Chapter 3: Public Humiliation
The walk to his cubicle on Monday morning felt like a death march. Every click of his dress shoes on the linoleum echoed. The cheerful, mindless chatter from other cubes—weekend gossip, sports scores—was a foreign language. Josh kept his eyes on the floor, the pattern of tiles a grid leading him to his own private cell.
He smelled it before he saw it. A cloying, sugary-sweet smell, like cheap candy, mixed with something else, something chemical and stale.
His cubicle was transformed.
Crumpled streams of pink and white crepe paper were taped haphazardly to the partitions. A single, deflated blue balloon with the words “IT’S A BOY!” in cheerful script was tied to his chair. Sitting squarely in the center of his keyboard was a small, clear plastic item. As he drew closer, his stomach liquefied.
It was a used condom, knotted at the top, half-filled with a cloudy, off-white fluid. It glistened under the fluorescent lights.
A wave of laughter erupted from behind him. He turned slowly.
Barry leaned against the entrance of his cube, arms crossed, a wide, flat smile on his face. Kevin stood just behind his shoulder, snickering, while Greg hovered nearby, his eyes bright with a peculiar, avaricious glee. A few other members of the infrastructure team were gathered, their smiles uneasy, caught between complicity and the desire to not be targeted themselves.
“Welcome to the team, for real,” Barry said, his voice carrying across the quieting bullpen. He pushed off the partition and walked in, crowding Josh against his desk. He picked up the condom by its knot, dangling it in front of Josh’s face. “Proof of concept. We like to see deliverables.”
Josh couldn’t breathe. The smell of latex and semen was overwhelming. He focused on a smudge on Barry’s glasses.
“Kevin gave us his report. Said you were a quick study.” Barry dropped the condom. It landed with a soft, wet slap on Josh’s closed laptop. “Clean that up. We’ve got a stand-up in ten.”
The group dispersed, the show over. Josh stood, paralyzed. The hum of the office returned, but now it felt like a swarm of insects crawling over his skin. With a trembling hand, he snatched a fistful of tissues from the box on his desk. He picked up the condom, the cool, slimy weight of it making his gorge rise. He wrapped it in layer upon layer of tissue, creating a thick, white wad, and shoved it into the very bottom of his trash can.
He spent the morning in a fugue state, his fingers moving over the keyboard by rote, responding to tickets without seeing them. Every time someone walked past his cube, he flinched.
At lunch, Kevin appeared silently and jerked his head toward the break room. Josh followed.
Greg was already there, unwrapping a sub sandwich at a small round table. He patted the seat next to him. “Josh! Sit. We’re scheduling.”
Josh sat. Kevin took the seat opposite, blocking him in.
“Barry gets Tuesday and Thursday afternoons,” Greg said, his tone businesslike, as if discussing server uptime. “He likes to use the small conference room on the fourth floor. The one with the lock. Kevin has Monday and Wednesday, obviously at his place. I’m taking Fridays.” Greg took a massive bite of his sandwich, chewing slowly as he looked Josh over. “Weekends are… discretionary. Based on performance.”
“I can’t—” Josh began, his voice a dry crackle.
“You can,” Kevin interrupted, sucking soda from a can. “You will. Or Barry will forward that video from the server room to HR, CC your parents from your work email. Explain how you sexually harassed him, begged for it. Who do you think they’ll believe? The new kid with his dick out, or a department head with ten years of clean reviews?”
The world telescoped to the Formica tabletop, to the crumbs from Greg’s sandwich.
“Friday,” Greg said, wiping his mouth. “My place. I’ll text you the address. Be there at seven. Don’t eat first.”
The rest of the week was a blur of dread, a slow countdown to Friday. Josh worked, he attended meetings, he spoke when spoken to. He was a perfect, hollow employee. He avoided the fourth floor entirely.
Greg’s apartment was in a slightly nicer building, but it carried the same essential loneliness. It was cleaner, more generic, like a hotel room. Greg answered the door wearing sweatpants and a tight t-shirt that strained over his stout frame. He’d clearly just showered; his thinning hair was damp, combed over his pink scalp.
“Right on time,” Greg said, stepping aside. He didn’t offer a drink, didn’t make small talk. His eyes, small and eager, roamed over Josh. “Living room. Clothes off. On the rug.”
There was a new, more frantic energy to Greg. Where Barry was coldly ceremonial and Kevin was possessively grubby, Greg was nakedly hungry, almost trembling with anticipation. Josh undressed, folding his clothes on a beige leather armchair. The rug was a coarse synthetic weave against his knees.
Greg was already naked, his cock thick and fully erect. He fumbled with a bottle of lube on the coffee table, squeezing too much into his palm. “Been thinking about this since your interview,” Greg panted, slicking himself. “Pretty little thing like you, walking in here. Knew you’d be for us.”
He didn’t direct Josh to suck him off. He seemed to want only one thing, immediately. He came up behind Josh, who was still on his knees, and without warning, pushed him forward so his chest was on the floor, his ass in the air. The position was brutally exposing.
Greg’s thick fingers, slippery with lube, prodded rudely at him. There was no attempt to prepare, just a frantic, intrusive pressure. “Gotta loosen you up for this,” Greg muttered, but it was less for Josh’s comfort and more a grunt of impatience with his own body’s limitations.
The entry was a blunt, splitting force. Greg was thicker than Kevin, and the sudden, dry stretch was agony. Josh cried out, a sharp, animal sound he couldn’t suppress.
“Yeah, fuck, tight,” Greg groaned, sinking deeper with a relentless push. He didn’t pause, didn’t allow for adjustment. He began to piston into him with short, frantic strokes, his heavy stomach slapping against Josh’s raised ass. The coffee table rattled with each thrust.
Greg’s hands gripped Josh’s hips, his fingers digging into the bone. He leaned over, his sweaty chest pressing against Josh’s back, his breath hot and ragged in his ear. “You’re a good fuck, you know that? A perfect little office whore. Gonna use you every Friday. Gonna bend you over my desk one day. Barry won’t mind sharing.”
The vulgarity was a torrent, a filthy soundtrack to the brutal, rhythmic pounding. Greg described what he wanted to do in graphic, technical detail, his voice climbing in pitch. He was talking more to himself than to Josh, narrating his own climax.
It was over in a few violent minutes. Greg stiffened, shuddered, and let out a high, choked whine as he emptied himself inside Josh. He collapsed forward, his full weight a suffocating blanket.
He lay there for a long time, breathing heavily. Then he pulled out, leaving Josh feeling cold and painfully open. Greg stood, looking down at him with a sated, almost sentimental expression. “Good,” he said, nodding. “Really good. Clean yourself up. Bathroom’s down the hall.”
In the bathroom, Josh saw the first visible mark. A dark, purpling bruise was already forming on his hip where Greg’s fingers had gripped. He stared at it in the mirror. His own eyes looked back, empty and dark. The polite smile, the eager grad, was gone. In its place was a stranger, a used thing.
He dressed. When he came out, Greg was back in his sweatpants, watching TV. He didn’t look up. “See you Monday,” he said.
Josh walked out into the cool night. The bruise throbbed with every step. He didn’t go home. He walked for miles, until his feet ached and the city sounds faded into a distant roar. He found himself on a bridge, looking down at the black, churning water far below.
The schedule was in place. He was a shared resource, a piece of infrastructure. The horror wasn’t the individual acts anymore; it was the system, the casual, corporate efficiency of his own consumption. He leaned over the railing, the void whispering up at him.
Then his phone buzzed. A calendar notification, auto-accepted.
Subject: Performance Review.
Time: Tuesday, 3:00 PM.
Location: Conference Room 4B.
Attendees: Barry, Josh.
He pushed back from the railing. The water would be cold. But the conference room on the fourth floor would be colder. He turned and began the long walk back to his apartment. The bruise on his hip was a brand. He had a meeting to prepare for.