Chapter 22: Conzi gags on Chris's thick cock as Lucia spreads her ass cheeks wide, spitting directly onto her tight hole while Annika smirks and whispers 'We're stretching this feminist cunt next'. Chris's hand fisted in Conzi's hair as he thrusts deeper down her throat, her tears mixing with drool on his throbbing shaft.
The air on the balcony was cool, thick with the remnants of the day’s heat and the acrid tang of stale cigarettes. Empty bottles and forgotten glasses cluttered the small wooden table. Conzi leaned against the railing, trying to focus on the distant glow of streetlights instead of the low buzz of memory in her veins—the sound of Nat’s frantic, sobbing pleasure through the wall last week, the way Chris had smirked at her in the hallway yesterday, a knowing, infuriating glint in his eye.
“You’re thinking about it,” Lucia’s voice purred from the doorway. She stepped out, a bottle of wine in hand, Annika a shadow behind her. “Don’t bother denying it. We all are.”
Conzi stiffened. “Thinking about what?”
“His cock,” Annika said bluntly, dropping into a chair. She kicked her feet up on the table, a bratty, challenging move. “The big fucking elephant in the room. Or, should I say, the big fucking elephant in Nat’s room.”
“It’s vulgar,” Conzi said, turning back to the cityscape. Her voice lacked conviction.
“It’s spectacular,” Lucia corrected, pouring wine into three glasses. The liquid glugged, dark and potent. “And Nat is walking around like she’s been blessed by the Pope. It’s annoying. I introduced her to it, and now she acts like she owns the experience.”
Annika snorted. “She doesn’t own shit. She just got used. Chris uses everyone. The trick is to use him back.”
Conzi accepted the glass Lucia pushed into her hand. She took a large gulp. “This is a pathetic conversation. Reducing everything to… anatomy.”
“Oh, spare me the lecture,” Annika snapped, her eyes glittering in the dim balcony light. “I see the way you look at him. All that feminist theory bullshit melts right off when he’s around, doesn’t it? You get quiet. You fiddle with your glasses. You wonder.”
Heat flooded Conzi’s cheeks. “You’re projecting.”
“Am I?” Annika stood, circling Conzi like a shark. “You think we haven’t noticed? You, the big confident woman who ‘doesn’t need a man,’ constantly eavesdropping when he fucks? You think we don’t see you shift in your seat when someone mentions his size?” She stopped directly in front of Conzi, her voice dropping to a vicious whisper. “You want to be put in your place. You’re desperate for it.”
Lucia watched, a sly smile playing on her lips. She took a slow sip of wine. “She has a point, Conzi. All that performance of strength… it’s exhausting, no? Wouldn’t it be a relief to just… stop? To let someone else take the wheel for a while? Someone who wouldn’t bother asking for directions.”
Conzi’s breath hitched. The wine, the accusation, the relentless truth of it coiled in her gut. She was exhausted. The performance was a cage. And the forbidden, shameful fantasy of being rendered speechless, of being stripped of her carefully constructed intellect and used for a single, crude purpose—it haunted her.
“He’s in his room,” Annika said, her tone shifting from taunting to conspiratorial. “Just got home from the bar. Probably showering.”
“So?” Conzi managed.
“So, let’s go say hello,” Lucia said, setting her glass down with a definitive clink. “All of us.”
“That’s—”
“What? Beneath you?” Annika finished. She reached out, her fingers surprisingly deft, and plucked Conzi’s glasses from her face. The world softened, blurred at the edges. “No more masks. No more books. Just feeling. Come on.”
It wasn’t a request. It was a command. And the part of Conzi that secretly craved commands shivered into wakefulness. She let them lead her, a numb prisoner between them, back into the apartment, down the short hall to Chris’s door.
Annika didn’t knock. She turned the handle and pushed.
Chris stood by his bed, a towel slung low around his hips, his hair damp. He looked up, not startled, but curious. His gaze traveled over the three of them—Lucia’s predatory smile, Annika’s triumph, Conzi’s blurred, stricken expression.
“Party?” he asked, a slow grin spreading.
“Sort of,” Annika said. She pushed Conzi forward until she stood just a few feet from Chris. “Conzi here has some questions about feminist theory. She thought you might be able to… demonstrate a few concepts.”
Chris’s eyes locked on Conzi. He dropped the towel.
Conzi’s mouth went dry. Seeing it in person was different from hearing whispers. It was a brutal, thick weight of flesh, already half-hard, curving upwards against his stomach. It was utterly, devastatingly male. She felt her knees weaken.
“What’s the concept?” Chris asked, his voice a low rumble. “Objectification?”
Lucia came up behind Conzi. Her hands settled on Conzi’s shoulders, then slid down, over the modest fabric of her blouse, to cup her breasts. Conzi gasped, arching back into the touch against her will.
“I think it’s about reclamation of agency through submission,” Lucia murmured in her ear, her fingers pinching Conzi’s nipples through the cotton. “Or maybe it’s just about a smart girl who needs to get fucked stupid.”
Chris stepped closer. The heat from his body radiated against her. He smelled of soap and something darker, muskier. With a single finger, he tilted Conzi’s chin up. “You wanna suck my dick, Conzi?”
She couldn’t speak. She nodded, a tiny, shameful jerk of her head.
“Then get on your knees.”
The order shattered her last pretense of resistance. Her body obeyed before her mind could protest. The rough carpet pressed against her kneecaps. From here, he was massive, a tower of muscle and intent. His cock, now fully hard, hovered just inches from her face. The sheer, veined size of it was intimidating, the head swollen and ruddy.
“Go on,” Annika said, coming to stand beside Chris, her hand stroking his thigh possessively. “Show us how a good girl says hello.”
Conzi leaned forward, her lips parting. She touched her tongue to the tip, tasting salt and clean skin. A groan rumbled in Chris’s chest. Emboldened, she opened wider, trying to take him into her mouth. She could only manage the head; the girth stretched her lips into a tight, burning ring. She gagged immediately, pulling back with a strangled cough.
“Pathetic,” Annika sighed. “You have to relax your jaw. It’s not a theory to analyze. It’s a cock to swallow.”
“Here,” Lucia said. Her hands tangled in Conzi’s short blonde hair, gripping fiercely. “Let me help.”
Lucia guided her head forward, forcing her back onto Chris’s cock. This time, Conzi had no choice. Her mouth was filled, her throat threatened. She choked, tears springing to her eyes as Lucia pushed her down, holding her there until her nose pressed into Chris’s pubic bone. Conzi’s world narrowed to the suffocating pressure, the taste of him, the sounds of her own frantic attempts to breathe through her nose.
“See? She’s learning,” Lucia cooed, pulling her back just enough to let her gasp before shoving her down again. Chris’s hands joined in, one fisting in her hair, the other guiding himself, fucking her face with slow, deep thrusts.
Annika watched, her own breathing shallow. She moved behind Conzi. “She needs encouragement,” Annika declared. Her hands hooked into the waistband of Conzi’s trousers and panties, yanking them down to her knees in one violent motion. The cool night air from the open balcony door kissed her exposed skin.
The first slap came without warning. A sharp, stinging crack that echoed in the small room. Conzi cried out around Chris’s cock, the vibration drawing a louder groan from him.
“Quiet,” Annika hissed, bringing her palm down again on the other cheek. “You’re here to service, not to make noise.”
The spanking was methodical, relentless. Annika struck her bare ass with measured force, each impact landing on tenderizing flesh, painting it a warm, glowing pink under the harsh bedroom light. The pain was bright and clarifying, burning away thought, burning away protest. It merged with the fullness in her mouth, the ache in her jaw, into a single, overwhelming current of sensation. She was a thing being used, a vessel for their whims, and the terrifying, exhilarating freedom of that was like a drug.
Chris’s thrusts grew harder, faster. “Gonna come,” he grunted, his grip on her hair tightening to the point of pain.
Lucia released her head, stepping back to watch. Annika paused her assault, her hand resting on the hot, reddened skin of Conzi’s ass.
Chris pulled out of her mouth. He fisted his cock, his strokes rough and frantic. “Open your mouth. Look at me.”
Dazed, Conzi obeyed, tilting her head back, her lips slick and swollen. Chris’s release erupted over her face—hot streaks painting her cheeks, her chin, catching in her eyelashes. She flinched but held her position, swallowing what had landed in her mouth, the taste bitter and primal.
For a moment, there was only the sound of heavy breathing.
Chris stepped back, reaching for his towel. He looked down at her, a sheen of sweat on his chest, his expression one of mild, satiated interest. “Good start.”
Annika traced a finger over the red marks on Conzi’s ass, making her flinch. “I think she can take more. Don’t you, Lucia?”
Lucia crouched in front of Conzi, her green eyes gleaming. She used her thumb to smear a stray drop of Chris’s cum from Conzi’s lip. “Oh, much more. This was just an introduction.” She leaned in, her voice a whisper meant for all of them. “Next time, we don’t stop with her mouth.”
Conzi, on her knees, her face sticky, her ass burning, her mind blissfully, horrifyingly empty, found she could only nod. The lecture notes waiting on her desk, the essays on autonomy and power, felt like relics from another life, written by a stranger.
The taste of him, bitter and slick, still coated her tongue. Her ass throbbed a raw, hot rhythm against the cool air of the room. She stayed on her knees, the rough carpet biting into her skin, unable to move or speak, her mind a white noise of shattered certainties.
“Look at her,” Annika breathed, her voice thick with a kind of hungry approval. “She’s finally quiet.”
Chris wiped himself with the towel, his movements casual, as if he’d just finished a workout. He glanced at Conzi’s reddened face, the streaks now drying on her skin. “Clean yourself up in the bathroom. You’re a mess.”
The command broke her paralysis. She fumbled for her glasses, the world snapping back into cruel focus. She hauled her trousers up over her tender ass, the fabric abrading the fresh sting, and stumbled to her feet. Without a word, she shuffled to the door, avoiding their eyes. The hallway to the bathroom was an endless, humiliating corridor.
Behind her, she heard Lucia’s low laugh. “Told you she had a slut underneath all that.”
In the bathroom, the fluorescent light was unforgiving. She caught her reflection in the mirror—a stranger with smeared mascara, flushed skin, and the unmistakable, glistening evidence on her cheeks. Her hands shook as she turned on the tap. The water was cold. She scrubbed at her face with a rough washcloth, the coarse fibers scraping her skin, but she couldn’t erase the feeling of his possession, the sharp, clarifying pain of Annika’s palm.
A different heat was blooming between her legs, a traitorous, aching pulse that synchronized with the throb of her ass. She pressed her thighs together, but it only intensified the feeling. The memory of his cock stretching her lips, the helpless gagging, the sheer force of him—it should have repulsed her. It did repulse her. And yet, her body clenched around nothing, empty and yearning.
When she returned to the hallway, she intended to flee to her room. To lock the door and dissect her humiliation, to rebuild her walls brick by furious brick.
Chris’s door was still open. He stood in the frame, having pulled on a pair of low-slung jeans. He blocked her path.
“We’re not done,” he said, his voice leaving no room for argument. He nodded back into his room. “Get on the bed.”
A spark of her old self flared. “No.” The word was weak, a brittle thing.
He simply looked at her, a slow, lazy assessment that felt more invasive than any touch. “That wasn’t a request, Conzi. You wanted this. You’ve been listening through the wall, imagining it. Now you get the real thing. On the bed. On your back.”
The accuracy of his words disarmed her completely. He had seen her, known her secret, and the shame of that exposure was more potent than any physical force. Her legs carried her back into the lion’s den. Annika and Lucia were now lounging on the room’s worn sofa, watching with the focused anticipation of spectators at a pivotal play.
“Want us to hold her down?” Annika asked, sipping from her wine glass.
“She’ll stay,” Chris said, his confidence absolute.
Conzi lay back on the disheveled sheets. They smelled of him, of sex, of the countless women who had been here before. He unbuttoned his jeans, freed himself again. He was still hard, a monstrous, living weight in his hand. He climbed over her, his knees pinning her thighs apart. The denim scraped her sensitive skin.
“Look at me,” he ordered.
She did. His eyes were dark, devoid of the mockery she expected. This was colder, simpler. Transactional.
He didn’t ask if she was ready. He didn’t touch her to find any wetness. With one hand, he guided the broad head of his cock to her entrance. She was dry, clenched tight with panic and a searing, unwelcome need.
He pushed.
The pain was instant and blinding. A tearing, stretching burn as he forced his way into her unprepared body. She cried out, a sharp, animal sound, her back arching off the bed.
“Fuck, she’s tight,” he grunted, pausing, his own breath hitching at the overwhelming pressure.
He pulled back an inch, then shoved forward again, deeper. The friction was brutal, a scalding invasion. Conzi gasped, her nails digging into the sheets, her vision spotting. It was too much. He was splitting her open.
“Relax,” he breathed, though it wasn’t a comfort, just an instruction for his own ease. He began to move, establishing a slow, relentless rhythm. Each thrust was a punishment, a correction. Her body fought him, then, traitorously, began to adjust, to accept. A slick, shameful heat started to mix with the pain.
From the sofa, Lucia murmured, “Look at her face. She’s never felt anything that big. She’s ruined for anything else now.”
Annika stood and approached the bed. She leaned over, her face close to Conzi’s. “This is what you needed, isn’t it? To finally feel something besides your own smug thoughts?” Her hand drifted down, fingers finding Conzi’s clit.
Conzi jolted as if electrocuted. The direct, crude touch, amidst the brutal fullness, sent a shockwave through her. A sob caught in her throat. She was being fucked and fondled, observed and commented on, all while her body betrayed her, building a cresting wave of pleasure from the agony.
Chris’s pace quickened, his hips driving into her with heavier, more solid impacts. The bedframe knocked a dull beat against the wall. The sound was familiar—she’d heard it so many times from her own room, a soundtrack to her jealous curiosity. Now she was the source.
“You like that?” Chris demanded, his voice gravel. “You like getting your cunt stretched out by a real cock?”
She couldn’t answer. Her orgasm was rushing up, born from a twisted alchemy of pain, humiliation, and profound physical shock. It clawed its way from her core, undeniable and devastating.
Annika rubbed her clit faster, matching Chris’s rhythm. “Come for him, you fake little feminist. Come on his huge dick like the rest of us.”
The command broke her. Pleasure detonated, a silent, shattering convulsion that locked her muscles and stole her breath. Her cunt clenched violently around his relentless thrusts, milking him, pulling him deeper into the epicenter of the storm.
Chris swore, a raw, guttural sound. He hammered into her through her contractions, then buried himself to the hilt. She felt the hot, deep pulse of his release filling her, another layer of violation, another claim.
He collapsed on top of her for a moment, his weight pressing her into the sweat-damp sheets, before rolling off.
Silence, broken only by ragged breathing. Conzi stared at the ceiling, her body humming, utterly wrecked. The pain between her legs was a dull, pervasive ache now, a testament. She felt used, hollowed out, and perversely, completely sated.
Annika wiped her fingers on the sheet. “See? No more theories now. Just facts.”
Chris sat up on the edge of the bed, his back to her. “You can go.”
No kindness, no aftercare. Just a dismissal. Conzi pushed herself up, every muscle protesting. She felt his cum start to leak out of her, a warm, sticky trickle down her thigh. She pulled her clothes on over the damage, her movements slow and clumsy.
She walked to the door without looking at any of them. Her hand on the knob, Lucia’s voice stopped her.
“Next time, Conzi,” Lucia said, the smile audible in her voice, “you won’t need to be asked twice.”
CONZI SUBMITS.