Chapter 4: The Balcony View
The taste of him was still in my mouth, acrid and salty, when the doorbell chimed. The sound was absurdly normal, a polite two-tone melody that sliced through the heavy, sex-scented air of the apartment. I flinched, my whole body going rigid on the balcony tiles. Vikram’s hand, which had been stroking my hair almost absently, stilled.
“Ah,” he murmured, a smile in his voice. “Our audience inquires.”
He withdrew himself from my lips, zipped his trousers with a casual efficiency that was more degrading than any violence. “Inside. Bedroom. Don’t make a sound.”
I scrambled up, the leather straps of the harness biting into my thighs, the weight of the silicone cock a grotesque pendulum between my legs. I fled from the balcony, the cool night air replaced by the sterile chill of the air-conditioned living room. I didn’t look back at Mr. Mehta, whose presence in my doorway felt like a physical stain. I shut the bedroom door behind me and leaned against it, my heart a frantic bird against my ribs. Through the wood, I heard the low murmur of voices.
Vikram’s was calm, apologetic. “...terribly sorry, sir. A bit of a lively evening. We’ll keep it down.”
Mr. Mehta’s reply was mumbled, indecipherable. Then silence. I let out a shaky breath, thinking it was over. A normal neighborly complaint, diffused.
Then Vikram’s voice, clearer, purposeful. “Anu? Come out here, please.”
My blood turned to ice. No. He couldn’t.
“Now,” he said, the command leaving no room for debate.
Trembling, I opened the door. The two men were standing in the foyer. Mr. Mehta—balding, paunchy, in a rumpled cotton shirt and trousers—had turned to leave. He froze when he saw me. His eyes, magnified by thick glasses, bulged. They travelled from my face, down my naked torso, over the obscene black harness, and came to rest on the fake cock, which hung heavy and dark against my pale skin. A flush crept up his neck, vivid and blotchy.
“This is my guest, Anu,” Vikram said, as if introducing someone at a cocktail party. He walked toward me, his movements predatory and smooth. He stopped behind me, his hands coming to rest on my bare shoulders. “She’s a bit of an exhibitionist, I’m afraid. Makes for noisy evenings.”
His fingers trailed down my spine, making me shiver, until one hand cupped the cheek of my ass and the other found the base of the steel plug. He didn’t just touch it. He twisted it, a sharp, cruel quarter-turn that sent a bolt of shocking sensation straight up my spine. I gasped, my knees buckling. Vikram’s arm snaked around my waist, holding me upright, on display.
Mr. Mehta made a sound, a choked, guttural thing. He didn’t look away.
“Perhaps you’d like to stay for a drink?” Vikram offered, his voice dripping with false courtesy. “Anu’s been very… welcoming tonight. I’m sure she’d love to apologize for the disturbance personally.”
The neighbor’s gaze flickered to Vikram’s face, then back to my body. I saw the conflict warring in him—outrage, prudishness, and a dark, hungry curiosity that was winning. His lips parted. He didn’t say no.
“Please,” Vikram said, gesturing inward. “Come in. Close the door.”
As if in a trance, Mr. Mehta stepped fully inside and pushed the door shut with a soft click. The finality of the sound echoed in the pit of my stomach. He was in my apartment, a man I’d only ever nodded to in the elevator, and I was naked, harnessed, plugged, and held against my master.
“Show Mr. Mehta how grateful you are for his understanding,” Vikram whispered into my ear, his breath hot. He guided me, his hand firm on the back of my neck, back toward the balcony. The floor was cold under my bare feet. The city sprawled beyond the glass, a tapestry of indifferent lights.
Vikram positioned me in the center of the balcony, the railing at my back. He unzipped his trousers again, freeing his cock, which was already half-hard again, thick and demanding. “Kneel.”
I sank down, the rough texture of the balcony tiles scraping my knees. The harness forced my legs apart, making the position lewd, open. I looked up at Vikram, then past him, through the open balcony door. Mr. Mehta stood just inside the living room, silhouetted against the interior light, his hands hanging limply at his sides. His eyes were wide, unblinking, fixed on me.
“Go on,” Vikram said softly.
I opened my mouth. He fed himself into it, not with a slow push, but with a decisive thrust that made my throat convulse. He gripped a fistful of my hair, winding it tight, establishing a brutal rhythm immediately. There was no warm-up, no gentleness. This was a demonstration. This was ownership.
My eyes watered. I focused on breathing through my nose, on the salty-skin taste of him, on the obscene sounds of his hips meeting my face. But my true focus was beyond him. On Mr. Mehta. His face was a mask of shock, but his right hand had drifted. It was pressed against the front of his trousers, cupping himself. He was touching himself. Watching me suck a cock, and he was touching himself through his cheap cotton pants.
The humiliation was a live wire, electrocuting my soul. This was no longer just about Vikram’s control. This was about making me an object for a stranger’s pathetic, secret thrill. I was a show. A live pornographic feed on his boring, lonely night.
Vikram fucked my throat with piston-like precision, using my hair as a handle to steer me. “Look at him,” he grunted, his voice strained with pleasure. “Look at the cheap fuck getting off on you.”
I let my eyes, blurry with tears, lock with Mr. Mehta’s. He flinched, but his hand kept moving, a frantic, guilty rub. He was panting slightly. The shame in his eyes was mirrored by a desperate, naked arousal.
“She’s good, isn’t she?” Vikram called out, not breaking his pace. “Such a hungry little bitch. Takes it all the way. Watch her throat work.”
I gagged, deep and wet, and a strand of saliva dripped from my chin. Mr. Mehta’s mouth fell open. A low moan escaped him, barely audible over the traffic hum from below.
Vikram’s thrusts became jagged, frantic. He was close. “Open your eyes wide for him. Let him see it.”
I forced my eyes wide, staring directly at my neighbor as Vikram’s body tensed. With a final, deep plunge, he held himself there and came. The hot, bitter pulses hit the back of my throat. He held me down, ensuring I swallowed every drop, my throat working helplessly. My gaze never left Mr. Mehta’s. I watched as his own face contorted, his movements under his trousers becoming hurried, frantic. He came in his pants, a shudder passing through his pudgy frame, his eyes glued to my submission.
Vikram pulled out slowly, wiping himself on my hair. I knelt there, panting, strings of saliva and semen connecting my lips to him. The taste was overwhelming.
Vikram turned to Mr. Mehta, zipping up. “Satisfied with the apology, neighbor?”
Mr. Mehta looked stunned, a damp patch darkening the front of his trousers. He blinked, as if waking from a dream, his face burning with mortification. He stammered something unintelligible, turned, fumbled with the door handle, and fled into the hallway without another word.
The door clicked shut.
Silence descended, broken only by my ragged breathing. Vikram looked down at me, a cold, satisfied smile on his lips. “Get up.”
I struggled to my feet, my knees sore, my body screaming with degradation. He led me back inside, not to the bedroom, but to the large mirror in the hallway. He positioned me in front of it.
“Look,” he commanded.
I saw a stranger. A naked woman with smeared makeup, bruised lips, and wild hair. Black leather crisscrossed her torso, holding a ridiculous, threatening silicone dick. Her eyes were hollow, dead.
“That is what you are,” he said, his voice flat. “A utility. A hole for pleasure and a spectacle for bored men. You belong to me, and I will display you as I see fit.” He reached around and unfastened the harness. It fell to the floor with a heavy thud. The relief was minimal. I still felt its ghost, the phantom weight of the intrusion.
“Clean yourself. You reek of me.” He turned and walked toward the study. “We have more to discuss. Your training is entering a new phase.”
I stood before the mirror, staring at the empty, used thing reflected there. The taste of him was inside me. The image of Mr. Mehta’s gratified face was seared behind my eyes. The city outside glittered, a world of normal people living normal lives. I was no longer part of that world. I was a owned thing in a glass tower, and the walls, I knew, were only going to get smaller.