Chapter 18: Condom Buffet
The office air conditioning hummed a flat, neutral tone that did nothing to cleanse the taste from Josh’s mouth. He typed, he filed, he nodded at passing colleagues whose faces were bland smears of normalcy. His body was a distant, bruised puppet. The memory of the investor call played on a loop behind his eyes, a horror film spliced with the sensation of Barry’s thrusts and the final, wet slap on his back. He moved through the cubicle maze like a ghost, his polo shirt and chinos feeling like a costume over a stranger’s skin.
Greg left him alone for most of the day. It was its own form of torture. Every ping of his work messenger made his stomach lurch. But the message never came. He was being marinated in dread.
At five o’clock sharp, Greg appeared at his cubicle entrance. “You’re riding with me,” he said, no invitation in his voice. It was a directive. Barry was already waiting at the elevators, smirking.
They drove to Greg’s apartment in silence. The stale bedroom greeted them, unchanged, the Polaroid of the grinning “brothers” a silent witness to a joke Josh still didn’t understand. The maid outfit lay in a heap where he’d left it that morning.
“Take off your clothes,” Greg said, locking the door behind them. “All of them. Fold them neatly on the chair.”
Josh’s hands moved on autopilot. The act of undressing in that room, under their bored gazes, was now a ritual. The air was cool on his skin, raising goosebumps. He stood naked, eyes fixed on a crack in the laminate floor.
Greg walked to his nightstand, opened the drawer, and pulled out a small, clear bag. Inside were three used condoms, knotted and glistening dully under the fluorescent light. They were cloudy, filled.
“Kneel,” Greg said.
Josh knelt. The floor was hard and unyielding against his kneecaps.
Barry settled onto the edge of the bed, leaning back on his elbows. “This is my favorite part,” he said, his voice conversational.
Greg opened the bag. The smell hit Josh first—a pungent, musky odor of sex and latex. He fought the gag reflex, his throat tightening.
Greg held up one of the condoms between his thumb and forefinger. It sagged, heavy with its contents. “Open,” he commanded.
Josh opened his mouth. His tongue felt like dry leather.
Greg placed the rubbery knot on his tongue. The taste was chemical, salty-bitter, overwhelmingly alien. It was warm, having been in the drawer. “Chew.”
Josh closed his mouth. His jaw worked. The texture was like a gel-filled balloon, resistant before yielding with a sickening pop. The fluid inside flooded his mouth, thick and slick. He tasted Greg, tasted Barry, tasted his own shame from hours before. His stomach convulsed.
“Swallow.”
He forced his throat to work. The mass slid down, a disgusting globule he felt all the way to his gut. He gasped for clean air, tears springing to his eyes.
“Good girl,” Greg murmured, his voice low and approving. It was worse than a slap. He picked up the second condom. “Again.”
The process repeated. Chew. The pop. The flood. Swallow. Josh’s body shook with the effort of not vomiting. Spit dripped from his chin. He was dimly aware of Greg unbuckling his own belt, pushing his trousers and boxers down to his thighs. His cock, half-hard, hung in front of Josh’s face.
The third condom was the worst. It seemed bigger, fuller. “This one’s from this morning,” Greg said casually, as if discussing the weather. “After the call. You remember.”
Josh did. He took it. He chewed. When he swallowed, a low, broken sob escaped him.
“Now,” Greg said, his hand wrapping around his own shaft, beginning to stroke himself slowly. “You stay right there. Mouth open. You get your dessert after the main course.”
Greg’s masturbation was methodical. He used his other hand to tug at his balls, his eyes locked on Josh’s tear-streaked face, on his open, saliva-wet mouth. Barry watched from the bed, a spectator at a sport.
“Look at her,” Barry said, his voice a rough whisper. “Practically begging for it. Can’t get enough of our cum, can you, Jessica? You love having your mouth used like a cunt.”
Josh tried to disengage, to float away, but the smell of the condoms in his stomach, the taste on his tongue, the sight of Greg’s cock thickening in his fist—it all anchored him in a hellish present. Greg’s breathing grew heavier. His strokes became faster, rougher. His free hand grabbed a fistful of Josh’s hair, not pulling, just holding, claiming.
“You’re a fucking toilet,” Greg grunted, his hips starting to jerk. “A pretty little receptacle. This is all you’re good for. To swallow what we give you. To take it.”
His body tensed. Josh saw the muscles in his forearm cord, saw the flush rise on his neck. Greg’s eyes glazed over, fixed on some point past Josh’s head, past the wall, into his own bitter fantasy.
“Open wide, slut,” Greg growled, his voice guttural and strained.
Josh obeyed, tilting his head back, his mouth a numb, waiting orifice.
Greg’s orgasm wasn’t a sigh; it was a snarl. He shoved his cock forward, jamming it past Josh’s lips, hitting the back of his throat. The first spurt was hot and salty, painting his tongue. The second was thicker. Greg fucked his mouth in short, brutal jabs, each one depositing another bitter load. Josh gagged, tears streaming freely now, but he kept his mouth open, letting it pool. Some dripped out onto his chin, onto his chest.
With a final shudder, Greg pulled out. A last string of cum stretched from his tip to Josh’s lower lip before breaking. “Swallow,” he commanded, his chest heaving.
Josh swallowed. The warm, acrid fluid joined the contents of the condoms in his churning stomach.
For a long moment, the only sound was Greg’s ragged breathing and the low hum of the lights. Barry chuckled softly from the bed.
Greg tucked himself away, zipped his trousers. He looked down at Josh, who knelt in a puddle of his own spit and Greg’s release, trembling uncontrollably.
“Clean yourself up,” Greg said, his voice returning to its normal, dead calm. “You reek. Then get dressed. We’re ordering pizza. You’re eating with us.”
He turned and walked out of the bedroom, Barry following, already talking about what toppings to get. Josh knelt on the cold floor, the taste of them cemented onto his palate, a permanent record of the day. The nausea rose, a hot tide, but he clenched his jaw, fought it down. Swallowing was all he had left. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, smearing it. He got to his feet, his legs wobbly, and shuffled toward the bathroom. The reflection in the mirror was a stranger with hollow eyes and a dirty mouth. He turned on the tap, cupped cold water, and rinsed, again and again, but the taste was in his sinuses, in his soul. It wouldn’t leave. He knew, as he heard their laughter from the living room, that it was only a matter of time before they gave him more.
The laughter from the living room was a dull, mocking percussion against the bathroom door. Josh scrubbed at his face with a rough towel, the cheap fibers scraping his skin raw but doing nothing to erase the filmy, biological residue on his tongue. He stared at the white basin, at the faint gray ring around the drain, and saw only the cloudy, knotted shapes from the bag. His stomach cramped, a slick, threatening tremor.
He stripped and stepped into the shower. The water was scalding, a needling punishment he turned up until his skin bloomed pink. He braced his forearms against the slick tiles, head hanging under the torrent, hoping the heat would burn the memory from his pores. It didn’t. It just made him feel the emptiness inside more acutely, a hollow where his own agency had once lived. An unfamiliar, frantic need began to coil in his gut—a desperate urge to feel something, anything, that he alone had chosen.
His hand drifted down, fingers curling around his own limp cock. He tried to summon an image, any image, from a life before this room. A memory of a college girlfriend, a blurry fantasy from a magazine, anything clean. His mind supplied only the Polaroid grin from the bedroom wall, the sound of Greg’s growl, the feeling of being filled. He shuddered, repulsed, but his body responded traitorously, stiffening in his grip.
He worked himself faster under the blistering spray, his jaw clenched tight. He chased the release, a frantic, mechanical motion. Pleasure sparked, distant and false, but it wouldn’t catch. His thoughts spiraled back to the plugged fullness during the investor call, to the brutal, stretching intrusion of Barry against the wall. The phantom sensation of being packed, violated, used, became the only vivid fuel.
He came to a horrifying, gasping stop, his fist still pumping a now-aching erection. The water beat down. He couldn’t finish. Not like this. The climax was locked behind a door in his own mind, a door labeled with words Greg used: cunt, pussy, slut. His own hand felt like a useless, foreign object. A dry, humorless sound escaped him—part sob, part laugh. He was broken in a way he hadn’t even known was possible. The proof was hard and throbbing in his hand, utterly dependent on the very violations that were destroying him.
He turned the water to ice cold. The shock made him gasp, his skin tightening. He didn’t move until his teeth chattered and his cock had shrunk, defeated and soft. He dried off with clumsy, numb hands. The laughter outside had stopped. A new silence pressed in, heavier than before. He dressed in yesterday’s clothes from the chair, the fabric carrying the faint, sour scent of the room itself. When he opened the bathroom door, the sight of the empty pizza boxes on the coffee table, the crushed beer cans, made his empty stomach turn.
“Took you long enough,” Barry said from the couch, not looking up from his phone. “We saved you a slice. Pepperoni. Greg said you earned it.”
The slice sat congealing on a paper plate. Josh looked at it, then at Greg, who was watching him with a quiet, knowing satisfaction. Greg’s eyes flickered down to Josh’s still-damp hair, to the fresh defeat in his posture, and a slow smile spread across his face. He understood. He’d seen this before, in himself, in the forums. He recognized the shape of a new dependency being forged.
“Sit,” Greg said, his voice soft. “Eat. You need your strength.” He patted the space on the couch beside him, a gesture that felt more threatening than any command. “We’ve got a big day tomorrow. More investors to impress.”