Chapter 19: Moonlight Madness
The money started trickling in. Small amounts at first, then a steady, shocking flow. Ram bought a better camera with a ring light that washed out the apartment’s grime in a harsh, white glare. Greta handled the accounts, her blunt fingers adept at navigating payment platforms with names Barnaby didn’t recognize. Sunny’s sole contribution was an endless, chirping enthusiasm that grated on his nerves more than the outright cruelty.
“We need a new angle,” Ram declared one evening, crushing a beer can in her fist. The metallic shriek made Barnaby flinch. “The apartment stuff is gettin’ stale. We need location. Atmosphere.”
Greta, scrolling through comments on their latest video, smirked. “They’re asking for more… mess. Says here: ‘Wish they’d really let go on him.’”
Ram’s green eyes gleamed. She looked at Barnaby, who was trying to mend a torn shirt, his hands trembling slightly. “Yeah. They wanna see the dirty work. The real nasty.” A slow, wide grin spread across her muzzle. “The park. Midnight. Under the big willow by the pond. Private enough.”
Barnaby’s needle slipped, pricking his finger. A single bead of blood welled. “The park? It’s public.”
“It’s empty. And dark,” Ram said, as if explaining to a child. “We’ll bring the portable lights. It’ll look cinematic. Wild.”
“What’s the scene?” Greta asked, putting her phone down.
Ram’s gaze never left Barnaby. “The leashes. We haven’t used the leashes yet.”
They were cheap things, bought from a pet store. Thick, faux-leather collars and matching leads. That night, the air in the park was cool and carried the scent of cut grass and stagnant pond water. Crickets sawed in the darkness. The moon, a sharp sliver, cast long, skeletal shadows from the willow’s branches.
Barnaby stood shivering in a thin t-shirt and shorts. The collars were in Ram’s hand. She clicked her tongue.
“Kneel.”
He knelt on the damp grass. The earth was cold and yielding. Greta stood to his left, Sunny to his right, both unusually quiet, watching Ram. The ring light was set up on a low stand, casting an unnatural daytime circle in the midnight gloom.
Ram buckled the collar around Greta’s thick neck first, then Sunny’s. She clipped the leashes to the D-rings. Instead of holding them, she walked behind Barnaby and wrapped the leather handles around his palms, forcing his fists closed.
“You’re holding them,” she whispered into his ear, her breath hot. “You’re in charge. That’s the fantasy. Now, keep your hands right there.”
She stepped back into the shadows, leaving him kneeling, arms slightly extended, a leash in each hand like a grotesque parody of a charioteer. The camera’s red light winked on from the tripod.
“Action,” Ram’s voice came, flat and directorial from beyond the light.
Greta understood first. She sank to her knees in front of him, her movements deliberate for the camera. She nuzzled at his shorts, her wet nose pressing against the fabric. Then she used her teeth to tug the waistband down. He sprang free, already half-hard from fear and the chilling air. Sunny, eager to please, mirrored Greta on the other side, her tongue lolling.
“Go on,” Greta muttered, her voice a low growl for the microphone. “Show the nice people how you thank your master for his walk.”
Then they both took him into their mouths.
The sensation was overwhelming, a hot, wet, competing pressure. Greta’s mouth was firm, aggressive, taking him deep with a practiced, gagging hunger. Sunny’s was sloppier, all lapping tongue and nicking teeth, her enthusiasm uncoordinated. Schlorp. Gluck. Slurp. The sounds were obscenely loud in the quiet park. Barnaby’s head fell back, his mouth open in a silent gasp at the sky. The leashes tightened in his fists. He was not in charge. He was a pole they were using.
“Good,” Ram’s voice coached from the darkness. “Now, Greta. Turn around. Show him your appreciation. Both of you.”
Greta pulled off with a filthy, wet pop. She pivoted on her knees, presenting her backside to him. Her huge, furred ass, each cheek easily the size of his head, blocked his view of the pond. She bent forward, planting her hands in the grass. Sunny followed suit, her tail wagging frantically, creating a twin obscenity.
“The leashes, Barnaby,” Ram instructed, her tone clinical. “Keep hold. This is your reward.”
He understood. The true depravity of the scene clicked into place. He was to watch. To be the audience for their most base function, leashed like a holder of animals at a trough.
A low, gut-deep groan came from Greta. Her body tensed. The muscles in her tremendous haunches tightened, then relaxed. A hot, pungent, overwhelmingly fecal smell bloomed in the circle of light, cutting through the night air. A thick, steaming mass began to emerge, piling onto the grass directly before his knees with a soft, heavy plop. The sound was wet, substantial. It was not a discreet thing. It was an event.
Sunny, competitive, grunted beside her. Her output was looser, a splatter of sickly yellow-brown that spattered the green blades. The stench intensified, a gut-churning mixture of digested cheap food and pure animal musk.
Barnaby gagged. His stomach lurched. But his body, traitorously conditioned, throbbed in the twin grips of their mouths. The violation was total. Visual. Olfactory. Sensory. He was anchored in filth, forced to witness it, the leashes the only thing keeping him upright.
Ram stepped into the edge of the light, her phone now in hand, capturing close-ups. “Look at that,” she murmured, half to him, half to the unseen audience. “Look what they do for you. They mark their territory. They give you everything.” She zoomed in on his face, on the tears of helpless revulsion that tracked down his cheeks, on the way his cock twitched in Sunny’s mouth despite it all. “You love it, don’t you, you dirty little man? You love how they spoil you.”
Greta, finished, shifted her weight with a sigh. She glanced back over her shoulder, her eyes glinting in the light. “All for you, master.” The irony was a blade.
Ram nodded, satisfied. “Cut. Good. That’s the money shot. Literally.” She laughed, a short, sharp bark that scattered the crickets into silence.
The lights went off, plunging them into sudden, profound darkness. The smell remained, a solid presence. Barnaby dropped the leashes. His hands were frozen claws. He heard the women shifting, heard Greta use a handful of grass to clean herself with a rough, utilitarian sound.
“Gotta say,” Greta mused, her voice casual in the dark, “that was easier outside. No cleanup.”
Sunny giggled. “It was fun! Like a midnight picnic!”
Barnaby vomited. He pitched forward onto his hands, heaving up the meager dinner he’d eaten, his body convulsing with dry, wrenching spasms after the food was gone. The acid burned his throat. No one moved to help him. They packed the equipment around him, the clatter of tripod legs, the zip of bags.
When he was empty, he lay there, his cheek against the cool, filthy grass, breathing in the earth and the shit and his own sick. A shadow loomed over him. Ram. She dropped something beside his head. It was a bottle of water.
“Rinse out your mouth,” she said, no kindness in the instruction. “We’ve got to walk back. Can’t have you choking.”
He pushed himself up. He took the water. He did as he was told. The water was cold. It washed away the taste, but not the smell. The smell was in his nose, in his hair, in the fabric of his clothes. It was inside him.
As they walked back through the sleeping streets, the equipment bags slung over their shoulders, Barnaby trailing a few steps behind, he knew something with absolute certainty. The apartment’s smell was one thing. It was their den. This was different. This smell was his now. It was the scent of his compliance, his currency, his new self. It would linger long after they’d hosed off in the bathroom. It was in his lungs. He belonged to it as much as he belonged to the leashes. He was theirs, in a way that was no longer just physical or financial, but cellular.