Chapter 4: The Bratty Heiress' Demands
The world resolved from a neon smear into a punishing gleam. Bob felt plush, impossibly thick carpet under his knees. His head throbbed in time with a distant, bass-heavy pulse of music. The synthetic sweat of the aerobics studio was gone, replaced by the cloying scent of jasmine incense and something sharper, like ozone and expensive vodka.
He was wearing a butler’s uniform. Black trousers, a stiff white shirt, a waistcoat that pinched his ribs. His muscles ached from the memory of hydraulic machines and Tanya’s relentless pace.
“You. Butler. Bob, or whatever.”
The voice was a petulant drawl, syrup over crushed glass. It came from the center of a vast ocean of silk and down—a king-sized four-poster bed. A girl lounged against a mountain of pillows. She was young, maybe early twenties, with a cascade of raven-black hair that contrasted violently with the white sheets. Her face was a masterpiece of spoiled beauty, all pouty lips and glaring, kohl-rimmed eyes. And her body… it was a caricature of an hourglass, a thicc, exaggerated shape that seemed to warp the very fabric of her lavender silk chemise. The curves swelled and dipped in impossible proportions, her waist cinched, her hips and chest volumetric wonders.
She held a long, slender cigarette holder between two fingers, taking a drag and blowing the smoke toward the crystal chandelier. “I’m bored,” she announced, as if declaring a state of emergency.
“I… uh,” Bob started, his voice rough. He was still on his knees.
“Shut up. You talk when I say you can talk.” She flicked ash onto the carpet. “I can feel a tension headache coming on. Probably from looking at your stupid, lost face. You need to make it better.”
Bob opened his mouth, but no sound came. A familiar, terrifying inertia locked his joints. This wasn’t his will. It was the scenario, pulling his strings.
His body stood up. His hands, of their own accord, went to the buttons of his waistcoat, then his shirt. He shed the stiff fabric, his twiggy torso pale under the warm glow of the chandelier. He moved toward the bed, his expression blank, internally screaming.
The girl—he instinctively knew her name was Anastasia—watched with a bored, critical eye. “Ugh, forget that. You’re all… bony. Just get over here and use your hands. My feet are killing me. Daddy made me walk through the new gallery today.”
She stretched a leg out from the sheets. Her foot was delicate, high-arched, with toenails painted a venomous purple. She wiggled her toes. “Well? Don’t just stand there like a malfunctioning appliance.”
Bob’s body knelt by the bed. His hands took her foot. They were not gentle. His thumbs dug into her arch, kneading with a firm, practiced pressure that had nothing to do with him.
“Harder,” she commanded, taking another drag. “You’re weaker than my afternoon espresso.”
His grip tightened. She let out a little sigh, part annoyance, part relief. Then she smirked. “You know, for a servant, you have a decent grip. Maybe you’re not entirely useless.” She pulled her foot back, then, with shocking speed, placed her sole flat against his chest and pushed him backwards onto the carpet. Before he could process the fall, she swung her legs off the bed and planted both feet on his exposed crotch, still clad in his butler trousers.
She worked him with her feet, through the fabric, her expression one of detached curiosity. “Huh. There’s something in there after all. Pathetic, but present.” The pressure was rough, insistent, grinding. It was humiliating, and his body reacted traitorously, swelling under the assault.
“Disgusting,” she murmured, but she leaned forward, her chemise falling open to reveal a dizzying canyon of cleavage. “Clean it up, then. Since you made a mess.”
Bob’s body sat up. His hands unzipped his trousers. She watched, her bored mask cracking with a flicker of hungry interest. He was fully hard now, moved by the script. He shuffled forward on his knees.
She didn’t wait. She grabbed the back of his head and pulled him into her lap, his face smothered against her silk-covered stomach. With her other hand, she guided himself into her mouth.
There was no teasing. She took him deep, immediately, gagging loudly around him. The sounds were wet, brutal, and obscene. She pulled back, saliva stringing from her lips, and took a shuddering breath. “You smell like gym and cheap spandex,” she coughed, before diving back down.
She set a ruthless, punishing rhythm. Bob, a prisoner behind his own eyes, felt the familiar coil of tension, the overload. His body trembled. She gagged repeatedly, tears springing to her eyes, but she forced herself deeper, her throat fluttering violently around him.
“That’s it, you stupid brute,” she gasped, pulling off for a second. Her makeup was smeared, her eyes watery. “Do it. I want to taste your fucking… ah!”
He lost control. Or his body did. A hot, convulsive release hit the back of her throat. She choked, her eyes flying wide. She tried to pull away, but his hands—his hands, not his!—clamped onto the sides of her head, holding her in place as he emptied himself.
She retched, a violent, full-body spasm. She pulled free, stumbling back onto the bed, and vomited onto the silk sheets. It was a thin, clear liquid, mostly vodka and spite. She gasped, drool and sick dripping from her chin, her chest heaving.
For a moment, there was only the sound of her ragged breathing. Then she looked up. Her expression had transformed. The bratty petulance was gone, burned away by a raw, shining need. Her eyes were wide, her mouth slack in a perfect, drooling ahegao gape.
“Again,” she whispered, voice ruined. “Do it again. Please.”
Bob’s body moved. It was on her before she finished speaking. He grabbed a fistful of her raven hair and yanked her head back, exposing her throat. His other hand wrapped around it, squeezing just enough to make her eyes roll back. She let out a choked, ecstatic gurgle.
He shoved her down face-first into the pillows, into the mess she’d made. She turned her head to the side, gasping. He tore the flimsy silk of her chemise apart like tissue paper. Her ass was a phenomenal, pale globe, almost impossibly full. He didn’t prepare her. He spat once, roughly smeared it, and drove into her.
She screamed, a sound of pure, shattered pleasure. “YES! GOD, YES! BREAK IT! BREAK ME, YOU ANIMAL!”
He pounded into her, his hips a piston of mindless aggression. The bed slammed against the wall in a steady, rhythmic crash. Each thrust forced another choked sob or slurred word from her. “Worthless! I’m worthless! Just a rich little cunt! Use it! Use it!”
He did. He pulled out, slick and glistening, and without pause, pressed against her other, tighter hole. She shrieked, her body arching in a painful-looking curve. “NO! YES! PLEASE!”
He entered her there, a brutal, dry invasion that made her claw at the sheets. She was sobbing openly now, babbling nonsense, her face a masterpiece of tear-streaked, pleasured ruin. His hand returned to her throat, cutting off her air as he fucked her with a relentless, dehumanizing pace. Her eyes glazed over, staring at nothing, a continuous stream of drool soaking the pillow.
Bob was a spectator in a shaking vessel. He felt the strain in his muscles, the sweat dripping from his brow onto her back, the overwhelming, meaty physicality of it, but the will was not his own. It was the loop, the scene, demanding its violent consummation.
Her babbling subsided into faint, wheezing moans. Her body went limp, then tensed in sharp, irregular jerks. With a final, grinding thrust, his body stiffened, pouring into her with a low, guttural groan that seemed to come from the room itself.
He collapsed on top of her, the weight of him pressing her into the sodden, filthy sheets. The only sounds were their ragged breaths and the distant, pulsing music.
Slowly, he rolled off. He stood on trembling legs, looking down at the wreckage of her. She was limp, eyes half-lidded, a blissful, empty smile on her slobbering face. She was broken, used, and radiantly happy.
Bob’s body, moving stiffly, began to pick up his discarded clothes. As he pulled on his stained shirt, he looked at his hands—the hands that had choked and bruised and violated. They didn’t feel like his.
From the bed, a weak, scratchy voice whispered, “Thank you.”
He turned. Anastasia was looking at him, a faint, submissive glow in her ruined eyes. “Will you… will you be here tomorrow? To take out the trash?”
Bob opened his mouth to say something, anything. But the words died. The chandelier’s light began to swim, refracting into a thousand blinding points. The scent of jasmine and vomit was overwhelmed by a new smell—chlorine, perhaps, and humid, recycled air.
The plush carpet melted under his feet, turning hard and cold.
Anastasia’s grateful smile was the last thing he saw before the mansion dissolved, replaced by the echoing squeak of sneakers on vinyl and the sharp, sterile tang of a public pool.
(next scene: Bob wakes up on an "alien ship" (a shitty porn set of an alien ship) to find four aliens (pornstars that should have as big naturals as possible, all in shitty alien cosplay), who want to inspect the human, gross reverse gangbang, alien cock worship. lots of lesbian action and squirt mixed in)