Chapter 9: Free Use Contract
The air in the back room was thick with the smell of stale cigarette smoke, cheap vinyl, and the tang of unwashed bodies. Flickering neon from a ‘XXX’ sign in the corridor outside pulsed through the beaded curtain, casting the space in waves of garish red. Shelves lined with garish boxes and plastic-wrapped novelties created narrow, shadowy aisles. In the center, under the unblinking eye of a buzzing security camera, stood a low, padded bench. Leather restraints dangled from its corners.
Lucia stood shivering beside it, wearing only a cheap, sheer black babydoll that ended at her mid-thigh. The magical plug inside her was a constant, heavy presence, a familiar stretching fullness that made every shift of her weight a reminder. Her Mistress, now dressed in sleek black leather pants and a tight tank top, fastened a thick, padded collar around Lucia’s throat. It clicked shut with a sound like a gunshot in the quiet room.
“This is where theory becomes practice,” Mistress Sasha said, her voice cool and instructional. She clipped a short, heavy chain from the collar to a ring on the bench. “You have expressed a desire to be nothing but a set of holes. Today, you will be evaluated as common property. The sign will invite participation. You will not refuse any offer. You will thank every participant. You will beg for their completion. Do you understand the parameters?”
Lucia’s heart hammered against her ribs. The reality of the dim, sordid room was a cold splash after the sunlit brutality of the apartment. This was anonymous. This was filthy. A tremor ran through her, part terror, part electric anticipation that made her nipples peak against the sheer fabric. The plug throbbed warmly.
“Yes, Mistress,” she whispered.
“Louder.”
“Yes, Mistress! I understand. I am common property. I will not refuse.”
“Good.” Mistress Sasha produced a small, handwritten sign on a stand. She placed it at the head of the bench. It read, in bold marker: ‘FREE USE – TAKE WHAT YOU NEED’. She then guided Lucia down, bending her over the bench. The padding was cool and sticky against Lucia’s cheek. Her Mistress secured her wrists to the front legs, and her ankles to the back legs, leaving her bent at a sharp angle, ass raised high, mouth accessible just above the bench’s edge. The position was profoundly vulnerable, her body offered like a feast.
Mistress Sasha leaned close. “I will be watching. From there.” She nodded toward a darkened corner where a single stool sat. “Remember who you belong to, even when you are being used by strangers. Your pleasure, your discomfort, your very breath is still mine to command.”
She walked away, her footsteps fading. A moment later, Lucia saw the faint red glow of a cigarette being lit in the shadows. The wait began.
Time stretched. The hum of the neon was a maddening drone. The plug ached. She heard the distant chime of the shop’s front door, muffled voices. Her muscles began to tremble from the strain of the position. Shame washed over her, hot and cold. What was she doing here? Who would come?
The bead curtain rustled.
Lucia flinched, her breath catching. Heavy boots scuffed on the linoleum. They stopped. She could feel a presence behind her, could hear slow, deliberate breathing.
“Well, fuck me,” a man’s voice grunted, low and raspy with tobacco. “Free use, huh?” A calloused hand slapped her ass cheek, the sound sharp in the quiet. The sting made her gasp. The hand rubbed the spot, then slid between her legs, groping her through the flimsy fabric. A thick finger pressed against the base of the plug. “Christ. You’re packed.”
Lucia remained silent, her instructions ringing in her ears.
“Mouth looks open for business, too,” the man mused. He moved around the bench. He was heavyset, smelling of motor oil and old sweat, his jeans stained. His face was grizzled, his eyes appraising her with detached curiosity. He unzipped his fly, pulled out a thick, semi-hard cock. “Suck.”
Lucia opened her mouth. He didn’t guide it. He simply stepped forward, shoving the head past her lips. It was unclean, musky. She gagged instinctively, but the Sinner’s Spit flared, and her throat opened as if trained. He grunted in surprise as she took him deep, her nose pressing into his coarse pubic hair.
“Oh, you’re a natural, ain’tcha?” he chuckled, and began to fuck her face.
It was a utilitarian, rhythm-less pounding. He used her mouth like a fleshlight, holding her head by the hair, his thrusts short and rough. Saliva dripped from her lips, down her chin. Her eyes watered. She focused on the technique, on relaxing her jaw, on breathing through her nose when she could. She moaned, the sound vibrating around him, and she felt him swell.
“Gonna come, you dirty bitch,” he panted. His hips stuttered. He shoved himself to the back of her throat and held, a guttural sound ripping from him. The first hot, bitter spurt hit. She swallowed convulsively. The second. The third. He sighed, pulling out with a slick pop. A final string of cum landed on her cheek. He tucked himself away. “Yeah. That’ll do.”
“Th-thank you,” Lucia choked out, the taste coating her tongue.
He just grunted and walked out, the beads clacking behind him.
Before she could even catch her breath, the curtain moved again. Two figures this time. Younger. One in a hoodie, one in a leather jacket.
“No fucking way,” Hoodie whispered.
“Way,” Leather Jacket said. “Look at that ass.”
They approached. One stood in front of her, already unbuckling. The other, Leather Jacket, went behind. She heard a zipper, felt hands spreading her cheeks apart. A blunt pressure replaced the familiar stretch of the plug. He was forcing himself inside her, dry, using only the leftover slickness from the plug’s earlier secretions.
The burn was instant, searing. Lucia cried out, the sound muffled by the cock now filling her mouth. Hoodie was fucking her face with youthful, frantic energy, his hands gripping the bench on either side of her head.
“Tight… Jesus, she’s tight,” Leather Jacket groaned behind her, forcing another brutal inch into her resisting passage.
She was being filled at both ends, a double violation that stretched her to a breaking point. The pain from behind was a bright, clarifying agony. The cock in her mouth prevented her scream. Her body convulsed, torn between two invading forces. Hoodie came first, with a sharp yell, flooding her throat. He stepped back, panting. Leather Jacket pounded into her raw ass a few more times before he, too, shuddered and emptied himself inside her with a low groan. The hot rush was a violation deeper than the pain. He pulled out, and she felt a telltale trickle start down her inner thigh.
“Thanks… uh… thanks,” Hoodie mumbled, almost shyly, before they both disappeared.
The cycle repeated. A steady, degrading parade. A man with soft hands who twisted her nipples painfully through the babydoll as he fucked her mouth. A silent, older man who took her from behind with slow, grinding thrusts that went on forever, his breath hitching in her ear. Each one left a piece of themselves on her, in her: the varying tastes of precum and semen, the unique scents of their skin and cologne and labor, the distinct textures of their cocks, the specific patterns of their thrusts.
Her body stopped resisting. It became a canvas for their needs. Her ass, raw and overused, began to crave the brutal re-stretching, the pain melting into a deep, submissive ache. Her throat worked on autopilot, swallowing, suckling, encouraging. Her mind floated somewhere near the buzzing neon, tethered only by the occasional approving glance from the shadows where her Mistress’s cigarette glowed.
A larger man, bald and sweating, lined up. He didn’t speak. He gripped her hips, his fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, and slammed into her sodden, gaping hole. He was enormous, stretching her beyond what she thought possible. He fucked her with a pure, athletic drive, the bench creaking dangerously with each thrust.
“Take it, you free slut,” he growled, his voice a rumble. “Take this dick. That’s all you are. A fucking free-hole.”
“Yes!” Lucia screamed, the word torn from her. “I’m a free-hole! Use your hole, sir! Please! Fill your hole!” The words were vile and perfect. They ignited him. His pace became punishing. Lucia’s vision swam. She was nothing but a vessel for this stranger’s furious release.
When he came, it was with a roar, pumping into her depths as if trying to mark her very womb. He collapsed over her for a moment, his weight crushing, then stood, slapped her sore ass once more, and left.
There was a lull. Lucia hung from the restraints, dripping, trembling, utterly spent. Every part of her throbbed. The taste of a dozen men coated her mouth. Her ass felt hollowed out, used up, a well of cooling fluids. She felt a profound emptiness, a silence in the wake of the storm.
The cigarette glow in the corner moved. Mistress Sasha walked over, her boots echoing. She stopped, surveying the damage: the smeared makeup, the cum crusting on skin and in hair, the raw, weeping redness between Lucia’s thighs. She looked at the sign, then back at her creation.
“Evaluation complete,” she said, her voice devoid of warmth. “You performed adequately. You accepted your function without hysterics.” She unlocked the restraints. Lucia collapsed onto the floor, a boneless heap of aching flesh. Her Mistress crouched, gripping her chin. “But I saw that moment of hesitation with the first one. A flicker of Logan’s shame. We will burn that out. This was just the primer coat.”
She pulled Lucia to her feet. Lucia could hardly stand. Her legs buckled. Mistress Sasha supported her, not with tenderness, but with ownership.
“The plug will help you retain their gifts,” she said, guiding a staggering Lucia toward a dingy sink in the corner. “It will absorb the essence, the energy of their release. It will make you hungrier for more. More variety. More degradation.” She turned on the tap, the water running lukewarm. “Clean yourself up. We’re not done. The night is young, and there are other… establishments… that welcome public property.”
Lucia looked at her reflection in the smeared metal above the sink. A strange, broken, radiant thing stared back. She saw no Logan. She saw a used slut, collared and owned. And as her Mistress’s words sank in, a fresh, desperate thrill cut through the exhaustion. It wasn’t over. It was just beginning.
She reached for the thin, gritty soap, her hands shaking not with regret, but with anticipation for the next anonymous dark room, the next line of men, the next step into the abyss she now called home.
The gritty soap did little against the feeling of foreign fluids drying on her skin, but the cold water was a shock that sharpened her senses. Mistress Sasha watched her, a silent monument in leather, before tossing her a thin, clean towel. “Enough,” she said. “We’re going home. The next lesson requires privacy.”
The walk back through the bookstore’s aisles was a blur of averted eyes and the crinkling of plastic. The night air outside was a slap, chilling the sweat on Lucia’s body, making the babydoll cling to her like a second skin. She stumbled alongside her Mistress, the plug shifting inside her with each step, a reminder of the cavity that had been so thoroughly occupied. The city lights swam in her vision.
Back in the apartment, the quiet was immense. The living room rug still bore the imprint of their earlier violence. Mistress Sasha didn’t turn on the main lights, igniting instead a few scattered candles whose flames cast leaping shadows on the walls. “Kneel there,” she instructed, pointing to the center of the room.
Lucia obeyed, the soft pile of the rug familiar under her knees. Her body ached wonderfully, a symphony of bruises and stretched muscles. The base urge to be filled again was already coiling in her gut, cutting through the fatigue. She watched as her Mistress went to a small, ornate box on the shelf, the one that had once held the earrings.
“You performed as designed today,” Mistress Sasha said, her back turned. “A perfect receptacle. But the design has a flaw.” She turned, holding something small that caught the candlelight. “The magical items work through a haze. A blissful, accepting fog. It makes obedience easy. It smooths away conflict.” She walked forward, stopping just before Lucia. “But I don’t want easy obedience. I want chosen debasement. I want you to see everything, feel everything, and still beg for it.”
Between her fingers, she held a ring. It was a simple band of dark, brushed metal, but etched into its surface were fine, whispering lines that seemed to move in the low light. It pulsed with a quiet, clear energy, distinct from the low thrum of the plug or the piercing heat of the Sinner’s Spit.
“This is the Lens of Clarity,” Mistress Sasha said. “It will not diminish your hunger. The Font of Aesson’s gift, the plug’s training, your tongue’s need… they will remain at full strength. You will still crave cock in your ass and your throat like you need air.” She leaned down, her eyes capturing the flickering light. “But it will burn away the magical pacification. You will remember everything you were. You will feel every ounce of shame, every fragment of dignity, every memory of being Logan.” A cruel smile touched her lips. “And you will have to choose. In that clear, bright light of who you were, you will have to open your fucking holes and choose to be Lucia.”
Lucia’s breath hitched. A sliver of pure, undiluted terror, the first she’d felt in days, slithered up her spine. The idea of facing the rubble of Logan’s life without the comforting, pleasurable haze was paralyzing.
“Give me your hand.”
Trembling violently, Lucia lifted her right hand. Mistress Sasha slid the ring onto her finger. It was cold, and for a second, nothing happened.
Then the world snapped into a brutal, hyper-real focus.
The pleasant floatiness that had cushioned every act of submission evaporated. The physical sensations didn’t fade—they intensified. The ache in her ass was no longer just a badge of use; it was the specific, raw pain of being stretched by a stranger’s indifferent girth. The taste in her mouth was no longer abstractly salty; it was the distinct, sour tang of the bald man’s release. The candlelight wasn’t just atmospheric; it illuminated the room where his wife had left him forever.
And the memories—they crashed over her not as vague shadows, but as high-definition assaults.
She saw Sasha—his Sasha—at their wedding, laughing, sunlight in her hair. She felt the weight of his wedding band, now gone. He remembered the quiet despair of buying the magical items, the pathetic hope hiding his shame. The sound of his own voice, Logan’s voice, saying “I do.” The feel of his old body, the flat chest, the coarse hair, the comfortable, lying identity.
“Oh, God,” Logan gasped. The voice that came out was Lucia’s higher, smoother tone, but the inflection, the horror, was all his. He clutched his head, the ring burning on his finger. “What… what did I do?”
“You became what you wanted,” Mistress Sasha said, her voice crystalline and sharp. “Look at yourself.”
He looked down. The sight of the sheer black fabric draped over soft, hairless curves, the collared throat, the delicate hands with painted nails—it was a nightmare. It was his nightmare. The craving, however, was a visceral snarl in his gut, untouched by the clarity. His ass clenched emptily around the plug, craving solid, punishing thickness. His mouth watered for the taste of skin and salt.
“No,” he moaned, shaking his head. “This isn’t me. This is magic. This is a spell.”
“The spell is what’s letting you see straight,” Mistress Sasha corrected, kneeling before him. She unzipped her leather pants. The familiar, formidable shape of her cock, fed by the Dominus Band, slid free. It was already fully erect. The sight made Logan flinch and Lucia drool. “The hunger you feel is all you, Logan. That’s the real core. That’s the pathetic, beautiful truth.”
She grabbed a handful of his—her—hair and forced her face forward. “You wanted to be a sissy. You wanted to be a slut. You bought the tools. I just removed the training wheels.” The head of her cock pressed against Lucia’s lips. “Now choose. With your whole mind. Your wife is gone. Your old life is ashes. Do you take this cock and accept what you are, or do you try to claw your way back to a man you never really were?”
The conflict was torture. Logan saw his office, his colleagues, his father’s stern face. He felt the crushing weight of a lifetime of conventional expectation. Simultaneously, Lucia’s body burned with a need so profound it felt like dying. The plug throbbed, an insistent reminder of its hollow void. The ring on his finger did nothing to dampen it; it only made the need more shameful, more acutely his.
Tears, real tears of agonized conflict, streamed down Lucia’s face. “I can’t,” Logan sobbed through her mouth.
“You can,” Mistress Sasha whispered, and pushed just the tip inside.
The sensation was electric, a direct wire to the base of Lucia’s spine. A groan of sheer want was torn from her. Logan tried to pull back, but Sasha’s grip was iron. The duality was maddening: Logan’s mind screamed in revolt, but Lucia’s entire physical being leaned into the penetration, lips parting, tongue welcoming.
“See?” Sasha murmured, fucking slowly, just an inch in and out. “Your body knows. Your body votes. Your mind is just a ghost shouting in an empty house.” She pushed deeper. Logan gagged, the reflex there, but the Sinner’s Spit neutralized it, forcing his throat to open. “Your wife saw that ghost today. And she left it. It has no power here.”
With each shallow thrust, the mental resistance began to fragment. The clarity wasn’t a shield; it was an acid, dissolving the last pillars of Logan’s identity by showing him their hollow foundations. He had never been that man. He had been a performance, a shell hiding this festering, glorious need. The cock in his mouth felt more real than any handshake he’d ever given.
“Fuck,” he whimpered, the word distorted around the intrusion. Then, consciously, he pushed forward, taking her deeper.
“Yes,” Sasha hissed, her composure cracking into raw triumph. “Choose it. Say it.”
She pulled him off her cock by the hair. Spit strung between her tip and his swollen lips. Lucia panted, her eyes wide, Logan’s shame and Lucia’s hunger warring in their expression.
“I…” he started. He looked at the ring on his finger, the artifact of cruel clarity. He didn’t tear it off. He closed his eyes. “I want it. I need it. Please.”
“Who are you?” Sasha demanded, her voice like a whip.
The name ‘Logan’ formed and dissolved on his tongue, a meaningless syllable. It belonged to a ghost, a shadow on the wall of this bright, needful reality. The hunger was all that was solid.
“Lucia,” she breathed, the final surrender. “I’m Lucia. Your slut. Please, Mistress. Fuck my face. I want to taste you. I need it.”
The last thread snapped.
Mistress Sasha’s smile was one of consummate victory. She didn’t gentle her approach. She fed Lucia her entire length in one ruthless, claiming drive. Lucia screamed around the fullness, a sound of release, not protest. Her hands, which had been clenched at her sides, flew up to cradle Sasha’s ass, pulling her deeper, urging her on.
The sex that followed was categorically different. There was no haze, no magical cushion. Every sensation was diamond-edged and personal. Lucia felt the scrape of teeth, the ache in her jaw, the overwhelming stretch of her throat, the domination as absolute and personal as a signature. She tasted her Mistress intimately, cleanly, and it was better. She understood the degradation, owned it, chose it with every greedy swallow.
When Sasha came, Lucia felt each distinct pulse down her esophagus, a hot, branding claim she consciously drank down.
Pulling out, Sasha looked at the creature kneeling before her, tears cutting through smudged mascara, a beatific smile on her well-fucked mouth. The conflict in the eyes was gone. In its place was a hungry, intelligent acknowledgement. The ring had done its work. It had forced the final, brutal synthesis.
“Now,” Mistress Sasha said, her voice rough with use, pointing to the space on the rug. “On your back. Legs in the air. I want to fuck the last ghost out of that ass while you watch me do it. I want you to see everything.”
Lucia obeyed, spreading herself without a trace of hesitation, her eyes locked on her Mistress’s, her finger with the Lens of Clarity glinting as she reached down to spread herself open, an invitation, a conclusion.