Chapter 8: Slag's Ultimatum
The rain started then, a fine, cold mist that beaded on Slag’s stone shoulders and dripped from the torn edges of her costume. His laughter bounced off the metal containers, ugly and knowing.
“You think a little fuck fixed you?” he repeated, his voice a gravelly slide. “That belt’s got you by the cunt, Flag Girl. And I own the supply.” He didn’t just gesture to the crates; he claimed them with a glance, his massive hand sweeping through the air. “The crystallium, the men, this whole damn pier. You want more? You’re gonna have to go through me.”
He was right. The hollow ache was back, deeper than before, a vacuum in her core that the orgasm had only widened. The belt answered it with a low, insistent thrum that vibrated in her teeth. It wasn’t a tool. It was a craving. And he was the dealer.
Shame was a distant, intellectual concept. What remained was need, and a fury at being so completely seen.
She didn’t speak. She charged.
Tackling him was like hitting a cliff face. The impact jarred every bone, sent a shock of pain through her already battered body that the belt instantly translated into a spark of unwanted pleasure. They crashed onto the wet dock, rolling over splintered wood and old rope. She straddled him, her fists pounding down on his chest. Each hit was a dull, solid thud that sent vibrations up her arms. It felt good. It felt useless.
He laughed beneath her, the sound rumbling through her thighs. He let her wear herself out for a few more seconds, then his hands shot up, engulfing her wrists. His grip was absolute, crushing. He flipped her beneath him with terrifying ease, his weight settling like a car engine block on her ribs.
“Easy, girl,” he growled, his breath hot and sour in her face. His knee shoved between her legs, the rough material of his pants grinding against her tender flesh through the torn suit. A sharp, bright sensation—part pain, part electric promise—jolted through her. Her hips bucked involuntarily. “I can give you what you need. Or I can break you.”
The pressure of him, the sheer dominance of his position, made her head swim. Her thighs, acting on a mind of their own, clenched around his waist. The friction was a rough, delicious torment. Her costume was in tatters, her breasts exposed to the cold, damp air, her nipples hard and aching.
“Then give it to me,” she snarled, the words ripped from a place of pure animal hunger. “Or shut up.”
His cracked-stone grin widened. “You’re gonna beg for it.”
With his free hand, he grabbed the remains of her costume at the crotch and ripped. The sound was violent, final. The cold air hit her exposed pussy, followed immediately by the heat of his calloused palm. He didn’t tease. He drove two thick, blunt fingers into her, a brutal, deep thrust that punched the air from her lungs.
She was so wet, so open from before, that he slid in to the knuckles without resistance. The stretch was immediate, filling. He curled his fingers, scraping a spot inside that made her vision blur. His thumb found her clit, a rough, demanding circle.
“See?” he grunted, his face inches from hers. He began to fuck her with his hand, a relentless, pounding rhythm that had nothing to do with tenderness. It was a violation. It was exactly what her body, hijacked by the crystallium and the belt, screamed for. Each inward drive of his fingers ratcheted the tension tighter. The belt blazed against her skin, its light painting his features in ghastly green. “You’re just a hole for this stuff. A pretty, patriotic socket.”
She couldn’t fight it. The climax seized her with a violence that bordered on terrifying. It wasn’t a wave; it was a detonation. Her back arched off the wet wood, a ragged scream torn from her throat as her cunt clenched and spasmed around his invading fingers, soaking his hand. The pleasure was so intense it tipped into pain, a white-hot wire threaded through her core.
He kept moving inside her through it, prolonging the pulses until they became a shaky, overstimulated agony. Then he pulled his fingers out with a wet pop.
He brought his glistening hand to his face, his eyes locked on hers, and slowly licked her juices from his stone-textured digits. His tongue was dark and thick. “That’s just a taste,” he said, his voice hoarse. “You want the real deal, you’re gonna have to earn it.”
He shifted his weight, finally releasing her wrists. Before she could move, he stood up, a monolith against the neon-streaked sky. He adjusted his pants, where a thick bulge strained the fabric. “Get up.”
Her limbs were watery, uncoordinated. She pushed herself to her elbows, then to her knees. The torn costume hung off her. She felt more exposed than if she were naked.
“Earn it how?” The question was ash in her mouth.
“You’re strong. Fast. I got a competitor. Nasty piece of work named Krait. He’s muscling in on my warehouses upriver. You handle him.” Slag jerked his head toward the crates. “You do that for me, you get a personal supply. No questions. You can fuck yourself stupid on it every night.”
The proposition hung in the air, more degrading than the physical violation. He wasn’t just using her body; he was recruiting her. Making her an enforcer. Brenda Wade, pillar of the community, reduced to a doped-up attack dog for a slab of sentient concrete.
The belt hummed, a siren song agreeing to the terms.
A part of her—the part that scheduled board meetings and cut checks for libraries—recoiled in utter horror. That part was small, and growing smaller.
She looked at the glowing crates. The hunger was a living thing, coiling in her gut, whispering that power was the only morality that mattered. That feeling this alive was worth any price.
She got to her feet, her stance unsteady. “And if I say no?”
Slag shrugged, a slow, tectonic movement. “I break your pretty legs, dump you in the harbor, and find another hungry bitch. The city’s full of ‘em.” He took a step closer, his shadow enveloping her. “But you won’t say no. I saw your eyes when you came. You’re already mine.”
The truth of it was a cold stone in her stomach. She was out of options, out of will. The addiction had its hooks in deep, and he held the needle.
Before she could answer, a new sound cut through the harbor drone—the sharp, distinctive crack of a sniper rifle.
Slag’s head snapped to the side. A chip of stone exploded from his temple. He roared, more in anger than pain, and staggered back.
A second shot whined off the dock by her feet.
Krait. It had to be. The competition wasn’t waiting.
Instinct took over. She dove behind a steel crate, her heart hammering against her ribs. The belt flared, strength flooding her trembling muscles. This was a fight. This was clean.
Slag was already moving, a battering ram headed for the cover of the trawler. “Seems your audition starts early, girl!” he bellowed over his shoulder. “Earn your fix!”
Another shot sparked off the crane above. The shooter was in the shadows of a rival pier, high up.
Brenda looked from the fleeing Slag to the crates of crystallium. Then she looked toward the muzzle flash. A target. A mission. A way to move without thinking.
The choice wasn’t a choice at all.
She exploded from behind the crate, a blue and red streak against the grimy night, not toward safety, but toward the source of the gunfire. The belt sang its approval. The hunger, for now, had a direction.
As she leaped from Pier Twelve onto the roof of a low warehouse, the only thought that echoed in the chaos of her mind was the quiet, devastating realization that Slag was right.
She was already his.