Chapter 3: The Bar and a Cruel Reunion
The bar’s noise hit Damian like a physical blow—a wall of bass-throbbing music, shouted conversations, and clinking glass. The persona absorbed it like sunshine, tilting its head back and breathing deep. “Mmm, party time!”
Damian fought for control, a frantic scrabbling against the inside of his own skull. His body, however, swaggered forward with a roll of the hips that felt grotesque. He could still feel the dull, throbbing ache from where Vivienne had taken him, a brutal reminder that made every step a fresh humiliation. The sticky residue on his stomach had dried, pulling at his skin under the ripped shirt.
He scanned the crowd, the persona’s eyes—his eyes—darting with predatory, vapid interest. There. At the far end of the sticky mahogany bar, hunched over his phone with a pint, was Marcus. His shaggy brown hair was a familiar beacon of normalcy.
Marcus. Thank God.
“Over there!” the persona squealed, pointing with a manicured finger that didn’t exist. “It’s, like, my bestie Marcus! He’s so fucking cute when he’s confused!”
Damian’s legs carried him forward, weaving through the press of bodies. He saw Marcus look up, his eyebrows climbing his forehead as he took in the approach. Damian’s usual slouch was gone, replaced by a chest-out, hip-swaying strut. His face felt wrong, his features arranged in a wide, vacant smile.
“Dude,” Marcus said, putting his phone down. A grin split his face. “Holy shit. What the fuck was that up there? You were a goddamn legend. My phone is blowing up.” He held up the screen, showing a blurry, dark video—Damian on stage, fondling imaginary tits. “You’re viral, you insane bastard. ‘Local dickhead gets hypnotized into being a thirsty thot.’ Classic.”
The persona planted hands on its hips. “Ugh, it was so basic. She didn’t even let me finish my routine! I had, like, a whole dance planned.” It slid onto the stool next to Marcus, crossing its legs with exaggerated grace. “I need a drink. My throat is so dry from all the sucking.”
Marcus’s grin faltered for a second. The phrasing was off, even for a bit. Damian’s eyes were too bright, too unblinking. “You’re… really committing to the bit, huh?” He signaled the harassed bartender. “Get this man another… what are you having, Ethan?”
This was his chance. Damian summoned every shred of will, forcing his vocal cords to tense, fighting against the persona’s lighter, airier register. The words came out strangled, a raspy gasp layered under the persona’s chirpy tone. “Marcus… get me… out. Now. Help.”
Marcus leaned closer, his amusement morphing into concern. “Wait, seriously? You okay, man? You look… sweaty.”
The persona laughed, a tinkling, dismissive sound. It slapped Damian’s hand playfully on the bar. “He’s just being a drama queen! We’re fantastic! Ooh, I know!” It turned to the bartender, who had finally shuffled over. “Can I get a Pink Champagne? And make it a double, sweetie. It’s been a night.”
The words Pink Champagne hit Damian’s brain like a synaptic landmine. He felt the persona’s grip on the driver’s seat quiver, the four-hour timer blinking. A reset was available. If Marcus just said the words…
“Pink Champagne?” Marcus repeated, chuckling. He shook his head at the bartender. “He’ll have a whiskey. Neat. And another pint for me. He’s joking.”
“No!” Damian barked, the real him seizing on the opportunity. “Say it! Say ‘Pink Champagne’! Please, Marcus, just fucking say it!”
He was pleading now, tears of desperation welling in his eyes. The two voices fought for dominance, creating a bizarre, overlapping effect. The persona pouted. “Don’t ruin my vibe! I want something pretty and bubbly!”
Marcus stared. His friend’s face was a war zone. One second it was twisted in raw, animal fear—a look Marcus had never seen on the usually cocky Damian. The next, it smoothed into a pouty, empty mask. The whiplash was unsettling. This wasn’t Damian’s usual over-the-top sarcasm. This was something else.
“Alright, alright,” Marcus said, holding up his hands in a placating gesture. He decided to play along, to de-escalate whatever weird post-hypnotic thing this was. “If you want a Pink Champagne that bad, fine. Dude wants a Pink Champagne.” He said it clearly, directly to Damian.
The effect was instantaneous and catastrophic.
Damian felt the first persona dissolve. The giggling, hyper-feminine presence vanished, and for one glorious, weightless second, he was himself. Just Damian, sitting on a bar stool, humiliated and sore, but in control. Relief flooded him, so potent it felt like a drug. “Oh, thank fuck,” he breathed, his own voice, his own posture slumping with the release of tension.
He met Marcus’s eyes, saw the confusion there. “Marcus, listen to me. That woman, Vivienne, she did something. It’s not a joke. I’m trapped. If someone says those words, it triggers a… a thing. For four hours. You just reset the clock.”
Marcus blinked. “Reset the clock? What are you—”
But Damian never finished.
The new command, unleashed by Marcus’s innocent repetition, didn’t just activate. It erupted.
It was like the first persona, but distilled, purified, and injected directly into his veins. The vulnerability, the need for attention, the raw, slutty hunger—it all surged forward without the filter of giggles. It was darker. Hungrier.
Damian’s body went rigid. His spine straightened, his shoulders rolling back. His eyes, fixed on Marcus, glazed over with a kind of predatory want. His lips, still swollen from the dressing room, parted. A low, humming moan vibrated in his chest.
“Fuuuuck,” the new voice sighed, deep and dripping with lewd appreciation. It was still Damian’s vocal cords, but the cadence was a slow, sensual drawl. “You have no idea what you just did to me.”
“Damian?” Marcus whispered, his beer forgotten.
“Shhh.” Damian’s hand—his own, but moving with a fluid, alien grace—reached out and placed a finger over Marcus’s lips. The touch was electric. The persona leaned in, so close Marcus could smell the sweat and sex on him. “You said the magic words. You own me now. For four. Long. Hours.”
Marcus recoiled, knocking over his pint. Glass shattered, amber liquid spreading across the bar. “Okay, man, this isn’t funny anymore. Snap out of it.”
But the persona was already sliding off the stool. It grabbed Marcus’s wrist, its grip surprisingly strong. “Dance with me. I need to feel you against me. Right now.”
“No, let go—” Marcus tried to pull back, but the persona was relentless, dragging him towards the heaving mass of bodies on the dance floor. The strobing neon lights painted Damian’s face in pulses of pink and green, highlighting the intense, single-minded lust etched there.
They pushed into the crowd. The music was a primal, pounding thing. The persona immediately pressed its back against Marcus’s front, grinding in a slow, obscene circle. Marcus froze, hands held awkwardly in the air, as Damian’s ass rubbed against his crotch.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Marcus yelled over the music.
The persona tilted its head back, resting it on Marcus’s shoulder. Its eyes were closed, a beatific smile on its face. “I’m being your little slut. That’s what you wanted, right? When you said the words? You wanted a dumb, horny piece of ass to grind on.”
“I didn’t want this!” Marcus protested, trying to push him away. But the persona just gripped Marcus’s hands and forced them down onto its own hips, holding them there.
Inside, Damian was screaming. He could feel the heat of Marcus’s body, the rough denim of his jeans. He could feel his own body moving, sinuous and inviting. The humiliation was a live wire, shocking him with every rotation of his hips. This is Marcus. Your best friend. Stop it! STOP!
His mouth opened. “Marcus, please,” he begged, the words managing to slice through the persona’s sensual haze. “Help me. She’s in my head. I can’t stop this. You have to knock me out or something!”
The persona laughed, a throaty, wicked sound. It pushed Marcus’s hands lower, from its hips to the front of its own jeans. “Don’t listen to him. He’s a liar. He loves this. Feel.” It ground down, forcing Marcus’s cupped hand against the bulge in Damian’s pants.
Marcus flinched as if burned. “Jesus Christ, Damian!”
“He’s hard for you,” the persona purred, twisting its neck to lick a stripe up the side of Marcus’s jaw. “He’s been hard since you said the words. He’s a desperate, leaking little cock-puppet and he’s all yours. Wanna see?”
Before Marcus could react, the persona’s own hands flew to the button of Damian’s jeans. With a practiced flick, it popped them open. The zipper hissed down.
“No! Don’t you fucking dare!” Damian roared from within, his internal voice raw with terror.
But his fingers, slick with nervous sweat, hooked into the waistband of his boxers and tugged. Just an inch. Enough to expose the base of his erection, the hair, the flushed skin. Right there, in the middle of the pulsing dance floor, surrounded by oblivious, gyrating strangers.
A girl dancing nearby glanced over, did a double-take, and quickly turned away with a shocked laugh.
Marcus’s face was a mask of pure horror. “Zip your fucking pants up! Now!”
The persona ignored him, instead taking Marcus’s stunned, limp hand and wrapping it around the exposed flesh. The touch was electric agony for Damian. His own best friend’s hand was on him, rough and warm and so, so wrong.
“See?” the persona breathed into Marcus’s ear. “Told you. He’s so fucking ready. He wants you to jerk him off right here. He wants everyone to see what a good little whore he is for you.”
Damian’s body betrayed him completely. A traitorous pulse of pleasure shot up his spine at the contact. A choked, guttural moan escaped his lips—a mix of the persona’s ecstasy and his own despair.
“Stop it! Stop!” Marcus finally found his strength. He wrenched his hand back as if from a fire and shoved Damian away, hard.
Damian stumbled, his open jeans gaping, catching himself against a pillar. The persona pouted, a look of genuine, petulant hurt on Damian’s face. “You’re no fun.” It clumsily tried to pull the fabric back up, but its movements were uncoordinated, fueled by a rising, frantic need.
“We need to leave,” Marcus said, his voice low and serious. He grabbed Damian’s arm, this time with a firm, no-nonsense grip. “We’re going to the bathroom, you’re splashing water on your face, and we’re getting a fucking Uber. This is over.”
He began to haul Damian through the crowd, towards the dim hallway that led to the restrooms. The persona resisted for a moment, then seemed to decide a change of venue was acceptable. “Ooh, the bathroom? Even better. More private.”
“It’s not better,” Marcus growled, shoving the door open.
The men’s room was a grim cave of chipped tile and graffiti. It smelled of piss and industrial cleaner. One flickering fluorescent light buzzed overhead. It was empty.
Marcus pushed Damian towards the sink. “Look at yourself.”
Damian’s body allowed itself to be turned. The persona looked at the reflection, eyes lighting up. It licked its lips. “Mmm, messy hair. Sexy.” It started to paw at its own chest again.
“Damian, listen to me,” Marcus said, gripping his shoulders and forcing him to hold still. “Fight it. Whatever this is, fight it. It’s you in there. I know it is. I heard you.”
For a second, Damian’s own eyes peered out from the mirror, wide with terror. “I can’t… It’s too strong. It feels… good. The attention. The… the want. It feels so fucking good, Marcus, and that’s the worst part.” He was sobbing now, real, wet tears cutting through the persona’s aroused facade. “She found the part of me that likes this and she turned it up to a thousand. I’m a joke.”
The persona reclaimed the face, irritation flashing in its eyes. “Ugh, crying is so unattractive.” It turned around, breaking Marcus’s hold. It pressed its body flush against Marcus, backing him into the cold tile wall. The exposed, half-hard cock pressed against Marcus’s thigh. “Forget him. He’s boring. I’m here. I’m real. And I need to be fucked. You started this. You finish it.”
“Get off me,” Marcus said, his voice cold.
“Make me,” the persona challenged, and it dropped to its knees.
The sight of his best friend on the filthy bathroom floor, looking up at him with hungry, willing eyes, was the most profoundly wrong thing Marcus had ever witnessed. Damian’s hands went to Marcus’s belt.
“Don’t you dare,” Marcus warned, grabbing for his hands.
But the persona was faster. It got the belt open, the button popped, the zipper down. It nuzzled its face against the fabric of Marcus’s boxers, inhaling deeply. “Fuck, you smell good. Just let me taste. Just for a second. I’m so good at it. She told me I was.”
Marcus, in a panic, slapped him. It wasn’t a hard slap, but a sharp, stinging crack across the cheek meant to shock, to awaken.
The persona’s head snapped to the side. It stayed there for a moment, kneeling. Then, slowly, it turned back. A slow smile spread across Damian’s reddening face. The smile was vacant, terrible. “Rough. I like it.”
It surged forward, mouth open, and took Marcus through his boxers.
Marcus cried out, a sound of shock and revulsion. The wet heat, the pressure, the sheer, surreal wrongness of it short-circuited his thoughts. He grabbed fistfuls of Damian’s hair, not to push him away, but because he had no other anchor in the spinning room. “Damian, stop… fuck… stop…”
The persona didn’t stop. It bobbed its head with a clumsy, eager rhythm, making slurping, gagging sounds. It reached into Marcus’s boxers, pulling him out, taking him fully into its mouth. Marcus was hard—a traitorous, autonomic response to the stimulation he couldn’t control. The guilt of that, mixed with the horror, was paralyzing.
Damian was gone. Lost in a storm of sensation he was forced to endure. The taste of his best friend, the salty-skin musk, the oppressive weight on his tongue, the gritty floor biting into his knees. The persona moaned around the cock in its mouth, the vibration making Marcus shudder.
“You’re so big,” it gurgged, pulling off with a wet pop, a string of saliva connecting its lips to the tip. It stared at Marcus’s erection with rapt, worshipful eyes. “I want it in my ass. She fucked my ass with a strap-on and it was so good, but I want the real thing. I want you to ruin me.”
“No,” Marcus gasped, trying to tuck himself away. “Absolutely not.”
The persona was undeterred. It spun around on its knees, presenting itself, arms braced against the wall. It shoved its own jeans and boxers down to its ankles. The evidence of Vivienne’s earlier violation was visible—reddened, used. The persona looked over its shoulder, Damian’s face a mask of pleading debauchery. “Please, Marcus. I need it. I’ll be so tight for you. I’ll be your best little fuck-hole. Please, just give me your cock. I need to feel a real man in me.”
The words, the pose, the utterly broken degradation of it all, finally broke through Marcus’s paralysis. This wasn’t his friend. This was a ruin. A crime scene.
He didn’t feel arousal anymore. He felt a cold, clear fury.
He yanked his pants up, buckling his belt with trembling hands. Then he grabbed Damian under the arms, hauling him to his feet with a strength born of adrenaline. He shoved the clothes back up over his hips, not caring about gentleness.
“We’re leaving,” Marcus said, his voice trembling with rage. “And we’re finding that fucking witch.”
The persona whined, rubbing itself against him. “But you didn’t cum! Don’t you wanna cum in my ass? Don’t you wanna make me scream?”
Marcus ignored it. He frog-marched Damian out of the bathroom, through the still-thrumming bar, and out into the cold, biting air of the alley. The persona shivered, complaining about the chill.
Marcus shoved him against the brick wall, pinning him there with a forearm across his chest. He looked into Damian’s eyes, searching for any glimmer of the person he knew. “Damian. I’m going to ask you something. And you are going to answer me with the truth. Where is she?”
The persona giggled. “Vivienne? She’s probably counting her money. She’s a star.”
Marcus slapped him again, harder. “Damian! Answer me!”
The slap jolted something loose. For a fleeting second, the persona’s leer vanished, replaced by Damian’s shattered comprehension. “Her… her car,” he stammered, the words fighting their way out. “Silver sedan. Behind the… the venue. She loads her stuff after… after…”
The persona snapped back, wriggling. “She’s gonna be so proud of me! I did everything she said!”
Marcus looked at his friend—the smeared makeup from the stage, the tear tracks, the raw, used look in his eyes—and made a decision. He pulled out his phone, not to record, but to text. He typed a message to the group chat they shared with two other, more sensible friends: Code red. At The Basement. Damian is in serious fucking trouble. Not a joke. Medical or psych trouble. Need you here now. Bring the car.
He hit send. Then he looked back at Damian, who was now trying to kiss his neck.
“The clock is ticking, Marcus,” the persona whispered. “Three hours and… a lot of minutes left. You could do so much to me in that time.”
Marcus didn’t answer. He just held him there, in the cold dark, waiting for backup, watching the neon sign flicker on and off, painting his best friend’s ruined face in pulses of sickly pink light. The words echoed in his head, a poisonous refrain: Pink Champagne.