Chapter 13: rock bottom
The silence in Jack’s apartment had become a physical thing, a thick syrup he moved through. He’d stopped going to the gym. The few times he’d tried, the mirrored walls showed him a stranger—softer, narrower, with a face that seemed to borrow light from somewhere else. His red hair, now growing past his ears, felt like a disguise. The worst was the void between his legs, a constant, nagging reminder of absence that no amount of staring could fill.
But tonight, a different ache had begun. A restless, itching need in his blood. It had been months since he’d been with anyone. The idea of trying, of exposing his pathetic, shrunken cock to a woman, made his stomach clench. But the memory of power, of conquest, was a ghost that wouldn’t leave. He needed to see it, to touch it, even if just as a spectator to his own past.
He thought of Megan. Sweet, eager Megan who cried. She’d texted him once after the “accident,” a bland “hope u feel better.” He’d ignored it. She was familiar territory. A known quantity. He could go there, slip into his old role. Maybe seeing her, smelling her, would kick-start something. Maybe the Bitch Breaker just needed a familiar garage.
He pulled a hoodie over his head, hiding his hair, and walked across campus. The night air was cool, carrying the smell of damp earth and distant traffic. Each step felt alien in his looser jeans. He arrived at her dorm, a concrete block lit by harsh fluorescent strips. He didn’t text. He’d never announced himself before. He just went.
As he raised his fist to knock on door 307, he heard it. A low, shuddering moan, followed by a soft, rhythmic slapping sound. It was unmistakable. He froze, his hand hovering. A hot spike of something—possessiveness, rage—jolted through him. This was his slut.
The rage curdled, mingling with a sharp, voyeuristic curiosity. He lowered his head, peering through the old, imperfect keyhole.
The room was a wash of soft, pink and purple fairy lights. Megan was on her back on the bed, her legs hooked over the shoulders of the person above her. Jack’s breath hitched. It was Johann. Johann from his poli-sci class. The goth shemale he’d called a “freakshow” just last semester, slamming her books off a table.
Johann was shirtless, her C-cup breasts swaying with each movement. Her skin was pale in the dim light, contrasting with her black hair, which fell around her shoulders. She was fucking Megan with a slow, devastating precision. Jack could see the length of Johann’s cock, thick and impressively hard, sliding in and out of Megan with a wet, slick sound. It was bigger than his had ever been. Much bigger.
“Oh god, right there,” Megan whimpered, her voice ragged. “Please, don’t stop.”
Johann didn’t speak. She just watched Megan’s face, a slight, focused smirk on her lips. She adjusted her angle, driving deeper. Megan’s back arched off the bed, a sharp cry tearing from her throat.
“Fuck! Yes! There!”
Jack felt a stirring in his own groin, a faint, pathetic throb. He pressed his forehead against the cool wood of the door. His heart hammered against his ribs. He should leave. He should kick the door in. But his body was betraying him, a warm, unwelcome arousal pooling in his belly. He was hard. Or, at least, he was as hard as he could get now—a semi-erect, modest swell that strained uselessly against his boxers.
He couldn’t look away.
Johann picked up the pace, the slapping sounds becoming faster, wetter. She leaned down, capturing one of Megan’s nipples in her mouth, sucking hard. Megan’s hands scrambled at Johann’s back, her nails leaving faint red trails.
“I’m gonna come,” Megan gasped. “Johann, I’m gonna—”
“Come then,” Johann said, her voice a low, confident rasp. “Let me feel it.”
It was the command, the utter control in her tone, that did it. Megan shattered. Her whole body seized, a violent, trembling orgasm that Jack could see rippling through her abdomen. She screamed, a raw, unfiltered sound of pleasure that echoed in the small room. Jack had never heard her make a sound like that. With him, her finishes had been quiet, polite sighs, if they happened at all.
Johann fucked her through it, relentless, until Megan was sobbing with overstimulation, pushing weakly at her hips. Only then did Johann slow, pulling out with a soft, wet pop.
Megan lay spent, breathing in ragged gulps. Johann knelt between her legs, her own cock glistening and huge. She stroked herself slowly, looking down at Megan’s wrecked form.
“You’re such a good fuck, Meg,” Johann said, almost casually.
“Again,” Megan whispered, turning her head to look, her eyes glazed. “I want you to come.”
Jack watched, mesmerized and sickened, as Johann positioned herself. She didn’t re-enter Megan. Instead, she shuffled forward, until the head of her dick was poised over Megan’s face. Megan understood instantly. She opened her mouth, her tongue darting out.
Johann fed her cock into Megan’s waiting mouth, groaning as the warm wetness enveloped her. She began to thrust, shallowly at first, then deeper. Megan gagged, tears springing to her eyes, but she didn’t pull away. She reached up, cupping Johann’s balls, urging her on.
“Suck it, you greedy bitch,” Johann grunted, her hips snapping faster. “Take it all.”
The obscenity, the sheer filth of it, sent another jolt through Jack. He felt a sticky dampness in his own boxers. He’d come. Soft, barely-there, a pathetic seepage without any of the violent, satisfying release he used to know. Shame burned his face, hotter than any arousal.
Johann’s breathing grew ragged. “Gonna fill that pretty mouth,” she warned. Megan just moaned around the thick shaft, the sound one of utter submission.
With a final, deep grind, Johann stilled. Jack saw her stomach muscles clench, saw the base of her cock pulse. Megan’s throat worked, swallowing desperately as Johann let out a long, low groan of release. After a moment, Johann pulled back, her dick slipping from Megan’s lips with a string of spit and cum. Megan licked her lips, panting, a dazed smile on her face.
Jack stumbled back from the door. The hallway tilted. His own damp underwear clung to him, a humiliating proof of his degradation. He had been a spectator to his own replacement. The tool of his dominance was gone, and in its place was this… this nothing. This soft, fascinated horror. The girl he’d used had found a real pleasure he could never provide, with the very kind of person he’d despised.
He turned and fled down the sterile hallway, the sounds of their soft, post-coital laughter chasing him like ghosts. He didn’t stop until he was back in his own dark silence. He stripped, looking down at his small, limp dick, at the empty sack beneath it. He hadn’t just lost his body. He’d lost the very desire that made it work. The engine was broken, and he was left cold, watching the world move on without him, through a keyhole.
The engine was broken, and he was left cold, watching the world move on without him, through a keyhole. Back in his apartment, the silence wasn’t silent at all. It echoed with Megan’s choked cries and the wet, rhythmic slap of Johann taking what was his. He leaned against his own door, sliding down until he sat on the cheap laminate floor, knees drawn up. His sweatpants were stained with the pathetic evidence of his arousal, a cold, damp patch against his skin. He couldn’t escape the image, projected on the back of his eyelids every time he blinked: the pale, powerful arc of Johann’s back, the sheer girth of her, the look of wrecked bliss on Megan’s face.
A tremor started in his hands, a fine vibration that traveled up his arms. He looked down at the faint bulge in his sweats. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right. He was supposed to be the one who made girls scream, not some goth freak with a bigger dick. A hot, sour jealousy boiled up, mixing with a shameful, addictive fascination. He remembered the precise moment Johann had come, the pulsing at the base of her shaft. His own flaccid cock gave a feeble twitch.
“Fuck,” he whispered to the empty room. His voice sounded thin, reedy.
He shoved his hand into his sweats, wrapping his fingers around himself. It felt small, insubstantial, a soft nub of flesh. He tried to conjure the old images, the ones that used to work in seconds: faceless blondes bent over, Megan crying. Nothing. The pictures blurred, dissolved, and reformed into Johann. Johann kneeling over Megan. Johann’s cock, slick and full, plunging deep. The low groan she’d made. The absolute command in her voice.
“Come then.”
Jack’s breath hitched. He began to stroke, a clumsy, desperate rhythm. He imagined it wasn’t his own hand. He imagined it was… hers. Bigger, stronger, wrapped around him, jerking him off with the same ruthless efficiency she’d fucked Megan. He pictured Johann looking down at him with that cool, amused smirk, watching him squirm.
“You like watching, don’t you?” he imagined her saying, her voice a dark ripple in his mind. “You like seeing a real cock work.”
He did. God help him, he did. The shame was a fuel, igniting a sick, dizzying heat in his gut. His strokes became faster, more frantic, a rough, dry friction. He was barely hard, a stubborn, spongy half-erection that curved pathetically against his stomach. He focused everything on the memory of Johann’s body, the sweat on her skin, the sheer dominating presence of her. He thought of her balls, heavy and full, slapping against Megan’s skin. He thought of the cum, thick and hot, flooding Megan’s throat.
“You want this?” the phantom Johann sneered in his head. “This is what you are now. This is all you get.”
A broken sound escaped him, part sob, part gasp. The orgasm, when it came, was a shallow, underwhelming spasm. A few weak spurts of thin, clear-ish fluid dotted his sweatpants and his stomach, more like a sad leakage than a climax. There was no relief, only a hollow, aching vacuum that opened up beneath his ribs. He stared at the meager result, his hand still trembling around his now-softening flesh. A hot tear tracked through the stubble on his cheek, then another. He didn’t sob; he just sat there, silent tears cutting through the grime of his shame, staring at the proof of his utter ruin.
From the shadowed corner of the room, perched on a dusty bookshelf, Lila watched. Her iridescent wings gave a soft, satisfied flutter. She saw the tears. She saw the pathetic, glistening mess on his clothes. A slow, mischievous smile spread across her face. The self-loathing was perfect. The fracture was complete. He was empty, a vessel scoured clean of his old, ugly pride. Now, he was ready to be filled with something new. She tilted her head, her green eyes gleaming in the dark. The next step would be a gift. A very pointed, very personal gift. She vanished with a whisper of displaced air, leaving Jack alone with the scent of his own failure and the silent, glittering mote of fairy dust that drifted down, unseen, to settle in his red hair.