. Her eyes were dead. “Good,” he said, his voice devoid of any inflection. He placed a hand on Val’s back. “Let’s go home. You can cook those ribeyes.”
He did not order her back onto the bike. He simply began to walk. Lily followed on her hands and knees, the pricing gun still strapped to her thigh, scraping against the pavement with every crawl. The crowd parted for them, a silent river flowing around a stone. She kept her eyes on the moving scuff of his shoes, a point of focus in a blurring world. The only thought that formed, brittle and sharp as a shard of glass, was a memory of his mouth on hers years ago, a phantom kiss that tasted now of blood, cheese, and dust.
The phantom kiss dissolved into the scrape of pavement against her kneecaps. The journey home was a colorless drone of pain, a kilometer of crawling that turned her hands and knees into raw, bleeding meat. The pricing gun, still strapped to her thigh, threw off her balance with each drag forward. Adam and Val walked ahead, their conversation a distant murmur about the quality of the ribeyes, the sharpness of the Brie.
They didn’t look back.
The apartment door closed with a definitive click that echoed in the sterile foyer. The normalcy of the entryway—the neat row of shoes, the mirror, the umbrella stand—felt like a lie. Lily remained on the floor, her body a tapestry of filth: flour ground into the cheese-monger’s dried spend on her belly, butcher’s blood under her nails, a stale musk rising from between her legs. She stared at the grain of the wooden floor.
“The product was acceptable,” Adam said, hanging his coat with precise care. “But the presentation was vulgar. Uncontrolled.”
Val stepped out of her heels, padding to the kitchen to deposit the groceries. “All that whimpering at the butcher’s stall. It was so… performative. Like you wanted the attention.”
Adam walked into the living room, settling into his armchair. He crossed his legs, a king on a worn throne. “Bring her.”
Val gripped Lily’s hair, not pulling her up, but steering her crawling form across the floor until she was a heap at Adam’s feet. He let the silence build, punctuated only by Lily’s ragged breathing. He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees.
“Look at you,” he said, his voice soft, almost tender. “You’re a mess. You spread your legs for a butcher, a cheese-seller, a baker. You took their come like it was water. You are a gutter. A public utility.”
His hand shot out, fingers digging into the hinge of her jaw, forcing her head up. “You are a whore.”
The word hung in the air, stark and final. It wasn’t new. But today, here, after the crawling pilgrimage home, it landed differently. It curdled the memory of the phantom kiss, turning it sour.
“A whore needs to be reminded of her station,” Adam continued, releasing her face. “It needs to be burned into her skin so she doesn’t forget. Val, the tools.”
Val moved to a lacquered cabinet. She returned with a small leather pouch, unrolling it on the coffee table. Inside were two items: a heavy, black-varnished wooden hairbrush, and a slender steel wand, its tip a perfect, polished sphere.
Adam took the hairbrush. He weighed it in his hand. “On the couch. Ass in the air. Present the cunt you sold today.”
Lily shivered, a full-body tremor that started deep in her gut. She pushed herself onto the couch, the leather cold against her abused knees. She assumed the position, forehead pressed to the cushions, her sore hips raised. The position pulled her open, exposing her, still swollen and slick from the day’s relentless use.
“Count,” Adam said.
The first crack of the hairbrush was a thunderclap of pure, white pain. It smashed across both cheeks, a broad, devastating impact that bloomed immediate, fiery heat.
“One,” Lily choked out, her voice muffled by the cushion.
He didn’t wait. Crack. The second blow overlapped the first, the pain compounding, deepening from surface sting to a brutal, bone-deep throb.
“Two!”
Crack. The third was lower, catching the tender crease where her thigh met her ass. She screamed into the leather, her body jerking forward.
“Three!”
He laid down a rhythm then, methodical and hard, painting her skin with a rising tapestry of anguish. Ten. Fifteen. Twenty. Her ass and thighs became a single, screaming nerve ending. The count dissolved into sobs. She lost track, her world narrowing to the anticipation of the next blow and the searing aftermath.
He stopped at thirty. Her skin felt twice its size, hot and tight and vibrating with pain. She was dripping, a mix of sweat and tears and her own arousal, which humiliated her most of all. The pain had short-circuited something, unlocking a raw, animal response she couldn’t control.
“See how wet it is?” Val observed, her voice clinical. “Even now. It’s reflexive. That’s all it is.”
“It needs a deeper lesson,” Adam said, breathing heavily from the exertion. He put the hairbrush down. Lily heard the click of the steel wand being turned on. A low, electric buzz filled the room, a vicious, promising hum.
He didn’t press it to her clit. He pushed the cold, vibrating steel sphere against the raw, bruised flesh of her asshole. She jolted, a strangled cry ripping from her throat. The vibration was an excruciating violation, a dizzying contrast to the blunt-force trauma.
“This is where you truly take things,” he growled, working the wand in tiny, insistent circles against her clenched, resisting muscle. “This is your deepest vault. And you opened it for a piece of fucking cheese.”
He applied pressure. The slickness from her front provided just enough give. The sphere, relentless and buzzing, began to breach her. She screamed, her back arching, her fists clenching the cushion. It was a burning, stretching, electric invasion. He pushed it fully inside, the wand’s handle sticking out from between her ravaged cheeks.
The vibration became internal, a terrifying buzz that seemed to shake her very core. He left it there, a brutal plug.
Then his hands were on her hips, yanking her back. She felt the hot, hard slap of his cock against her throbbing ass. He guided himself not to her wet, waiting cunt, but lower, to the tight, guarded ring of muscle already stretched by the wand.
“No, no, no, please,” she babbled, the words a broken stream against the leather.
“Yes,” he hissed, and pushed.
The head of his cock breached her alongside the steel, a monstrous, burning stretch. She howled. It was a feeling of being split open, of being unmade. He sank deeper, a slow, excruciating conquest, his cock forcing its way past the resistance of the wand and her own clenched muscle. When he was fully seated, buried to the hilt in her ass, he stopped. They were both panting, joined in this brutal, triple-penetration.
“You are a whore,” he grunted into her ear, his body a cage over hers. “Your ass, your cunt, your throat… they’re not yours. They are mine. I loan them out. I allow the filth. And I alone decide when to reclaim them.”
He began to move. The friction was unbearable, a slick, tight, agonizing drag. The wand buzzed mercilessly inside her, magnifying every sensation into a weapon. She was so full she couldn’t breathe. Each of his thrusts jolted the wand, sending vicious currents through her belly. Pain and a grotesque, electrical pleasure twisted together, inseparable. She came, suddenly and violently, her body seizing around the impossible fullness, a shockwave of shame that left her weeping.
He fucked her ass through her climax, his own pace becoming ragged, punishing. “This is my property,” he snarled, his fingers digging into the bruises he’d just painted on her hips. “Mine!”
He came with a shout, his release flooding her, hot and claiming. He collapsed over her, his weight pressing the wand deeper, setting off another miserable, convulsive clench. He stayed inside her for a long minute, then pulled out with a slick, obscene sound.
He removed the wand, clicking it off. The sudden silence was deafening. He looked down at the wreck of her, at his own spend leaking from her violated ass, mingling with the sheen of sweat and her earlier arousal.
“Now,” he said, his breath finally steadying. “You will go to the kitchen. You will prepare the ribeyes. You will set the table. You will serve us. And you will do it all with my come in your ass, so you remember what you are.”
He stood up, adjusting his clothes. Val handed him a glass of water, which he drank in one long swallow. He looked at Lily, still crumpled on the couch, her body shaking with aftershocks.
“Move,” he said, the command flat and absolute.
Lily pushed herself up. Every movement was fire. She stumbled toward the kitchen, the weight of his punishment inside her a wet, aching truth. The ghost of that long-ago kiss was gone now, obliterated, replaced entirely by the taste of blood, cheese, dust, and him.