Chapter 10: The New Suit
The new suit felt like a betrayal against her skin. The lackey—a wiry man with a nervous tic in his jaw—had entered without knocking, his eyes pointedly fixed on the floor as he draped the folded fabric over the back of a steel chair. He’d turned to leave, but the silence, broken only by the drip of Slag’s release from her onto the mattress, seemed to choke him.
She sat up, the vial’s afterglow a thin barrier against the swelling disgust. She let the blanket fall, not bothering to cover herself. The man’s sidelong glance was a physical touch, skittering from her bare breasts to the dark patch on the mattress. She saw his Adam’s apple bob.
“See something you like?” Her voice was hoarse, stripped raw.
He froze, one hand on the doorframe. “No, ma’am. Just… the boss said to bring it.”
“Ma’am.” She snorted, a harsh, ugly sound. She stood, feeling his gaze lock onto her as she walked to the chair. Every movement felt performative. She shook out the costume. It was the same star-spangled bikini, the same patriotic iconography, but the material was cheaper, slicker. It would tear easily. The message was clear: she was disposable now.
She stepped into the bottom half, pulling it up over her hips. The fabric clung to her damp skin, the crotch a cool, thin barrier over her swollen flesh. As she fastened the top, the lackey’s eyes burned a hole between her shoulder blades. The power belt lay on the desk. She picked it up, the metal warm, and clasped it around her waist. The moment it clicked into place, the hum began—a low, insistent vibration that resonated directly in her pulsing clit.
A sharp gasp escaped her. Her knees nearly buckled. The crystallium in her system reacted to the belt’s energy field like a struck match. Need roared back, hotter and more desperate than before. The hollow feeling was gone, replaced by a devouring hunger. She turned slowly.
The lackey was still there, his face pale, his pupils dilated. He was staring, openly now, at the front of her suit. The cheap fabric did little to conceal her erect nipples. And lower, a dark, damp patch was already spreading from her core, a blatant stain of her arousal.
Cruelty, cold and sharp, cut through the haze. She needed an outlet. He was there.
“You’re lying,” she said, her voice dropping to a whisper. She took a step toward him. He didn’t retreat. “You like it.”
“I shouldn’t—” he stammered.
“But you do.” Another step. She was close enough to smell the sweat on him, the stale cigarette smoke woven into his jacket. The belt hummed louder, a promise and a threat. She saw his eyes drop to the wet spot on her crotch. “It’s okay,” she purred, the tone foreign to her own ears. “You can touch it.”
She reached out, not for his face, but for his hand. His fingers were calloused, trembling slightly as she uncurled them. He didn’t pull away. He was mesmerized, a rabbit before a snake. She guided his hand down, pressing his broad palm firmly against the soaked fabric between her legs.
The contact was electric.
A jolt of pure sensation shot up her spine. She ground herself against his hand, a slow, circular motion, her hips moving on their own. The fabric was a maddening barrier. She needed more.
“Rip it,” she breathed into his ear. “Tear it open.”
He hesitated for only a second before his other hand came up, fingers hooking into the waistband of the bikini bottom. With a grunt, he pulled. The cheap material gave way with a sickening shred. Cool air hit her exposed cunt, followed immediately by the rough heat of his hand.
This time, when his fingers made contact with her bare, slick flesh, she cried out. His touch was clumsy, frantic. He pushed two fingers inside her, and she was so obscenely open, so ready, that they slid in to the knuckle without resistance. He fucked her with his hand, his rhythm awkward and fast, his thumb mashing against her clit.
“That’s it,” she panted, her own hands gripping his shoulders, her nails digging in. “Fuck me with your hand. You like that? You like how wet I am? How used?”
He moaned, his forehead dropping to her shoulder. “God, yes.”
“It’s Slag’s come,” she hissed, the words vile and thrilling. “You’re fingering his load deeper into me. You like that, too?”
His response was a strangled groan, his fingers pumping harder. The belt’s gem was blazing now, casting jittering green shadows on the walls. The stimulation was everywhere—the crude invasion of his fingers, the relentless vibration of the belt, the filthy narrative she was spinning. It wasn’t about pleasure; it was about obliteration. About using this trembling man as a tool to scour herself raw.
Her climax built not as a wave but as a sudden, violent detonation. It ripped through her with no warning, a seizing, convulsive fit that tore a scream from her throat. Her cunt clamped viciously around his buried fingers, milking them as she shook. He held her up, his own body rigid against hers.
As the pulses subsided into ragged tremors, she became aware of his hardness pressing against her thigh. She leaned back, her eyes locking with his. His face was a mask of awe and fear.
Without a word, she pushed him backward. He stumbled, catching himself on the edge of the steel desk. She followed, her movements predatory. She unbuckled his belt, yanked his pants and boxers down around his thighs. His cock sprang free, thick and flushed. She didn’t touch it. Instead, she turned around, bent over the desk, and looked back at him over her shoulder. The shattered mirror on the wall reflected the scene in jagged pieces: her exposed ass, his stunned face, the green glow.
“Do it,” she ordered. “Take what you want.”
He didn’t need telling twice. He positioned himself, one hand on her hip, the other guiding his cock. He pushed into her from behind in one rough, steady stroke. She was so loose, so thoroughly fucked-open, that he bottomed out instantly. He let out a shattered breath.
He fucked her with a frantic, selfish rhythm, each thrust slamming her into the desk’s sharp edge. The pain grounded her. She watched their reflection in the broken glass—the powerful Ms. Americana, bent over, being used by a faceless thug. The image should have shattered her. Instead, it fed the cold fire inside.
“Harder,” she spat. “Is that all you’ve got?”
He grunted, his hands digging into her hips, pounding into her with renewed fury. The desk screeched against the floor with every drive. He was panting, cursing under his breath. “You’re a fucking nightmare,” he gasped, not in fear, but in a kind of reverence.
She laughed, a bitter, hollow sound. “You have no idea.”
His pace became ragged, his thrusts shallow and urgent. “I’m gonna—"
“Do it,” she interrupted, coldly. “Fill me up. Add yours to the mix.”
With a final, choked cry, he obeyed, his body locking as he emptied himself inside her. She felt the warm spill join the cooling mess already there. He stayed buried for a moment, slumped over her back, his breath hot on her neck.
Then, as quickly as it began, it was over. He pulled out, shuffling back to pull up his pants, avoiding her eyes. The room stank of sex and ozone.
She straightened up, feeling his release begin to trail down her inner thigh. She didn’t wipe it away. She found the torn remains of her costume, fashioned them into a passable covering, and re-clasped the belt. The hum had subsided to a dull, satisfied thrum.
The lackey stood by the door, looking spent and terrified of what came next.
Brenda Wade looked past him, to the corridor beyond. Slag was out there. The city was out there. And she had a job to do. The hollowness was back, waiting. But for now, it was quiet.
“Get out,” she said, her voice flat, devoid of everything.
He fled.
Alone again, she caught her own eye in the cracked mirror. The woman staring back was a stranger, smeared and triumphant and utterly ruined. She held the gaze until the stranger blinked first. Then she turned toward the door. The next fix, the next fight, the next fuck—they were all the same thing now. Just different ways to feel the buzz.