Chapter 1: The First Command
The single bulb in Lars’s basement apartment buzzed and flickered, throwing jagged shadows across the peeling wallpaper. The air smelled of damp wood and stale beer, undercut by something sharper—anticipation, maybe, or fear. On the rickety card table, two bottles stood empty beside a cracked ashtray overflowing with butts.
“You look like a scared rabbit,” Ingrid boomed, her laughter echoing off the low ceiling. She adjusted the vibrant floral pattern of her dress, the fabric straining across her broad shoulders and ample hips. “All trembly. I like it.”
Lars wiped his palms on his thinning corduroy pants. His knee wouldn’t stop jiggling. “I’m not. I’m ready. I am.”
“Sure you are, pencil-dick.” She took a slow swig from a fresh bottle of beer, her eyes never leaving his. “You got the towels down? I’m not ruining that sad little mattress of yours.”
He nodded, gesturing weakly to the floor beside the bed where he’d laid out a stained painter’s tarp and a stack of faded bath towels. The preparations felt clinical, absurd. From the apartment above, a burst of laughter filtered down, tinny and remote.
Ingrid set the bottle down with a definitive thud. “Clock’s ticking. Your hour started ten minutes ago.” She hooked her thumbs under the straps of her dress and pushed them down, letting the bright fabric pool around her waist. She wasn’t wearing a bra. Her breasts were heavy, pale, and dotted with freckles, the nipples dark and thick. Lars’s breath hitched. It wasn’t desire that clenched his gut, but a dizzying wave of subjugation.
“Come here,” she said, her voice dropping to a command.
He shuffled forward. She grabbed a handful of his hair, not painfully, but with absolute ownership, and guided his face to her chest. “Show them some attention. They’re lonely.”
His tongue was dry. He licked at one nipple, then took it into his mouth. It tasted of salt and cheap body powder. She sighed, a theatrical sound, and pushed his head harder into her flesh until his nose was buried and he had to struggle to breathe. He could feel the relentless beat of her heart.
“Enough.” She released him. “On your back. On the towels. Now.”
He obeyed, lying down on the scratchy terrycloth, the cold seep of the concrete floor beneath seeping into his bones. The bulb flickered again, stuttering the scene into still frames. Ingrid standing over him. Ingrid hiking the dress up around her thick waist. Ingrid stepping over him, one foot planted on either side of his ribcage.
She looked down, a goddess of wet brick and mildew. “You want this?”
“Yes,” he whispered.
“Say it like you mean it, you pathetic little man.”
“I want it! Please.”
She smirked. Slowly, she lowered herself, not onto his cock, which lay flaccid against his thigh, but backward, guiding her body over his face. The world narrowed to the expanse of her thighs, the smell of her sweat and musk, the dark thatch of hair that brushed his forehead. Then she settled, her full weight pinning his head in place. Her ass covered his mouth and nose. He was engulfed.
“You breathe when I say you breathe,” her voice was muffled by her own body. He gave a weak jerk of acknowledgement, panic fluttering in his chest like a trapped bird.
He heard her grunt, a low, internal sound of effort. Then a hotter, more profound scent bloomed, earthy and ripe. The first warm, soft mass landed on his sternum with a wet slap. A shudder wracked him. Another followed, thicker, a cascading heap that spread across his pale chest and stomach. It was intensely hot, a shocking contrast to the basement chill. The smell filled his nostrils, dense and organic. He gagged, the reflex stifled by the press of her flesh.
She rose slightly, shifting her weight. “Look at your dinner, Lars. Look at the mess I made of you.”
He strained his eyes downward, past the curve of her hip. The brown, mushy pile steamed on his skin. A profound, degrading peace began to seep into him, drowning the anxiety. This was the point. To be nothing. A receptacle.
Ingrid chuckled, a deep rumble he felt through his bones. Then she moved again, sliding backward, her soaked, dirty ass grinding down against his limp penis. She rubbed herself against him, coating him in the filth, her movements rough and utilitarian. He didn’t get hard. That wasn’t the point either.
“Clean me up,” she ordered, lifting herself just enough to expose him to the air again.
He gasped, dragging in the foul air. His tongue felt thick and foreign in his mouth. He turned his head, pressed his face into the rough towel to wipe his eyes, and then, obeying a compulsion deeper than shame, he extended his tongue and began to lick. The taste was bitter, complex, horrifying. He worked at her asshole, cleaning the remnants, his own stomach churning in protest even as his soul quieted.
She moaned, a genuine sound of pleasure this time. “Good. That’s it. You’re a good fucking pig.”
When she decided he was done, she climbed off him. He lay there, covered in shit, his mouth tainted, his body trembling from adrenaline. She stood, looking down at her handiwork, her chest heaving. Then she crouched, plunging her hand into the warm mess on his chest. She gathered a large, dripping handful.
“Open,” she said.
He opened his mouth. She shoved the handful inside. The texture was overwhelming, a grainy, soft paste that coated his tongue and teeth. His gag reflex seized him violently, his body convulsing. He retched, the contents of his stomach—cheap beer and anxiety—mixing with the filth in his mouth.
“Don’t you dare swallow,” she snarled. “Don’t you fucking dare.”
He held it, tears streaming down his cheeks, his throat burning. She watched, fascinated, as his cheeks bulged and his eyes watered. Finally, he couldn’t hold it. With a great, choking heave, he vomited it all back up. Brown, acidic slurry spilled over his chin and onto his already ruined chest.
Ingrid’s eyes lit up. She caught some of the vomit in her palm. Before he could turn his head, she smeared it across his face, over his lips and nose. “Now swallow.”
She pinched his nose shut. Desperate for air, he opened his mouth, and she used her other hand to scoop the mixed vomit and shit from his chin back into it. He had no choice. He swallowed. It was hot and acidic and tasted of pure degradation. He sobbed, a dry, broken sound.
Ingrid sat back on her heels, watching him cry. She looked fulfilled, powerful, the bright flowers on her dress a grotesque parody of cheer in the grim basement. She wiped her hands on a clean part of the towel.
“Your hour’s up,” she said, her voice back to its normal, booming register. She stood, pulling her dress back up. “You got a shower in this shit-hole?”
He nodded, unable to speak.
“Good. Clean yourself up. I’ll use it after.” She fished her phone from her dress pocket, its screen blindingly bright in the dim room. She snorted at a message. “My sister’s asking if I want to go to bingo.”
Lars lay perfectly still, the weight of what had just happened settling into him, heavier than she had been. It was exactly what he’d paid for. The noise from upstairs had stopped. The only sound was the persistent buzz of the faulty bulb and the slow, wet drip of something from the edge of the tarp onto the concrete floor.