Chapter 7: The Bimbo's First Outing
The taste lingered for days. It was in his coffee, on the wind during patrol, a phantom salt on the back of his tongue that made his stomach clench and his cock twitch in equal, horrifying measure. The pendant never left his skin. It was a cold, then warm, then hot brand against his sternum, a second heartbeat thrumming with malicious intent.
He stood on the roof of the Sterling Bank building, the city spread beneath him like a circuit board of sin and light. The night was quiet. Too quiet. His knuckles were white where he gripped the edge of the parapet. He was waiting for a signal, a police call, anything to be Solaris again. To punch something that could punch back.
Instead, he got her.
You’re so tense, darling. All that useless vigilance. I have a better use for all that... energy.
The voice purred directly into his auditory cortex, bypassing his ears entirely. His body responded before his mind could revolt, a low heat spreading through his groin.
“No,” he gritted out, the word scraped raw. “I have a duty. I’m not your…”
You’re what I say you are. And right now, I’m bored. I want to play. Look down.
His eyes, against his will, tracked down from the skyline to the street below. His enhanced vision zoomed in, details snapping into cruel focus. The flashing neon sign of a club called “The Velvet Trap.” The bouncer, a mountain of a man, checking IDs. The line of people, pulsing with bass he couldn’t hear from here.
Go there. The VIP entrance. Tell them you’re on the list for Selene’s party.
“I won’t.” Marcus straightened, forcing his hands to his sides. He summoned the power in his amulet, a golden glow flickering around his fists. “This ends now. I’ll find you. I’ll rip this thing off and—”
A bolt of white-hot pleasure, so intense it was pain, lanced from the pendant directly into his spine. His back arched, a silent scream locked in his throat. The solar energy around his hands sputtered and died. He dropped to one knee, gasping, sweat beading on his forehead.
You’ll do as you’re told. Or the next one lasts an hour. Now go. And wear something... casual. Don’t make a scene.
The threat was a cold snake in his gut. He knew she could do it. The compulsion was a physical weight, pushing him off the roof. He flew, but the flight was mechanical, joyless. He landed in a dank alley two blocks from the club, his descent uncharacteristically clumsy. He fumbled with a compact disguise kit from his belt, swapping his distinctive uniform for a dark hoodie and jeans that felt like a crude costume. The pendant rested against his bare skin underneath, a sleeping snake.
The VIP line was shorter, faster. The bouncer’s eyes, small and suspicious, scanned a tablet. “Name?”
“Marcus. I’m… for Selene’s party.” The words tasted like ash.
The bouncer grunted, his eyes lingering for a moment too long on Marcus’s jawline, the set of his shoulders. “Yeah. You’re expected. Inside, up the stairs, all the way back.”
The interior was a sensory assault. Strobing lights cut through a fog of dry ice and cigarette smoke. The bass was a physical thing, punching his diaphragm. Bodies undulated on the main floor, a sea of desperate euphoria. He pushed through, feeling exposed, the hero navigating an alien ecosystem of vice. The staircase led to a partitioned area draped in heavy red velvet curtains. He pushed one aside.
The VIP room was quieter, the music a muffled throb. The air was thick with cigar smoke and a cloying, floral perfume. Plush booths lined the walls, shadows clinging to their depths. In the center booth, a man in an expensive suit lounged, a crystal glass of amber liquid in hand. He was alone.
Sit with him.
Marcus’s feet moved. He slid into the booth opposite the man, his body rigid. The man smiled, a slow, predatory curl of lips. He was older, with silver at his temples and eyes that held no warmth.
“Well, hello,” the man said, his voice a smooth baritone. “She said she was sending me a special gift. I must say, I didn’t expect the packaging to be so… robust.”
Marcus said nothing. His mind screamed. This was a test. A violation.
You know what to do, pet. Be nice for Mr. Thorne. He’s a valuable friend.
“I don’t…” Marcus began, his voice barely audible over the music.
Mr. Thorne sipped his drink. “Selene said you might be shy. That you need clear instructions.” He set the glass down. “Take my cock out. Get it nice and hard with that pretty mouth of yours. I want to see the famous Solaris resolve melt away around my dick.”
The use of his codename was the final, shattering blow. It wasn’t a secret. It was part of the humiliation. Marcus’s breath hitched. A violent tremor ran through him. This was the line. The un-crossable line. He could stand, he could fly through the ceiling, he could…
The pendant pulsed. A wave of soothing, chemical calm washed over the panic, followed by a sharp, intrusive thought that wasn’t his own: It’s easier to just obey. Just be a good toy. Good toys get praise.
His resistance fissured. A part of him, a terrified, shrinking part, clawed at the walls of his own mind. But his body was already sliding out of the booth and onto the sticky carpeted floor. The perspective was suddenly, nauseatingly low. He knelt between the man’s spread legs.
“Good,” Thorne murmured, stroking Marcus’s hair, a patronizing gesture that made his skin crawl. “Now show me what you’re for.”
Marcus’s hands shook as he reached for the man’s belt. The leather was fine, the buckle cold. His fingers, which could bend steel, fumbled with the simple mechanism. He got it open. He unbuttoned the trousers, pulled down the zipper. The fabric parted. The man wasn’t wearing underwear.
His cock was half-hard, thick and uncut. The musk of cologne and male flesh filled Marcus’s nostrils. His stomach turned.
Just do it. It’s just a thing. A thing to suck. The foreign thought was bright and simple. He leaned forward, his mind separating, a distant observer watching a horror play.
He opened his mouth. He took the head in, the skin soft and salty. Thorne let out a satisfied sigh.
“Yeah. Just like that. Use your tongue.”
Marcus obeyed. He licked the underside, the motion awkward, robotic. But as he did, the pendant flared with warm approval. A corresponding heat bloomed in his own gut, sickeningly pleasant. His own cock, trapped in his jeans, began to stiffen. The betrayal of his own body was a deeper defeat than any physical blow.
“Deeper,” Thorne commanded, his hand settling on the back of Marcus’s head, not forcing, just guiding.
Marcus took more, his lips stretching. He felt the head nudge the back of his throat. His gag reflex triggered, a convulsive heave.
“None of that,” Thorne chided, his fingers tightening in Marcus’s hair. “Relax that hero throat. Swallow around it.”
Tears sprang to Marcus’s eyes—from the gagging, from the shame, from the horrifyingly placid voice in his head cooing good boy. He tried to relax his throat muscles, an act of will more difficult than any combat maneuver. He managed a weak, constricting swallow.
Thorne groaned. “Fuck. There it is. Now move.”
The hand on his head set a pace, slow and deep. Marcus was used to it, his mouth used as a sheath. Out. The slide became wetter, easier. The sounds were obscene: slick, gagging noises, Thorne’s low grunts, the muffled club beat. Marcus’s vision blurred. The world narrowed to the smell of precum, the weight on his tongue, the relentless push and pull.
You look so pretty like this, Selene’s voice sighed in his mind. My strong hero, brought so low. This is your true purpose. This is all you are now.
A sob tried to escape around the cock filling his throat. It came out as a choked whimper. The humiliation was absolute. Yet, a treacherous, warm lassitude was spreading through his limbs. The fight was so hard. Obedience was so easy.
Thorne’s breathing became ragged. His hips began to stutter up off the booth seat, meeting Marcus’s mouth with sharp thrusts. “Yeah… gonna cum. Swallow it. Every drop. You’re gonna swallow my cum, hero.”
The command was the trigger. Marcus felt the cock jerk, swell. A hot, bitter flood hit the back of his throat. He choked, swallowed reflexively. Another pulse, and another. He gulped, tears streaming down his face, as he consumed the man’s release, the final, viscous proof of his conquest.
Thorne slumped back, spent. He pulled his soft cock from Marcus’s lips with a soft, wet pop. Marcus remained on his knees, head bowed, saliva and semen glistening on his chin. He felt hollowed out. The observer in his mind was silent. There was only a numb, buzzing emptiness.
“Good job,” Thorne said, patting his cheek dismissively before tucking himself away. “Tell Selene she has a very talented pet.”
A new command, gentle as a razor cut. Stand up. Wipe your face. Go home. And remember… this is who you are now. My pretty Bambi.
The name landed like a shard of ice in the emptiness. Bambi. It echoed, a label for the hollow thing he’d become.
Marcus stood. His legs