Chapter 5: Sus
The numbness that followed him home wasn’t the quiet ice of before. It was a thick, woolen static, swallowing the sounds of the city, the feel of his own shower spray, the taste of the toast he forgot to eat. He moved through his apartment like a phantom haunting a forgotten space. The ghost of Kevin’s peppermint-and-sweat taste lingered. The phantom itch of Greg’s lace prickled his skin. But these were old ghosts, faint compared to the fresh, overwhelming imprint of Barry’s utter dominion.
Friday arrived not as a deadline, but as an atmospheric shift, a slow, sinking descent in a malfunctioning elevator. He dressed in the bland, soft clothes Barry preferred. He packed nothing. At 5:01 PM, he stood outside the polished dark wood door. He didn’t raise his hand to knock. He simply waited, his breath shallow.
The door opened. Barry wore a silk dressing gown, open over his chest. He held a tumbler of something clear. “You’re early. Good.” He stepped aside. “Come in. We’re starting with a discussion.”
The sprawling apartment felt different. The lights were lower. On the glass coffee table sat a single sheet of paper and a pen. Barry didn’t point to the floor. He gestured to the sofa. “Sit.”
The command was so alien Josh faltered. Sitting felt more dangerous than kneeling. He perched on the edge of the cushion.
Barry remained standing, sipping his drink, looking down. “The knife was a message. I received it. It said you still believe you have a choice. That there is a ‘you’ separate from my instructions.” He set his glass down with a soft click. “This weekend is about erasing that fallacy.”
He picked up the paper. “This is a behavioral contract. It outlines expectations, protocols, and penalties. It formalizes our arrangement.” He placed it in front of Josh. The clauses were stark, clinical. The subject will maintain silence unless expressly ordered to speak. The subject will relinquish all autonomy regarding bodily functions, nourishment, and rest periods. The subject accepts that physical and psychological correction may be administered at the discretion of the holder to ensure compliance.
At the bottom was a line for a signature.
“Sign it,” Barry said. The pen rolled toward Josh’s hand.
Josh stared at the words. They swam, legalistic euphemisms for the crawl-space horror of the past weekend. Signing felt like swallowing a key. A final, internal lock turning. His hand trembled.
“Or,” Barry continued, his voice conversational, “you can leave. Walk out that door. Your employment, of course, will be terminated immediately. Your professional reputation in this city will be dissolved. I will make certain of it.” He smiled, a thin stretch of lips. “But you would have your freedom. Such as it is.”
It was no choice. It was the demonstration of a choice, a theatrical performance of agency before its execution. The job was the only tether holding his life above a void of student debt and shattered prospects. Barry owned the tether. Josh picked up the pen. The scratch of his signature on the paper was the loudest sound in the room.
“Excellent.” Barry took the paper, examined it, and placed it carefully in a drawer. “Now, the first protocol. You will vocalize your state. You will answer the question: ‘What are you?’ I want to hear you say it.”
Josh’s mouth was chalk. He looked at the floor.
“Look at me,” Barry commanded, soft and sharp. Josh obeyed. “What are you?”
The static in his head roared. He forced the air from his lungs. “I’m… your thing.”
“Again. With conviction.”
“I’m your thing.”
“Good.” Barry untied the belt of his robe. It fell open. He was already hard. “Come here. On your knees. Show your thing its purpose.”
The routine was the same, the act was the same, but the signature had made it different. Each movement felt like a ratification of the contract. Josh knelt. The thick head of Barry’s cock pressed against his lips. He opened them.
“Use your tongue. Show some fucking enthusiasm for once.”
Josh swirled his tongue around the tip, tasting the sharp, clean salt of him. He took him deeper, his throat convulsing as he fought his gag reflex. Barry’s hand fisted in his hair, not guiding, just holding, a claim of ownership.
“Yeah, that’s it. Suck it. Work that fucking hole.” Barry’s hips began a shallow, rhythmic thrust. “Your mouth is better than your ass. Tighter. Warm.” He sighed, a sound of pure administrative satisfaction. “This is what you signed up for. To be a good, useful hole.”
The thrusts deepened, becoming punishing. Josh’s jaw ached. Tears welled from the strain, blurring the view of Barry’s taut stomach. He choked, sputtering.
Barry pulled out, his cock slick with saliva. “Disgusting. Clean it up.” He slapped his shaft against Josh’s cheek, leaving a wet streak. “Lick it. All of it.”
Josh, dazed, extended his tongue and licked the moisture from his own face, from Barry’s skin, the act so profoundly debasing a small, final thing inside him snapped silently. He was just a tongue, too.
“Better.” Barry looked down at him, his expression calculating. “Stand up. Take your clothes off. All of them. Then get on the kitchen island.”
Josh obeyed, his fingers clumsy on the buttons. The cold granite of the massive island stuck to the back of his thighs as he sat upon it. Barry retrieved a bottle of oil from a cabinet, pouring a slick, clear pool onto the stone between Josh’s legs.
“Lie back.”
Josh lowered himself onto the cold, hard surface. The oil seeped under his hips. Barry pushed his legs up and apart, bending him almost in half, his knees near his ears. The exposure was absolute, vulnerable, and clinical.
Barry coated himself with the oil, his movements efficient. He didn’t speak. He just positioned the head of his cock at Josh’s entrance and pushed inside with one relentless, steady thrust.
The oil removed the burning撕裂, replacing it with a deep, shocking fullness, a smooth invasion. Barry set a brutal, mechanical pace, each drive slamming Josh’s shoulders into the unyielding granite. The city lights wavered in his teary vision above Barry’s thrusting form.
“This is the use of you,” Barry grunted, his voice strained with effort. “This is the contract. My cock in your ass, on my property, because I demand it.” He leaned forward, his weight crushing, his breath hot on Josh’s neck. “You are a rented space. A vacant room for me to fill.”
He fucked harder, faster, the sound wet and obscene in the sterile kitchen. The motivational posters from Conference Room 4B flashed in Josh’s mind—Synergy! Initiative!—a grotesque parody. This was the initiative Barry valued: the taking. This was their synergy.
Barry’s rhythm fractured. With a harsh, guttural shout, he came, pumping his release deep inside. He stayed there, buried, panting, his full weight pinning Josh to the stone. After a long moment, he pulled out. A trickle of warm fluid followed, mixing with the oil.
He stepped back, tying his robe. He looked at Josh sprawled on the island, glistening and used. “Clean this up. Every drop. Use your tongue on the stone. Then you may sleep in the closet. The door remains open.”
Josh slid off the island, his legs buckling. He caught himself on the counter. He looked at the smear of oil and seed on the dark granite. He got on his hands and knees. The taste of stone and chemical lemon cleaner filled his mouth first, then the bitter, salty tang of his own degradation. He licked until the granite was clean.
The closet floor was hardwood. The blanket was the same. He curled on it, facing the open door, a view of the dim, luxurious prison. From the bedroom, he heard Barry begin to snore. The contract was in the drawer. The rebellion was in the garbage chute. The thing that remained, curled in the closet, was just a set of opening and a silent, screaming mind, learning the true depth of its own surrender.
The night on the closet floor was not sleep. It was a paralysis, a chemical shutdown of a besieged system. Josh watched the pale slice of city light from the living room window traverse the wall, marking the slow death of hours. His body ached in places the granite had touched, a cold, deep bruising that felt permanent.
A sound jerked him from his stupor at dawn—not an alarm, but Barry’s shower running. The pipes groaned in the walls. Josh unfolded himself, every muscle protesting. He stood naked in the closet doorway, awaiting instruction. Barry emerged from the steamy bathroom, a towel around his waist, and glanced at him as one would a piece of furniture that had been moved.
“Shower,” Barry said, his voice gravelly with sleep. “Use the guest soap. Do not touch anything else.”
The hot water scalded his skin, but it felt distant, a report from another body. He scrubbed with the plain white bar, its scentless lather doing nothing to erase the smell of oil and sex that seemed seared into his pores. When he stepped out, a cheap, thin robe hung on the back of the door. He put it on.
Barry was dressed in crisp business casual, sipping coffee at the kitchen island—the same island. “Your clothes are in the dryer,” he said without looking up. “You will accompany me to the office today. You will sit at your desk and perform your tasks. You will not speak to anyone unless it pertains to your work.”
He finally looked at Josh. His eyes were flat, assessing. “You are an extension of my will. You have no other function. Remember that.”
They drove in silence. Josh dressed in the lobby restroom, his own clothes warm from the dryer but feeling like a borrowed costume. At his desk, he logged into his terminal. The work was a blessing. It was a series of logical, solvable problems. For hours, he disappeared into the code, a clean, binary world where input A yielded output B. Greg passed by once, offering a weak, complicit smile. Josh did not acknowledge it.
At 4:55 PM, his personal phone vibrated. A text from Greg. My place. Don’t be late. We’re trying something new. The casual cruelty of the smiley face emoji that followed made Josh’s stomach turn.
He took the bus across town, the knife a silent, heavy secret in his coat pocket. Its weight was the only real thing. Greg’s apartment door was unlocked. The living room was lit by the glow of a single laptop screen, paused on a paused on a scene from an adult film. Greg stood before him, his stout body quivering with nervous energy. On the couch lay a neat pile of women’s clothing: a cheap, lacy black dress, a tangle of fishnet stockings, a pair of towering stiletto heels, and a long, garish red wig.
“Put it on,” Greg said, his voice too high, too eager. “All of it.”
Josh stared at the costume. The dress was tiny, meant for a woman several sizes smaller. The wig was a synthetic cascade of crimson curls.
“Now,” Greg insisted, clapping his hands together once. “I want to see you transform.”
Josh removed his clothes, his movements slow, dreamlike. The fishnets were a nightmare to pull on, snagging against his calf hair. The dress was a sheer, straining struggle; the zipper refused to close fully over his back, leaving a gap of pale skin. The heels were absurd. He teetered, grabbing the arm of the couch to stay upright. Finally, he pulled the wig over his short hair. The synthetic fringe fell into his eyes, smelling of plastic and dust.
Greg let out a shaky breath. “Oh, fuck yeah. Jessica.” He came closer, his eyes dilated. He adjusted the wig, his fingers lingering. “You look… you look perfect.” He traced the line of Josh’s jaw with a blunt finger. “Say hello to Jessica for me.”
Josh said nothing. He looked past Greg’s shoulder, at a water stain on the ceiling.
“Say it,” Greg whispered, his breath hot and sour. “Tell me your name.”
A fly buzzed against the windowpane. Josh focused on that. “Jessica,” he muttered.
“Good girl.” Greg’s hand slid down, groping Josh’s crotch through the tight, flimsy fabric of the dress. “My pretty little Jessica. You know what alpha males deserve, don’t you?” He was hard, pressing himself against Josh’s thigh.
Greg pushed him back until his knees hit the edge of the couch. “On your knees, Jessica. Beg for it. Beg for my alpha cock.”
The carpet was rough against Josh’s bare knees beneath the fishnets. He looked up at Greg’s flushed, triumphant face. The words were ash, but they formed. “Please,” Josh said, his voice a hollow monotone. “Please give me your alpha cock.”
“Louder. Mean it.” Greg unzipped his trousers, freeing his erection. It bobbed, thick and ruddy. “Tell me you need it.”
“I need your alpha cock,” Josh recited, the syllables meaningless sounds. “I need you to fuck me with it.”
Greg moaned, a low, gratified sound. “That’s right. You’re just a hole for me. A warm, willing hole.” He didn’t guide Josh’s head forward. Instead, he stepped closer, rubbing the head of his cock against Josh’s cheek, then over his lips painted by the dress’s black lace. “Open your pretty whore mouth.”
Josh opened his mouth. Greg pushed in, not far, just enough to rest on his tongue. “Suck it, Jessica. Show me how a real woman appreciates a dominant man.”
Josh closed his lips, moved his tongue. The act was rote, mechanical. He could feel Greg trembling, a wire of desperate tension. After a minute, Greg pulled out with a wet pop. His expression was feverish, lost in the fantasy.
“No,” Greg panted. “Not like that. I’m not… I’m not gonna touch myself. Not for you.” A strange, defiant pride entered his voice. “A real alpha doesn’t jerk off for a slut. You want this cum? You’re gonna earn it like a woman. You’re gonna rub yourself against me until I fucking lose it. Understand?”
He shoved Josh backward onto the couch. The cheap lace ripped at the shoulder. Greg climbed on top, his weight crushing the air from Josh’s lungs. He yanked the torn dress up around Josh’s waist, exposing him. The fishnets were ripped aside.
“Go on,” Greg grunted, positioning himself between Josh’s legs. He was not inside him. He lay atop him, his cock trapped against Josh’s stomach, his own belly a soft, sweating weight. “Move. Grind on me. Make me cum.”
Josh lay still, trapped.
“Move, you fucking bitch!” Greg snarled, his alpha mask slipping into petulance. He began to rut, humping against Josh’s body, his hips making clumsy, frantic circles. His damp forehead pressed into Josh’s neck. “Yeah, like that. You’re so fucking hot. You’re making me so hard.”
It was a grotesque pantomime of sex, a frantic, dry-humping teenager’s fantasy. Greg’s thrusts were erratic, his breathing ragged in Josh’s ear. “I’m gonna fill you up, Jessica. I’m gonna breed you.”
Josh turned his head, the red wig scratching his cheek. He stared at the wall, at a peeling corner of paint. He detached, floating above the scene, watching this stout, pathetic man in a too-small dress grind against another man’s body, lost in a fiction of his own making. The knife in the coat pocket by the door felt a million miles away.
Greg’s movements became jerky, urgent. “Fuck, fuck, I’m gonna—” He seized up, a stifled groan racking his body. Josh felt the hot, sudden wetness spill between them, soaking through the thin dress onto his own skin. Greg collapsed, his full weight a suffocating blanket.
For a long moment, Greg just breathed, a spent, satisfied sound. Then he pushed himself up, looking down at the mess smeared between them, at Josh’s blank, made-up face under the garish red wig.
“See?” Greg whispered, a twisted, earnest light in his eyes. “See how you make me feel? A real woman.” He clumsily tried to smooth the wig. “We’ll do this again. Next time… next time I’ll get you a better dress.”
He rolled off, tucking his soft cock away. He didn’t look at Josh again. He walked to his bedroom and closed the door, leaving Josh alone on the couch, lying in the cooling wet spot, dressed in torn lace and a lie, the smell of Greg’s cheap cum and cheaper fantasy clinging to the synthetic red hair.
The smell was the worst part. It seeped through the cheap lace, a sharp, biological stain on the fiction Greg had draped him in. Josh lay perfectly still, listening to the faint sounds of Greg moving in the bedroom—a drawer opening, the sigh of mattress springs. The red wig itched his scalp. He felt the damp spot cooling on his stomach, a map of someone else’s pathetic release.
He moved only when he heard the first snore, a wet, rattling sound through the door. He sat up, the torn dress gaping. He peeled the stockings off, a slow, surgical process. The wig he removed last, holding the synthetic curls away from his body as if they were contaminated. He left the pile of fabric on the couch, a discarded skin.
His own clothes felt like a rebuke, clean and mundane. The knife’s weight in his coat pocket was a familiar anchor. He let himself out, closing the door softly on the sleeping man and his fantasy.
Sunday passed in a haze of silence within Barry’s pristine walls. He was given water, a plain piece of chicken, and permission to use the bathroom. The contract hung unmentioned in the air, its clauses more real than the furniture. That night, Barry didn’t use his mouth or his ass. He made Josh lie face down on the rug in the living room, and he simply sat in his armchair, one hand working his cock, the other holding his phone, scrolling. He came on Josh’s back, the warm splatter a surprise against his skin. “Clean it,” Barry said, not looking up from his screen. Josh fetched a towel from the bathroom, wiped the streak away, and returned the towel to the rack, damp and fouled.
Monday was the office. The world of spreadsheets and commit logs was a flat, two-dimensional plane. He existed on it as a marker, moving from task to task. Kevin passed his desk twice, a predatory loitering in his stride, but said nothing. Greg didn’t look at him at all.
Tuesday arrived, a hard knot in his gut that had nothing to do with the performance review scheduled for 3 PM. At 2:58, he stood outside Conference Room 4B. The motivational poster by the door screamed “TEAMWORK!” in aggressive blue letters. He pushed the heavy door open.
Barry was already there, of course. The spreadsheet was on the large screen. Two coffees sat on the table. “Close it,” Barry said, not looking up. The lock clicked shut.
“Sit.” Barry gestured to the chair beside him. Josh sat. The air conditioner whirred to life, a cold blast cutting through the room’s staleness. Barry sipped his coffee. “Your metrics are improving. Your adherence to protocol is noted.” His eyes, magnified behind his glasses, flicked to Josh. “Your affect is still lacking. We’ll work on that.”
He didn’t unzip. He simply looked under the table, then back at Josh. A silent command. Josh’s body complied before his mind could protest, sliding from the chair to his knees on the industrial carpet. The space under the table was a familiar cave, smelling of dust and ozone.
Barry’s hand came down, not to guide, but to grasp Josh’s hair in a possessive fist. He pulled him forward. His cock, already hard, pressed against Josh’s lips. “Open,” he said, his voice conversational, as if commenting on the weather.
Josh opened his mouth. Barry pushed in, not with a violent thrust, but with a steady, inexorable pressure that stretched his lips, filled his throat. He began to move, a slow, deep rhythm that was about possession, not pleasure. Above, Josh heard the click of the mouse, the gentle tap of keys. Barry was working.
The rhythm was methodical, almost lazy. In, out. A fraction deeper each time. Josh’s eyes watered. He focused on a scuff mark on the table leg, on the hum of the projector. Barry’s thumb stroked his temple, an oddly tender gesture amid the violation.
“The Q4 projections need adjustment,” Barry mused aloud, his hips pushing forward to bury another inch. Josh gagged, a wet, choked sound he couldn’t suppress. The clicking stopped.
A sharp, sudden pain exploded on the crown of his head as Barry smacked it against the solid wood underside. “Quiet,” Barry said, his tone calm, lecturing. “I’m correlating data.” The mouse clicks resumed. The thrusts continued, deeper now, a punishment for the interruption.
Barry’s pace increased, the pretense of work fading. His breath hitched. The hand in Josh’s hair tightened, pulling him closer, fucking his face with more purpose. The chair creaked. “That’s it,” Barry grunted, his administrative drone gone, replaced by raw intent. “Take it. Just a warm, wet hole for my cock.”
He was slamming into Josh’s throat now, each impact a jarring, suffocating punch. Josh’s vision swam. Spit dripped from his chin. The world narrowed to this: the pounding in his skull, the brutal fullness, the smell of Barry’s wool trousers.
Barry’s rhythm became erratic, frantic. His free hand gripped the edge of the table, knuckles white. “I’m gonna fill your throat,” he hissed, his voice strained. “You’re gonna swallow every drop. It’s your review. Your fucking performance evaluation.”
With a final, searing thrust, he held Josh impaled, his cock pulsing as he released. The hot, bitter flood hit the back of Josh’s throat. He swallowed convulsively, the contractions milking Barry dry until he softened and slipped out with a wet, ugly sound.
Silence descended, broken only by Barry’s heavy breathing and the hum of electronics. Josh remained under the table, trembling, strings of saliva connecting his lips to the floor.
Barry straightened in his chair. He tucked himself away, zipped up. He took a sip of his coffee, now cold. He saved the spreadsheet.
“Adequate,” Barry said, closing his laptop. “You may go.”
Josh crawled out. His legs were numb. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve, the fabric scratchy against his tender lips. He didn’t look at Barry. He unlocked the door and stepped into the hallway. The hum of the main bullpen washed over him. He walked towards it, each step automatic. He was a reviewed asset. A utilized resource.
He was at his desk, staring at a line of code that meant nothing, when his phone buzzed. A text from Greg. My place. Now. I’m hard and I’m thinking about Jessica.
The bus ride was a blur of low-rises and fading light. Greg’s door was, again, unlocked. The living room was dark, lit only by the pulsing blue light of a paused video game on the TV. Greg stood in the center of the room, shirtless, his stout body pale in the gloom. The pile of lingerie was on the floor.
“Put it on,” Greg said, his voice tight. He was already stroking himself, his cock thick in his hand. “The whole thing. I want to watch you become her.”
Josh undressed, his movements slow, resigned. The lace was cold against his skin. The wig felt heavier this time, a crown of shame. When he stood, the stilettoes made him wobble.
Greg approached, his eyes wide, hungry. He didn’t kiss him. He grabbed a handful of the lace over Josh’s chest and twisted. “You made me wait,” he breathed, his breath smelling of beer and onions. “Bad girl.”
He pushed Josh backwards onto the couch. The stilettoes dug into the cushions. Greg yanked the panties aside, not bothering to remove them. He was slick with spit from his own hand, and he pushed into Josh with a single, brutal grunt. The lace ripped at the seams.
“Fuck,” Greg moaned, burying himself to the hilt. “Fuck, Jessica. Your… your pussy is so good.” He set a pounding, uneven rhythm, his belly slapping against Josh’s thighs. “Tell me you love it. Tell me you love my alpha cock in your cunt.”
Josh turned his head, the wig scratching the couch fabric. He stared at the paused video game on the screen, a monstrous creature frozen mid-roar. “I love it,” he whispered.
“Louder!”
“I LOVE YOUR ALPHA COCK!” Josh screamed, the words tearing his throat raw.
Greg whimpered, his thrusts becoming frantic, shallow. He was close. His eyes screwed shut, lost in the fiction. He was fucking the idea, not the body beneath him.
Then his eyes snapped open, a new, cruel idea glittering in them. He slowed, pulling almost all the way out, then sinking back in with a groan. “You want my cum, Jessica?” he panted, his voice rough. “You want your alpha to breed you?”
Josh said nothing. He was a hole. A cunt. Jessica.
“I asked you a question, you stupid bitch!” Greg snarled, slapping Josh’s thigh. “Do you want my fucking cum?”
Josh closed his eyes. The knife was in his coat, by the door. It was so far away. “Yes,” he breathed.
“Beg for it.” Greg stilled inside him, a deep, possessive weight. “Beg for my seed like a good little slut. Tell me you need it.”
The silence stretched. The game console whirred. Greg’s patience snapped. He pulled out completely, his cock slick and glistening in the blue light. He stood over Josh, stroking himself, his face a mask of furious need. “I’m not giving it to you until you fucking beg properly. You’re just a hole. A cunt. You don’t get anything unless you beg.”
Josh looked up at him, at this stout, furious man whose fantasy was crumbling because a prop wouldn’t speak its lines. The words were there, forged in the depths of Barry’s contract, in Kevin’s filth, in this very lace. He let them out, his voice flat and dead.
“Please,” Josh said, staring into Greg’s eyes. “Please give me your cum. I need it. I’m just a worthless cunt and I need your alpha seed inside me. Please, fill me up. Please.”
Greg’s face transformed, ecstatic relief smoothing the anger. “Yes,” he hissed. “That’s my girl.” He fell onto Josh, sheathing himself again in one violent thrust. Three more pounding strokes and he seized, a guttural cry tearing from him as he pulsed inside.
He collapsed, his sweat-soaked weight crushing Josh into the couch. After a moment, he pushed himself up, looking down with a messy, sentimental pride. “See?” he whispered, softening inside him. “All you had to do was ask nice.”
He pulled out and shuffled to the bedroom, leaving Josh on the couch, violated and stewing in the explicit, granted request. Josh lay there, the physical sensations distant echoes. The beg hung in the air, more degrading than the act itself. It was the currency they all demanded, the final surrender. Barry wanted silent compliance. Kevin wanted abasement. Greg wanted the words, the vocal sacrifice to his illusion.
He slowly extricated himself from the torn lace. He dressed in his own clothes, the fabric a silent shelter. He looked at the bedroom door, closed against him. Then he walked to his coat by the door. His hand found the package in the pocket, the hard, serrated edge pressing through the plastic against his palm.
He didn’t open it. He just held it. He walked out, down the stairs, into the night. The streetlights were haloed in the damp air. He didn’t go home. He walked, the knife heavy in his pocket, the taste of swallowed plea