Chapter 2: The Ass Throne and the Taped Cock
The stream died with a final, jarring click. Riley lowered her phone, the screen going dark to reflect the stunned, tear-streaked face of the man on the floor. The only sounds were the ragged, muffled breaths pushing through Mark’s nostrils and the distant, indifferent hum of Parisian traffic.“Well,” Riley said, popping her knuckles. “That’ll give them something to look for. They said twenty minutes.”
Lola shifted her weight, grinding her ass down harder against Mark’s mouth.He could feel every intimate ridge, taste her musky essence. She wasn’t letting up.“You hear that, bitch?Company’s coming. Special company.” She leaned forward, bracing her hands on her thighs, and looked back at him between her legs. Her expression was one of pure, analytical curiosity.“You’re shaking.Is it fear? Or excitement?”
It was both, a chemical storm in his veins. The duct tape was a savage kiss over his lips, a crude bandage sealing in his shame. His own cock, still taped at the base into a swollen, purpling nub, throbbed with a pain that was indistinguishable from need.Lola finally raised herself up, breaking the seal. Mark gasped, sucking in air that was thick with her scent. She stood, towering over him, and peeled the silver tape from his mouth with a quick, ruthless rip.The sting made his eyes water anew. He licked his raw lips.“Stand up,” Lola commanded, her voice devoid of its earlier playful purr. It was steel now.He tried. His legs were blocks of wood, the circulation only just returning in painful pins and needles.He staggered, catching himself on the arm of the chaise. The room swam.Riley was already moving, a whirl of purpose. She vanished into a hallway and returned moments later with an armful of fabric.She tossed it on the chaise beside him. A black satin robe, a lace-edged slip, a pair of sheer stockings.
“Put these on,” Lola said, lighting a cigarette. The match flared, illuminating the cool detachment in her eyes.“If you’re going to be their bitch, you should look the part. Don’t you think?”
Mark stared at the garments. The silky fabrics seemed to absorb the low light, shimmering with a cruel invitation.This was the final gate. The clothes his wife packed, sensible chinos and polo shirts, were a universe away.These were a woman’s things. A specific kind of woman’s things.“I…” His voice was a sandpaper rasp.
“What’s the matter?” Riley chirped, picking up the stockings. “Scared you’ll look good? Trust me, with those sad little man-tits and that hairless belly, you’ll make a very convincing tranny.”
The word hung in the air. Lola exhaled a plume of smoke, watching him, waiting.
His hands, acting on a will of their own, reached out.The satin of the robe was cold and sinuous. He fumbled with the tie, his fingers clumsy. He slipped his arms into the sleeves, the lining whispering against his skin. He felt the cool drape of the slip as he pulled it over his head, the lace scratching his nipples. Sitting on the edge of the chaise, he rolled the stockings up his legs, the sheerness making his pale skin look ghostly and exposed.
When he stood, the robe hanging open, the slip barely covering his thighs, he felt more naked than ever.The garments didn’t hide; they framed.They highlighted.
Riley let out a low whistle.“Damn.Look at you.”
Lola walked a slow circle around him. Her gaze was a physical touch, assessing, owning. She stopped in front of him and traced the lace edge of the slip with the tip of her cigarette, not touching him, but close enough he could feel the heat.“Almost perfect.But you’re missing something.” She nodded to Riley. “The bag.”
Riley scampered back to the hallway and returned with a small makeup pouch. She pulled out a tube of lipstick—a violent, glossy red.“Pout,” she instructed.
Mark complied, his lips trembling. Riley applied the color with brutal, unsympathetic strokes, smearing it slightly at the corner.She then produced a small compact, dabbing powder on his nose and cheeks. “To hide the shine,” she muttered, more to herself than him. “From crying.”
The final touch was a pair of cheap, glittering drop earrings. She pinched his earlobes, forcing the posts through.The sharp pinch was a final anchor to reality.
Lola stepped back, a slow, satisfied smile spreading across her face.She took a long drag from her cigarette. “There.Now you see it, don’t you?The real you. The pretty little thing hiding inside the boring husband.” She flicked ash onto the carpet.“A faggot. A sissy. Our bitch.”
The buzzer from the apartment intercom sliced through the room, a blunt, electronic bleat.Mark flinched so violently he almost toppled.
Riley’s eyes lit up. “Showtime!” She skipped to the wall, pressed the button, and spoke rapidly in French into the grill.A laugh, bright and sharp. She released the button and turned, clapping her hands together once. “They’re here!”
Panic, cold and final, seized Mark’s chest.This was it. The point of no return was no longer an abstract line; it was the footsteps now thudding up the stairwell outside the apartment door.He looked wildly from Lola to Riley, the makeup making his fear a garish mask.
Lola saw it. She dropped her cigarette into an empty wine glass where it died with a hiss. She closed the distance between them in two strides, grabbed his jaw in her hand, and forced him to look at her.Her breath smelled of tobacco and wine.
“Listen to me,” she said, her voice low and intense.“You wanted this.You stayed for this. You opened your mouth.You put on the dress.This is the consequence. This is the price of the fantasy.” She released his jaw with a slight shove.“Now, you will go to the door. You will kneel.And you will welcome them.You will be grateful. Do you understand?”
The footsteps were on the landing now.Heavy.Multiple.
Tears, hot and ruinous, spilled from Mark’s eyes, cutting tracks through the powder.He was breaking apart. But beneath the shattering, the current still flowed, dark and undeniable.He hated it.He needed it.
He nodded.Lola’s smile returned, brilliant and terrible. “Good bitch.”
Riley flung the apartment door open.The frame filled with three men. Tall, broad, their presence seeming to compress the air in the hall.They filled the doorway with a palpable, casual power. Their eyes, glinting in the low light, swept past Lola and Riley and landed immediately, magnetically, on him.Mark’s legs gave way. He sank to his knees on the threshold, the satin robe pooling around him.He stared at the polished black boots of the man in front.
A deep, accented voice rumbled above him.“Eh bien. This is the wife you told us about?”
Riley’s laugh was a glittering cascade. “The wife of the hour!Say hello, sweetie.”
Mark opened his red-smeared mouth. A sound, thin and reedy, escaped.It wasn’t language.It was submission.
The man in front reached down, his hand calloused and enormous, and tilted Mark’s chin up with a single finger.He studied the ruined makeup, the tear-filled eyes, the trembling lips.
He grinned, showing white, even teeth.“Pas mal,” he said.Not bad. Then he looked past Mark, into the apartment, his gaze finding Lola. “Where do you want us to start?”