Chapter 28: Sarah straps Mark into a metal spreader bar, his freshly-fucked holes still leaking from the last session. 'Open wide, pig,' she commands, shoving a speculum into his ass to stretch him further as a new client - a hulking biker with knuckle tattoos - unzips his jeans with a predatory grin.
The days bled into a numb routine. Mark moved through Sarah’s apartment like a ghost, his senses dulled to everything but the schedule of his own degradation. The piercing was a constant, chilly reminder. The memory of the violet wand was a sharp ghost in his muscles. Emily’s smiling face on that balcony was the backdrop to every thought.
Sarah had converted the second bedroom into a studio. It was minimalist, soundproofed, with adjustable lighting and a high-resolution camera mounted in the corner. A sleek laptop sat on a side table, its screen perpetually dark until it wasn’t.
“Your new office,” Sarah had said, her voice devoid of irony. “Clients book in two-hour slots. You are available from ten a.m. until six p.m., with a break for lunch. Which you will eat on your knees.”
That was yesterday. This was today.
At 9:55 a.m., Sarah dressed him. Not in his own clothes, which had been bagged and stored. She put him in a pair of tight, black boxer-briefs that did nothing to conceal the outline of the piercing. “Presentation,” she said, adjusting the waistband. “You’re a premium service. Look the part.”
At 10:00 exactly, the laptop chimed. Sarah opened the live stream connection. Emily’s face did not appear. Instead, a chat window popped up on screen, a single line of text from user ‘E_Resort’: Ready.
“Client One is en route,” Sarah said, reading a text on her phone. “Male, solo. Prefers verbal humiliation. You will speak only when spoken to, and you will use the language he likes. Understood?”
Mark nodded, his throat already tight.
“Verbal confirmation, Mark.”
“Yes,” he whispered.
“Yes, what?”
“Yes, I understand.”
The man arrived ten minutes later. He was in his fifties, balding, wearing a nondescript polo shirt and khakis. He looked like an accountant. He nodded at Sarah, his eyes sliding over Mark with detached interest. “This the product?”
“This is Mark,” Sarah said, her tone professional. “He’s ready for you. The stream is active. You have ninety minutes.”
The man—Mr. Jacobs, he said to call him—walked into the studio. He didn’t touch Mark at first. He circled him, inspecting. “Turn around,” he said. Mark turned. “Bend over, touch your toes.” Mark bent, the position exposing him through the thin fabric. He felt a finger hook into the waistband of his briefs and pull them down to his thighs.
“Good. The piercing is new. Tender?”
“A little, sir,” Mark mumbled into the space between his knees.
“Stand up. Look at me.”
Mark straightened, his briefs around his thighs. Mr. Jacobs’s expression was one of mild curiosity. “You’re married, Sarah tells me. Your wife is watching right now.”
Mark’s eyes flicked to the camera’s red light.
“Say hello to her.”
Mark swallowed. “Hello, Emily.”
“Louder. And tell her what you are.”
Mark’s cheeks burned. “Hello, Emily. I’m… I’m a whore.”
Mr. Jacobs smiled thinly. “Again. With conviction.”
“I’m a whore!” The words echoed in the soundproofed room.
“Good.” Mr. Jacobs unzipped his trousers. His cock was half-hard, thick and veined. “Get on your knees and tell your wife what you’re about to do.”
Mark sank down. The floor was cool against his knees. He looked at the camera. “Emily… I’m going to suck this man’s cock.”
“Because?”
“Because… because it’s my job. Because you want me to.”
“Because you’re a fucking cocksucker,” Mr. Jacobs corrected, his hand coming to rest on Mark’s head.
“Because I’m a fucking cocksucker,” Mark parroted, the filth leaving a tangible stain on his tongue.
“Prove it.”
Mark opened his mouth. The man fed himself in, not violently, but with a firm, inexorable pressure. The taste was soap and salt. Mark’s jaw ached immediately. Mr. Jacobs set a slow, deep rhythm, each thrust pushing the head to the back of Mark’s throat, making him gag softly.
“Look at the camera while you do it,” the man instructed, his voice calm. “Let her see your eyes water.”
Mark forced his gaze upward. The red light was a blur through unshed tears. He focused on it, imagining Emily’s face, her dispassionate eyes watching him service a stranger. The humiliation was a live wire in his gut, buzzing alongside the physical discomfort.
After a while, Mr. Jacobs pulled out. His cock was slick with saliva. “Stand up, turn around, bend over the bench.”
A low, padded bench had been placed in the center of the room. Mark obeyed, his bare backside exposed, his cheek pressed against the cool leather. He heard the rip of a lubricant packet.
“Tell your wife what’s happening now.”
Mark spoke into the leather. “He’s… he’s putting lube on. He’s going to fuck me in the ass.”
“Why?”
“Because my ass is for use. Because I’m a hole.”
The blunt pressure came, then the slow, burning stretch. Mr. Jacobs was methodical, working himself inside with steady, shallow pushes until he was fully sheathed. He groaned, a sound of pure satisfaction. “Tight little fuckhole. You take it well for a married man.”
He began to move, a grinding, possessive rhythm. Each thrust drove Mark into the bench. The man’s hands gripped his hips hard enough to bruise. The sex was not about passion, or even cruelty for its own sake. It was transactional. A body being used for a specific, purchased purpose.
“Who owns this ass?” Mr. Jacobs grunted, picking up pace.
“You do, sir,” Mark gasped.
“Wrong. Your wife does. I’m just renting it. Tell her.”
Mark turned his head toward the camera. “You own it, Emily! You own my ass! He’s just… renting it!”
The man slammed into him, a sharp, punctuating thrust. “Damn right she does.”
The fucking continued, a monotonous, brutal metronome. Mr. Jacobs insulted him, called him a worthless fuck-pig, a taxpayer-funded cumdump. Mark repeated every phrase, his voice cracking. He came, finally, with a choked shout, pumping his release onto the bench beneath him while Mark hung, limp and used. The man pulled out, zipped up, and left without another word.
Sarah appeared with a towel and a bottle of water. “Clean up. Hydrate. Client Two is a woman. She’ll be here in forty minutes. She likes to be served. You will do everything she asks.”
The woman was younger, sharp-faced, with an air of impatient entitlement. Her name was Chloe. She didn’t want penetration. She wanted worship.
She sat in a chair in the center of the room, fully clothed in a business suit. She spread her legs. “Lick me through my panties. Until they’re soaked.”
Mark knelt. The fabric was silk. He pressed his tongue against it, feeling the shape of her beneath. The taste was perfume and cotton. She sighed, tangling her fingers in his thinning hair. “Tell the camera what you’re doing, you pathetic worm.”
“I’m licking… I’m licking Chloe’s pussy through her panties,” he mumbled, his mouth full of cloth.
“Because you’re what?”
“Because I’m a worm. A pathetic worm.”
She laughed, a light, tinkling sound. “Good. Now, take them off with your teeth.”
He did, fumbling, his nose pressing against her mound. When the panties were off, she was bare, shaved, her labia pink and slightly swollen. “Now the real thing. Get to work. And if I don’t come in the next ten minutes, you’ll be punished.”
He buried his face between her legs. His world narrowed to the taste of her, salty and musky, the sound of her breathing, the occasional jerk of her hips. He licked and suckled, using his tongue on her clit in the way Sarah had tersely instructed him during his “training.” He was a tool, an appliance designed for this single function.
She came with a shudder, grinding herself against his mouth, her heels digging into his back. “Swallow it all,” she commanded, and he did, the bitter fluid just another part of the day’s intake.
She left, adjusting her skirt, barely glancing at him.
There were three more clients that day. A couple who used him as a living toy, passing him between them. A man who made him beg for the privilege of being whipped with a leather flogger before fucking him. Each session was live-streamed. Each was punctuated by Sarah’s cool directives and the silent, watching presence of Emily, represented only by that glowing chat window that occasionally flashed a simple: More. or Louder.
By 6 p.m., Mark was a hollow shell. He ached everywhere. His throat was raw, his ass was tender and throbbing, his jaw felt unhinged. He stank of sweat, sex, and leather. Sarah had him shower, then led him to the living room. She pushed him onto the cream-colored sofa. The city lights were coming on outside, a glittering grid of normalcy.
She handed him the tablet. It showed a compiled video, a highlight reel of his day. Ten seconds of each client. His choked apologies, his debased declarations, his body being used in various configurations.
“Emily edited this herself,” Sarah said, sitting opposite him. “She’s developing an eye for cinematography.”
She played it. Mark watched his own day of horror reflected back in a brisk, ninety-second montage. It was surreal, a parody of a life.
When it ended, Sarah took the tablet back. “You performed adequately. Tips were moderate. We’ll work on your enthusiasm. It’s still too… mechanical.” She sipped a glass of wine. “This is your life now, Mark. This apartment is your world. That studio is your purpose. Emily’s pleasure, facilitated through your pain, is your only meaningful relationship. Do you understand the geometry now?”
He looked out at the city, at the countless windows holding countless unseen lives. He was in a glass box, performing for an audience of one who despised him, managed by another who viewed him as a fascinating, profitable experiment.
“Yes,” he said, his voice a dry rustle. “I understand.”
“Good.” She smiled. “Then we can begin the real work tomorrow. We have a specialty request. A long-term booking. It requires… preparation. Sleep well.”
She left him there on the sofa, staring at his reflection in the dark glass. He was no longer a husband, or a brother-in-law, or even a man. He was a series of functions. A mouth, an ass, a vessel for humiliation. The narrative of his life had been rewritten, and he was now just a character reading lines from a script of someone else’s devising. The momentum of his fall had ceased. This was not falling anymore. This was the ground. This was where he lived.