Chapter 17: Remote Control Humiliation
The stale air of Greg’s bedroom tasted of dust and ozone from the flickering TV screen. Josh woke to the itchy touch of polyester sheets and the deep, familiar ache in his body. Morning light, flat and gray, bled through a crack in the blinds, striping the laminate floor and the crumpled maid outfit discarded like a shed skin. He was alone. The silence was a physical weight.
The door opened without a knock. Greg stood there, already dressed in a cheap, tight-fitting polo shirt. In his hand, he held a small, oblong device made of slick black silicone, trailing a thin wire to a small remote. “Up,” he said, his voice devoid of its performative host’s charm. It was a command, flat and absolute.
Josh pushed himself up, every muscle protesting. Greg tossed the object onto the bed beside him. “Investor call in twenty. You’re taking notes. Clean yourself up and put this in.” He nodded at the device. “It’s wireless. Syncs to my phone.”
Josh stared at it. It looked innocuous, almost medical. The reality of it was a cold stone in his gut.
“Now, Jessica,” Greg said, the name a deliberate twist of the knife. “I won’t ask twice.”
In the bathroom, under the humming fluorescent light, Josh’s hands shook. He ran the tap, splashed water on his face, avoided his own eyes in the mirror. The reflection showed the faint bruises on his hips, the shadow of something broken behind his gaze. He picked up the plug, the silicone cool and unforgiving. He coated it with the jelly Greg had left on the sink, the process clinical and degrading. Inserting it was a practiced, awful surrender. A faint hum as he turned it on, a buzzing presence inside him that made his legs feel weak. He pulled the cheap satin panties back on, then the maid dress, its lace now feeling like a brand.
Greg’s laptop was open on a rickety desk in the corner of the bedroom, a webinar interface glowing. Barry was already there, leaning against the wall with a coffee mug, his tall frame dwarfing the cramped space. He smirked when Josh shuffled in. “Ready for your close-up, sweetheart?”
“Sit there,” Greg pointed to a chair just out of the camera’s view. “You take notes on this.” He slid a legal pad and pen toward him. “You speak when spoken to. Clear and professional. You’re representing the company.” He held up his phone, the screen showing a simple app with a dial control. “I’m representing the truth.”
Josh sat. The plug shifted inside him, a constant, low-level vibration. He adjusted the skirt, his face burning.
Greg connected to the call. Three faces appeared on screen: two men and a woman in sharp business attire, their backgrounds tidy bookshelves and potted plants. “Greg, Barry, good morning,” the woman, Susan, said. “We’re eager to hear the Q3 projections.”
“Absolutely,” Greg said, his voice smooth, salesman-perfect. “Let me kick things off, and then my colleague Jessica can detail the market analysis.”
Josh’s head snapped up. Greg didn’t look at him, just gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod toward the pad. Speak when spoken to.
The call droned on. Greg pitched, Barry chimed in with fabricated data. Josh scribbled meaningless words, the buzzing between his legs a relentless distraction. His insides felt electrified, a hum that vibrated up his spine.
“Jessica?” Susan’s voice cut through his focus. “Greg mentioned you’d run the competitor numbers. Can you walk us through the key differentiators?”
Josh cleared his throat, his mouth dry. “Yes, of course.” As the first word left his lips, Greg’s thumb moved on his phone screen.
The vibration inside him intensified sharply, jumping from a dull hum to a rapid, insistent thrum. It stole his breath. He faltered. “The… the primary differentiator is our… agile implementation framework.” Each word was a struggle against the sudden, shocking stimulation deep in his core. He could feel his face flushing.
“Interesting,” said one of the men, leaning forward. “But can you quantify that agility? Provide a timeline metric?”
Josh opened his mouth to answer. Greg’s thumb moved again.
This time, the setting was brutal. A harsh, stuttering pulse that felt less like vibration and more like being repeatedly, minutely punched from the inside. A small, choked sound escaped him. He gripped the edge of the desk. “The… metric…” he stammered, his mind blank, awash with shockingly inappropriate sensation. He was hard, trapped against his thigh, a traitorous response that flooded him with shame.
Barry, off-camera, took a slow sip of his coffee. His free hand reached out casually, as if stretching, and pinched Josh’s nipple through the lace of the dress, twisting sharply.
Josh jolted, his hips jerking forward involuntarily against the chair. “Six weeks!” he blurted, the words a desperate gasp.
On screen, Susan raised an eyebrow. “Six weeks for full integration? That’s… ambitious.”
Greg smoothly interjected, covering the pause. “Jessica’s being modest. Our sandbox data suggests even faster.” As he spoke, he turned the vibration down to a low simmer.
Josh sat there, trembling, sweat prickling his upper lip. Barry’s hand withdrew, but the sharp pain in his chest bloomed alongside the insistent, wrong pleasure blooming from his ass. He was a live wire of humiliation, every nerve screaming.
The questions continued. Each time Josh was required to speak, the remote in Greg’s hand was his tormentor. A low buzz for simple answers. A punishing, erratic jackhammer pulse for anything requiring thought. Once, when Josh hesitated on a revenue model question, Greg cranked it to a setting that made Josh’s vision blur with unshed tears. His cock leaked a damp spot onto his panties, a fact he was horrifyingly aware of. His answers became terse, clipped, voice tight with the effort of containment.
Barry participated in his own way. A “accidental” nudge of his knee that rocked Josh in his seat, driving the plug deeper. A finger trailing along the back of Josh’s neck, making him shiver. During a long monologue from Greg, Barry leaned over, pretending to look at the notes, and whispered, “Your pussy’s sopping through that cheap lace, Jessie. I can smell it.” His hand cupped Josh’s crotch, a heavy, possessive weight, squeezing once before retreating.
Josh’s world narrowed to the square of the laptop screen, the drone of corporate speak, and the fiendish orchestra playing inside his body. He was dissociating, floating somewhere above the chair, watching this version of himself—Jessica—melt under the dual assault.
“Thank you, team,” Susan said finally, wrapping up the call. “We’ll be in touch with our feedback.”
The screen went black.
The silence that followed was profound, broken only by the faint, continuous buzz emanating from Josh’s body. Greg didn’t turn it off.
He swiveled his chair slowly to face Josh. Barry stepped away from the wall, his amusement palpable in the cramped room.
“Stand up,” Greg said softly.
Josh stood. His legs were jelly. The full force of the vibration was now the only sound in the room.
“You came, didn’t you?” Greg asked, his eyes tracing the visible tremor in Josh’s hands, the damp patch on the front of the dress. “During the call. Just from this little toy and Barry playing with your tits.”
Josh couldn’t speak. He looked at the floor, at the pattern in the cheap laminate.
“Answer me.”
“Yes,” Josh whispered, the admission a final stripping bare.
Greg stood. He walked over and without ceremony, pushed Josh face-first against the wall next to the meme-plastered poster. The Polaroid of the “brothers” grinned beside his cheek. Greg shoved the short skirt up around Josh’s waist. The damp satin panties were pulled down roughly to his thighs.
“See?” Greg said to Barry, his voice thick with a vicious pride. He spread Josh’s cheeks apart. “Look at that. Dripping. Her cunt’s practically singing for it.” He ran a thumb over the base of the plug, where it met Josh’s body, then pressed hard, making Josh gasp as it shifted internally.
Barry unzipped his trousers. “Let’s see if she can keep quiet now the mic’s off.”
Greg pulled the plug out slowly. The sudden emptiness was almost as shocking as its presence. It was immediately filled by Barry’s thick, uncaring cock, sheathed in a condom he’d rolled on. There was no preparation, no easing. Barry just pushed, a brutal, steady invasion that forced a ragged cry from Josh’s throat as he was stretched, filled, pinned against the wall.
“That’s it,” Greg murmured, close to his ear, holding him by the hips. “Take it. You earned this.” He reached around, his hand rough on Josh’s stomach, then lower, finding his cock, hard and desperate. He started to jerk him off, his grip tight and rhythmic.
Barry fucked him with the bored, powerful strokes of a man using a tool. Each thrust slammed Josh into the wall, rattling the frame. Greg’s hand worked him in counterpoint, a ruthless, efficient stimulation. It was too much, a sensory overload of pain and shame and a pleasure he couldn’t deny. His breath came in shattered pants against the wall.
“Gonna cum again, you little slut?” Greg hissed. “Gonna cream your pants while you get your ass fucked in my bedroom?”
Barry grunted, picking up his pace, his hips smacking against Josh’s ass. “Tighter than last time, Greg. She’s learning.”
Josh was. He was learning the awful grammar of his own body, how it betrayed him, how it could be made to feel sparks of ecstasy while his mind screamed in revulsion. The climax, when it ripped through him, was a silent, convulsive wrecking ball. He pulsed into Greg’s fist, stripes of release painting the laminate floor, his body clamping down on Barry’s driving cock in helpless, rhythmic spasms.
Barry swore, pulled out, and finished onto Josh’s back with a few rough strokes of his own hand. The warmth splattered across his skin.
Greg let go, stepping back. He looked at Josh, slumped against the wall, a mess of tears, sweat, and other men’s fluids. He looked at Barry, zipping up. He looked at the laptop, dark and silent.
He finally switched the app off on his phone. The sudden cessation of the vibration left a phantom buzzing in Josh’s nerves.
“Clean this up,” Greg said, his voice returning to that flat, undeniable tone. He gestured to the floor, to Josh himself. “Then get dressed in your normal clothes. We’re going into the office. You’ve got real work to do.”
He and Barry left the room, talking in low tones about the investor feedback, as if nothing had happened. Josh slowly peeled himself from the wall. He looked at the smear on the floor, the dripping mess on his legs. The empty, black silicone plug lay where Greg had dropped it, a tiny, obscene monument. He stared at it for a full minute, listening to the muffled sounds of the two men laughing in the other room. Then, mechanically, he began to clean.