Chapter 5: The Breakup
The taste of him lingered. A phantom bitterness at the back of her throat, a salty tang on her tongue even after she’d brushed her teeth twice. Sheila sat at her desk, the glow of her laptop the only light in the room. She was naked except for an old t-shirt. The physical evidence of Barry was everywhere: the deep ache inside her cunt, the tender bruise on her hip, the shredded black dress in a guilty heap by the bed. The photo of her and Derek was gone, crumpled in the trash can beside her. In its absence, the room felt both emptier and more honest.
She opened her browser. The forum page loaded, the familiar stark layout a digital altar. Her heartbeat, which had settled into a dull thud, kicked up again. This was the next confessional.
Her fingers trembored slightly as she clicked ‘New Thread.’ In the subject line, she typed: UPDATE: I did something bad with a family member.
She stared at the blinking cursor. The silence of the room pressed in, but the memory of his grunts, the smell of their sweat, the feel of his release trickling down her thigh was loud. She began to type, the clicks of the keys rapid and frantic.
I posted before about feeling ugly and my ex. Well, something happened tonight. My uncle came over. I was upset and crying and he comforted me. It led to more. He ate my ass. I mean, he really put his tongue in my asshole. I’ve never felt anything like it. I came so hard my legs gave out. Then he fucked me. No condom. Just raw. He came inside me. I’m still sore. It was so wrong but I’ve never been so wet in my life. I sucked him off after and swallowed. He’s married. He’s my uncle. I should feel sick. But all I can think about is how good his tongue felt in my ass. Does anal sex feel that good? I want to try but I’m scared. What does it feel like for a girl?
She read it over, a cold thrill crackling down her spine. It was a grenade of truth, pin pulled. She pictured the men—faceless, hungry—reading her words. Imagining her. Using her confession. She hit ‘Submit.’
The wait was agonizing. She refreshed the page. Nothing. She got up, paced the three steps to her bed and back. The soreness between her legs was a persistent, throbbing reminder. She sat down, spread her knees, and touched herself. Her fingers found her clit, still sensitive, swollen. She circled it, her breath catching. This was different. She wasn’t just chasing a numb release. She was replaying. The tearing sound of her dress. The weight of his hands. The obscene, wet noise of his tongue.
The page refreshed. A reply.
User ThroatCutter69: Holy fucking shit. You’re a natural born slut. Family dick is the best dick. No one will ever know you better. Anal is a million times better than a tongue. It’s a full feeling, like you’re being split open and owned. You need to get him to fuck that tight ass next. Film it.
Sheila’s finger pressed harder on her clit. A sharp gasp. Her other hand scrolled.
User DepthCharge: The first time you take a cock in the ass is a religious experience. It hurts for a second, then it’s like a switch flips and your brain just melts. It’s the dirtiest, most submissive thing a woman can do. Beg your uncle for it. Get on your knees and beg him to wreck your asshole.
Her cunt was dripping, wetness slicking her fingers. The crude words weren’t just words; they were blueprints, commands. They gave shape to the formless hunger inside her. She remembered the pressure of his tongue, the initial sting giving way to a shocking, deep pleasure. A cock would be bigger. Harder. It would truly wreck her. The idea made her muscles clench tight.
Another reply popped up.
User UncleBadTouch: Lucky bastard. A niece with an ass like that begging for it? He’s living the dream. Tell him you want his cock in your shitter. Use lube. Take it slow. But you’ll take it. You’ll love it. Then you’ll want it all the time.
Sheila’s breathing was shallow. She pushed two fingers inside herself, feeling her own heat, imagining it was a thicker, blunter intrusion somewhere else. She pictured Barry’s face, red with effort, his small eyes locked on her as he pushed into a place no one else had ever been. A place Derek would never have dreamed of. A low moan vibrated in her chest. She was masturbating to the thought of her uncle sodomizing her, encouraged by strangers. The depravity was a dark ocean, and she was willingly sinking.
She typed a reply in the thread, her fingers slippery on the keys: I’m so wet reading this. I can still taste him. I want to ask him. How do I bring it up?
Responses flooded in, a cascade of filth.
Just bend over in front of him and spread your cheeks.
Text him a picture of your asshole. Tell him it’s his.
When he comes over, just have the lube out on the bed. No words needed.
Sheila closed her eyes, her fingers working faster, plunging in and out of her sopping cunt. The imagery was blinding. Barry, his khakis around his ankles, squirting cold lube onto his thick cock. His hands spreading her ass cheeks wide. The blunt, insistent pressure against her tightest ring of muscle.
User AnalArchitect: It’s all about relaxation. Breathe out. Push out like you’re trying to shit. That opens you up. The head is the hardest part. Once it pops in, you’ll see stars. He’ll feel your ass muscles milking his cock. It’s tighter than any pussy. He’ll blow his load so deep inside you you’ll feel it for days.
The vulgar instruction tipped her over the edge. Her orgasm was a silent, violent convulsion. Her back arched off the chair, her mouth open in a soundless scream as her cunt clenched around her fingers and a fresh gush of wetness coated her hand. She saw stars behind her eyelids, just as the man had promised.
She slumped forward, forehead against the cool edge of the laptop, panting. The glow of the screen illuminated her sweaty face. The thread had more replies. They were discussing her now, as if she weren’t there.
She’s probably cumming right now thinking about it.
I’d pay to see that fat ass get broken in.
She belongs in the family now. Uncle’s personal anal sleeve.
Sheila felt a strange, calm belonging. She was their slut. His niece. These identities, woven from shame and craving, fit her better than ‘student’ or ‘girlfriend’ ever had.
These identities, woven from shame and craving, fit her better than ‘student’ or ‘girlfriend’ ever had. A private smile touched her lips, raw and unfamiliar. She scrolled further.
User GapeGuru replied directly to her question: You bring it up by getting educated. Quit theorizing. Go down to the Adult World on 8th. Their back room has a huge cast collection of anal training videos. Real instructional shit. Buy a beginner’s butt plug set. Feel the stretch in your own dorm before you ask your uncle to wreck you. Knowledge is power, slut.
The suggestion was practical, a task. It cut through the feverish fantasy with a jarring, mundane clarity. Go to a store. Buy things. Learn. Her eyes flicked to the clock. It was past ten, but the Adult World sign, a garish pink neon she’d always averted her gaze from, stayed lit until midnight.
She stood. Her legs felt steady now, purposeful. She didn’t change out of the t-shirt. She pulled on a pair of loose gray sweatpants and the baggiest hoodie she owned, the fabric swallowing her frame, hiding the new bruises and the body that caused them. She tied her hair back, shoved her glasses on. It was her old uniform, her disguise. The irony was a sharp, private joke.
The night air was cool, a slap after the cloistered heat of her room. She walked with her head down, hands deep in the hoodie’s pouch. The few people on the sidewalk were shadows. The neon sign, when she finally looked up, buzzed audibly, painting the pavement a sickly magenta. ADULT WORLD. VIDEO BOOTHS. NOVELTIES. The windows were blacked out.
A bell jangled when she pushed the heavy door open. The smell inside was overwhelming—cloying cherry air freshener overlaying something stale and chemical, like old plastic and dust. Harsh fluorescent lights glared down on packed shelves.
the store had everything, sexy outfits, toys, lube, private booths.
The aisles were narrow canyons lined with glossy plastic. Racks of shiny lingerie in violent reds and blacks hung like skinned animals. Shelves groaned under the weight of grotesque silicone shapes—veined dildos, double-headed monsters, rubber fists. Her eyes skimmed over bottles of lube with names like “Anal Ease” and “Gape Glide.” At the back, a corridor of numbered doors promised private video booths, the air around them thick with the smell of bleach and something else, something musky and sad.
She felt exposed, as if the garish light could see through her baggy clothes to the sore, used flesh beneath. The forum bravado evaporated. She was just a girl in a dirty bookstore, staring at a wall of anal training kits. The boxes showed smiling, cartoonish women winking beside progressively larger sets of rubber plugs.
“Findin’ what you need?”
The voice was a dry rasp, too close. She flinched. The cashier, a pudgy, ugly man with a greasy comb-over and stained polo shirt, had crept up behind her. He looked up from a handheld game and asked if she needed help. His small, watery eyes traveled over her hoodie and sweatpants with a practiced, dismissive leer, lingering on her chest regardless of the fabric meant to hide it.
Sheila’s throat tightened. “Just looking.”
“First timer?” He smirked, nodding at the kits. “Go with the silicone. Easier to clean. The jelly ones smell funny after a while.” He spoke with the bored expertise of a mechanic discussing motor oil. “You’ll want a good water-based lube with these. Oil-based eats the material. We got a sale on the thick stuff, better for backdoor play.”
His casual vulgarity, so similar to the forum men’s but here, in the thick, smelling air, made her skin prickle. She nodded, unable to form words.
“Your boyfriend into anal?” he pressed, leaning a meaty forearm on the shelf. “A lot of guys are. They see it on the internet and think it’s easy. It ain’t easy. Takes patience.” He eyed her. “You look like you could handle it, though. Got the hips for it.”
The comment was invasive, clinical. It should have disgusted her. Instead, a flicker of that validating warmth returned. He saw the utility of her body, too. “It’s for me,” she heard herself say, the quiet voice foreign in her ears. “To… try by myself first.”
His eyebrows raised slightly. A new interest sharpened his gaze. “Is that right? Smart girl. Practice makes perfect. Get a small, medium, and large. Train that sphincter muscle. It’s a muscle, like any other.” He reached past her, his arm brushing her hoodie, and pulled down a box. “This kit’s decent. Comes with its own lube sample. Thirty-nine ninety-nine.”
She took the box. The smiling woman on the cover seemed to mock her.
The smiling woman on the cover seemed to mock her. Sheila held the box, the plastic blister pack cool against her fingers. She thought of the forum instructions, of training a muscle. Henry watched her, his tongue pushing against his inside cheek.
“But toys never feel as good as the real thing,” he said, his voice dropping to a confidential grunt. He jerked his head toward the opposite aisle. “Our anal video collection is on aisle three. You can view some in our private booths.” He paused, letting the offer hang in the chemically-scented air. “Booth rental is twenty dollars an hour but I’ll waive that fee for you.”
The waiver felt more violating than a charge. It was a transaction, just of a different kind. Her validation, her presence, was the currency. Sheila’s grip tightened on the training kit. She looked at the corridor of doors, then back at his bland, expectant face. The curiosity was a physical pull, sharper than fear. She gave a single, tight nod.
“Booth six,” Henry said, a smug lift to his mouth. He took the kit from her and placed it on the counter. “It’s the cleanest. Remote’s inside. Selection codes are on the wall. I’ll hold this for you up here.”
The phrase ‘for you’ slithered in her ear. She walked toward booth six, her sneakers sticking faintly to the floor. The walls of the corridor were covered in a scuffed, dark vinyl. She caught her reflection in a security mirror—a shapeless hoodie gliding past glossy posters of exaggerated bodies. She opened the door.
The booth was a closet. A single, hard plastic seat was bolted to the floor in front of a small, dusty screen. A chrome remote was tethered to the wall by a greasy cord. The room smelled of bleach, semen, and despair. A printed list of three-digit codes was tacked up, titles like “ASS-ERIZE 101” and “GAPEFEST 4” next to them.
She sat. The plastic was cold through her sweatpants. She picked up the remote, her thumb hovering over the power button. Her heart was a frantic animal in her chest. She pressed it.
The screen flickered to life with a low hum. A menu list appeared, the titles blunter now. ANAL INTENSIFICATION. FIRST TIME ANAL TEARS. DADDY’S DIRTY HOLE. Her breath hitched. She typed 117, for “BEGINNER’S BACKDOOR.”
The video was shockingly high-definition. A young woman with wide, glassy eyes was bent over a couch, a male voice off-camera giving calm, instructional commands. “You need to relax that rosebud, sweetheart. Breathe out. Good girl.” A gloved finger, slick with clear lube, circled the woman’s asshole. The camera zoomed in until the pink pucker filled the screen.
Sheila’s hand moved to her own sweatpants. She tugged the string loose, shoved her hand down past the waistband of her underwear. Her fingers met wetness. She was soaking, her cunt throbbing in time with her pulse. She kept her eyes locked on the screen.
The gloved finger pressed inward, slowly, the tight ring of muscle resisting then yielding. The woman on screen gasped, her face pressed into the couch cushion. “It’s in,” the voice said. “Feel the stretch. That’s it.” The finger began to move, a slow in-and-out that made Sheila’s own body clench. She mimicked the motion, two fingers pushing into her cunt, imagining the thicker, stranger intrusion.
The scene changed. Now the woman was on her knees, a man’s thick, veiny cock pressing against her asshole. The woman was whimpering, “Please, go slow.”
“Breathe out and push,” the man grunted. He pressed forward. The camera showed the obscene, gradual engulfment, the head disappearing into the tight ring, the woman’s cry morphing into a choked moan. “Fuck, that’s it. Take that cock up your shitter.”
Sheila’s fingers worked faster, plunging into her slick heat. She imagined Barry behind her, his hands on her hips, his grunt in her ear. She imagined the pop, the burn, the unbelievable fullness the forum men described. The woman on screen was sobbing now, but her hips were pushing back, taking more.
“You like that, you anal whore?” the man snarled, picking up pace, his balls slapping against her.
“Yes! Yes!” the woman screamed.
Sheila came, a silent, shuddering orgasm that squeezed her eyes shut and tore a gasp from her throat. Her hips jerked against her own hand. On the screen, the man was roaring, pumping his load deep into the woman’s ass.
The screen went dark, returning to the static menu. Sheila’s hand was still tucked inside her sweats, her fingers slick and cooling. The instructional video’s clinical tone had dissolved into something base and screaming, and the echo of it buzzed in her skull alongside the store’s perpetual hum. She leaned back, the plastic seat creaking. The emptiness of the booth felt heavier now, charged by what she’d just witnessed and mirrored.
She caught her breath. The air was thick and tasted of copper and disinfectant. Her thumb found the remote again, scrolling through the numeric list. Her eyes, adjusted to the gloom, skipped over titles until she found code 308: ANAL GANGBANG GAPE GALLERY. She typed the numbers. The screen flickered, resolving into a wide shot of a grimy basement. One woman, bent over a stained mattress, surrounded by four men.
They were not actors from the previous video. These men looked raw, unprofessional, with tattoos and a hungry, casual cruelty in their eyes. The woman’s face was pressed into the mattress, her ass high in the air, glistening with what looked like spit and lube. One man was already fucking her cunt from behind, his grip rough on her hips. Another knelt in front of her face, his cock slapping her cheek. “Open up, bitch,” he muttered, the audio tinny but clear through the booth’s small speaker.
Sheila’s breath hitched. Her fingers, almost of their own accord, pushed back into her damp underwear, circling her clit which was still sensitive and swollen. She watched, transfixed, as the man at her rear pulled out, his cock shiny and wet. He spat onto his hand, rubbed it over his shaft, then pressed the broad head against the woman’s other hole.
“This one’s mine,” he grunted. He didn’t ask. He just pushed. The woman’s body jerked, a muffled scream eaten by the mattress. The camera zoomed in, a close-up of her asshole stretching obscenely around the invading girth. It was violent, a conquest. Sheila felt a corresponding clench deep inside herself, a phantom burn. Her finger pushed against her own tight ring, applying pressure, imagining the pop.
“Fuck yeah, take it,” one of the other men cheered, stroking himself. The man buried in her ass began to piston, hard and fast, his balls slapping against her. The woman’s cries became rhythmic, punctuating each thrust. The man at her mouth shoved his cock between her lips, gagging her. The remaining two just watched, hands on their cocks, waiting their turn.
The scene was chaos, a raw choreography of use. Sheila’s arousal was a sharp, twisting knife in her gut, inseparable from a cold knot of fear. This was beyond her uncle, beyond any fantasy she’d typed. This was eradication. The woman on screen was becoming just a collection of holes, her identity erased by the pounding. Sheila’s fingers worked faster, slippery with her own wetness, her other hand pinching her nipple through the t-shirt and hoodie. She was mimicking their consumption, alone in the plastic chair.
Her eyes, glassy and wide, darted from the screen. She needed to see, to ground the fantasy in the crumbling reality of the booth. She looked around the small booth.
And saw glory holes on both sides of the booth.
She hadn’t noticed them before, her focus locked on the screen. They were crude, ragged circles cut into the vinyl-clad partition walls, about waist-high to a seated person. The edges were darkened, stained. A silent, physical invitation. Her blood seemed to freeze and then pound hot all at once. On screen, a second man was now pushing his cock into the woman’s well-fucked asshole alongside the first, a brutal double penetration that made her body bow and spasm.
The woman’s scream on the tinny speaker was a stretched, metallic thing. Sheila’s own moan escaped as a wet, ragged gasp she tried to choke back into her throat. She bit down on the fabric of her hoodie sleeve, her fingers working furiously at her clit, her hips rocking against her own hand. The double penetration on screen was a violent ballet, a mess of thrusting hips and strained limbs that made her own emptiness scream.
A soft, shuffling sound came from the booth to her right. A shadow shifted against the dim light leaking through the glory hole. Sheila froze, her fingers still buried in her soaked cunt. Her breath halted. The video’s audio grunted and slapped.
A pale, uncircumcised cock pushed through the ragged circle in the partition.
It was thick, veiny, and ugly. The head was a blunt, purplish bulb emerging from a slack foreskin. It curved slightly downward. It just hovered there, disembodied, in the middle of the stained wall. A silent, flesh-and-blood question.
Sheila’s mind fragmented. One shard screamed to zip her pants, to flee the booth, to scrape her skin raw in a shower. The larger, hungrier piece observed it with a clinical detachment that was instantly erotic. This was the logical, geometric conclusion to the forum, to Barry, to the video. This was anonymous validation in its purest form. No face, no name, no pretense of care. Just a cock, and her need.
Her hand, slick with her own juices, slipped from her pants. She stared at the intruding flesh. It twitched, a bead of clear precum swelling at the slit. The man on the other side said nothing. He just waited.
Slowly, as if in a dream, Sheila shifted off the plastic seat. She knelt on the sticky floor. The concrete was cold and gritty against her knees through the thin sweatpants. The smell of bleach, semen, and unwashed male skin filled her nostrils. She leaned forward.
She did not kiss it. She opened her mouth and took the head inside, her tongue flattening against the underside. The taste was bitter, salty, profoundly organic—musky and unclean. It was the taste of the store itself, given flesh. She heard a low groan from the other side of the wall, a sound of relief and triumph.
She began to suck, applying the practiced diligence she’d used on Barry. Her glasses slid down her nose. She used one hand to push them back up, the other hand reaching to grip the base of his shaft. The skin was warm, the veins like cords under her fingers. She worked him deeper, her throat relaxing, allowing the blunt head to nudge into her gullet. The man’s hips jerked forward, feeding her another inch. She gagged slightly, tears springing to her eyes.
“Yeah, that’s it,” a low, rough voice mumbled through the hole. “Suck that dick, you nasty bitch.”
The filth from a stranger’s mouth ignited her. She moaned around his girth, the vibration drawing another sharp gasp from him. She sucked with a desperate hunger, bobbing her head, her spit making a wet, sloppy sound that mixed with the video’s soundtrack. Her free hand clawed at the waistband of her sweatpants, shoving them and her underwear down to her thighs. She needed to be filled. Now.
She released his cock with a pop, a string of saliva and precum connecting her lips to the glistening head. She didn’t look up. She turned around, presenting her ass to the glory hole, to the cock, to the void. She bent over, bracing her hands on the filthy wall beneath the screen, which still played its symphony of degradation. Her swollen cunt and the tight, untouched pucker of her asshole were exposed to the open circle.