Chapter 2: Andrew grabs Cathryn by the hair and drags her to the center of the room, his nostrils flaring as he sniffs her skin like a bloodhound. 'You reek of cheap cologne and cheaper cock,' he snarls, ripping her dress open as buttons scatter across the floor. He forces two fingers inside her without warning, rooting around to collect the mixed semen as Cathryn whimpers against his shoulder.
The key felt cold and heavy in her hand. Cathryn stood on the doorstep, the dawn light a pale, sickly gray behind her. She could still feel the sticky trail of Roy’s drying semen on her inner thigh. The single, crimson lipstick line on her wrist seemed to pulse with a life of its own. One.
She turned the key. The lock clicked with a sound of finality.
He was waiting for her in the living room, exactly as she’d left him. The same lamp cast the same long shadows. The air was still thick with the ghosts of their last conversation. Andrew sat in the center of the worn leather sofa, a fresh glass of whiskey in his hand. He didn’t look at her as she entered. His eyes were fixed on the large television screen, which was dark.
“Close the door,” he said, his voice flat.
She did, leaning against it for a moment, gathering what little strength she had left.
“Come here.”
She walked into the room, her legs unsteady. The smell of the dive bar—stale beer and cigarette smoke—clung to her leather jacket. She stopped a few feet from the sofa.
“Take off the jacket.”
Her fingers fumbled with the buttons. She let it fall to the floor. The little black dress was still damp in places, wrinkled and stained.
“The dress too. All of it. I want to see what he did to you.”
A tremor ran through her. She reached behind her back, her movements slow and clumsy, and pulled down the zipper. The dress slid down her body, a whisper of silk and shame, pooling at her feet. She stood naked in the lamplight, her skin goose-pimpling in the cool air. She kept her arms crossed over her chest.
“Arms at your sides,” Andrew commanded, still not looking at her. He finally turned his head, his brown eyes scanning her from head to toe with a cold, clinical detachment. “Turn around. Slowly.”
She obeyed, rotating on the spot, feeling his gaze like a physical touch on every inch of her skin—the backs of her thighs, the curve of her ass, the dip of her spine.
“Stop.”
She froze, facing away from him.
“There’s a bruise on your hip. His handprint?”
She nodded, mute.
“I said, is it his handprint?”
“Yes.” The word was a breath.
“Come here. Closer.”
She turned and took a few steps forward until she was standing directly in front of him. He leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. He reached out and traced the bluish mark on her hip with a single finger. The touch was light, inquisitive, but it made her flinch.
“He was rough,” Andrew observed. “Good. Now, open your legs.”
“Andrew, please…”
“Open your fucking legs, Cathryn. Let me see the mess.”
She squeezed her eyes shut and parted her feet, standing with her legs slightly apart, exposed to his ruthless inspection. The cool air hit her most intimate flesh. She felt raw, used.
“Wider.”
She complied, a hot flush of humiliation spreading across her chest and neck.
He leaned in closer, his nose almost touching her pubic bone. He inhaled deeply. “I can still smell him. Cheap beer and sweat. And something else.” His eyes flicked up to hers. “Is that his cum? Is it still leaking out of you?”
She could only nod, tears welling in her beautiful green eyes.
“Show me.”
Her hands trembled as she brought them down, using two fingers to gently part her labia. The skin was tender, swollen. A faint, milky trickle of Roy’s spend was visible against her inner thigh.
Andrew watched, his expression unreadable. Then, without warning, he pushed her hands away and shoved two of his own fingers inside her.
Cathryn cried out, a sharp gasp of pain and shock. He was not gentle. He finger-fucked her with rough, piston-like thrusts, his knuckles digging into her tender flesh. The friction burned.
“Tell me about him again,” he growled, his fingers working relentlessly inside her. “The first one. Roy. Describe it. Now.”
“He… he took me to a room,” she choked out, her body jolting with each thrust. “Behind the bar. A mattress on the floor. It stank.”
“And?” He curled his fingers, hitting a spot that made her knees buckle. “What did he do? What did his cock feel like?”
“It was thick,” she sobbed, her composure shattering. “Uncut. He spat on his hand. He didn’t… he didn’t prepare me. It hurt. He just pushed in and fucked me. He called me a slut.”
“And where did he come?” Andrew’s fingers slowed their brutal rhythm, but remained buried deep inside her. He was tasting the air around her, his eyes locked on hers.
“Inside me. He came deep inside me.”
With a sudden, fluid movement, Andrew withdrew his soaking wet fingers. He brought them to his lips, his eyes never leaving hers, and slowly, deliberately, sucked them clean. He tasted the mingled flavors of her and the stranger. His tongue cleaned between his fingers with a grotesque thoroughness.
A shudder of pure revulsion wracked Cathryn’s body.
“Salty,” he pronounced, his voice a low rumble. “Cheap. Just like the man.” He stood up, forcing her to look up at him. His erection was a blatant outline against his trousers. “You have six more to go. But you’re not leaving this house until I’m sure you understand the rules.”
He grabbed her by the back of the neck, his grip firm, and forced her down onto the sofa. She landed hard on the worn leather.
“The TV, Lyka,” he said, raising his voice slightly.
From the shadows of the hallway, a figure emerged. Lyka, a woman with sharp features and dark, calculating eyes, stepped into the room. She held a small remote. She didn’t look at Cathryn; her gaze was fixed on Andrew, a faint, complicit smile on her lips.
“Play it from the beginning,” Andrew instructed.
Lyka pressed a button. The television screen flickered to life. It showed a grainy, black-and-white image from a high angle. It was the living room. From earlier. It was them. Andrew forcing her to her knees. Her tear-streaked confession. Him commanding her to find seven more men.
“No,” Cathryn whispered, horror dawning. “You filmed it?”
“We filmed it,” Andrew corrected, unzipping his fly. His cock sprang out, fully hard. “Lyka has been a great help. An audience of one for your little performance.” He moved to the front of the sofa, positioning himself before her. “Now, you’re going to watch it. And you’re going to suck my dick while you listen to yourself confess to being a seven-cock whore.”
On the screen, her own voice, broken and desperate, filled the room. “His name was Ben. He was a bartender…”
Andrew grabbed a handful of her short brown hair and guided his cock to her lips. “Open up.”
The taste of him, familiar and yet now foreign, filled her mouth. The sound of her past sins echoed around her. The image of her degraded self played out on the screen. It was a sensory overload of shame. She closed her eyes.
“Look at it,” he snarled, tightening his grip on her hair. “Look at what you are.”
She forced her eyes open. On the television, she saw herself on her knees, sobbing. In the present, she was on her knees again, his thickness sliding over her tongue. The symmetry was devastating.
He began to fuck her mouth in time with the rhythm of her confessions on the screen. It was not a loving act; it was a punishment, a reclamation through violation. He held her head still and thrust deep into her throat, making her gag. Tears streamed from her eyes, mixing with the saliva that slicked his shaft.
“He was bigger than you. Thicker. It hurt at first, but then… I liked it.” her recorded voice moaned.
Andrew grunted, his hips pumping faster. “You hear that? You liked it. You liked being stretched by another man’s bigger cock. You’re a size-queen slut, aren’t you?”
She couldn’t answer, her mouth stuffed full of him. She could only stare at the screen, at the pathetic, weeping version of herself, and feel a profound disconnect. That woman seemed like a stranger.
He pulled out of her mouth with a wet, obscene sound, his cock glistening. “On the couch. On your hands and knees. I want to fuck you with the taste of that bartender still in your mouth and the sound of your yoga instructor in your ears.”
She scrambled onto the sofa, assuming the position. The leather was cool against her knees and palms. On the screen, her voice was describing being bent over a yoga bolster. Andrew positioned himself behind her. He didn’t enter her immediately. Instead, he rubbed the head of his cock through her wetness, gathering the remnants of Roy’s cum, mixing it with her own arousal.
“This cunt has had more traffic than a freeway,” he muttered, and then he drove into her with a single, brutal thrust.
Cathryn cried out, her back arching. He filled her completely, stretching the sore, sensitive flesh. He set a punishing pace immediately, each thrust slamming her forward, making the old sofa creak in protest.
“He came deep, and I could feel it dripping out of me all the way home,” her recorded self confessed.
“Is that what you want?” Andrew panted, his hands gripping her hips hard, his body slapping against hers. “You want to feel me dripping out of you while you go find the second one? The third? You want to be a walking, talking cum dumpster?”
He leaned over her, his chest pressed against her back, his mouth close to her ear. “Answer me, you filthy bitch.”
“Yes!” she screamed, the word torn from her, a mixture of agony and a shocking, shameful spark of arousal. The degradation was complete. She was agreeing to her own annihilation.
“Yes, what?”
“Yes, I’m a cum dumpster! I’m your filthy whore!”
His rhythm became erratic, frantic. On the screen, her confession was reaching its climax with Mark from the gym. “He came inside me. Twice. I let him. I wanted him to.”
With a guttural roar that drowned out the television, Andrew plunged into her one last time, his body rigid. She felt the hot, familiar surge of his orgasm, jetting deep inside her, claiming the space so recently occupied by a stranger. He held himself there, pulsing, for a long moment before collapsing heavily onto the couch beside her, pulling her down with him.
They lay there in a tangled, sweating, spent heap. The only sounds were their ragged breathing and the television, which had now fallen silent, the screen gone dark again.
Lyka stepped forward from the shadows and placed the remote on the coffee table. She looked down at both of them, her expression inscrutable, before turning and walking silently back down the hall.
Andrew’s arm was a dead weight across Cathryn’s stomach. She could feel his semen, and Roy’s, beginning to seep out of her, a warm, mingled trickle onto the leather.
He shifted, his voice a rough whisper against her ear. “The lipstick.”
She didn’t move.
“Show me the count.”
Slowly, numbly, she lifted her left wrist, holding it up for him to see the single, stark red line.
He looked at it, then at the dark television screen, then back at her exhausted, vacant eyes.
“Good,” he said. “Now get cleaned up. You have six to go. And this time, Lyka will be driving you.”