Chapter 74: Balcony Baptism
The plug was a constant companion. For two days, Ashley moved with its weight inside her, a private reminder that her body was not her own. It shaped her walks, her sits, the way she settled onto the couch next to Carter while he worked. She became hyper-aware of the low, full ache, a sensation that blurred the line between discomfort and arousal until there was no line at all. It was just a fact of her existence, like breathing.
On the third evening, the dynamic shifted. Dominic arrived, a bottle of expensive, smoky mezcal in hand and a chaotic energy crackling around him. He’d been away on a business trip, and his return always stirred the penthouse’s still waters. Carter, in a rare show of unplanned relaxation, abandoned his usual measured control. They drank. They drank heavily, passing the bottle between them, the sharp, burning liquor softening edges and loosening tongues.
Ashley, perched on a stool at the kitchen island, sipped water. She watched them, a familiar anticipation threading through her veins. Drunk Carter was intensely physical. Drunk Dominic was creatively cruel. Together, they were a storm she was helpless to avoid, and the plug in her ass seemed to grow warmer, heavier, as their laughter grew louder.
“Remember the thing with the ice cubes in Miami?” Dominic slurred, grinning at Carter.
“Fuck, yeah. She couldn’t sit for a week.” Carter’s dark eyes, glittering with liquor, found Ashley. “Miss that hotel balcony.”
Dominic followed his gaze, then looked out the floor-to-ceiling windows to their own vast, glass-walled terrace. The city glittered below, a carpet of electric diamonds. “Ours is better. More… exposed.”
An hour later, Ashley found herself pressed against the cold, wrought-iron railing of the penthouse balcony. The night air was a crisp slap after the warmth inside. She was naked. Carter had simply pointed at her clothes, and she’d shed them, her skin pebbling in the breeze. The plug was still nestled deep within her.
Dominic stood behind her, his hands rough on her hips. He was already hard, his cock pressed against the cleft of her ass, nudging the plug’s base. Carter faced her, his back to the dizzying city view. He had a hand tangled in her hair, forcing her head up to look at him. The scent of mezcal and male sweat was thick in the air.
“Look at you,” Carter muttered, his thumb tracing her lower lip. “My pretty little thing. All dressed up with nowhere to go but right here.”
Dominic chuckled behind her, his breath hot on her neck. He rocked his hips, the pressure on the plug making her gasp. “She’s already prepped, man. Been thinking about us, haven’t you, Ash? Walking around with that fucking plug in your ass like a good slut.”
“Yes,” she breathed, the word stolen by the wind.
Carter released her hair only to unbuckle his belt. He freed his cock, thick and heavy in his hand. “Open.”
She did, and he fed himself into her mouth, not gently. He went deep, hitting the back of her throat, making her eyes water. He held himself there, fucking her face with shallow, demanding thrusts. Behind her, Dominic spat into his palm, slicked himself, and pushed the plug from her body with a firm, practiced press of his thumb. The relief of its removal was instantly replaced by a deeper, more profound emptiness.
Then he was pushing into her ass, the stretch a sharp, breathtaking burn that was familiar and brutal all at once. He wasn’t slow. He was drunk and eager, and he sank into her in one long, relentless stroke until his pelvis met her skin. Ashley groaned around Carter’s cock, the dual penetration overwhelming, filling her beyond capacity.
They found a ragged, off-kilter rhythm. Carter fucked her throat. Dominic fucked her ass. The iron railing dug into her hip bones. The sounds were filthy: wet gulps, ragged breaths, the slap of Dominic’s thighs against her, Carter’s low, approving grunts. The world narrowed to the points of violation—the heat in her throat, the burning stretch in her rear, the cold metal under her palms.
It was Dominic who broke the rhythm first. He let out a strained, frustrated groan, his thrusts becoming erratic. “Ah, fuck… fuck, man. I gotta piss. Bad.”
Carter, his own movements in her mouth never ceasing, glanced over her shoulder. His eyes, dark and unfocused with drink, showed a flicker of pure, deviant inspiration. He pulled his cock from her lips, a string of saliva breaking and dripping onto her chin.
“So piss,” Carter said, his voice a low, casual growl that cut through the night air.
There was a beat of silence. Ashley, her mind hazy with sensation and submission, didn’t fully process it. Dominic stilled inside her.
“What, like… here?” Dominic’s voice held a note of drunken amusement.
“No,” Carter said, his hand returning to her hair, fisting it tight. He guided her mouth back onto his cock, pushing deep. He looked down at her, then back at Dominic, his meaning clear. He spoke around her, the words vibrating through his body into hers. “In her. Do it inside her.”
The command hung in the air, surreal and vile. Ashley’s body went rigid. A cold dread, sharp and clean, sliced through the fog of her arousal. She tried to pull back, to protest, but Carter’s grip in her hair was iron. He shoved himself deeper, cutting off any sound.
“Jesus, Carter,” Dominic breathed, but his tone was one of awed, drunken glee. “You’re a fucking animal.”
“She can take it,” Carter growled, his hips pumping into her mouth. “She’s just a hole. Do it.”
For a second, nothing changed. Then Dominic’s body tensed against her back. He shifted slightly, angling his hips. A new, alien pressure bloomed deep inside her ass. Not the hard thrust of his cock, but something softer, warmer, a spreading internal heat that felt utterly wrong.
It started as a trickle. A hot, insistent stream flooding into her, filling the tight channel he was currently occupying. The sensation was grotesque. Intimate in the worst way. It was a violation that bypassed pain and went straight to a primal, psychological disgust. Her stomach lurched.
She gagged violently around Carter’s cock, her body convulsing in a panicked rejection of both invasions. Hot tears streamed down her cheeks. The stream inside her grew stronger, a relentless, piss-warm flood that made her feel like she was being turned inside out. The sound of it, a soft, internal gushing, was somehow worse than anything else.
“Fuck, that’s hot,” Dominic moaned, his own pleasure evidently spiking from the taboo act. He kept pissing, a long, steady release that made her feel impossibly full, used in a way she’d never conceived.
Carter watched her face, her tear-filled, pleading eyes. His own breathing hitched. The sight of her absolute degradation, the feel of her throat spasming around him as she choked on horror and his cock, was his undoing.
“Swallow it, you filthy bitch,” he snarled, and then his own control shattered.
He came, hard and deep in her throat, his release jetting in hot, salty pulses that mixed with the taste of pre-come and her own tears. She had no choice. She swallowed, the act reflexive and choking. At the same moment, Dominic’s piss-flow began to taper off. With a final, grunting thrust, he started to orgasm, his cock pumping his own spend into the mess he’d already made inside her.
Ashley lost herself. The world dissolved into a kaleidoscope of brutal sensation: the bitter taste in her mouth, the hot, wet shame flooding her ass, the violent tremors wracking her frame against the unyielding railing. Her mind simply… shut off. There was no arousal, no shame, no thought. There was only raw, animal survival, a blank white noise.
When they were both spent, they pulled out of her almost simultaneously.
Carter’s cock slipped from her mouth with a wet sound. Dominic withdrew from her ass, and immediately, a hot trickle of their combined fluids leaked down the inside of her thigh. The warmth was shocking against the cool night air.
She stayed slumped against the railing, her forehead pressed to the cold iron, her body shaking with silent tremors. She didn’t cry. She was empty of even that.
She heard the clink of the mezcal bottle behind her. A low, sated chuckle from Dominic. “Fuck, man. That was… next level.”
Carter didn’t answer immediately. She felt his hand, surprisingly gentle, on the small of her back. It slid down, cupping her ass, his fingers sliding through the wetness leaking from her.
“Told you she could take it,” Carter said, his voice thick with satisfaction and liquor. He patted her hip, a proprietorial gesture. “Clean yourself up. Then come inside. We’re not done.”
He turned and walked away, following Dominic back into the glow of the penthouse, leaving her alone on the balcony. The city sprawled below, indifferent, its lights twinkling like a million watching eyes. The internal warmth was already cooling, becoming a clammy, shameful chill. She pushed herself upright, her legs barely holding her. She looked down at the streak of moisture on her thigh, glowing faintly in the neon haze.
She didn’t move to clean up. Not yet. She just stood there, hollowed out, the wind drying the tears on her cheeks, the profound emptiness inside her now a different, more terrifying kind of full.
The wind moved across her skin, a numb caress. Inside, the living room lamps cast long, distorted shadows. She heard the clink of glass, a low, murmured joke from Dominic, the rustle of clothing. Her body felt alien, a poorly operated machine. She made herself walk.
The cold tile of the bathroom floor shocked her feet. She didn’t look in the mirror. She ran the shower scalding hot and stood under the spray, shaking, scrubbing at her thigh with a washcloth until the skin was raw and pink. The internal mess was harder to cleanse. She could still feel the phantom heat, the wrongness of that liquid intrusion. She breathed steam until her lungs burned.
When she stepped out, Carter was leaning in the doorway, watching her. He’d taken his shirt off. The mezcal bottle dangled from his fingertips, nearly empty. His eyes were dark pools, devoid of the earlier laughter, glinting with something more intent and dangerous.
“Took you long enough,” he said, his voice a gravelly slur. He took a final swig from the bottle, draining it, and tossed it into the woven hamper with a thud. “We’re not finished.”
He grabbed a handful of her damp hair and led her, stumbling, back to the living room. Dominic was sprawled on the leather couch, also shirtless, his eyes heavy-lidded. He watched their approach with a lazy, predatory smile. “Cleaned up nice, Ash. All fresh for round two.”
Carter pushed her down onto the thick rug in the center of the room. The pile was soft against her knees. The city’s glow through the windows painted everything in shades of blue and black. Carter stood over her, unbuckling his belt. The leather slithered free with a whisper of finality.
“You liked that, didn’t you?” he asked, his tone conversational, as he freed his cock. It was half-hard, thickening quickly in his grip. “Taking his piss in your ass. Made you feel really used. Really owned.”
She opened her mouth to deny it, but no sound came. The truth was a tangled knot in her gut. There was no “like.” There was only a shocking, shameful depth of submission, and that felt more significant than pleasure.
“Your mouth looks empty,” Dominic observed from the couch, his voice a teasing drawl.
Carter nodded, a slow, drunken tilt of his head. “It is. Needs correcting.”
His hand was in her hair again, a familiar, punishing anchor. He guided himself past her lips, not with a thrust, but with a slow, insistent pressure that belied the violence to come. He filled her mouth, then her throat, his pelvis meeting her face. He held there, buried to the root, making her nose press into his skin. She gagged instinctively, her throat muscles fluttering in tight, desperate waves around the invasion.
“Yeah, that’s it,” he groaned, his other hand coming to rest on the crown of her head. He began to move, establishing a deep, rhythmic fucking of her face. Each withdrawal was just enough for a ragged, wet gasp before he slammed back in, cutting off her air. “Such a good little cocksucker. Made for this. Just a warm, wet hole.”
Tears welled in her eyes again, born from strain and lack of oxygen. Saliva dripped from her stretched lips, coating her chin. The world narrowed to the pounding rhythm in her skull, the thick, salty taste of him, the raw scrape of him against the back of her throat. Dominic’s low whistles of encouragement sounded miles away.
Carter’s thrusts grew more erratic, fueled by the remaining alcohol and the visual of her submission. He was breathing hard, his abs clenching. He fucked her throat with a starving, brutal hunger, his fingers tightening in her hair to the point of pain.
“Gonna come in this pretty throat,” he grunted, his hips stuttering. “Gonna fill up this greedy little slut.”
But then he paused, deeply embedded. A strange, considering look passed over his face. His body tensed, but not with the peak of orgasm. It was a different kind of clenching. A low, drunk chuckle rumbled in his chest, vibrating into her.
“Actually,” he slurred, looking down at her wide, watery eyes, “I gotta piss, too.”
The terror was instant and absolute. It flooded her system, icy and clear, cutting through the fog of forced submission. She tried to wrench back, to shake her head, but his grip was immutable. She made a frantic, muffled sound around his cock, a pleading groan that was swallowed by his flesh.
“Hold still,” he commanded, his voice thick with amusement and malice. “Swallow it. Be a good girl and drink it down.”
The pressure changed. It wasn’t the pulsing of an impending orgasm. It was a deeper, internal surge, a building force from within him. The first hot spill hit the back of her throat with a shocking, bitter warmth that was utterly foreign.
It wasn’t a trickle this time.
It was a torrent. A violent, hot stream that flooded her mouth, instantly overwhelming her. She choked, her body seizing in a frantic fight for air. The bitter, acrid liquid filled her mouth, her throat, clogging her sinuses. She gagged violently, but he shoved himself deeper, pinning her, forcing the flow down.
He laughed above her, a raw, drunk sound of pure delight. “That’s it, take it! Drink your fucking reward!”
She was drowning. Her throat convulsed, trying to reject the invasion, but he just kept pissing, the hot jet unrelenting. Tears and snot and piss streamed down her face. Some of it went down, burning a path to her stomach. Most of it spilled from her overstuffed lips, a cascading leak that soaked her chest, her breasts, the carpet beneath her knees.
The world greyed at the edges. Her lungs screamed. Just as the spots in her vision began to bloom, the flow ceased. With a final, satisfied grunt, Carter pulled his softening cock from her ruined mouth.
She collapsed forward onto her hands, coughing, retching, gasping in huge, shuddering gulps of air. Bitter fluid vomited up from her stomach, splattering onto the rug, mixing with the mess. She was a sobbing, broken thing, covered in the proof of her own utter defilement.
Carter stepped back, zipping his pants. He looked down at her, his chest heaving. “Fuck,” he breathed, a statement of profound satiation. He nudged her shoulder with his foot. “Clean this up. Then get to bed.”
He walked away, leaving her retching on the floor. Dominic, from the couch, let out a long, low whistle. “Christ, man,” he said, but there was no disapproval in his voice, only awe.
Ashley heard their footsteps recede down the hall, heard a door close. She knelt in the cooling puddle, the acidic smell of urine and vomit filling her nose. The emptiness was gone. It had been filled with something concrete, something foul and real that now lived inside her. She trembled, a fine, constant vibration. She did not get up. She stared at the dark, wet stain on the rug, her own reflection a blurred monstrosity within it. The silence of the penthouse settled around her, heavy and complete, broken only by her own wet, hitching breath.