Chapter 10: The Verbal Flaying
The silence after the guests left had a different quality. It wasn’t empty; it was full of the ghost of their laughter, the imprint of their stares on Derek’s skin. He cleaned the glasses and plates mechanically, his movements precise, his mind a blank slate wiped clean by exhaustion.
Melissa watched him from the sofa, one leg tucked under her, scrolling through her phone. “The photos Sarah took are decent,” she remarked casually, as if discussing the weather. “A little blurry. She was probably turned on. Pathetic.”
Derek didn’t respond. He placed the last dried glass in the cabinet.
“Come here.”
He walked over and stood before her, eyes on the floor.
“Kneel.”
He lowered himself onto the rug, the plush fibers familiar under his knees. The apartment was quiet except for the distant hum of the city. The LED strips cast their sterile, shadowless light.
She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, her face hovering close to his. Her perfume was a sharp, expensive blade in the air. “You know why you’re really here, don’t you? It’s not just the wrestling. It’s not the games.” Her voice was low, almost conversational. “It’s because you’re a failure. A foundational, structural failure of a man.”
He flinched.
“Remember your buddy Mark? The one who ‘borrowed’ two grand and never paid it back? You bought him a beer the next week. You thanked him for hanging out with you.” She let out a short, puff of air that wasn’t a laugh. “Your boss at the old firm pushed every shitty client onto you, and you took them, working till midnight, and for what? A ‘good job, Derek’ in a mass email.”
Each example was a precise needle, finding the buried vein of shame he’d spent years cauterizing with excuses.
“You were lazy in bed. You’d finish and roll over, thinking your job was done. You were lazy in life. You let everything happen to you. Me breaking up with you was the first decisive thing you didn’t just passively accept—you obsessed. You created little AI movies of me. That’s the most effort you’ve ever shown.” She shook her head, a curl of dark hair falling across her smirking cheek. “The only thing you’re genuinely good at, the only role you don’t suck at, is being my bitch. My whipping post. My furniture.”
The words settled into him, heavy and final. They didn’t spark rebellion anymore. They felt like diagnoses. Truths.
“Say it. ‘I’m Melissa’s bitch.’”
His throat was dry. “I’m Melissa’s bitch.”
“Louder. ‘I’m a worthless cunt.’”
He swallowed. “I’m a worthless cunt.”
“Again. ‘I’m a human toilet.’”
This one stuck, a jagged pill. He gagged on it for a second. “I’m a human toilet.”
“Good.” She leaned back. “Now lie down. On your back.”
He obeyed, stretching out on the rug beneath the pitiless light. He stared at the ceiling, at his own blurred reflection in the dark glass of a light fixture.
She stood, looking down at him with cool appraisal. Then she stepped over him, one foot on either side of his ribs. She lowered herself slowly, not onto his stomach, but higher. Her thighs framed his head. The soft, worn cotton of her shorts filled his vision, then blocked it entirely as she settled her full weight onto his face.
The world collapsed into darkness, heat, and pressure. The bone of her pelvis pressed hard against the bridge of his nose and his mouth. He could breathe in shallow, frantic huffs through the minimal space at the sides, each inhalation saturated with the intimate, musky scent of her. He heard the rustle of her tank top as she adjusted her seat, getting comfortable.
“I can feel your pathetic little tongue,” her voice came, muffled and resonant through her body. “Trying to lick, trying to breathe. This is what you are. A face for me to sit on. A piece of furniture. My bitch.” She shifted, grinding down slightly. A whimper escaped him, strangled and wet against her. She laughed. “You sound like a squeaky toy. My squeaky toy.”
He began to panic. His hands came up, fluttering weakly near her thighs, but he didn’t push. He knew better.
“Put your hands down. At your sides.”
He did, slapping them flat against the rug. The vulnerability was total. He was pinned, immobile, his airway compromised, his every desperate snuffle vibrating against her.
She stayed there for a long minute, talking idly. “Jonathan’s a traditionalist. He likes presentation. He’ll want to see obedience, not just struggle. He’ll want to see you broken in, like a good boot. Comfortable in your function.” She rocked forward, increasing the pressure on his mouth. “Are you comfortable, Derek?”
He tried to form a ‘yes’. It came out as a damp, choking vibration.
She stood up abruptly. Light and cool air flooded his senses. He gasped, his chest heaving, his face wet with saliva and her sweat.
“Now, tell me what you are,” she commanded, still standing over him. “Before I sit back down.”
“I’m your bitch, Melissa,” he coughed. “I’m nothing.”
“Again.”
“I’m your bitch. I’m nothing.”
She sat again, the same crushing, smothering descent. This time, she leaned back, bracing her hands behind her on his shins, using him as a living armchair. “Louder. I can barely hear you.”
He tried. The words were distorted, stifled. “I’M YOUR BITCH.”
“Better.” She sighed, as if settling in for a long talk. “Tomorrow, you will not speak unless Jonathan or I ask you a direct question. You will keep your eyes lowered. You will anticipate needs. If his wine glass is half empty, you will move to fill it. If he drops his napkin, you will pick it up with your teeth before it hits the floor. You are an appliance. You are a tool. Your only thought should be about what service you can perform next. Your only feeling should be the fear of doing it wrong. Do you understand the assignment?”
Beneath her, he made a gurgling sound of assent.
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
She stayed seated for what felt like an eternity, her weight a constant, grinding reality. She hummed a little, scrolled on her phone with one hand, entirely at ease using his face as her chair. His world narrowed to the struggle for thin ribbons of air and the deep, aching numbness spreading through his jaw. The shame had burned off, leaving only a stark, barren acceptance. This was his function. This was his use.
When she finally rose, the cool air felt like a betrayal. It demanded he re-inhabit a body that no longer felt like his own.
“Stand up.”
He did, swaying, his face flushed and slick.
“We’re not done,” she said, her eyes gleaming. “Tomorrow is important. You need to be prepared. You need to be presentable.” She walked toward the bathroom. “Follow me.”
In the stark white bathroom, she pointed to the deep freestanding tub. “Fill it. Not too hot. I don’t want you lethargic.”
He ran the water, testing the temperature with his wrist like a parent bathing a child. When it was ready, she gestured for him to get in. He stepped into the water and sat, the warmth a shocking comfort against his bruised skin.
But it wasn’t for comfort. She took a bottle of her own expensive shampoo, a harsh, clarifying formula, and poured a generous amount into her hands. “Lean forward.”
She scrubbed his hair with a brutal, impersonal efficiency, her fingers scraping his scalp. She didn’t wash his body; that would be too caring. She only washed the part that would be seen, the part that needed to look owned. After rinsing him off with the handheld showerhead, blinding him with the spray, she threw a towel at him. “Dry off. Shave. You look like a stray.”
He did, under her watchful eye. He shaved with her razor, nicking himself twice under the unblinking glare of the bathroom lights. The tiny beads of blood were ignored.
She left and returned with the clothes from the tailor. A pair of slim, charcoal-gray trousers made of a soft, silent wool. A simple white shirt, the cut allowing for movement across the shoulders as she’d specified. No underwear. No shoes.
“Put them on.”
The fabric felt alien against his clean skin, too fine, too tailored for its purpose. It draped perfectly, making him look like a ghost of a professional man. She stepped close and fastened the top button of the shirt, her fingers brushing his throat. Then she attached a thin, polished leather leash to the permanent ring of his collar.
She gave a gentle tug, leading him out of the bathroom like a show dog. In the living room, she pointed to a spot by the sofa. “Sit. Here. You will wait here until I tell you to sleep.”
He sat on the floor, his back against the cold leather of the sofa, the leash coiled beside him. She dimmed the lights, turned on the television to a low murmur, and ignored him. He watched the city’s lights through the windows, a panorama of a life he was no longer part of. The new clothes itched with implication. He was dressed for his own auction.
Hours passed. His muscles stiffened. Just as his eyes grew heavy, she spoke without looking away from the screen.
“The dinner is at eight. Jonathan will be here at seven-thirty to have a drink first, to observe. You will be perfect.” She finally glanced down at him, her smile a sickle moon in the dim light. “This is what you wanted, Derek. All those videos you made… you were just writing the script. I’m just the director finally bringing your pathetic fantasy to life. Now shut up and let me watch my show.”
He closed his eyes, not to sleep, but to hide. The narrative was complete. She was right. He had written this. Every degrading scene, every humiliated whimper, had first flickered to life in the lonely glow of his computer screen, in the algorithms of his shame. He had authored his own extinction.
And tomorrow, he would sign his name on the title page for an audience of one.
The credits of her show rolled, painting her sharp features in shifting blue light. She muted the television, and the sudden silence felt heavier than the hum. “You’re thinking,” she said, not looking at him. “I can hear it. That weak, mewling little brain trying to find a corner to hide in.” She uncoiled from the sofa, standing over him. “We’re not done with today’s curriculum. Get up.”
She turned and walked toward the hallway, not checking to see if he followed. He did, the leash trailing from his collar across the cool floor. She pushed open the bathroom door, the harsh white light spilling out like an interrogation.
Her mood was dark, focused, entirely absent of the performative glee she’d shown for her friends. This was private, granular work. She pointed to the toilet, its white porcelain gleaming under the LEDs. “Lick it clean, worm. Every inch. The seat. The rim. The bowl.”
A last, dormant spark of something—dignity, survival instinct—flickered and died. He knelt on the cold tile. He bent forward. The sterile, chemical scent of bleach filled his nostrils as he pressed his tongue to the curved front of the seat. The taste was acrid, artificial.
“Look at you,” she hissed, pacing behind him. Her voice was a lash, each word a measured stroke. “A grown man. A thirty-four-year-old executive, they thought.” A short, ugly laugh escaped her. “Licking a toilet seat because his ex-girlfriend told him to. You’re not even a man anymore. You’re a subhuman bitch.”
He moved his tongue along the smooth, cold porcelain, tracing the seam where the seat met the bowl. His stomach turned, a hollow, convulsive heave. He swallowed against it.
“What am I, Derek?” she demanded, stopping her pace.
His voice was thick with nausea. “My Queen.”
The slap to the back of his head was sharp, stinging, a punctuation mark. “Try again.”
“Goddess.”
Another slap, harder. “You’re warming up. The right one.”
“Mistress.” He rasped the word into the bowl. “You are my Mistress.”
“Better. Now the underside. Get your head in there.”
He complied, his cheek pressed against the cool base, his tongue working over the hidden surfaces, the slender bolts. The intimacy of the degradation was absolute. He was servicing the most ignored part of her domain, a ritual of utter desecration.
When he finished, he remained kneeling, head bowed, awaiting the next command. She sat on the edge of the tub, watching him with detached interest. She hooked her fingers into the heels of her gym socks, pulling them off with a slow, deliberate peel. They were damp, rank with the day’s sweat. She balled one in her fist.
“Open.”
He opened his mouth. She stuffed the dense, sour cotton deep onto his tongue, then the other. The taste was fungal, salty, overwhelmingly personal. “Chew,” she commanded.
He began to masticate weakly, the fabric soaking with saliva, the flavor permeating his entire head.
Then she stood. She placed her hands on his shoulders and pushed him forward, down, until his torso was flat on the tile and his face was turned sideways. She stepped over him, her thighs framing his head, and lowered herself. Her full weight descended, pressing his nose and mouth, already stuffed, into the unyielding tile. The world condensed to profound pressure and the taste of her sweat.
She wiggled, grinding her ass against his trapped features. “This is your natural habitat, Derek. Under my ass. On the floor. You’re nothing but a seat for a real woman.” She held him there, his breaths reduced to frantic, muffled snorts through his nostrils. “You sound like a pig rooting in shit. My pig.”
Long minutes passed. Spots danced in the darkness behind his eyes. Just as the need for air became a screaming pressure in his lungs, she stood. She hooked a finger into his mouth, pulling the sodden socks out with a slick pop.
“Say it again. ‘I’m a worthless bitch who belongs under your ass.’”
He gasped, drool and sweat stringing from his lips to the floor. “I’m a worthless bitch who belongs under your ass.”
She laughed, a sound of pure, bright contempt, and sat back down, sealing him once more into his silent, airless world.