Chapter 4: Forced Choice
The days bled together in a haze of servitude and forced smiles. Brittany’s grip on his arm was always tight, her nails digging in just enough to remind him who owned him. He trailed behind her like a well-trained dog, nodding at strangers, laughing at her jokes, swallowing the bile that rose in his throat whenever she leaned down to whisper filth in his ear.
At night, she took him apart piece by piece.
Her bedroom smelled of leather and sweat, the air thick with the musk of her dominance. She’d strip him naked with a single command, her eyes raking over his trembling body like a butcher sizing up a cut of meat. “On your knees,” she’d growl, and he’d obey, his cock already hard, his shame already burning.
She’d fuck his mouth first, shoving herself down his throat until he gagged, her fingers twisting in his hair. “That’s it, choke on me,” she’d sneer, grinding against his face, her cunt dripping onto his tongue. He’d suck her greedily, desperate for approval, for the fleeting moment when she’d grunt and yank him away by the hair.
Then came the belt.
The crack of leather against his ass sent white-hot pain lancing through him, but he knew better than to cry out. She’d whip him until his skin split, until his thighs trembled, until his cock leaked onto the floor. “You love this, don’t you?” she’d taunt, dragging the tip of the belt over his balls. He’d nod, breathless, aching, hating himself for how much he needed it.
When she finally let him come, it was never for him.
She’d ride him with brutal efficiency, her massive thighs pinning him down, her cunt milking his cock dry. “Mine,” she’d snarl, slamming down on him, her tits bouncing in his face. He’d grip her hips, helpless, his orgasm ripped from him like a punishment. She’d laugh as he shuddered beneath her, spent and broken.
Then the text came.
His phone buzzed on the nightstand, the screen lighting up with her demand: Alley. Tonight. 10 PM. Be there. No explanation. No room for refusal. He stared at the words, his stomach twisting. He knew what this was. He’d seen the way Brittany’s jaw clenched whenever Nana’s name slipped into conversation, the way her fingers curled into fists.
He thought about running.
The city was vast, anonymous—he could disappear into its underbelly, leave them both behind. But the moment the thought crossed his mind, he knew it was useless. Brittany’s leash was too tight. Her voice echoed in his skull: You belong to me.
The alley stank of piss and rotting food, the flickering streetlamp painting the walls in jagged shadows. His shoes scuffed against wet cobblestones as he stepped into the narrow passage, his pulse hammering.
Brittany loomed against the brick, arms crossed, her expression unreadable. Opposite her, Nana stood small but defiant, her gnarled hands clenched at her sides.
“Took you long enough,” Brittany drawled, her voice dripping with contempt.
Josephus swallowed, his throat dry. The air between the two women crackled with violence.
Nana spat on the ground. “He’s a fool,” she rasped. “Weak.”
Brittany’s laugh was sharp as a blade. “And what does that make me, hag? A fool for keeping him?”
Nana’s lips peeled back from her teeth. “You’re worse. A predator.”
Brittany’s smile vanished. “Enough.” She turned to Josephus, her eyes burning. “Choose. Me or her.”
The silence stretched, suffocating.
Josephus looked at Nana—her sunken eyes, her shaking hands. Then at Brittany—her towering frame, her cruel smirk. His stomach churned.
He opened his mouth.
The words died in his throat.
His pulse hammered against his ribs like a caged thing as his gaze darted between them—Brittany's towering frame blocking the alley exit, Nana's frail body silhouetted against flickering neon. The stench of wet garbage and stale piss filled his nostrils, making his empty stomach churn. He wanted to bolt, to scream, to dissolve into the grimy brick walls, but his feet stayed rooted to cracked pavement like they'd been cemented there. I don't understand," he lied, the words tasting like ash. His fingers twitched at his sides, nails biting into his palms.
Brittany's laugh was a shotgun blast in the narrow space. "Bullshit." She stepped closer, her shadow swallowing him whole. "You know exactly what I'm asking, pet." Her gloved hand gripped his jaw, forcing his face up. "Who do you belong to?"
Nana watched from three paces away, her gnarled fingers clutching her housecoat. Her expression was unreadable—no pleading, no expectation, just ancient eyes tracking his every flinch.
His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. He owed Nana everything—the sagging cot in her back room, the stale bread she'd shared when he was shaking through withdrawal, the way she'd spat at his dealers until they stopped coming around. But Brittany... Christ, Brittany owned his fucking bones. The tattoo over his heart burned like fresh ink.
"Tick-tock," Brittany purred, dragging a fingernail down his throat.
His knees nearly buckled. "You," he whispered. The word tore something inside him. "I belong to you."
Brittany's grin showed too many teeth. She turned to Nana, hips cocked. "Hear that, grandma? My bitch chose me."
Nana didn't blink. "Knew he would," she rasped. "Spineless worm."
The insult landed like a knife between his ribs. He opened his mouth—to apologize, to beg forgiveness—but Brittany yanked him forward by the collar. "Prove it," she breathed against his ear. Her hand slid down to squeeze his cock through his jeans. "Make her bleed."
Josephus recoiled. "No—"
The slap cracked like a gunshot. Pain exploded across his cheekbone, his vision swimming with white stars. He tasted copper. "You disobey me?" Brittany snarled. She grabbed a fistful of his hair, wrenching his head back. "I said hurt her!"
Nana didn't move. Just stared at him with those black eyes, her lips curled in disgust. His stomach heaved.
He swung.
The punch connected with a sickening crunch—Nana's nose collapsing under his knuckles, warm blood splattering his wrist. She staggered back, hitting the wall with a gasp. The sound ripped through him worse than any whip.
Brittany moaned, low and filthy. "Fuck yes." Her hands were all over him, shoving his jeans down, palming his cock. "You're so hard for me, aren't you? My violent little slut."
He was. God help him, his dick throbbed in her grip, leaking against her fingers. Nana's blood dripped from his hand onto the pavement.
Brittany spun him around, shoving him against the brick. "Take what's yours," she growled, biting his earlobe. Her hand snaked between his legs, fingers probing his ass. "Fuck her. Right here. Make her scream."
Josephus choked. "Mistress, please—"
She shoved two fingers inside him without warning, twisting. "Do it or I'll break every bone in your pretty hands."
Nana was wiping blood from her chin, her breath ragged. "Just get it over with," she spat.
His zipper sounded obscenely loud. Brittany's laughter followed him as he unbuckled his belt with shaking hands. The alley walls seemed to press closer, the stench of sex and violence thick in his throat.
He didn't look at Nana's face as he pushed her skirt up. Didn't meet her eyes as he shoved inside dry. Her gasp cut through him like glass.
Brittany watched, one hand down her own pants, the other guiding his hips. "Harder," she commanded. "Show her who owns you."
He fucked like an animal, each thrust tearing something inside them both. Nana's blood smeared between their bodies. Brittany's moans filled his ears.
When he came, it felt like dying.
Nana shoved him off the moment Brittany released him. She spat on the ground between them, blood and saliva mixing in the grime. "You're dead to me," she whispered.
Brittany caught him as his legs gave out, her arms like steel bands. "Mine," she murmured into his sweaty hair.
The alley walls blurred. Somewhere, a siren wailed.
He'd lost everything.
The thought echoed in his skull as Brittany dragged him through the neon-lit streets, her grip on his wrist tight enough to grind bone. His legs moved mechanically, stumbling over uneven pavement, his vision blurred with unshed tears. The metallic tang of Nana's blood still coated his tongue, thick and cloying, making his stomach churn with every breath.
The apartment door slammed behind them, the sound like a gunshot in the silent space. Brittany shoved him toward the bathroom without a word, her expression unreadable in the dim light. The shower hissed to life, steam already curling around the edges of the frosted glass. "Get in," she ordered, her voice flat. "Wash that old bitch off you."
The water was scalding, searing his skin red within seconds. He didn't adjust the temperature, just stood there, letting it burn. His hands scrubbed at his arms, his chest, his cock—everywhere Nana's blood had touched, everywhere he'd betrayed himself. The soap stung his raw knuckles, the pain a welcome distraction from the hollow ache in his chest.
When he stepped out, dripping and numb, Brittany was waiting.
She lounged naked on the bed, her massive frame sprawled across the rumpled sheets, one hand idly toying with her nipple. The dim bedside lamp cast shadows between the curves of her thighs, highlighting the glistening wetness there. "Get over here," she commanded, her voice rough.
He moved like a sleepwalker, his body swaying slightly with exhaustion. The carpet was rough under his bare feet, grounding him in the moment. She watched him approach, her dark eyes tracking every hesitant step, every involuntary tremor.
"Look at me," she demanded when he knelt at the foot of the bed.
His gaze lifted slowly, taking in the hard lines of her face, the cruel set of her mouth. There was no warmth there, no tenderness—just possession, cold and absolute. Her fingers traced the raised letters of her name on his chest, the tattoo still tender from the needle. "Mine," she murmured, pressing down just hard enough to make him wince.
He swallowed hard, his throat clicking. "Yours."
Her hand fisted in his hair, yanking his head forward until their lips crashed together. The kiss was brutal, all teeth and dominance, her tongue forcing its way into his mouth. He tasted blood—his own this time—as her incisors split his lower lip. She moaned into the kiss, her free hand groping between his legs, her fingers tightening around his half-hard cock.
"Fuck," she breathed against his mouth, stroking him to full hardness with rough, practiced tugs. "You're already hard again, you sick little slut."
He whimpered, his hips jerking into her grip despite himself. She shoved him onto his back, her weight pinning him to the mattress, the air rushing from his lungs in a pained gasp. Her cunt hovered over his face, dripping onto his chin. "Clean me up," she ordered, grinding against his mouth.
His tongue lapped at her folds obediently, the taste of her arousal flooding his senses. She rocked against his face, her thighs squeezing his head, her moans growing louder with each pass of his tongue. "That's it," she panted, her fingers tangling in his hair. "Fucking worship me, you worthless piece of shit."
He could barely breathe, his nose pressed against her pubic bone, his lungs burning for air. She didn't care, just fucked his face harder, her hips slamming down with each thrust. His cock ached between his legs, leaking onto his stomach, untouched.
Suddenly, she pulled away, leaving him gasping, his lips swollen and wet. She straddled his hips, her hand guiding his cock to her entrance. "Mine," she growled again, sinking down onto him in one brutal motion.
He cried out, his back arching off the bed, his fingers scrabbling at the sheets. She was so tight, so hot, her walls clamping down on him like a vise. She didn't give him time to adjust, just began riding him with slow, punishing strokes, her nails raking down his chest.
"You like that?" she sneered, watching his face contort with pleasure-pain. "Like fucking me after destroying that old hag?"
Tears pricked at his eyes, but his hips lifted to meet her thrusts anyway, his traitorous body responding to her every movement. She leaned forward, her tits swaying above his face, her breath hot against his ear. "Cum inside me," she commanded, her voice a dark promise. "Fill me up, you pathetic little bitch."
His orgasm ripped through him like a lightning strike, his vision whiting out as he spilled into her with a broken sob. She kept riding him through it, milking every last drop, her own climax building with each roll of her hips.
When she came, it was with his name on her lips, her cunt fluttering around his spent cock. She collapsed onto his chest, her weight crushing him into the mattress, her breath hot against his neck.
In the darkness behind his closed eyelids, Nana's face swam into view—her broken nose, her bloodied lips, her eyes filled with betrayal. He knew, with a certainty that settled like lead in his gut, that he would never escape this.
Brittany's fingers traced lazy circles on his chest, right over her name. "Mine," she whispered again, her voice thick with satisfaction.
He didn't argue. Couldn't.
The truth was carved into his flesh now, as permanent as ink.
He traced the letters with trembling fingers—BRITTANY—each stroke still raised and angry against his skin. The sheets beside him were cold, the indent of her body long gone. Only the note remained, her jagged handwriting slashing across the paper like a wound: Gallery. Noon. Be presentable.
He crushed the note in his fist.
The bathroom mirror showed him what he'd become—sunken eyes, split lip, the purple shadow of her grip still circling his wrist. He turned the faucet on too hard, water spraying across the porcelain. The cold shocked his system, dripping down his neck, pooling in his collarbones. It didn't wash away the memory of Nana's blood on his knuckles.
The gallery smelled like money and pretension—expensive perfume masking the sour tang of champagne breath. He adjusted his too-tight collar, his skin crawling under the weight of a hundred judgmental stares. They looked right through him, their gazes sliding off like he was part of the decor. Just another piece of Brittany's collection.
She stood near the centerpiece—a massive canvas of violent reds and blacks—her blood-colored dress clinging to every curve. Even from across the room, he could feel the heat of her presence, the way the crowd orbited her like moths to a flame. His feet carried him forward before he could think better of it.
"You're late," she murmured, not bothering to look at him. Her fingers pinched the fabric of his sleeve, twisting. "And you look like shit."
Before he could respond, she was dragging him toward a woman with frozen features and a diamond that could choke a horse. "Darling," Brittany purred, her voice slick as oil, "this is Josephus, my... muse."
The woman's plastic smile widened. "Charmed," she lied, extending a limp hand.
He took it, his grip carefully calibrated—firm enough to impress, weak enough to not threaten. "The pleasure's mine," he lied back. The script was familiar. Nod. Smile. Laugh at the right moments. His jaw ached from the performance.
Hours bled together in a haze of empty compliments and cheaper champagne. When the last pretentious asshole finally left, Brittany's fingers dug into his bicep, steering him toward the back room. The space was smaller, darker, the walls lined with canvases that pulsed with something raw and ugly.
She shoved him forward. "What do you think?" The question was a blade pressed to his throat.
He swallowed. The paintings weren't art—they were open wounds. Jagged streaks of black, smears of crimson that looked too much like blood. His pulse hammered. "They're powerful," he managed. "But they're also... sad."
Her hand twitched. He braced for impact.
Instead, she laughed—a sound like breaking glass. "Sad?" She paced the length of the room, her heels striking the concrete like gunshots. "Of course they're sad. What else would they be?"
The air between them thickened. He could taste her rage, metallic on his tongue.
"You think you know me?" She whirled on him, her dress swirling around her thighs. "You think you understand what I'm feeling?"
He stayed silent. The truth was, he didn't. He only knew the bruises she left, the way his body responded to her even when his mind screamed run.
She stopped in front of the largest canvas—a whirlpool of darkness, a single streak of red cutting through like a scream. "This one," she whispered, her voice cracking. "This one is about Nana."
His breath caught. The painting wasn't just anger—it was grief, raw and bleeding. The kind that came from years of something festering.
Brittany's fingers clamped around his wrist, her nails breaking skin. "She thinks she knows me," she hissed, her breath hot against his ear. "She thinks she can judge me." The pressure increased, blood welling under her grip. "But she doesn't know anything."
He could feel her pulse through her fingertips, wild and erratic.
"And I'm going to make her pay."
The threat hung between them, heavier than the paintings, darker than the bruises. He knew then—this wasn't just about ownership.
This was war.
The gallery lights seemed to dim, the colors of Brittany's paintings swirling around him in a nauseating vortex. War with Nana? Over what? Some ancient grudge he couldn't even begin to understand? He tried to pull his wrist free, but her grip tightened, the bones grinding together. "Brittany, stop," he pleaded, his voice barely a whisper. "You're hurting me."
She didn't respond, her eyes fixed on the canvas, her jaw clenched. The silence stretched, broken only by the distant hum of the city. He knew better than to push. Knew that any attempt to reason with her now would only fuel her rage. He waited, his breath shallow, his heart hammering against his ribs.
Finally, she released him, shoving him away with a snarl. "Get out," she spat, turning her back. "I don't want to see you." He hesitated, his mind racing. Should he stay? Try to talk her down? Or obey, and risk whatever twisted plan she was brewing?
His phone buzzed in his pocket—a text from an unknown number: "She doesn't love you. She uses you." He stared at the message, his gut twisting.Nana? Or some new player in this sick game? He deleted the text, his thumb hovering over the power button. Maybe disappearing wasn't such a bad idea after all.
Days turned into weeks, each one a tightrope walk between Brittany's volatile moods. She'd shower him with affection one moment, then turn cold and distant the next, her eyes filled with a darkness he couldn't penetrate. He tried to talk to her, to understand what was going on, but she'd just shut him down, her voice flat, her gaze averted.
One morning, he woke to find her vomiting in the bathroom, the retching sounds echoing through the small apartment. He rushed to her side, his hand hovering over her back. "Brittany, what's wrong?" he asked, his voice filled with concern.
She pushed him away, her face pale and clammy. "Nothing," she snapped, wiping her mouth with a towel. "Just a stomach bug." But he saw the flicker of fear in her eyes, the way her hand trembled as she reached for the toothbrush.
The next day, she was worse—nauseous, exhausted, her skin tinged with green. He insisted on taking her to the doctor, but she refused, her voice sharp. "I'm fine," she insisted. "Just leave me alone."
He didn't. He waited until she fell asleep, then searched her purse, his fingers trembling as he rifled through her belongings. He found it tucked in a side pocket—a pregnancy test, the two pink lines glaring up at him like a judgment.
He stared at the test, his mind reeling. Brittany? Pregnant? The thought was both terrifying and absurd. How would she react? What would this mean for him? For them? He slipped the test back into her purse, his heart pounding in his chest.
That evening, he confronted her, his voice shaking. "Brittany," he began, "I know." She stared at him, her expression unreadable. "Know what?" she asked, her voice dangerously soft.
He took a deep breath. "About the test. About the baby." Her face didn't change, but he saw the flicker of something in her eyes—fear, maybe? Or something else he couldn't quite decipher.
She turned away, pacing the room, her hands clasped behind her back. "It's a mistake," she said finally, her voice barely a whisper. "It can't be." He stepped closer, reaching out to touch her. "Brittany," he said, "it's okay. We can figure this out."
She whirled on him, her eyes blazing. "Don't touch me!" she screamed, shoving him away. "This is your fault! You did this to me!" He stumbled back, his face stinging from the force of her blow.
She stood there, panting, her chest heaving, her eyes filled with a mixture of rage and despair. "Get out," she said again, her voice trembling. "Just get the fuck out of my life." He stared at her, his heart breaking. "Brittany—" "GET OUT!" she roared, her voice shaking the walls. He turned and fled, leaving her alone with her secret, her rage, and the tiny life growing inside her.
The city swallowed him whole, its indifferent streets offering no comfort. Neon signs flickered overhead, casting sickly light on the cracked pavement. He walked without direction, his body numb, his mind stuck on that test—those two pink lines that changed everything.
A payphone loomed ahead, its receiver dangling like a broken limb. He hesitated, then picked it up, dialing the only number he knew by heart.
The line rang once. Twice.
A click.
Silence. Then—
"You stupid boy." Nana's voice was like gravel, worn smooth by years of bitterness. "I told you she'd ruin you."
He opened his mouth to respond, but the line went dead.
Behind him, thunder rumbled, the first fat drops of rain splattering against his neck. He didn't move. Just stood there, the receiver slipping from his fingers, the storm breaking overhead.
Somewhere, Brittany was alone with their child.
And he had nowhere left to go.