Chapter 9: Marcy and Renee
In his hotel room, waiting for his next date, Julian considered what had happened to his life.
Once pristine and carefully curated, his reality had become a grotesque carnival mirror reflecting back nothing but shame and ruin. The phone buzzed in his hand sending a rush of cold dread through his already bruised body.
Selene’s voice came through the speaker, dripping with amusement. “Did you enjoy your night with Lynette? I know I certainly did. The videos were so graphic. The way you begged, all that cum, licking all those shit covered cocks, licking their asses. You're turning into quite the little faggot slut, aren't you Julian?”
Selene's voice purred down the line echoing around the lavish hotel bathroom where he sat, staring at his reflection. The image in the mirror was unrecognizable—a face hollowed out by weariness, all traces of his former confidence were gone.
"Well, if you thought that was fun, you're going to love it tonight. You're going on a date with Marcy and Renee. Do you remember them Julian?" Selene asked, her voice sweet as poisoned honey, the words ricocheting through Julian’s skull like a bullet shattering glass. The face that stared back from the bathroom mirror was a stranger—jaw slack, eyes hollow, his once sharp features now gaunt with exhaustion. The man who had built empires stood broken in this gilded cage, and all that remained was the slow realization that he had never been in control at all.
He did remember them.
The memory hit him with the force of a physical blow—a couple of prostitutes he and his friends had hired. They had paid a homeless man and forced the girls to suck his cock and lick his ass. They thought it was fun at the time.
Julian remembered the girls–Marcy with her big tits and messy blonde hair, Renee with her long legs and sharp tongue. They had been nothing more than two whores to him then—two bodies to use and discard. But now the realization settled in his gut like a stone. They had remembered *him*. Every cruel word, every degradation, every time he had laughed while they were forced to their knees.
"You meet them tonight at the overpass down near 5th avenue. You know, the one where the homeless hang out? Be there at 8:00 pm and not a minute late, or the shocker will be deployed. I'm really looking forward to the next set of videos. See you later, cock sucker." Selene hung up the phone leaving him in silence.
Julian sat there staring at his phone, his mind racing as the implications of Selene’s words washed over him like ice water. The overpass. The homeless. Marcy and René. The memory of those two girls rose from the depths of his mind with an almost visceral clarity—their laughter, their defiance before it was broken, the way their bodies had trembled under his friends’ hands. He had never given them a second thought after that night. They were just two whores. Two bodies. Two laughs he had silenced with a flick of his wrist and a smirk.
But Selene remembered. Selene had found them, recruited them into her revenge scheme. He had a pretty good idea of what his night would entail. He thought about not going, but he knew the consequences. Between the pain of the cage shocking his dick and the now ample video footage the girls had for blackmail, there was no escape. His only hope was for the girls to be satisfied with his punishment when the whole ordeal was over.
If he got through the night without dying of shame, maybe he could somehow rebuild what was left of his life.
Julian shook like a leaf as he drove through the dark streets near downtown. It wasn’t the danger of the neighborhood that made him tremble—though the cracked sidewalks patched with day-old graffiti and the flickering streetlights did little to ease his nerves. It was the realization that in less than an hour, he’d be face-to-face with two women he had once treated like disposable trash. The same women who now held the power to destroy what was left of his reputation—and perhaps himself.
The GPS on his phone led him toward the overpass, where the sound of highway traffic roared overhead like the judgment of a merciless god. As he pulled up, he saw them standing beneath the flickering yellow glow of a dying bulb.
Marcy, her sundress clinging precariously to her round curves, leaned against the concrete pillar with a cigarette dangling from her fingers. Renee stood beside her, arms crossed, her black curls catching the faintest breeze. Next to them stood a large burly man, clearly their bodyguard for the night in this rough area. Neither of them turned as he stepped out of the car, and Julian's stomach twisted.
Marcy took a long drag, exhaling smoke through her nose as she turned to face him. Her lips curled into a slow, knowing smile. "Well, well. Look who decided to show up."
Renee didn’t even glance at him, her dark eyes scanning the shadows as if expecting something—or someone—to jump out.
Julian swallowed hard, his hands flexing at his sides. Julian was dressed simply in sweats. He had learned from the last few dates, and he didn't want to ruin any more of his nice clothes.
He needed to be prepared. He needed to brace himself for whatever they had planned.
Renee finally turned her head and looked at him, her dark eyes appraising him with a slow, deliberate once-over. Her lips curled into a smirk that was equal parts mocking and triumphant. "Hey, Julian. Long time no see."
Marcy flicked her cigarette butt onto the ground and ground it out with the toe of her boot. "You look like hell, by the way. Did Lynette really work you over that bad?"
Julian swallowed hard, his throat tight. "She did what she wanted."
Renee stepped closer, her heels clicking against the cracked pavement.
"I'm not here for small talk. See those guys over there?" She gestured to a small group of men huddled around a burning barrel, their figures distorted by the heat haze.
Julian’s gaze followed to where three men sat on stained mattresses, passing a bottle in a brown paper bag. They were a collection of worn-out faces and tattered clothes, hunched against the cold concrete and the distant roar of traffic.
"Your job is to take each of them around the corner and suck their cocks. You need to make them cum down your throat. We'll be watching. If any of them don't finish because of your attitude, I'll press this little button all night long." Renee grinned, holding up the now-familiar remote for his cage.
Marcy chuckled, a low, smoky sound. "And since you're such a generous guy, you're going to pay them. Hundred bucks a pop. For the privilege."
Julian’s wallet felt like a lead weight in his pocket. The absurdity of it—paying to be degraded—hit him with a force that stole his breath. He opened his mouth to protest, but Renee tapped the remote and a jolt of pain, sharp and immediate, locked his jaw. His knees buckled.
"Save it," Renee said. "Just get over there and start making friends. We don’t have all night."
The first man was named Leo. He smelled of old sweat, cheap wine, and the pervasive damp of concrete. His eyes, clouded with cataracts and distrust, narrowed as Julian approached holding out a crumpled bill.
"This is for you. I just need to... service you. Around the corner."
Leo looked from the money to Julian’s strained face, then over to the women leaning against the pillar. A slow, gap-toothed grin spread across his features. "Ain't that somethin'. C'mon then, rich boy. I'll show you what your money buys."
Around the corner, the world shrank to the rough brick wall, the stench of urine, and Leo's fumbling hands. The man’s cock was sour and uncircumcised, the skin loose and cold. Julian gagged instantly, tears springing to his eyes as he forced himself to take it deeper, his mind screaming at the violation.
He could hear Marcy’s laughter, bright and cruel, bouncing off the overpass. "You better be swallowing, Julian! We want to hear you gag!"
Leo grunted, his hips moving with a rough, mechanical rhythm. Julian focused on the texture, the taste, the sheer animal reality of it, trying to detach. But the remote was a constant threat, a promise of worse pain if he failed. He worked his throat, hollowing his cheeks, until with a shudder and a sour burst, Leo finished.
He pulled away, gasping, strings of saliva and semen webbing his chin. Leo zipped up with a satisfied smirk, pocketing the hundred. "Easy money."
The second man, a younger guy with a hacking cough and restless eyes, was quicker, more aggressive. He shoved Julian against the wall, didn't bother with pretense. Julian choked, his nose pressed into the man's filthy jeans, the coarse fabric scraping his skin. He focused on the rhythmic tap of Renee’s heel against the pavement, a metronome counting down his shame.
When the man finished, Julian vomited a thin, bitter stream onto the ground beside them. The man stepped back, disgusted. "Fuckin' amateur."
"Clean it up," Renee called out, her voice devoid of any lightness now. "With your tongue."
Julian stared at the puddle, his stomach clenching. The remote buzzed once, a warning. He closed his eyes and lowered his head.
The third man was the largest, silent and looming. He took the money without a word and led Julian further into the shadows, away from the flickering barrel light. His hands were huge, calloused, and they gripped Julian's head with a terrifying, impersonal strength. This was not a transaction; this was being used as a human tissue.
Julian lost time. There was only the crushing pressure, the struggle for air, the raw scrape of denim on his forehead. When the man finally released him, Julian slumped to the damp concrete, retching up nothing but acid and despair.
Marcy and Renee appeared above him, silhouetted against the orange sodium glow of the streetlight. Renee nudged his shoulder with her boot.
"Get up. You're not done."
"They... they all finished," Julian croaked, wiping his mouth with a trembling hand.
Marcy crouched, her cleavage a distracting curve in his periphery. "Oh, we know. But see, we remembered something else. That night with you and your frat-boy assholes? You made us do that homeless guy. Then you made us lick their assholes. Remember that part?"
Julian’s blood ran cold. He remembered. He’d laughed until he cried.
Renee’s smile was a razor slash. "So, here’s what’s next. You're going to find one more guy. The dirtiest, most disgusting one you can see. You're going to suck him off right in front of us. And then you're going to lick his asshole. Properly. Like you're french kissing a beautiful girl."
The bodyguard moved from his post, a silent wall of muscle herding Julian back toward the barrel's glow. The homeless men watched, their expressions a mix of pity, curiosity, and hunger. Julian scanned their faces, his gaze landing on a figure slumped against a shopping cart, his clothes stiff with grime, his face a map of old sores.
This was the choice. A final, deliberate dive into the filth.
He walked toward the man, the hundred-dollar bill feeling like a confession. The man didn't speak, just looked at the money, then at Julian's ruined face, and unzipped his fly. The smell that hit Julian was beyond anything he had encountered that night—a potent, biological foulness that spoke of months without a shower, of sickness, of rot.
He couldn't do it. His body revolted, locking up. From behind him, he heard the remote's distinctive click, but no shock came. Instead, Renee spoke, her voice chillingly close to his ear.
"Think about the videos, Julian. Think about your wife seeing you beg to lick shit off a man's dick. This is just a cock. Do it, or the whole world gets to watch your greatest hits."
His stomach rolled as he crouched in front of the man's open fly, every instinct screaming against this descent. But Julian had spent his life erasing human boundaries with money and power—now those boundaries were reclaiming him in the most brutal currency of all.
With the taste of filth already staining his tongue, he leaned forward and took the man's cock into his mouth. The texture was sickening—veiny, slick with something thick and foul beneath the skin. He hollowed his cheeks and worked it with mechanical precision, focusing on the rhythmic tap of Renee's heel against the pavement, counting the beats like a metronome. One-two-three. Suck. Swallow. Gag. One-two-three.
Julian’s throat convulsed each time the shaft thickened, each time the sour musk flooded his mouth like a tide. The man’s hips jerked, his breath coming in wet gasps, fingers tangling in Julian’s hair to control the rhythm. He could feel the man’s balls tight against the base of his cock, heavy and full, and he knew what was coming.
The cock pulsed once, then twice—thick ropes of cum firing down his throat, so hot it almost scalded, so bitter it made his eyes water. He swallowed reflexively, forcing down the rancid load despite his gag reflex screaming in protest.
The cum clung to the back of his throat in thick, cloying globs, and he had to actively concentrate not to vomit it back up. The remote in Renee's hand remained ominously silent, but the threat hung between them like a physical weight.
Marcy's laughter cut through the night air, rich and mocking. "Good boy. But you're not done yet, are you?"
Julian's entire body trembled as he looked up at the women towering over him. The realization of what they expected next crashed into him with brutal clarity.
Julian’s gaze flicked past Renee and Marcy to the homeless man, still slumped against the shopping cart. His face was a map of old sores, his eyes milky and unfocused, yet sharp with cruel awareness. He hadn’t even bothered to wipe himself off after Julian finished—he just waited, cock still hanging half-erect, as if this were just another transaction in a long line of degradations.
Renee’s heel tapped once against the pavement—a slow, deliberate staccato like a judge’s gavel dropping a sentence of shame. "Go on," she purred, voice dripping with venomous satisfaction. "You remember what we did that night, don’t you?
You remember what you made *us* do?" Marcy’s voice cut through the thick, sour air between them, her cigarette smoke curling around Julian’s face as she took another drag.
Julian’s stomach contracted again. He remembered the way Marcy’s hands had trembled when they forced her to get on her knees in front of that homeless man. The way she had gagged when he spread his filthy ass cheeks for her.
"Now pay the man another hundred dollars to let you lick his ass." Renee said, laughing.
"I think he does remember. Don't you, Julian? Don't you remember the way you laughed when you made us do that?"
Julian's vision blurred as he stared at the ground. His hands shook as he pulled out another hundred-dollar bill from his wallet, his fingers numb. The paper felt slick and foreign in his grip, like a piece of evidence proving his own downfall.
The homeless man dropped his pants and turned around, reaching back to pull his ass cheeks apart. The stench was overwhelming now—decay, unwashed flesh, and something else, something that made Julian's stomach heave before he even got close.
He dropped to his knees on the cracked pavement, the fabric of his sweats absorbing the damp filth beneath him. The man’s ass was a grotesque landscape of old scars and fresh cracks, the flesh split in places, oozing something yellow and viscous.
"Oh man, that stinks from here." Renee said, holding her nose.
"Get in there and lick him clean, shit stain." Marcy said, holding up the remote.
Julian’s breath came in short, sharp gasps through his nose as he reached out. His fingers trembled as he gripped the man’s wrinkled cheeks, pulling them apart with a wet *schlick* sound. The interior was a horror show—puckered and raw, glistening with remnants of what Julian had just swallowed. The man shifted slightly, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest as Julian gagged.
Renee stepped forward and raised one high heeled shoe up on Julian's back. "Eat shit, motherfucker." She growled, shoving him forward into the nasty ass.
Julian’s face hit the filthy skin with a wet splat, his mouth coming into contact with the sticky moisture coating the man’s crack. The taste was overwhelming—rotten, metallic, the thick stench of old pus and something foul that defied description.
He gagged immediately, his stomach heaving violently, but Marcy’s hand was already gripping the back of his head, forcing him deeper into the mess. "Lick it out, you pretentious piece of shit," she hissed, her nails digging into his scalp. Behind him, Renee’s remote clicked ominously, the threat of another shock hanging in the air like a dark promise.
Julian’s hands trembled as he gripped the man’s ass cheeks, his face pressing into the decaying flesh. With his fingers trembling, Julian began to lick. His tongue, slick and hesitant at first, met the sticky residue coating the man’s skin. The taste was unbearable—thick, rancid, and saturated with the scent of old sickness.
Bile rose in Julian’s throat, but he forced his body to comply, his mind detaching as his tongue moved in slow, deliberate strokes. He focused on the rhythmic tapping of Renee’s heel against the pavement, counting each tap like a metronome counting down to his total annihilation. Lick.
The remote remained ominously silent, but the pressure of Renee’s boot against his spine kept him pinned in place, her voice a venomous whisper in his ear. “That’s it, Julian. Clean him up like the worthless ass wipe you are. Swirl that tongue around his asshole and make it shine.”
Julian’s tongue worked mechanically, his mind fracturing under the weight of sensory overload—the gagging reflex, the taste of rot, the humiliation of being forced to eat a homeless man's ass in front of the two women.
His stomach revolted, and he heaved, puking his guts out on the concrete.
The bitter acid burned his throat, and more bitter tears streamed down his face. But there was no escape. They wouldn’t let him stop. They wanted to humiliate him. They wanted to break him.
Somewhere in the fog of shame, he managed to work up enough spit to attempt to clean up the mess he’d made of the man’s ass, stuffing his tongue into every fold, every crack, cleaning up both his own vomit and whatever filth remained. The taste—the taste was indescribable.
The man’s asshole was a dark, puckered crater, lined with jagged cracks that wept a foul yellowish discharge. Julian’s stomach clenched as he probed deeper, his tongue scraping against the raw flesh, his gag reflex screaming in protest. Around him, the city’s sounds faded into a distant hum—the roar of traffic overhead, the occasional laughter from a group of homeless men across the fire, the rhythmic tap of Renee’s heel against the pavement, counting his suffering like a metronome.
“Mmm, he’s really getting into it,” Marcy murmured, her voice thick with amusement. She took a long drag of her cigarette, the ember glowing in the dark like a mocking eye.
“You taste that, Julian? That’s the flavor of karma. You’re the one on your knees this time, aren’t you?”
Renee chuckled darkly, her heel pressing down harder on his back. “Keep licking, rich boy. Lick until his asshole’s as clean as a baby’s. And if you miss a spot…” She raised the remote just high enough he could see the polished steel in the dim light, the tiny red light winking like a beacon of punishment. “I’ll make sure your wife gets a real close-up of what you’re doing tonight.”
Julian’s hands trembled on the man’s buttocks—gloved in filth, gloved in ruin. His tongue scraped across the filth, reduced to nothing but an ass wipe.
The man's asshole pulsed open just slightly, and Julian gagged again, his stomach convulsing violently. His face was pressed so deep into the groove that his nose was buried in the sour crack, his cheeks pressing against the man's thighs.
Julian's elbows started to tremble from the effort of holding himself up, his arms shaking as if he were doing pushups on the pavement. His breath came in shallow gasps through his nose, the stench overwhelming his senses—the reek of old sweat, cheap wine, the metallic tang of blood from split skin, and the thick, putrid undertone of something decaying.
His arms trembled violently as he clung to the man’s meaty thighs, his body insisting on retching again, but there was nothing left to bring up.
Marcy leaned in close enough that he could feel her cigarette smoke curling around his ear. "Look at you. The great Julian Croft, on his knees like a desperate little whore. You laughed when we had to do this. Remember?" Her free hand reached down and roughly pulled his hair, yanking his face away from the asshole just long enough to meet her gaze. "Now who's laughing? We'll see you around ass wipe." she chuckled and the two women turned and walked away.
The bodyguard lingered for a moment, his shadow stretching long and menacing across the pavement before he too disappeared into the night.
The homeless men watched Julian in silence, their faces unreadable. The one whose ass he'd just consumed rose from his shopping cart with a slow, creaking groan, pulling up his pants with deliberate care. He didn't bother to fasten them completely, just adjusted the waistband before shuffling off into the darkness without a backward glance.
Julian remained on his knees, his body trembling violently.
The taste of rot and filth clung to his tongue like a second skin, his stomach empty but still heaving in dry, wretched convulsions. The overpass hummed above him with the distant rush of traffic, a sound that now felt like the universe laughing at his ruin. His phone buzzed in his sweatpants pocket, the vibration sending a fresh wave of nausea through him. He pulled out his phone. Another text from the unknown number, another video clip.
Julian watched as the file loaded, his stomach trembling as he saw himself kneeling in the shadows, the homeless man's asshole glistening in the dim light as his tongue worked. The audio was terrible, but the humiliation was crystal clear. His wife's name flashed on the screen just as the video finished buffering and played automatically.
Selene: "That was absolutely *perfect*, Julian. You're such a *good* boy for us. You have one more night with us on Friday and then it's over. Come to the warehouse where we first met at 8 pm."
Julian sat frozen, his mind racing. The final night. Could it really be over after Friday? Could his life go back to normal? Of course, there was no normal anymore. He had been changed forever, reduced to a shell of his former self. Then there was the brand on his ass. One he would have to attempt to explain to his wife. One he would have to live with for the rest of his life. If his wife left him, what woman would want him after they saw the brand?
One step at a time, he thought. Get through Friday. Call a plastic surgeon. Figure out what to tell his wife. There had to be a way out of all this.
Julian pulled himself off the concrete street and stumbled to his car. No matter what happened after tonight, he would always remember the taste in his mouth right now.
The vile, pungent stench of decay and despair. The soured metallic tang of desperation. The thick, putrid filth of a man who had long since given up on humanity - and now he was part of that filth too.
He had once believed money could buy anything—respect, power, even the illusion of cleanliness. But this? This was the anti-clean, the anti-money. This was the cost of his arrogance. His privilege. His cruelty.