Chapter 20: Wednesday night part 2
Her climax hit like a collapsing building. A guttural roar tore from her throat, raw and primal, echoing off the penthouse walls. Her thighs clamped like iron bands around Paul’s skull, crushing his ears. Her hips slammed down one final, brutal time, grinding the silicone shaft impossibly deep. He felt the violent tremors wracking her body, the rhythmic clenching of her internal muscles around the toy buried within her, transmitted through the rigid plastic into his aching jawbone. The scent of her release, thick and musky, flooded his nostrils, mixing with the expensive spice of her perfume and the sterile tang of the dildo.
Then, stillness. Heavy, panting stillness. Her weight settled fully onto him, pressing his face deeper into the plush ottoman. The stretched, swollen lips of her vulva, slick and hot, rested directly against his own lips, molded around the base of the dildo still protruding from his mouth. It was an obscene, suffocating kiss. Warmth seeped from her onto his skin. Her labia pulsed faintly against his mouth with her slowing heartbeat. He could feel the heat radiating from her core, smell the dense, intimate aftermath clinging to his skin and hers. His jaw screamed, locked rigidly around the silicone base. Spit pooled uselessly in his throat. He couldn’t breathe properly, just shallow sips of air through his nose, thick with her scent.
"Fuck," she breathed, the word ragged, satisfied. Her grip in his hair loosened slightly. "Fucking hell." She shifted her weight, a slow, deliberate roll of her hips that made the dildo shift minutely against his teeth. He grunted involuntarily. She chuckled, a low, dark sound vibrating through her body and into his. "Sensitive?" She lifted herself slightly, just enough to relieve the crushing pressure on his skull. Cooler air rushed over his sweat-slicked forehead. Then, with a wet, sucking sound, she pulled herself off the dildo. Paul felt the sudden absence, the release of internal pressure, followed instantly by the cool air hitting the saliva-slicked shaft still clenched between his teeth.
Her hand closed around the base of the toy, slick with her fluids. "Let go," she commanded, her voice regaining its sharp edge. Paul instantly unclenched his jaw. The relief was immediate, profound. His mouth felt cavernous, empty, aching. She pulled the dildo free with a slick pop. He gasped, sucking in a deep, shuddering breath, tasting her musk lingering on his tongue, mixed with the sterile plastic.
He heard the wet slap of the toy landing heavily on his bare chest. It was warm, thickly coated. "Clean it," she ordered, standing up. Her silhouette blurred in his milky vision as she stepped back, adjusting her clothes. "Lick it spotless. Every drop."
Paul didn't hesitate. He tilted his head down, searching blindly. His tongue found the cool, smooth silicone instantly. It was drenched. Her juices weren't just slick; they were thick, almost viscous from her exertion, clinging stubbornly to the ridges and curves of the toy. It tasted intensely musky, salty-sweet, primal. He lapped at it, broad strokes of his tongue scraping along the shaft, gathering the heavy fluid. He sucked the bulbous head clean, his lips sealing around it, drawing the thick residue into his mouth. It coated his tongue, thick and rich. He swallowed convulsively, the unique flavour settling deep in his throat. He worked methodically, thoroughly, licking every inch until the silicone felt cool and slick only with his own saliva. He lifted his head, panting slightly.
"Show me," she demanded. He tilted his chin up, opening his mouth wide, sticking out his tongue. He heard her lean closer, felt her breath on his face. "Hmm. Acceptable." Her hand patted his cheek, condescending. "Not bad for a beginner." She turned away, her expensive perfume swirling as she moved back towards the low murmur of conversation and clinking glasses near the sofa. "Next!"
A low chuckle, rich and dark, resonated from the direction of the sofa. The deep-voiced woman. Paul’s stomach clenched instantly, the memory of her casual promise hitting him like a physical blow. You’ll definitely be drinking a bladder full of my piss later. Guaranteed. The Viagra kept him painfully hard, a cruel counterpoint to the dread coiling in his gut.
He heard her stand, the rustle of expensive fabric.
He heard her stand, the rustle of expensive fabric. Her deep, rich voice cut through the low buzz of conversation like a knife. "Nadia, darling, wait just a tick." The sharp click of high heels stopped moving towards Paul.
The woman who’d just ridden his face, Nadia presumably, paused. "Clarissa? What now?" There was a hint of impatience, a woman interrupted before collecting her champagne.
Clarissa’s voice dripped with faux innocence. "You were planning on having our handsome servant there drink your piss, weren’t you? Before he scarpers off to the next?" She gestured vaguely towards Paul’s blurred kneeling form.
Nadia let out a short, brittle laugh. "Course I was. Why pass up the chance?" Her tone turned conspiratorial, laced with cruel amusement. "It’s not every day you get to make a man like that do something truly, properly disgusting. Makes it sweeter, knowing how much he’ll hate it." Paul’s stomach roiled. The casual confirmation was somehow worse than the initial threat.
"Exactly," Clarissa purred, the melodic voice hardening. She turned, her silhouette shifting in Paul's milky world, addressing the room's center. "Odette?"
"Oui, Clarissa?" Odette's voice, light as ever, came from near the sofa. Paul could picture her perched elegantly, sipping champagne, observing her property.
"Just nailing down the rules of engagement, darling," Clarissa stated smoothly. The air thickened. "How much... latitude do we actually have with your pet barrister?" Her silhouette gestured towards Paul again. "Can we hurt him?"
A flicker of something – calculation? – passed through Odette's tone, though her voice remained breezy. "Define 'hurt', ma chérie. A little discomfort is inevitable, non?"
Clarissa didn't hesitate. "I mean properly hurt him. Enough to make him cry out. Could we, for example," she paused dramatically, letting the horrifying image form, "fuck his tight little arsehole with that empty champagne bottle over there?" She pointed towards the low table. "Cold glass, hard edges... could be quite the spectacle."
Silence crashed down. Even the jazz record seemed to pause. Paul froze, pure terror icing his veins. The image was visceral, terrifying. He felt the phantom chill of glass, the imagined tearing agony. The Viagra-induced erection felt obscene against the primal fear.
Odette’s reply was a slow, deliberate sip of champagne, the clink of crystal loud in the quiet. Then, calmly, definitively: "Paul’s body is entirely mine to use, Clarissa." She paused, letting the ownership settle like a lead weight. "And while his cock is reserved exclusively for me... you may do anything else."
Paul’s breath hitched. Anything else. The words echoed, cold and absolute. The champagne bottle loomed large in his blind imagination.
"Excellent," Clarissa breathed, the word thick with dark satisfaction. "Carry on then, Nadia. Don't let me delay your golden shower."
"Right." Nadia’s voice regained its sharp edge. Her perfume, sharp and expensive, surged towards Paul. A hand, cool and firm, closed around his bicep. "Up, handsome. Bathroom. Now." She yanked him to his feet. He stumbled, disoriented in the milky void.
He felt Nadia’s impatient tug guiding him away from the living room, the clink of glasses and murmur of voices fading. They passed through a doorway – cooler air, the faint scent of cleaner beneath Odette's jasmine. Tiles beneath his bare feet. Another door clicked open. The distinctive, slightly sterile smell of a bathroom enveloped him. Nadia pushed him forward until his hip bumped cold porcelain.
"Kneel," she commanded, releasing his arm.
The cold bathroom tiles bit into Paul’s knees. Nadia’s silhouette loomed above him in the milky haze, radiating impatience and lingering arousal. Her perfume was a sharp, cloying cloud.
"How do you want to do this?" she asked, her voice clipped, almost bored. Paul’s mind reeled. Choice? Here? Now? He didn’t care about the method, only the outcome.
"Whatever you want," he managed, the words thick in his aching jaw. "I'll do whatever you want."
She snorted softly. "That's the problem, handsome. I don't have a preference. Genuinely." Her tone was light, conversational, chillingly casual. "It isn't going to turn me on. It's literally just to have you do something you'll hate." She paused, letting the cruelty sink in. "I'll be amused to hear you make a choice."
A cold wave of fear washed over Paul, icy despite the Viagra's heat. This was pure, detached sadism. His stomach clenched. Part of him, the submissive core, screamed to ask for drinking directly from her, to bury his face between her thighs, to transform degradation into intimate service. He could almost taste the warm press of her skin. But the words died in his throat, choked by the sheer malice in her casual indifference.
He hesitated too long. "Right," Nadia sighed, exasperated. "Forget it." He heard her shift, the clink of glass against porcelain. "Open." Her command was sharp. Confused, he opened his mouth. Something smooth and cool, like a tumbler, was pressed against his lips. "Hold it. Don't you dare spill a drop."
He felt her move away slightly. Then, the unmistakable, sharp, pungent scent hit him first – ammonia cutting through the bathroom’s sterile lemon. The sound followed: a hard, forceful stream hitting liquid already in the glass he held. It splashed against the sides, loud and obscene in the small room. His gorge rose instantly.
"Keep it steady," she commanded. The stream stopped. The glass felt heavy, warm now. Nadia took it back. "Right. Drink up. All of it."
She guided the rim back to his lips. The smell was overpowering, acrid. He took a hesitant sip. The taste was bitter, chemical, unbearably salty. It flooded his mouth, thick and wrong. His throat locked. Gagging. He choked, hot liquid spilling over his chin onto his chest. He couldn't swallow.
"Swallow it!" Nadia snapped, shoving the glass harder against his mouth. "Don't you fucking dare waste it!"
He tried. He forced his throat to work, gulping convulsively. The vile fluid burned. He managed a mouthful, gasping, tears springing to his useless eyes behind the lenses. The glass was instantly pulled away. He heard the stream again, hard and fast, refilling the glass directly in front of him. Clarissa's low, dark chuckle echoed from the bathroom doorway.
"Having trouble, Paul?" Clarissa purred. "Doesn't taste like your usual claret?"
Nadia jammed the refilled glass back against his lips. "More. Now. Faster." Panic seized him. He gulped again, desperate to get it over with, but the volume was too much, the taste too foul. He retched violently, spitting the mouthful back into the glass, splashing Nadia's hand.
"Ugh! You disgusting prick!" Nadia recoiled, disgusted.
Clarissa’s laugh deepened, rich and amused. "Pathetic," she murmured. "Here." She stepped forward, her expensive scent briefly cutting through the ammonia. Paul felt her cool fingers close around his wrist, forcing his hand up to the glass Nadia still held. "Hold it yourself. And don't stop until it's empty. I want to watch you choke on every drop."
Nadia let go. Paul’s trembling hand clutched the warm, heavy glass. Clarissa’s grip on his wrist was unyielding, forcing the rim back to his mouth. The smell engulfed him. He took a shuddering breath. He tilted the glass. The warm, acrid liquid flooded in. He swallowed convulsively, gagging between gulps, tears streaming down his face, while Clarissa watched and laughed.
He gagged, the vile liquid burning his throat, tears stinging behind the opaque lenses. The empty glass trembled in his hand. Clarissa’s grip on his wrist finally eased. "There," she said, satisfaction rich in her voice. "A proper piss-poor performance."
Before he could draw breath, another shadow loomed in his milky vision. Clarissa’s expensive perfume intensified. "What about mine?" Clarissa asked, her melodic voice deceptively light. "Do you want to drink mine too?"
Paul’s stomach lurched. Bile rose, metallic and sharp, mixing with the lingering ammonia tang. He knew the answer was compulsory, absolute. "Yes please," he rasped, forcing the polite words past his raw throat.
Clarissa’s laugh was a bright, mocking chime. Nadia snorted derisively beside him. "Oh, please?" Nadia echoed, amusement dripping from every syllable. "Listen to the gentleman! So fucking polite while swimming in piss." Their combined laughter, sharp and cruel, filled the small bathroom.
From the doorway, Odette’s soft, familiar chuckle joined theirs, a sound that twisted something in Paul’s chest. "He knows his place, mes chéries," she murmured, the possessiveness in her tone a cold comfort.
Nadia shifted slightly. "Hang on," she said, her voice losing some of its edge, replaced by surprise. "Odette, are you... filming this?" Her silhouette turned towards the doorway.
Paul froze, heart hammering against his ribs. The milky world offered no confirmation, only the suffocating knowledge of exposure.
"Mais oui," Odette confirmed, her tone utterly casual, almost bored. "For posterity." The tiny, mechanical whirr of a phone focusing became audible in the sudden quiet. "Don’t worry," she added, her voice brightening with faux reassurance. "I’ll share the video. Wouldn’t want anyone to miss Paul’s... impeccable manners."
The bathroom felt suddenly claustrophobic, the air thick with ammonia and the low whir of Odette’s phone. Clarissa’s melodic voice cut through the tension, sharp as broken glass despite its pleasant lilt. "My turn? My dear Paul, drinking from a glass is far too... civilized for what I have in mind."
Nadia shifted beside him, her expensive perfume momentarily overriding the piss smell. "God, Clarissa, you’ve always been extra," she muttered, but there was a dark curiosity in her tone. "What now?"
A cool, manicured fingertip traced the line of Paul’s jaw, a mockery of tenderness. "Discomfort is inevitable, Odette said," Clarissa reminded them, her silhouette turning towards the bathtub in Paul’s milky vision. "Nadia, darling, give me a hand. We’re upping the ante." Her hand clamped down hard on Paul’s shoulder. "Up. Now."
Confusion warred with dread as Nadia grabbed his other arm. They hauled him roughly to his feet. "Over here," Clarissa directed, steering him towards the cold porcelain bulk of the tub. His hip struck the edge. "Now, Paul," Clarissa commanded, her voice losing its musicality, turning hard. "Bend backwards. Over the edge. Head in the tub." Panic flared. He instinctively resisted, pulling against their grip.
"Don’t make this difficult, handsome," Nadia warned, shoving his shoulder blades. "Just do it." Clarissa’s hand pressed firmly against his chest. The combined force, his bound arms useless behind him, buckled his legs. He tipped backwards, the edge of the bath catching him just below the shoulder blades. The world tilted violently. His head swung down into the empty tub with a hollow thud, neck straining at an unnatural angle. Tiles swam in his blurred upside-down vision. The blood rushed to his head, pounding behind his temples. The cold enamel pressed into his spine.
"Good boy," Clarissa purred. He felt her knees plant themselves on the floor outside the tub, one on either side of his head, pinning it in place. Her weight settled, pressing his inverted face deeper into the basin. She shuffled forward, the expensive fabric of her skirt brushing his ears. The intimate scent of her skin, musky and unfamiliar beneath her perfume, filled his inverted nostrils. Her pelvis hovered directly over his upturned mouth and nose. The position was excruciatingly vulnerable, utterly exposed.
He heard the rustle of fabric, the whisper of stockings. Nadia’s voice, close to Clarissa, held a grim amusement. "This is properly twisted, Clarissa. Even for you." There was the sound of Odette stepping closer, the faint whir of her phone’s focus adjusting.
"Hold him steady, Nadia," Clarissa instructed, her voice tight with concentration. "Just... there." Nadia’s hands clamped onto Paul’s thighs, preventing any desperate thrashing. The anticipation was a physical weight on his chest, heavier than Clarissa’s knees. He couldn’t see her, only feel her heat, smell her closeness. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic bird in a cage of bone.
Then, the sound. A hard, insistent hiss. Not the splash into a glass. A direct, forceful stream. Hot. Wet. It hit his upturned face like a scalding slap. Directly on his nose, his mouth, flooding his nostrils instantly. He gasped in shock, inhaling a burning gush of warm, acrid liquid. Ammonia seared his sinuses and coated his tongue. He choked, coughing violently, but the torrent didn’t stop. It poured relentlessly down onto his trapped face, cascading over his lips, filling his mouth, flooding his nostrils again as he tried to gasp for air.
Panic detonated. He couldn’t breathe. Every instinct screamed to twist away, to escape the drowning flood. He bucked against Nadia’s iron grip on his thighs, straining against the edge of the tub digging into his back. His bound hands clawed uselessly at the small of his back. The piss streamed into his mouth, thick and salty-bitter, forcing its way down his throat as he choked. It filled his nose, burning, blocking every attempt to inhale. He was gulping it, drowning in it. The world narrowed to the roar of the stream, the suffocating heat, the desperate, animal need for air his body couldn’t find. Waterboarded. He was being waterboarded with piss. He couldn't get air. Only liquid fire. His vision, already milky, pulsed with dark spots. Genuine terror seized him – not humiliation, but the primal certainty of drowning.
"Shhh," Clarissa murmured from above, the sound distorted through the deluge. Her voice was terrifyingly calm, almost detached. "Drown pretty." The stream intensified, a focused pressure directly into his open, gasping mouth. He felt her shift slightly, her weight settling more firmly as she emptied her bladder onto his inverted face. Nadia’s grip tightened, holding his thrashing legs immobile. Odette’s phone whirred softly, capturing every desperate, choking gasp, every spasm as Paul fought for breath in the warm, suffocating darkness.
Odette’s phone whirred softly, capturing every desperate, choking gasp, every spasm as Paul fought for breath in the warm, suffocating darkness. The relentless stream finally faltered, then stopped. Clarissa sighed, a sound of deep, almost lazy satisfaction above him. "There," she murmured, shifting her weight. Paul gulped frantically, sucking in ragged, burning breaths through his piss-slicked mouth and nose. Tears streamed freely, mingling with the acrid fluid coating his face, dripping into his hair pooled in the tub.
"Christ, Odette," Clarissa chuckled, her melodic voice returning, laced with dark amusement. She lifted herself off Paul’s pinned head. "This footage is properly grim. Looks like a fucking snuff film." She patted Paul’s wet cheek condescendingly. "Don’t worry, handsome. We know you won’t actually die." Her fingers brushed his lips. "Probably."
The pressure on his legs eased as Nadia released her grip. Paul gasped, coughing violently, spraying droplets. He couldn't form words, only desperate, wet rasps. The ammonia burned his sinuses, his throat raw. Blind terror choked him tighter than the liquid had. "St...stop!" The word ripped from him, hoarse and broken, barely audible. He tried again, forcing air through his ruined throat. "Stop! Please! STOP!" It was a raw, animal scream of utter defeat. Sobs wracked his body, shaking him against the cold porcelain edge. "Please... no more... stop..."
Silence crashed down, thick and sudden. The jazz record’s faint melody seemed louder in the void. Nadia shifted uncomfortably, her expensive perfume cutting through the ammonia stench. "Fuck," she muttered, her voice tight. Clarissa’s silhouette in Paul’s milky vision went very still. Odette’s phone whirr ceased abruptly. Paul felt their gazes, heavy with something new – shock, perhaps, or a dawning awareness of the line they’d vaulted over. His obvious, complete breakdown hung in the air, a palpable shift. Relief washed over him, cold and shaky. They saw. They understood. They’d gone too far.
Odette’s light, clear laugh shattered the quiet. It wasn’t cruel, but bright, almost delighted. "Ah, enfin!" she exclaimed, stepping closer. Her small hand landed on Paul’s trembling shoulder, a touch that felt like branding iron. "Now he begs." Her voice dropped, intimate and charged. "Now he truly surrenders." She paused, letting the implication sink into the stunned silence. "Mes chéries," she announced, her tone shifting to pure, playful command. "Now the party can really start." Her fingers tightened on Paul’s wet skin. "Crawl, mon chéri. Back to the living room. On your hands and knees. Your services are still required."