Chapter 13: Convention Center Humiliation
The car ride had been a silent, fifty-mile purgatory. Josh stared out the window at the blur of highway, the flyer’s neon graphics burned into his vision. He wore his own clothes—jeans, a plain tee—a last, frail shield. The garment bag draped across the back seat felt heavier than a corpse.
Nexus-Con was a sensory assault. A cavernous hall thrummed with the pulse of synthetic pop music and a thousand overlapping conversations. The air was a soup of popcorn, cheap body spray, and the ozone tang of electronics. Greg paid for both passes, his hand lingering on the small of Josh’s back as they merged with the river of attendees.
They weaved through aisles of merchandise—swords, figurines, posters of women with physics-defying anatomy. Greg steered him not towards the panels or games, but to a quieter corner near the restrooms. A sign read “Cosplay Changeroom – Private Hire.”
Inside, it was a glorified storage closet with a mirror. Greg unzipped the garment bag. The outfit inside was a parody of innocence: a French maid’s dress, black with frilly white lace trim, absurdly short. Accompanying it were white thigh-high stockings, a lace choker, and a petite white apron.
“Put it on,” Greg said, his voice light. He leaned against the door, arms crossed.
Josh stared at the fabric. “Greg, please. Not here.”
“Here is the entire point, Jessica,” Greg said, patience thinning. “The outfit. Now. Or I call Barry and we stream the changing process. Your choice.”
Josh’s fingers trembled as he unbuttoned his jeans. He turned his back, a meaningless modesty. He stepped out of his clothes, the air cool on his skin. The stockings were sheer and tight. The dress was made of cheap satin, slippery and short. It barely covered his ass. The choker locked with a tiny click he felt in his throat.
Greg appraised him in the mirror, a sickening parody of a proud date. “Fucking perfect. Look at you.” He stepped close, his breath hot on Josh’s ear. “Remember, out there, you’re Jessica. My cute little maid. You smile, you curtsy if anyone says hello. You’re happy to be here.”
He took Josh’s arm, his grip vice-like, and led him back into the throng.
The humiliation was a living thing. Eyes lingered—curious, amused, sometimes leering. A few people snapped pictures. Greg would stop, smile broadly, and pull Josh closer. “My girlfriend’s cosplay!” he’d announce to no one in particular. Josh kept his head down, the lace of the choker itching like a noose.
They passed a photo booth area—a row of curtained enclosures with colorful backgrounds. Greg’s pace quickened. He pulled Josh towards one at the end, its curtain a deep blue. “Special souvenir time,” he murmured.
He yanked the curtain aside.
Barry was already inside. The space was cramped, barely room for three. Barry leaned against the back wall, his tall frame making the booth feel like a coffin. He held a high-end digital camera, not a phone. His other hand was tucked into the pocket of his cargo pants, a bulging, deliberate outline clear against the fabric. He was already hard.
“Took you long enough,” Barry said, his voice a low grumble. He looked Josh up and down, a slow, contemptuous sweep. “Jesus, Greg. You outdid yourself.”
Greg shoved Josh inside, squeezing in after him and letting the curtain fall shut. The outside world muffled to a distant roar. Inside, it was hot, close, smelling of Barry’s cheap cologne and sweat.
“Time for your close-up, Jessica,” Greg whispered, his hand sliding under the frilly skirt of the maid dress. He grabbed a handful of Josh’s bare ass, fingers digging in. Josh flinched, eyes locked on Barry’s camera lens, a black hole pointed at his face.
Barry lifted the camera, the red recording light blinking on. “Give us a smile, sweetheart.”
Greg didn’t wait. He yanked Josh’s lace panties—part of the costume—down to his knees in one rough motion. The cool air hit Josh’s exposed skin. Greg’s other hand fumbled with his own belt. He’d come prepped, no underwear, his cock springing out thick and ready. He spat into his palm, a crude gesture, slicking himself up.
“Get her ready, Barry,” Greg panted, not taking his eyes off Josh’s terrified expression.
Barry set the camera on a small tripod he’d set up in the corner. It kept recording, its unblinking eye capturing everything. He stepped forward, his large hands clamping on Josh’s shoulders, forcing him to bend over slightly, presenting him to Greg. With his other hand, Barry unzipped his own pants, freeing his erection. He pressed the broad head against Josh’s mouth.
“Suck,” Barry commanded, shoving it past his lips.
Josh gagged, the taste of salt and skin flooding his senses. Barry’s grip on his shoulders was immobilizing. He could see Greg positioning himself behind, feel the blunt pressure against his entrance.
There was no more spit. Greg just pushed.
The tear was a bright, white-hot spike of pain. Josh screamed around Barry’s cock, the sound muffled into a choked gurgle. Barry thrust deeper, hitting the back of his throat. “Shut up and take it, you little whore,” he growled, his hips snapping forward.
Greg groaned, sheathing himself fully in one brutal, relentless push. “Fuck, that’s a tight cunt. Always so fucking tight.” He began to fuck him with hard, shallow pumps, his body slapping against the lace stockings.
The booth was a cacophony of grunts, the wet slap of skin, and Josh’s strangled, desperate breaths. Barry fucked his mouth with a monotonous, relentless rhythm, his balls slapping against Josh’s chin. Greg’s pace behind was harder, deeper, each thrust jolting Josh forward onto Barry’s cock.
“Look at the camera, Jess,” Greg hissed, his fingers biting into Josh’s hips. “Give your fans a show.”
Josh’s eyes, streaming with tears, shifted to the red light. His own reflection in the dark lens was a grotesque parody: makeup from the costume smeared, mouth stretched obscenely, a man in a maid’s dress being used from both ends.
Barry pulled his cock out, a string of saliva and pre-cum stretching. He aimed it at Josh’s face, jerking himself roughly. “You like that, you fucking slut? You like having two dicks in you at a con?” He didn’t wait for an answer. He shoved back in, fucking his mouth with renewed violence.
Greg’s thrusts became erratic, punishing. “Gonna fill this pretty pussy,” he grunted. “Gonna pump you full right here where everyone can almost hear.” He slammed in deep, held it, and Josh felt the hot, pulsing release flood inside him. Greg groaned, grinding his hips as he emptied himself.
As Greg pulled out, a gush of fluid followed, dripping down Josh’s stockings. Barry immediately shoved Josh to his knees on the grimy floor of the booth. Josh collapsed, the dress rucking up around his waist. Barry stood over him, his cock glistening and huge in his face.
“Finish me off. Swallow every drop,” Barry ordered, his hand fisting in Josh’s short hair.
Josh opened his mouth, a hollow automaton. Barry fucked his face, quick and brutal, his thrusts uncoordinated with climax. With a final, deep shove, he came, his release hitting the back of Josh’s throat in hot, bitter spurts. Josh choked, swallowing convulsively as Barry held his head in place, milking himself dry.
Barry pulled out with a soft pop. He tucked himself away, zipped up, and picked up the camera, examining the screen. “Good footage,” he said, his voice flat. “The dress really sells it.”
Greg, buckling his belt, looked down at Josh, who was kneeling in a growing puddle of their combined mess, tears cutting through the dust on his cheeks. “Up,” he said, kicking Josh’s thigh lightly.
Josh stood, legs shaking. The stockings were ruined, sticky and stained. He felt Greg’s cum leaking out of him, a warm, shameful trickle.
Greg produced a small, bulbous object from his pocket—a cheap, pink rubber anal plug. He held it up. “A little souvenir to remember the day by. Keep you feeling full.”
Before Josh could react, Greg bent him over again. He shoved the plug inside, past his sensitive, abused rim. Josh cried out, the stretch a fresh violation. It settled inside him, a cold, foreign presence.
Greg smoothed the maid dress down over it. “There. Now you look proper.” He handed Josh a small packet of makeup wipes. “Clean your face. You’re a mess.”
Josh numbly wiped the sweat, tears, and spit from his chin. Barry was already gone, the curtain swinging slightly behind him.
Greg pulled the curtain open. The noise of the convention flooded back in—joyful, innocent. He put a proprietary arm around Josh’s shoulders, pulling him close. “Let’s get some pizza. You’ve been a very good girl.” He pressed a kiss to Josh’s temple, a grotesque pantomime of affection for anyone watching.
Josh walked, the plug a relentless, cold reminder inside him with every step. He was paraded back through the crowds, the stained stockings hidden by the short skirt, the violation invisible. He felt the leak slowing, crusting on his thighs. The camera in Barry’s pocket held it all. The photo booth curtain closed behind them, a blue maw that had swallowed him whole and spat him back out, forever changed, into the blinding, cheerful light.
The photo booth curtain closed behind them, a blue maw that had swallowed him whole and spat him back out, forever changed, into the blinding, cheerful light. Josh moved through the crowd as a ghost inside a costume, the cheap satin of the maid dress scratching his skin, the cold, bulbous plug inside him a constant, sickening reminder of the empty space it filled. Every step squelched faintly in his stained stockings.
Greg steered him towards the food court, his hand a brand on Josh’s lower back. “See? That wasn’t so bad. You’re a natural.” The smell of greasy pizza and fried dough did nothing to quell the vomit rising in Josh’s throat, which still burned from Barry’s forced climax.
They joined a long line. Josh stared at the neon menu, unseeing. The plug shifted as he stood, a grotesque internal massage. He clenched, trying to stop the slow leak he could still feel, a humiliation that was now a physical, spreading dampness on his inner thigh.
“Hey there.” The voice came from beside them, oily and familiar. Two men, older, with lanyards heavy with gaming pins, had sidled close. One, with a patchy beard, leered openly at Josh’s legs. “That’s some dedicated cosplay. Very authentic.”
Greg’s grip on Josh’s back tightened, but his smile was friendly, conversational. “Thanks, man. She worked hard on it.”
The second man, shorter and sweating in a too-tight T-shirt, whistled low. “No kidding. You letting fans get pictures? We could get a few… private shots. Over by the arcade.” His eyes never left the lace trim on Josh’s stockings, just below the hem of the obscenely short skirt.
A cold knot tightened in Josh’s stomach, different from the violating fullness inside him. This was a new, public species of danger.
Greg’s affable expression didn’t slip, but his fingers dug into Josh’s spine hard enough to make him gasp. “Sorry, guys. She’s with me. Exclusive.”
“Aw, come on,” the bearded one pressed, grinning. “Share the wealth. She looks like she could handle a few friends.” He reached out, his fingers brushing a strand of hair from Josh’s forehead.
Josh flinched violently, his whole body recoiling as if struck. The movement made the plug press a sharp protest inside his ravaged entrance.
In that moment, Greg’s veneer cracked. He stepped forward, putting himself between Josh and the men. His stature was unimpressive, but his presence was suddenly volcanic. “Back the fuck off,” he said, his voice a low, gravelly snarl that carried over the din of the crowd. “You don’t talk to her. You don’t look at her. You don’t fucking breathe near her.”
The men blinked, taken aback by the sudden ferocity. “Whoa, dude, easy. We were just—”
Greg turned, his hand snapping out to clutch Josh’s jaw, forcing his face up. “Tell them, Jessica. Look at them and tell them why they can’t have you.”
Josh’s eyes swam with fresh, hot tears. He looked at the two strangers, their expressions now a mix of confusion and dawning, uncomfortable understanding. Greg’s thumb pressed cruelly into his cheekbone.
“Tell them what you like,” Greg hissed, his breath a poison in Josh’s ear. “Tell them what your cunt is for.”
The words were shards of glass in his throat. He opened his mouth. A weak, broken sound emerged. Greg shook him slightly, a silent, violent prompt.
“I…” Josh whispered, the world narrowing to the expectant, leering faces and Greg’s punishing grip. “I only… I only like alpha cock.”
He said it. The filthy, degrading sentence hung in the greasy air. The two men stared, their initial lust now soured into something uglier, a kind of disgusted recognition. They shared a look, muttered “Freaks,” under their breath, and melted back into the crowd.
Greg released Josh’s face, leaving behind aching pressure marks. He smoothed Josh’s hair, the tender gesture a horrific contrast. “Good girl,” he cooed, his public mask sliding back into place as if it had never left. “See? You just have to set boundaries.”
The line shuffled forward. Josh was hollow. The admission, forced from his lips, felt like a deeper violation than the plug or the cum leaking from him. He had authored his own debasement, given it a voice.
Greg ordered a slice of pepperoni and a Coke. He guided Josh to a small, sticky table in the corner. “Sit,” he said, not unkindly. Josh sat, the hard plastic seat pressing the plug deeper, making him stifle a gasp. Greg placed the pizza slice on a napkin in front of him. “Eat. You need your strength.”
Josh stared at the congealing cheese, the pools of orange grease. His stomach revolted. He could still taste Barry.
Greg leaned across the table, his voice dropping to a confidential murmur. “That was important, what just happened. You claimed your place. You’re mine. Everyone needs to understand that.” He took a huge bite of his own pizza, chewing thoughtfully. “Barry’s gonna love that part of the footage. The way you said it… fucking perfect.”
He washed the bite down with soda. “Now eat. We’re not done. The day’s young, and your cunt’s already warmed up and used. Perfect condition.” He smiled, a genuine, awful smile of anticipation. “I’m thinking we find a quiet spot near the RPG demo tables. Less traffic. I want a round where I can really take my time, where no one can hear you properly when you cry.”
Josh picked up the slice of pizza. His hand shook so badly the cheese slid off. He took a bite. It was flavorless, a texture of mush and grease. He chewed. He swallowed. He ate because he was told to, each bite a submission, each swallow a silent agreement to whatever came next. The plug inside him felt larger now, a promise of what was to come, and the words he’d spoken echoed in his skull, a mantra of his own making: I only like alpha cock. The cheerful light of the convention beat down, unforgiving, on the lace of his choker and the empty, obedient motion of his jaw.
The cheerful light of the convention beat down, unforgiving, on the lace of his choker and the empty, obedient motion of his jaw. He managed two bites before the grease and the memory of Barry’s cum made his saliva glue-thick. He set the crust down, his fingers leaving faint damp prints on the waxy napkin.
Greg watched him, his own food finished. He wiped his hands, his eyes scanning the bustling food court with predatory calm. “Don’t worry about it,” he said, as if reading Josh’s nausea. “You’ll need the room anyway.”
Before Josh could parse that, a familiar, towering shadow fell across their table. Barry stood there, holding a large shopping bag from a merch booth. He dropped it on the table with a thump. His expression was one of cold amusement.
“Got a present for our little star,” Barry said, his voice flat. He reached into the bag and pulled out a folded item of black clothing. He shook it out.
It was a T-shirt. Cheap, black cotton. The text across the chest was in glaring, neon-green font: “ALPHA COCK LOVING FREAK.”
Josh stared at it. The words vibrated in his vision, a public, screaming confession of the one he’d just been forced to whisper. His stomach turned to liquid ice.
“Put it on,” Greg said, not asking. He leaned back in his chair, a king issuing a benign decree. “Over the dress. Let’s make a statement.”
“Greg… please,” Josh breathed, the plea barely audible over the surrounding din of laughter and clattering trays.
Barry leaned in, his large hand slapping the sticky tabletop, making the empty cups jump. “You heard him. We just filmed you with two dicks in you. You think a shirt is where you draw the line?” He smirked. “Put it on, or we find a panel room with a projector and show the footage right fucking now. Your choice.”
The threat was real. Josh had seen the camera, had felt its red eye. He took the shirt. The cotton was rough, smelling of new ink and plastic. His fingers fumbled with the maid dress’s thin straps. He pulled the T-shirt over his head, the frilly lace of the costume scratching his neck. The shirt settled over the cheap satin, the neon words emblazoned across his chest, impossible to ignore.
“Perfect,” Greg breathed, his eyes alight. He stood, abruptly kicking his chair back. “Now stand up. Let’s take a walk.”
Josh stood. The plug shifted nauseatingly. He felt exposed in a new way, the words on his chest a target, a billboard. As they moved back into the main hall, eyes stuck to him. The stares were different now—less amused curiosity, more blunt shock, disgust, or lurid interest. Someone snorted a laugh. A girl in an elf costume averted her gaze, cheeks flushed.
Greg guided him, not towards the exits, but deeper into the labyrinth, towards a dimmer wing marked “Tabletop Gaming & RPG Demos.” The crowds thinned. The noise became a lower murmur punctuated by the rattle of dice. They passed secluded alcoves designed for private game sessions, curtains partially drawn.
Greg chose one. It was a shallow recess with a low table, some cushions, and a faded poster for a fantasy game. He pulled Josh inside and yanked the curtain shut, plunging them into murky, dim light from a single overhead bulb.
“Gotta break in the new shirt,” Greg said, his voice loose and hungry. He pushed Josh face-first against the cold, cinderblock wall. The rough surface scraped his cheek. Greg’s hands rucked up the new T-shirt and the maid skirt, exposing him. The cool air hit the plug.
Greg tugged the rubber toy free with a wet, popping sound. Josh groaned, his body clenching around sudden, shocking emptiness. Greg didn’t give him a moment. He unzipped, his cock already hard from the spectacle, from the power. He spat into his hand, slicking himself, and pressed the thick head against Josh’s loosened, aching entrance.
“Tell me what you are,” Greg grunted, pushing in slowly, a torturous, reaming invasion.
Josh clenched his teeth, a whimper escaping.
“Say it!” Greg demanded, shoving the rest of the way in with a brutal snap of his hips.
“An alpha cock loving freak!” Josh gasped, the words ripped from him, forced out by the penetration.
“Damn right you are,” Greg panted, beginning to move. He set a hard, deep rhythm, each thrust slamming Josh’s body into the wall. The new T-shirt rode up, the slogan stretching taut across his back with every drive. Greg grabbed a fistful of the black cotton at Josh’s shoulder, using it for leverage, pulling him back onto his cock. The fabric strained.
“This is what you are for,” Greg hissed, his pace quickening, becoming sloppier, more frantic. “You’re a fucking T-shirt slogan. You’re a warm, used hole. That’s your entire function.” He fucked him with a punishing, selfish intensity, the sound of skin slapping skin loud in the confined space. Josh’s knees buckled. Greg held him up by the shirt, the neckline choking him.
Greg’s other hand snaked around, gripping Josh through the cheap satin of the maid dress, squeezing his cock roughly. “You getting hard from this, you freak? You getting off on being a public joke?” The stimulation was brutal, unwanted, but effective. A treacherous heat pooled in Josh’s gut, a traitorous response from a broken system.
“Yeah, you are,” Greg sneered, feeling him twitch. “You love it. Your cunt’s swallowing me whole and your dick’s begging for it. Admit it.”
Josh shook his head, a silent scream against the wall. The orgasm built like a sickness, inevitable and vile. It crested and broke, wracking through him as he spilled into his costume, his body convulsing around Greg’s invading length.
The clenching triggered Greg’s finish. With a final, deep grind, he buried himself and erupted, a hot, pulsing flood that filled the emptiness the plug had left. He held there, panting, his weight heavy. “Brand new shirt,” he mumbled into Josh’s neck, “already fucking christened.”
He pulled out, tucking himself away. Josh slumped against the wall, sliding down to the floor. Greg looked down at him, a crumpled heap of satin and black cotton, the neon words glaring up from his chest.
“Stay here,” Greg said, adjusting his own clothes. He tossed the damp, used plug onto Josh’s lap. “I’m gonna get a drink. Barry’s got the keys. Don’t move.”
He pulled the curtain aside and was gone. Josh sat on the cold floor, the new shirt sticking to his skin with sweat, the old stains cool and wet beneath the maid’s dress. The plug was a cold, rubbery weight on his thigh. From beyond the curtain, the sounds of a normal world—dice rolling, friendly arguments, celebratory shouts—drifted in, each one a microscopic needle pressed into the raw pulp of his mind. He closed his eyes, but all he could see was the neon-green text, burning against the inside of his eyelids.