Chapter 35: Cock Crawl
The trailer had been a metal box smelling of mildew and old anxiety. Mark had spent the night on a thin pad, shivering in the dark, the ghost sensations of Titan and Apollo moving through him like a phantom fever. Dawn brought no relief, only Petra unlocking the door with a clang and tossing him a bottle of water and a protein bar. "Breakfast of champions," she'd smirked. "Now get the fuck up. You've got a busy day being a public utility."
Now, the warehouse ceiling soared into darkness, held up by skeletal steel girders like the ribs of a long-dead beast. The air was cold enough to see his breath, and it stank of wet concrete, rust, and the distant, sweet-rot smell of garbage. Portable work lights on tripods cast three harsh, overlapping pools of brilliance on the floor, turning everything outside their reach into deeper shadow.
Petra stood in one circle of light, a silhouette holding a long, black cattle prod. Lilith was setting up a camera on a tripod, adjusting the focus. Between them, arranged in a rough semi-circle on upturned milk crates or just squatting on their heels, were five men. They were layered in ragged coats and grimy jeans, faces gaunt and eyes holding a hollowed-out hunger that had nothing to do with food. Aranya had sourced them, paid them in cash and vodka. They watched Mark with a blank, predatory curiosity.
Sarah and Emily weren't here. Their presence, Mark realized with a sinking finality, was now for premium content only. This was the bulk product, the raw factory output they monitored from a distance via the camera feed.
"Alright, listen up," Petra's voice echoed. "This is simple. You're each gonna get a turn with the hole. The hole will come to you, on its knees, and service you. You will finish in its mouth or on its face. Your choice. The hole will thank you. If the hole is slow, or ungrateful..." She gestured with the prod. A blue arc of electricity cracked between its prongs with a sickening zzzt. The men didn't flinch. One of them licked his chapped lips.
Lilith finished with the camera and walked into the light. She was dressed in tactical gear, boots shiny and ruthless. She pointed to a spot on the concrete in front of the first man, a tall figure with a greying beard and yellowed eyes. "Starting position. Now, hole."
Mark stood naked at the edge of the light. His body felt brittle, used. He walked forward, the cold floor sucking the heat from his feet. He lowered himself to his knees, the concrete biting into his skin. The first man, up close, smelled of stale wine and unwashed flesh. He already had his cock out, half-hard, thick-veined and uncircumcised, resting in a dirty hand. He didn't say a word, just stared.
"Suck it bitch!" Lilith commanded.
Mark leaned forward. The smell intensified. He opened his mouth, extending his tongue to touch the flaccid head. It was sour, musky. He took it into his mouth, the flesh softening further with his saliva. He worked it with his tongue, feeling it swell against the roof of his mouth. The man grunted, a low, phlegmy sound, and shoved his hips forward. His cock hit the back of Mark's throat, a solid, unyielding pressure. Mark's eyes watered. He breathed shakily through his nose, the air filled with the man's scent.
The man started to fuck his face in short, jerky thrusts, his hands tangling in Mark's thinning hair, pulling him onto his cock. It was a selfish, mechanical rhythm. Mark gagged, spit dripping down his chin. The man's breath hitched. "Gonna come, you fucking slag," he muttered, his voice raspy. His thrusts lost rhythm, becoming frantic, punishing shoves. With a final, deep grind, he erupted. The cum was hot and bitter, coating Mark's tongue and the back of his throat in thick, salty spurts. Mark choked, swallowing convulsively, some of it leaking from the corners of his lips.
The man pulled out, softening, and slapped Mark twice, hard, across the face. "Thanks," he grunted, not to Mark, but to Petra.
Lilith was there instantly. "Did you thank him, hole? Did you thank this generous man for his donation?"
Mark, dazed, face stinging, cum on his chin, looked up. "Th-thank you," he whispered, the words ashes.
"Not good enough." The cattle prod touched his bare shoulder.
The pain was instantaneous and spectacular. A white-hot lance of pure, vibrating agony shot through his nervous system. Every muscle seized. He screamed, a raw, animal sound that bounced off the warehouse walls, collapsing onto his side, limbs twitching. Your. Knees." Petra's voice was bored.
Shaking, tears streaming, he pushed himself back up. The man on the crate just watched, zipping up his fly, a faint smirk on his face.
"Now crawl," Lilith said. "To the next donor. And this time, show some fucking gratitude."
The distance to the next milk crate was ten feet. It felt like a mile. The concrete scraped his knees raw. The second man was younger, wiry, with fever-bright eyes. He was already stroking a hard, thin cock. "C'mere, bitch," he hissed.
Mark knelt before him. He didn't wait for a command. He opened his mouth. The man guided himself in, slapping his shaft against Mark's tongue before pushing deep. This one liked to watch. He fucked with shallow, rapid thrusts, making Mark's head bob obscenely, his own eyes locked on the act. "Yeah, suck that dirty dick," he mumbled. "Suck it like you need it." His pace increased, his hips pistoning. He came suddenly, with a sharp cry, the semen hitting Mark's tongue in short, sharp bursts. He then pulled out, aimed, and spat a wad of phlegm directly onto Mark's forehead. It slid down, warm and viscous, towards his eye.
"Thank him," Lilith barked.
"Thank you," Mark sobbed, the spit and cum mingling on his face.
"Crawl."
The third man was heavy, breathing with an asthmatic wheeze. His cock was short but thick, nestled in a thatch of coarse hair. He didn't even let Mark use his mouth. As Mark knelt, the man stood, placed a heavy hand on his head, and aimed his cock. He jerked himself off, roughly, his fat fist pumping, his breath wheezing faster and faster. "Open wide, toilet," he gasped. He came in three thick ropes that landed on Mark's tongue, his cheek, his eyelid. It was copious and stank strongly. Mark gagged, unable to close his mouth until instructed.
"Gratitude."
"Thank you..." Mark whispered, tasting the man's sour deposit.
The fourth was the youngest, maybe late twenties, with a feral energy. He was hard before Mark even got there. He grabbed Mark's head in both hands and fucked his throat with a savage, deep intensity, pounding against his uvula until Mark was sure he would vomit. When he came, he held himself deep, pumping his load directly down Mark's esophagus. He then pulled out, grinned a gap-toothed grin, and pissed a short, hot stream onto Mark's chest.
The shock of the warmth, the new humiliation, drew another broken sound from Mark. The cattle prod hovered near his thigh. "Thank him for the hydration, hole. You need to stay hydrated for your work."
"Thank you," Mark wept, the urine cooling on his skin, the smell rising in the cold air.
The fifth and final man was ancient, his skin like parchment. He took forever to get hard, stroking himself with a trembling, spotted hand while Mark knelt, shivering, covered in fluids. Finally, he pushed a soft, small cock into Mark's mouth. He didn't thrust. He just held it there, muttering incoherently, until, with a sigh, a tiny, warm trickle seeped onto Mark's tongue.
It was the most demeaning of all.
"Thank him for his contribution," Petra said, a laugh in her voice.
Mark was empty, a shell. "Thank you," he mumbled, the words meaningless.
"Circuit complete," Lilith announced to the camera. She looked down at Mark, a crumpled, filthy thing kneeling in the intersection of the harsh lights. "Clean-up on aisle five." She nudged him with her boot. "You're a mess, hole. Lick the floor. Clean up every drop you and these gentlemen spilled. This is your studio now. Keep it presentable."
He knelt, his body a map of drying filth, and pressed his tongue to the cold, gritty concrete. The flavors were a horrific tapestry: the salty bitterness of spent semen, the acrid tang of urine, the loamy taste of dirt and mold. He moved in a slow, pathetic circle, lapping at the splattered evidence of his use, his own ragged breath loud in his ears.
The electric ache from the cattle prod still vibrated in his muscles, a constant reminder of the consequence of hesitation. He retched dryly, his empty stomach clenching, but he didn’t stop. Lilith’s boot was within his periphery, a dark monolith waiting to correct him.
From the shadows beyond the lights, Aranya’s voice cut through the damp air, calm and analytical. “He’s thorough, I’ll give him that. But the mouth and throat are tapped out for today. We need a new texture for the follow-up clip.” There was a pause, the sound of a tablet being tapped. “The assholes. All five of them. Have him clean each one with his tongue before they leave. It’s a natural progression. Hygiene afterward.”
Mark froze, his tongue still flat against the floor. A new low, so profound it felt like the ground beneath him had vaporized. This wasn’t a violent penetration; it was an intimate exploration of decay he was meant to perform.
Petra chuckled, the sound echoing. “Jesus, Aranya. You’re a fucking artist. The ‘Sanitation Hole’ series. I like it.” She called out to the men, who were shuffling, looking antsy for their payment. “Hey! Bonus round. Extra cash for anyone who wants a thorough rim job before they go. Our star here needs the practice.”
Lilith nudged Mark’s ribs with her toe. “You heard the director. Up. Your work isn’t done. This is detail work. I want to see passion.”
The first man, the tall one with the yellowed eyes, was already unbuckling his pants, a crude laugh escaping him. “Fuck it. Never had a personal ass-washer before.” He turned, bent over, and pulled his ragged jeans and stained underwear down to his thighs. The exposed flesh was pale, streaked with dirt, the cleft of his ass a dark shadow. The smell that wafted out was fundamentally human, a dense, fungal odor of neglect and sweat.
“Get in there, hole,” Lilith said, her phone now recording in close-up. “And narrate. Tell us what you’re tasting.”
Mark was pushed forward onto his hands and knees, his face brought inches from the man’s backside. The wrinkled pucker was nestled in coarse hair. He closed his eyes, but that only intensified the smell. He opened his mouth, extended his tongue, and made the first, flat contact.
The skin was surprisingly hot. The taste was overwhelmingly salty, a sour, pungent flavor that made his jaws ache. He dragged his tongue upward through the cleft, feeling the texture of skin and hair.
“Describe it,” Lilith prompted, her voice clinical.
“It’s… salty,” Mark whispered, his voice broken. He pressed his face closer, his nose buried, as he circled the tight rosette with the tip of his tongue. He probed, trying to force the muscle into the resistant pucker. It yielded slightly, admitting a taste that was deeper, more profoundly fecal. He gagged, strings of saliva connecting his lips to the man’s flesh.
The man grunted, shifting his weight. “Tickles, you fucking faggot. Do the job.” He pushed back against Mark’s face, smothering him.
Mark worked, licking and probing, his mind dissociating, floating somewhere near the rusted girders above. He was a tool, a living wet-wipe. When the man was satisfied, he stood, pulling his pants up without a glance. “Pay up,” he said to Petra.
They moved down the line. The second, wiry man, was eager. “Make it wet, bitch. Get it real clean.” His asshole had a sharp, vinegary stench. Mark dove in, his tongue thrusting deeper now, a mechanical piston of degradation. He could feel the man’s muscles clenching around his invading tongue, a grotesque parody of intimacy.
The third man was fat, his cheeks spreading wide with minimal effort, revealing a pucker that was inflamed, almost raw. The taste was medicinal, like old ointment, undercut by a sickening sweetness. Mark swirled his tongue around the swollen flesh, lapping at the residue of some untreated condition.
“Thank each one,” Lilith reminded him, the camera’s red light a Cyclops eye. “Thank them for letting you clean their filthy asses.”
“Thank you,” Mark rasped, after each man, the words dissolving into the foul air.
The fourth man, the feral one, laughed the entire time. “Yeah, eat my shit, you hungry slut! Your tongue feels better than the newspaper I usually use!” He rocked back, grinding his hole against Mark’s nose and mouth, smearing him. When Mark finally pulled back, gasping, his face was slick with a vile, oily secretion.
The fifth, the old man, was almost apathetic. His skin was loose, papery. The act was slow, desolate. Mark tasted the thin, metallic trace of blood, maybe from fissures, and something dry and powdery like ash. It was the emptiness of it that finally broke through Mark’s numbness—this wasn’t even about cruelty anymore, but a transactional erasure of his humanity down to its most basic, repulsive function.
When it was done, the men were paid and vanished into the shadows. Mark remained on his knees, his mouth and soul poisoned. Aranya walked into the light, surveying him. “Good. The juxtaposition is perfect. The audience sees the thoroughness, the complete breakdown of barriers.” She looked at Petra. “Hose him down with the disinfectant spray. We don’t want him getting sick. He’s got a reunion session with Apollo and Titan scheduled for Thursday. The vets want to check his throat and anal tissue for tears first, but he’s a resilient little fucker.”
Petra turned a high-pressure hose on him. The chemical-laced water was ice-cold, stinging his raw skin and washed into his mouth, carrying the taste of the warehouse, the men, and his own dissolution down into the dark grate beneath him. He shuddered violently, clean and empty, a vessel prepared for the next, inevitable filling.