Chapter 20: Josh stumbles through the crowded convention floor, the fox tail plug stretching his hole with each step as Greg yanks it sharply whenever someone stares too long, whispering 'Wag for them, bitch' while fondling Josh's ass under the pretense of adjusting the tail.
The convention center was a screaming, sweating organism. Light strobed from giant screens, sound crashed from competing booths, and a river of bodies in spandex and polyester flooded the aisles. Josh stood frozen just inside the entrance, the sensory overload a physical weight. The thin black tank top clung to his torso, the words “Property of Alpha Cock” stamped across his chest in cheap, glittering pink vinyl. Every breath made the material stretch tighter.
The most profound violation, however, was hidden. He felt it with every slight shift of his hips. The silicone plug, its flared base a constant, intrusive pressure, seated deep inside him. The attached fox tail, a tuft of fake orange fur, brushed against the backs of his thighs. He was wearing a costume, but the audience was unaware. To them, he was just another poorly dressed con attendee. To Greg, standing beside him with a predatory smile, he was a walking, breathing punchline.
“Move,” Greg said, nudging him forward into the current. “Let’s see the sights.”
The first hour was a blur of acute, fragmented shame. Josh kept his arms crossed over the slogan on his chest, earning irritated glances from people trying to get past. Greg wouldn’t allow it. He’d bat Josh’s arms down. “Show off your merch,” he’d snicker.
Then came the tugs.
It would happen without warning. Greg, walking slightly behind, would reach out, his fingers closing around the fluffy tail. A sharp, insistent yank. The plug shifted violently inside Josh, a shocking intrusion that forced a tiny, choked gasp from his lips. His steps would falter. His face would flood with heat.
People noticed. A group of teenagers in anime gear snickered, pointing. A man dressed as a superhero gave a slow, knowing leer. “Nice tail,” someone murmured as they passed.
“She’s shy,” Greg would announce to no one in particular, his voice carrying. “But she loves the attention, don’t you, Jessica?”
Josh’s vision swam. The stale popcorn smell mixed with the scent of his own fear-sweat. He focused on the patterns in the industrial carpet, counting his steps, trying to disappear inside his own skull. It was the same dissociative trick he’d used in Greg’s bedroom, but here it was harder. There were too many eyes.
Greg steered them toward a quieter hallway lined with lesser-known vendors and fading promotional posters. The music was a dull throb here. “Stop,” Greg commanded.
Josh stopped. Greg stepped close, his back to the sparse traffic, shielding Josh from view. His hand went to the tail again, not yanking this time, but idly fondling it, twisting the base. Josh could feel the plug moving in minute, nauseating circles.
“You’re dripping, you know that?” Greg whispered, his breath hot and sour against Josh’s ear. “Your little cunt’s been leaking since we got here. All this public display’s got you turned on, you sick fuck.”
It wasn’t arousal. It was a humiliating physiological response, a lubrication born of violation and constant, stressful stimulation. The truth didn’t matter. Greg’s narrative was the only one that counted.
“We’re gonna find a bathroom,” Greg said, his tone conversational. “You’re gonna get on your knees and suck my dick until I come down your throat. And you’re gonna keep that plug in. I want to feel it when you swallow.”
The family restroom was a single-occupancy, mercifully empty. Greg locked the door. The sterile white light buzzed overhead. The roar of the convention was muted to a distant storm.
“Knees,” Greg said, unbuckling his belt.
Josh sank to the cold tile. The tail curled beneath him, an absurd accent to his degradation. Greg’s cock, already hard, slapped against his cheek. It smelled of sweat and cheap soap.
“Open,” Greg said.
Josh opened his mouth. Greg fed his cock in, not slowly, but with a brutal, ownership shove that made Josh gag immediately. Tears sprang to his eyes. He tried to breathe through his nose, the musky, salty taste flooding his senses.
“That’s it,” Greg grunted, his hands fisting in Josh’s short hair. “Use that pretty mouth. That’s all it’s good for.”
Greg began to fuck his face in earnest, short, punishing thrusts that hit the back of Josh’s throat with each push. Josh’s jaw ached. Spittle dripped down his chin. His own body was a traitor; the relentless motion, the gagging, the sheer vulgar dominance of it, sent sympathetic pulses from the plug deep inside him. A low, pathetic moan vibrated in his throat.
“Hear that?” Greg panted. “Your pussy’s moaning for it too.” He drove deeper, his balls slapping against Josh’s chin. “You’re gonna take my cum. You’re gonna swallow every fucking drop. And then we’re going back out there, with my load in your belly, and you’re gonna smile.”
The pace turned frantic, animalistic. Greg’s hips stuttered. A guttural roar echoed in the tiny tiled room. A hot, bitter flood hit the back of Josh’s tongue. He choked, tried to pull back, but Greg held him firm, pulsing, forcing him to take it. Josh swallowed convulsively, the act as involuntary as breathing, the taste a final brand.
Greg withdrew, wiping himself on Josh’s tank top. He tucked himself away, flushed but calm, as if he’d just taken a piss. Josh stayed on his knees, trembling, strings of saliva and semen on his lips.
“Get up,” Greg said. “Clean your face.”
At the sink, Josh avoided the mirror. He splashed water, rubbed his mouth raw. The plug felt larger now, a permanent, accusing fixture. The tail was damp from the floor.
Greg unlocked the door. The roar of the convention rushed back in. He glanced at Josh, a smirk playing on his lips.
“See? That wasn’t so bad,” he said, clapping a heavy hand on Josh’s shoulder. “Now let’s go find Barry. He’s gonna love the outfit.”
He pushed Josh back out into the flashing, screaming current of people. Josh moved forward, the taste of salt and bitterness coating every swallow, the phantom pressure of the plug a promise that the day was far from over. He was a marked thing, parading through the crowd, carrying the violation within him, a secret that screamed from every pore.
He was a marked thing, parading through the crowd, carrying the violation within him, a secret that screamed from every pore. Greg’s hand was a vise on his shoulder, steering him past a booth selling neon swords, toward a dim hallway marked “Restrooms & Utilities.” The roar of the convention dampened with each step, replaced by the echo of their footsteps on concrete. A sign for a men’s room appeared, an arrow pointing down a sterile, windowless corridor.
Greg pushed the door open. It was empty, a line of three urinals and two stalls, reeking of industrial cleaner undercut by stale piss. The florescent light buzzed a sickly yellow.
“Been holding it since the car, haven’t you?” Greg said, his voice bouncing off the tiles. He propelled Josh toward the middle urinal. “Go on. Piss.”
Josh stood frozen, staring at the porcelain bowl and the dank screen at its bottom. His bladder was painfully full, a tight ache competing with the deeper, plugged ache behind it. The urge was a biological demand, simple and urgent, but performing it here, now, felt like another scripted degradation.
“Now,” Greg barked, and the sound snapped something in Josh’s concentration.
He fumbled with the button on his jeans, his fingers clumsy. He pushed the denim and his boxers down to his thighs. The fox tail, freed, hung absurdly behind him. He leaned forward, bracing one hand against the cold, graffiti-scratched wall. The first hot, arching stream hit the porcelain with a loud, percussive sound. A wave of physical relief, pure and uncomplicated, washed through him. He closed his eyes.
He heard the shift of fabric behind him, the sound of a zipper. Cold dread dumped into his stomach, diluting the relief. Greg’s body crowded against his back, pinning him to the urinal. The faux-fur tail was pushed aside.
“Keep pissing,” Greg grunted in his ear.
Josh felt the blunt, insistent pressure of Greg’s cock, slicked with spit or maybe the leftover lubricant from the plug, probing against him. He tried to tense, to shift away, but he was trapped between the urinal and Greg’s solid weight. The stream of his own urine faltered, then resumed, a helpless, parallel release.
“Yeah, that’s it,” Greg hissed, and he pushed.
The initial breach was a white-hot tear of resistance, then a brutal, grinding stretch. Josh cried out, a sharp sound swallowed by the tiled room. His body jerked, but Greg held him firm, one arm like an iron bar across his chest. His piss splashed erratically against the bowl and the floor. Greg buried himself to the hilt in one relentless, piston stroke, a foreign, punishing fullness that obliterated everything else.
“Fuck, your cunt’s still loose from the plug,” Greg moaned, his breath hitching. He didn’t wait, didn’t allow for adjustment. He pulled back and slammed in again, setting a immediate, rough rhythm.
Each thrust jolted Josh forward, his forehead knocking against the wall. The sounds were obscene: the wet, rhythmic slap of skin on skin, Greg’s guttural groans, the dwindling trickle of Josh’s own urine now mixing with the sweat dripping down his thighs. The ache of his overfull bladder was gone, replaced by a deep, splitting ache that seemed to core him. Greg’s hand snaked around, fingers digging into Josh’s hip, holding him in place for a deeper, angrier penetration.
“You love this, you filthy bitch,” Greg panted, his pace turning frantic, jackhammer. “Pissing yourself while you get fucking reamed. This is all you’re good for.”
Josh’s vision spotted. He was a conduit for pain and humiliation, a living urinal for Greg’s rage. The physicality of it was absolute: the cold porcelain against his belly, the heat of Greg’s body smothering him, the brutal, in-and-out rupture happening behind him. He felt Greg’s balls slap against him with every drive.
Greg’s rhythm broke, became uneven, jagged. A final, digging thrust held him deep, and Josh felt the hot, pulsing flood inside him. Greg grunted, a raw, animal sound, and collapsed his weight forward, crushing Josh against the urinal. They stayed like that for a long moment, Greg’s softening cock still lodged inside him, the only sounds their ragged breathing and the final drip of water from the fixture.
Greg pulled out with a soft, wet sound. He tucked himself away, zipped up. Josh remained leaning against the urinal, his jeans around his thighs, a slow, shameful leak now tracing down his leg. He couldn’t straighten up.
A hand patted his cheek, hard. “Clean yourself up,” Greg said, his voice already flat, post-coital. “We’ve got panels to see.”
“We’ve got panels to see.”
The door to the restroom swung inward with a soft, hydraulic sigh.
A man stood framed in the doorway, his hand still on the push plate. He was in his fifties, wearing a faded Starfleet command shirt stretched tight over a soft belly, a lanyard with a ‘VIP’ badge dangling from his neck. His eyes, scanning the room from the urinals to the sinks, landed on them. They widened. His amiable, convention-day expression dissolved into a slow-motion car crash of comprehension.
He saw Josh first: pants and boxers bunched around trembling thighs, face pressed to the graffiti, pale skin slick with a sheen of cold sweat and urine droplets. He saw the orange fox tail, a grotesque parody of cheer. Then his gaze traveled to Greg, standing so close behind, tucking himself in, zipping up with a casual, definitive rasp.
The silence was absolute, broken only by the drip from the urinal Josh still leaned against. The ambient roar of the convention seemed to vanish, sucked out of the world.
Greg was the first to move. He didn’t startle. He finished zipping his fly, smoothed his shirt, and turned his head just enough to acknowledge the intruder. His expression was one of mild annoyance, like a man interrupted while fixing a sink.
“Occupied,” Greg said, his voice flat and utterly reasonable.
The man in the doorway blinked. His mouth opened, then closed. His eyes darted back to Josh, who had managed to push himself back from the porcelain, his movements stiff and pained. Josh couldn’t meet his eyes. He stared at the man’s shoes—worn-out sneakers, one lace frayed.
“I… I just needed to…” the man stammered, his voice a thin reed. He was trying to process, to force the scene into a category that made sense. A prank? A performance? Something from one of those extreme art booths?
“Find another one,” Greg said, turning fully now, placing his body slightly between the man and Josh, a gesture of ownership rather than protection. “We’re finishing up here.”
The man’s eyes locked on the damp, dark patch spreading on the back of Josh’s jeans, the obvious, shameful leak. He saw the raw redness around Josh’s eyes, the silent tremor in his hands as he fumbled to pull his clothing up. This wasn’t art. This was something else, something private and rotten that had spilled into the public light.
A profound discomfort, then a sharp, prudish anger, twisted the man’s features. He wasn’t going to help. He was offended. Violated by having to witness it.
“Disgusting,” the man hissed, the word sharp and final. He took a step back, his hand leaving a faint smear on the push plate. “You people are animals. This is a family event.”
He turned and the door swung shut, cutting off his retreating footsteps, leaving them once more in the buzzing, antiseptic silence.
Greg let out a short, airy chuckle. He watched Josh struggle with his button. “See?” he murmured, stepping to the sink to wash his hands with methodological care. “Even when you’re practically begging for someone to notice, all you get is contempt. No one cares, Jessica. No one’s coming.”
The water ran. Greg scrubbed under his fingernails.
Josh finally got his jeans fastened. The fabric was damp and cold against his skin, chafing the tender, abraded flesh between his legs. A deep, sick ache pulsed inside him with every heartbeat. He could still feel the ghost of the invasion, the burn, the unwelcome wetness. He grabbed a thick wad of paper towels, ran them under the cold tap, and shoved them clumsily down the back of his pants, a pathetic attempt at damage control. The rough paper scraped his skin.
Greg dried his hands, tossed the towel in the bin. He appraised Josh. “You’re a mess. But it adds to the look. Authentic.” He walked to the door, paused. “Coming? Or do you need another lesson in obedience right here?”
The threat was casual, almost bored. It was this tone, more than any shouted command, that coiled around Josh’s spine. He moved, his gait a stiff, wide-legged shuffle. The soaked paper towels wadded in his underwear pressed against him with every step.
Greg held the door open for him, a mockery of chivalry. The wall of sound—the music, the crowd, the hysterical pitch of a game show demo—hit Josh like a physical blow. He flinched.
“Smile,” Greg said, his own face arranging into a congenial mask as they merged back into the river of bodies. He slung a heavy arm around Josh’s shoulders, pulling him close. The grip was possessive, telling. “We’re just a couple of buddies enjoying the con. And you…” He leaned in, his lips brushing Josh’s ear, his voice dropping to a venomous whisper the crowd swallowed whole. “You’re my little secret, walking around full of my cum. Remember that. Every step. Every fucking step.”
They moved through the throng. Josh kept his head down, but the sensations were magnified. The brush of a backpack against his raw backside made him gasp. The jostle of the crowd sent fresh, hot spikes of pain radiating from his core. He was a raw nerve, a walking wound dressed in a slogan shirt, parading through a carnival.
Greg’s phone buzzed. He pulled it out, glanced at the screen, and smiled a real, broad smile. He showed it to Josh. It was a text from Barry. Saw the tail vid. Hilarious. Meet at the merch booth near hall C. Got a new toy for her.
“See?” Greg said, putting the phone away, his fingers digging into the muscle of Josh’s shoulder. “The brother’s excited. He’s got a present.” He leaned in again. “Bet your slutty little cunt is already clenching, wondering what it is. Isn’t it?”
Josh didn’t answer. He just kept walking, putting one foot in front of the other, following the pull of Greg’s arm, a prisoner being marched toward the next, inevitable degradation. The ceiling-high banner for the main stage loomed ahead, a grinning comic book hero’s face twenty feet tall, its eyes blank and judging. Josh looked at it, and for a second, he wasn’t in the convention center at all. He was back in Greg’s bedroom, watching his own tear-streaked face on the phone screen, hearing the hollow laughter of men who’d never hold anything but power over someone broken.
The memory was a cold anchor. His stomach tightened. He had to consciously unclench his jaw. Greg felt the tension and laughed, low and satisfied, his grip tightening as he steered them toward Hall C, into the deeper, more crowded belly of the beast.
Greg felt the tension and laughed, low and satisfied, his grip tightening as he steered them toward Hall C, into the deeper, more crowded belly of the beast.
Hall C was merchandise, a cavernous space choked with vinyl banners and overflowing bins of t-shirts. The air was thicker here, hotter, carrying the sharp scent of new ink and plastic wrap. Barry stood near a booth selling neon-lit weapon replicas, a duffel bag at his feet. His face lit up when he saw them, a grin that showed too many teeth.
“There’s my favorite girl!” Barry called, his voice booming over the crowd. He didn’t lower it. “How’s the tail treating you?”
Josh kept his eyes on the stained concrete floor. Greg gave him a slight shake. “She’s been perfect. Took her for a walk, let her relieve herself. You know.”
Barry’s laugh was a short, sharp bark. He hefted the duffel bag. “Got the special delivery. Custom job. Just her size.” He unzipped the bag just enough for Greg to peer inside. Greg’s eyebrows lifted in appreciation.
“Oh, that’s good. That’s real good.” Greg turned to Josh, his hand sliding from Josh’s shoulder down to the small of his back, pressing insistently. “Barry bought you a gift. A upgrade. You’re gonna thank him.”
“C’mon,” Barry said, nodding toward a service alcove partially hidden behind a massive cardboard castle display. It was a dim pocket of relative quiet, littered with empty boxes and a forgotten mop bucket. The sounds of the convention muted to a dull throb.
Barry pulled the item from the bag. It was a harness, thick black leather with heavy buckles. From its center, where a strap crossed where a pelvis would be, protruded a thick, veined silicone cock, a stark, flesh-toned insult against the black leather. It was larger than anything they’d used on him. Much larger.
“Saw the measurements from that plug you got her,” Barry said to Greg, as if discussing the specifications of a tool. “Went up a size. For a challenge.”
Greg took the harness, the weight of it seeming to please him. “Arms up, Jessica.”
Josh’s body locked. He couldn’t. The last brutal taking in the bathroom was a raw, bleeding memory in his muscles. This was a declaration, a permanent fixture. It wasn’t a plug he could hide; it was a brand he’d have to wear.
“Now,” Greg said, the single word dropping like a stone.
Josh’s arms, heavy as cement, lifted. Greg slid the harness over his head, the leather cold against the damp tank top. He pulled the straps tight around Josh’s thighs and waist, his fingers digging as he cinched the buckles. The apparatus locked against Josh’s body, the fake cock jutting obscenely forward, pressing against his own softness, a grotesque parody of masculinity. The weight of it pulled at his hips.
Barry whistled. “Fits like a dream. Looks natural on her, don’t it?”
Greg stepped back, admiring his work. His eyes were cold and assessing. “It does. But it’s not just for looks.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, clear remote. He pressed a button.
A deep, electrical buzz erupted from the harness. The silicone shaft against Josh’s front came to life, vibrating with a powerful, insistent thrum that resonated through his entire pelvic bone. He jerked, a startled gasp ripped from him.
“Ten different patterns,” Greg said, watching Josh’s face. “From a little tease…” he clicked the remote, and the vibration became a fluttering pulse, “…to this.” He clicked again.
The vibration escalated into a violent, jackhammer shaking. It was relentless, aggressive, broadcasting its presence through the leather. Josh’s teeth rattled. He wrapped his arms around himself, as if he could contain the sensation, but it was inside the harness, inside him by proxy, a mocking simulation of pleasure that was just another form of torment.
“Now,” Greg said, putting the remote in his pocket. “We’re gonna take a walk. You’re gonna wear that, and you’re gonna smile. And if you stop smiling, or if you try to hide it, I turn it up to the highest setting and leave it on. Understood?”
Josh nodded, a quick, frantic jerk of his head. The buzzing was a constant humiliation, a public secret buzzing against his flesh.
“Good girl.” Greg turned to Barry. “Lead the way. Let’s show her off.”
They moved back into the crowd. The world narrowed to the insistent, throbbing buzz between his legs and the eyes he imagined on him. Every person was a potential witness. He tried to walk normally, but the weight and the vibration altered his gait into a stiff, awkward shuffle. A cluster of women in elf costumes glanced over, their smiles fading into confusion as their eyes dropped to the prominent bulge in his jeans. One whispered to another, and they hurried away.
Barry stopped at a busy intersection of aisles, a strategic point with maximum traffic. “Photo op!” he announced, too loudly. He pulled out his phone. “C’mon, Greg, get in the shot with your girl.”
Greg slung an arm around Josh’s neck, pulling him close in a headlock that was masquerading as affection. He grinned for the camera. Josh tried to arrange his face, but it felt like a rictus grin, a death mask. The vibration buzzed on, a ceaseless mocking drone.
“Say cheese!” Barry chirped. The phone camera flashed.
A young guy, maybe Josh’s age, dressed as a video game soldier, paused. He looked at Josh, then at the prominent harness outline, then at Greg’s possessive, grinning face. His own expression flickered—not with outrage, but with a dawning, uncomfortable comprehension. He didn’t see a victim. He saw a fetish. Something weird and sexual he hadn’t consented to witnessing. He muttered “freaks” under his breath and melted back into the crowd.
The word was a nail. This was the lesson, branded deeper than any video. He wasn’t a person in distress. He was a spectacle. An obscene display. Either people were offended or they were titillated, but no one saw him. Greg’s prophecy in the bathroom was truth: no one cared.
Barry examined the photo. “Perfect. Her eyes are fucking empty. Great shot.” He tapped his screen. “Sending it to the group.”
The remote in Greg’s pocket buzzed, a signal from his own phone. He pulled it out, looked at the incoming messages, and smiled. “The brothers approve. They’re asking for a video. A… demonstration.”
He looked around. They were near a dimmer corridor leading to emergency exits, slightly less trafficked but not private. A large, framed poster for a cancelled comic series leaned against the wall, creating a shallow triangular shadow.
“Over there,” Greg said.
He pushed Josh toward the shadowy niche, turning him to face the poster, his back to the passing crowd. Barry followed, phone already up, recording. Greg moved behind Josh, so close his breath warmed Josh’s neck.
“Hands on the wall,” Greg murmured.
Josh placed his palms on the cool, painted drywall. He stared at the vibrant image of a hero who would never come.
Greg’s hand snaked around Josh’s hip, fumbling with his jeans button. He undid them, yanking the denim and his boxers down just enough to expose the base of the harness and the top of his thighs. The cold air hit his skin. The buzzing felt louder, more exposed.
“Now,” Greg said, his voice a hot, private poison in Josh’s ear for the benefit of Barry’s microphone. “You’re gonna fuck the wall. You’re gonna hump it like the desperate little bitch you are. Make it look good for the brothers.”
He gripped Josh’s hips, not to steady him, but to initiate the movement, forcing a crude, grinding motion forward. The rigid, buzzing silicone pressed against the poster, then Josh’s own soft flesh, a meaningless, repetitive friction. Greg set the rhythm, a slow, demeaning rock of Josh’s pelvis.
“Faster,” Greg commanded, and his hands tightened, shoving Josh harder against the wall. The pace increased. The harness smacked against the poster with a soft, rhythmic thump-thump-thump. Josh’s forehead rested against the wall. He kept his eyes open, watching a tiny crack in the paint widen in his vision. His body moved with a detached, puppet-like obedience. The vibration was a constant counterpoint to the forced thrusting, a sickening duality of sensation.
“Talk to it,” Barry urged from behind the phone, his voice gleeful. “Tell the wall how much you love it.”
“Come on, Jessica,” Greg grunted, driving him harder. “Tell your new boyfriend he fucks you better than I do.”
Josh’s mouth was dry. A sound escaped, not a word, but a low, choked whine of sheer mechanical effort and shame. It was the sound of a broken toy.
“Louder!”
He moaned, a hollow, performative sound. It seemed to satisfy them. Greg’s hands were iron clamps on his hips, controlling every jerk, every grind. The performance went on for an eternity of seconds, the thump-thump of fake flesh on wall, the buzz, the hissed commands, the silent judgment of the phone’s lens.
With a final, jarring shove, Greg stilled him. He held Josh there, pinned. Josh was panting, spent not from arousal but from the exhausting, degrading pantomime. Greg leaned in.
“Look at the camera, sweetheart. Show them your pretty come-face.”
Josh turned his head. Barry zoomed in. The phone captured the sweat, the dead eyes, the utterly vacant expression.
Greg released him. He pulled Josh’s pants up, buckling them with a brisk, impersonal tug. He patted the harness through the denim. “Good. That’ll give them something to talk about.”
Barry stopped recording, grinning as he typed a caption. Greg took the remote from his pocket. He didn’t turn the vibration off. He simply clicked it down to a low, persistent hum, a reminder that would now continue for the rest of the day, a phantom limb of shame.
“Let’s get a drink,” Greg said, as if they’d just finished a mild chore. “I’m thirsty.”
They walked away from the wall, leaving the poster slightly scuffed. Josh moved with them, the buzzing now a part of him, a secret he carried through the laughing, cheering crowd. He was an automaton, a thing programmed for display. The harness was his new skin. The buzz was his new heartbeat. He followed them, his sneakers scuffing the floor in time with the silent, incessant rhythm.