Chapter 7: Claire
Julian had to spend the next few days lying face down in bed waiting for his ass to heal from the branding. He ordered room service every day and had to stand while he ate because sitting down hurt so badly.
Every movement was fire, every blink of his eyes sent fresh pain through the brutal words carved into his skin.
The worst part wasn’t the physical pain. It was the realization that the hot tears streaming down his face every time he stared at the mirror were genuine. Real regret clawed at his chest—not for the abuse he received, but for the monster he had been.
His phone rang at 8:17 a.m. on the seventh day. An unknown number. He answered on instinct.
"Croft."
"I'm your next date, sweet lips." The voice was smooth, feminine, and completely unfamiliar. Julian’s fingers tightened around his phone.
"Who is this?" Julian asked
"I guess you don't remember everyone you shove your dick into. This is Claire. Ring any bells?" she asked.
Her voice was a sweet alto, the kind that could make a man’s pulse quicken—had made men’s pulses quicken in the past. Julian's grip tightened around his phone as the knife of memory twisted inside him. Claire. Claire was one of the first. One of the forgotten ones. Her name had never meant anything to him. A face among many, a body he had used and discarded without a second thought. But now her name felt like a brand seared into his mind.
"Claire," Julian repeated, his voice flat, unaffected by the sudden rush of adrenaline that surged through his veins.
His mind raced, searching for a face to attach to the name, but all he found was an indistinct blur of features—blonde hair, maybe, a pretty girl in a bar, a body trembling beneath his friends. Nothing more.
"This is a joke," he said, his tone dismissive, trying to regain control of the conversation. "You have the wrong number."
There was a soft laugh on the other end, something dark and knowing. "Oh, I don’t think so," Claire replied, her voice dripping with amusement. "I know exactly who I’m talking to. Julian Croft. The man who thought it was funny to record me while his friends used me. The man who left me on a curb like trash."
Julian’s breath hitched, though he tried to keep his voice steady. The name clawed at something deep inside him—the ghost of a memory he had long since buried. It hadn’t been her real name, of course. Just another cheap thrill, another disposable toy for men like him.
"I'm really sick of all this shit." Julian said, forcing his voice into a tone of cold dismissal. "This is harassment."
Claire’s laughter was a slow, deliberate sound, like the strike of a match in the dark. "Oh, Julian," she said softly. "You know you aren't in control anymore. How do you think your colleagues would react to videos of you begging to suck dick like a little sissy?" Claire purred, her voice a velvet glove around an iron fist."
Julian’s jaw clenched so hard he thought his molars might crack and then he sighed in resignation. "Where do you want me to go?"
"Meet me at the adult arcade on 54th street. We're going to have so much fun tonight, cock sucker." Claire whispered gleefully before hanging up without another word. The line went dead in Julian's ear, leaving him staring at the phone in stunned silence. The words COCK SUCKER burned against his flesh, a constant reminder of what he now was.
The ride across town was painful, the pressure from sitting in the car, scraping his still delicate branded ass. Each shift of his feet between gas and brake chaffed and he was actually relieved when he arrived.
The arcade was a seedy joint with bright Neon flashing signs "XXX Adult Novelties Arcade" tucked between a boarded-up laundromat and a bail bondsman. The entrance was gloomy, lit only by flickering fluorescents that buzzed like prison lights. Inside, the air smelled of stale popcorn, disinfectant, and something rank that Julian couldn’t identify—maybe old cum, maybe the ghosts of every stranger who’d been here before.
He paused just inside the door, letting his eyes adjust. The arcade was a warren of narrow aisles lined with slot machines, booths, and private video booths. The kind where people went to watch porn in tiny, sweaty cubicles or hook up in glory holes.
The fluorescent lighting buzzed overhead, casting a sickly yellow glow over the peeling linoleum floors. Julian adjusted his sunglasses, a useless affectation in the dim interior, but he needed to hide the haunted look in his eyes. The branded words on his backside burned like hellfire with every step.
A girl in skintight leather shorts and a biker vest leaned against the counter, chewing gum lazily. She wore a nametag: *"Misty – Manager (Probably)*." She didn’t look up from her magazine as Julian approached, but her foot tapped the floor in a bored rhythm—either that or she was impatient.
Probably both. “Help you?”
“I’m here to see—” Julian began, then hesitated. He didn’t know her name. He never did. She was just another disposable body, another face in the crowd he'd once stepped over without a glance.
Misty finally looked up, her sharp green eyes locking onto his. There was no recognition in them, only mild disinterest. “Name?”
“Julian Croft,” he said, forcing his voice steady despite the tightening in his chest.
Misty’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “Right. The point.” She slid a clipboard toward him. “Sign in, select your booth, and meet your date inside.
Clock starts when you close the door.” Misty said, pointing to the clipboard. "I have no idea why your date booked 3 hours. Usually, people are done in 10-20 minutes"
Julian took the pen with a shaky hand. The thought of signing something made his stomach churn. He scribbled the words in neat, precise handwriting - his signature was already written on the dotted line at the bottom where it said "I accept full responsibility for my actions and any consequences that arise from this encounter."
He slid the clipboard back across the counter. Misty barely glanced at it before nodding toward the back of the arcade.
"Booth 12. Payment’s been taken care of."
Julian’s stomach twisted as he moved through the narrow corridor of peeling booths. Each one smelled differently—disinfectant, sweat, rubber, old cum. The air was thick with the ghosts of strangers’ desires.
Booth 12 was at the end of the hall. The door was slightly ajar, the neon *Occupied* sign flickering above it. The hum of a vibrating dildo leaked through the thin plywood. Julian’s pulse spiked as he pushed the door open.
The room was dim, lit only by a single red bulb screwed into a socket overhead.
The air smelled thickly of latex and cleaning products, the kind meant to mask deeper, fouler scents. At the far end of the cramped space sat a simple wooden chair. Positioned near it was a rounded metal bull ring just below a hole in the wall, its polished surface catching the dim light. A single black strap hung loosely from one side of the ring, dangling down to a clip. A video screen was playing gay porn at low volume, the grunts and groans barely audible.
Claire sat on the chair with her legs crossed. She wore black leather pants that clung to her like a second skin, and a cropped black t-shirt that showed off her ample tits. In her hand, was the dreaded remote control.
Her blonde hair fell in waves around her face as she watched him enter.
Her red lips curled into a slow, satisfied smile. The red bulb above cast deep shadows, making her eyes look like dark pools of mischief. She looked up and down at him, taking in his tailored navy suit, the way his expensive shoes scuffed against the grimy linoleum floor.
"I'd strip down if I were you," Claire purred. "You won't want to get jizz all over that nice clean suit of yours."
Julian swallowed hard, his gaze flicking between her and the bull ring. The dread in his stomach twisted tighter.
Claire stood, brushing invisible lint from her leather pants.
The motion made her tits sway slightly, and Julian couldn't help but track the movement despite himself. The memory of her voice on the phone sent a chill down his spine.
"You heard me. Strip and get on your knees in front of the hole, cock sucker unless you want me to hit the pain button first."
Claire said, her voice dripping with amusement.
Julian's hands trembled as he reached for his suit jacket, the fine wool feeling like sandpaper against his fingertips. He unbuttoned his shirt with deliberate slowness, watching Claire's reaction carefully. Her eyes remained fixed on him, a slow smirk playing at the corners of her mouth as she leisurely rocked back and forth in the chair, the remote control resting on her lap like a loaded weapon.
When he was undressed completely, he got down on his knees as ordered in front of the black hole in the wall. Claire stepped behind him and fastened a collar around his neck with a snap, then attached it to the lead connected to the bull ring. She pulled gently pulling his face towards the hole in the wall.
"Perfect for a little cock sucker like you. I must say I'm real impressed with the branding job. It was a great lead in to tonight." Claire cooed, her voice rich with amusement as she ran a polished fingernail over the fresh brand marks on his ass cheeks. The scars were angry and red, glistening and still oozing slightly. Claire’s finger traced the raised, brutal letters with a clinical curiosity. “Cock sucker,” she read aloud, her voice a satisfied purr that echoed in the tiny booth. “Well, tonight we’re going to see if that’s true.”
From her pocket, she produced a small, sleek digital kitchen timer. She set it for two hours and placed it on the floor where he could see it.The red numbers glowed: 120:00. “The remote stays in my hand,” she said, tapping it against her palm.“You will service every man who presents himself. You will swallow every single drop. If you hesitate, if you gag, if you even think of stopping, I press the button. Understood?”
Julian stared at the timer, the reality of the next one hundred and twenty minutes collapsing onto him. He gave a faint, defeated nod. Claire flicked a little switch on the wall that must have been a signal the booth was "manned".
A sharp rap on the other side of the partition made him flinch. Claire smiled brightly. “Showtime, sweetheart.” She gave the leash a gentle, inescapable tug, guiding his face closer to the hole. “Open wide cock sucker.”
The first cock was already there, poking through the opening. It was thick, uncircumcised, and smelled faintly of soap and sweat. Julian’s stomach lurched.He closed his eyes, trying to disassociate, but the smell filled his nostrils. He opened his mouth.The man on the other side needed no encouragement. He thrust forward, hitting the back of Julian’s throat immediately.Julian gagged, tears springing to his eyes.
“Swallow that reflex down,” Claire ordered softly from behind him. “Or I’ll make you.”
He focused on breathing through his nose, forcing his throat to relax. The man pumped rhythmically, his breath a series of low grunts.The taste was bitter, musky, utterly alien. Julian’s mind screamed, but his body, trained by terror and the threat of the remote, operated on a numb autopilot.
He worked his tongue, used his lips, did what he had seen done to him.It felt grotesque, a pantomime of pleasure. The man climaxed with a surprised groan, pulsing into Julian’s throat. Julian swallowed convulsively, the warm, salty fluid coating his tongue and sliding down.
He pulled back, coughing, strings of spit and cum connecting his lips to the retreating flesh. Before he could catch his breath, another shape darkened the hole. This one was thinner, longer. The timer read 117:34.
The second was quicker, a few frantic thrusts before release.Julian swallowed again. The third man was slower, more demanding, grabbing Julian’s head through the hole to control the pace. The sour tang of pre-cum mixed with the lingering taste of the last.
Each swallow was a small defeat. Each new cock erased the memory of the last, a relentless procession of anonymous flesh. His jaw began to ache. The raw skin of his branded ass burned against the cool air of the booth. The numbers on the timer bled down: 89:22.
A particularly aggressive partner choked him, and he retched, his body convulsing. The sharp, warning buzz of the remote being activated filled the booth an instant before the pain ripped through his groin. He shuddered violently, a strangled cry muffled by the flesh in his mouth.
“Swallow,” Claire commanded, her voice devoid of all amusement now. He did, through the electric agony, and the man finished. The pain stopped, leaving a sickening throb in its wake. The parade never ceased. He lost count. His world narrowed to the circle of light around the hole, the symphony of grunts and moans from the other side, the acidic accumulation in his gut. His throat felt raw, scraped. The taste of semen became a permanent, cloying film in his mouth, each new load a slightly different note on the same foul theme. He swallowed a thick, heavy one. A thin, watery one. One that tasted faintly of cigarettes. His mind fogged, a protective gray haze muting the horror. His body moved mechanically, a servo-actuated thing designed for a single, degrading function. The timer showed 34:10.
Claire hadn’t spoken in what felt like ages. He heard the crinkle of a candy wrapper, the sound of her chewing. Normal, mundane sounds that somehow made the hellscape more profound. A man with a ring pushed through, the metal cold against Julian’s lips. He sucked. He swallowed.
The muscles in his thighs and lower back screamed from kneeling. The branded words felt like they were being pressed into a hot griddle. He started to shake, a fine tremor he couldn’t control. Still, new shapes appeared in the hole. Still, he opened his mouth. The timer bled into single digits: 04:59. The last one was impatient, slamming in and out with rough, quick strokes. Julian’s head was held firm by the collar leash. He could only take it, his body used up, his spirit hollowed out. The man came with a shout, flooding Julian’s mouth. He swallowed, a dry, automatic click of his throat.
A final, soft ding echoed in the booth. The timer read 00:00. The cock withdrew. Silence, save for the low hum of the porn screen and Julian’s ragged, wet breathing.
"Well, Well cock sucker. By my count, that's 23 cocks in 2 hours. You've gotten very good at it. Shit, you could go pro. But you still have a mess to clean up." Claire said, pointing to the floor beneath his face with the tip of her high heeled shoe.
Julian looked down and saw a puddle of slime beneath him. No matter how much he had struggled to swallow, a mix of saliva and cum and dripped down on the floor beneath him and accumulated.
"You know what to do, cock sucker. I told you that you would be swallowing every last drop." Claire said, a smirk playing on her lips as she gestured to the cum-covered floor beneath him with her high heel. "Now clean it up."
Julian's stomach heaved, but he had nothing left to bring up. His body was a hollow shell of obedience. He crawled forward on his hands and knees, the collar digging into his throat with every movement, the branded skin of his ass screaming in protest. He lowered his face toward the glistening puddle, his nose brushing against the sticky mess. The stench was overwhelming—sour, salty, with an undercurrent of something faintly chemical. Up close, he could see the grit and dirt mixed in with the slime. It was totally disgusting.
"Use your tongue and get it spotless," Claire instructed, her voice a whip crack of control.
"I want the floor gleaming like it’s new. And don’t you dare use your hands—this is penance, not housekeeping."
Julian’s stomach turned, his gag reflex flaring, but he forced himself forward. The first touch of his tongue to the floor sent a wave of nausea crashing through him. The taste was thick, cloying—semen, spit, sweat, and something vaguely rancid. His lips trembled against the linoleum, his tongue scraping in slow, methodical strokes. Every movement felt like betrayal, his body obeying the command despite every fiber of his being screaming in protest. He stopped a few times, retching, fighting hard not to puke on the floor.
The taste was revolting—cloying and thick—yet he knew he couldn’t stop. The weight of his own degradation pressed down on him with every lap of his tongue against the sticky linoleum.
Claire watched in silence, her red lips curled into a satisfied smirk, the remote control resting idly on her thigh. The red bulb above cast long shadows across her face, making her look even more like a predator than she already was. She took another slow, deliberate bite of her candy, the crinkle of the wrapper loud in the otherwise quiet booth.
“There,” Julian gasped, his voice raw and strained as he finally finished, lifting his head with trembling effort.
His lips glistened with the remnants of his own humiliation, his face streaked with tears and saliva. The taste of semen still clung to his tongue, embedded in every crevice of his mouth. The linoleum beneath him glistened faintly under the red bulb’s sickly glow—clean enough to pass inspection, but forever marked by what had happened there.
Claire leaned forward, her high heel tapping once against the floor. “Good cock sucker,” she mocked. "Quite the cock whore and such a cum slut. The girls are going to love these videos." Claire purred, tapping her phone screen to life. Julian’s breath hitched as he caught sight of the recording app already open, the red circle of a live stream glowing ominously beside a green text notification for a Discord server titled "Cock Sluts Anonymous."
“You’ll be the star of tonight’s live show. Every inch of your humiliation recorded for posterity. I wonder if any of the subscribers will recognize you.,” Claire said, her voice dripping with malice as she angled the phone to capture Julian from behind, the branded skin of his ass still glistening from the cleanup effort.
"It was nice seeing you again, cock sucker."
She didn’t hit him. She didn’t need to. She simply walked to the door, opened it, and stepped out into the arcade’s gloom, leaving him standing there. The neon Occupied sign flickered off. Julian looked down at his own naked, trembling body. He raised a hand to his mouth, then dropped it, ashamed of the gesture. The sour, salty taste was deep in him now, a poison in his bloodstream. He heard the booth door next to his open and close, the footsteps of a stranger leaving. He was alone. He had swallowed every load. The two hours were over. But as he fumbled for his clothes with clumsy, shaky hands, he knew the timer in his mind had just been set for a much longer sentence. He dressed slowly, the fine fabric of his shirt feeling like a hypocrite’s skin. He didn’t look at himself in the dark glass of the video screen as he left, moving through the arcade like a ghost, the taste defining him, marking him as surely as the brand on his flesh.
As he stepped out of the arcade, he saw the clerk, Misty staring at him.
Her gaze lingered on his face, mouth half open as if she wanted to say something but had no words fit for the situation. She didn't ask questions.
Julian knew he would never come back here. This place would always be a graveyard of his pride. His shoes scraped against the pavement as he walked towards the curb, the branded letters on his ass still smarting with every step. His phone buzzed in his pocket, and he pulled it out. The screen lit up with a new notification: a video file sent from an unknown number.
With trembling fingers, he tapped the play icon.
The video filled the screen—a dark, grainy recording from the booth’s hidden camera, angled low to capture every shameful angle: his kneeling form, the collar glinting in the red light, the branded skin of his ass flexing as he serviced each cock with mechanical precision. His face was a mask of hollow obedience, lips stretched obscenely around thick flesh, throat working to take every thrust.
Then the final humiliation played out—the cleanup. The camera zoomed in as his tongue lapped at the linoleum, his own spit and cum mixing with the grime until the floor glistened under the sickly glow.
He was so fucked. All he could do is hope that Selene and her friends were satisfied with his punishment at the end of their little game. But what was he going to do about the brand? It would take forever to arrange plastic surgery to remove it and he would have to explain it to his wife at some point.