Chapter 5: The Final Favor
The lie to Brian was like swallowing glass. “My friend Liza,” you said, staring at a crack in the living room ceiling. “Her boyfriend just ditched her. She’s a mess. I told her I’d stay over tonight.”
He was on the couch, reviewing patient charts. He looked up, his forehead creased with concern. “That’s sweet of you. Is she safe? Do you need me to drive you?”
“No. It’s fine. She’s downtown. I’ll just take the bus.” Your voice sounded miles away, even to you.
He put the charts aside and pulled you into his lap. You stiffened, then forced yourself to melt against him. He nuzzled your hair. “You’re a good friend. Just text me when you get there, okay? So I know you’re safe.”
His trust was a knife. You buried your face in his neck, inhaling the clean scent of him, memorizing it. “I will.”
You packed a small bag with the clothes Mitch had texted you to wear. You left before Brian could ask any more questions.
The bus downtown was a rolling tomb. You changed in the lurid glow of a public bathroom, the vinyl skirt riding up your thighs, the synthetic top straining. You looked at yourself in the mirror. Marcella looked back, eyes wide with a terror that was all Marco’s.
The sex shop on 7th was a vomit of neon in the industrial dark. A flickering sign buzzed, casting a sickly pink light on the sidewalk. The air conditioner exhaled a warm, damp breath through the door as you pushed it open.
A bell jingled, absurdly cheerful.
The inside was a claustrophobic maze. Racks of cheap costumes, shelves of bottles with names like “Instant Lust” and “Firestorm,” the pervasive smell of plastic and body spray gone stale. Porn played on muted monitors high in the corners, silent, frantic movements.
Mitch leaned against a glass case full of vibrators, talking to the clerk, a gaunt man with tattoos crawling up his neck. He saw you and grinned. It didn’t reach his eyes.
“Right on time,” he said. He finished his conversation with a nod to the clerk, who gave you a bored once-over and went back to his phone.
“Where are the others?” Your voice was flat.
“Back room. Paid for the hour. Clerk gets a cut for the space. Very businesslike.” He took your arm, his fingers biting into the soft flesh above your elbow. He guided you past a beaded curtain, down a short hallway lined with boxes. The hum of the lights was louder here, a persistent insect drone.
The back room was just a storage space with a stained mattress on the floor and a single bare bulb hanging from a wire. Four men stood in the shadows. You recognized a couple of them from parties—friends of Jax’s. They looked different here. Hungrier. The other two were older, strangers. They all watched you enter.
One of Jax’s friends, a guy named Dex with a snake tattoo on his forearm, let out a low whistle. “Jesus, Mitch. You undersold it.”
“Told you,” Mitch said. He let go of your arm. “Rules are simple. You kneel. You take it. No touching you otherwise. No sex. Just the face. An hour on the clock.” He held up his phone. “We start now.”
The mattress smelled of mildew and bleach. You knelt on the concrete floor in front of it, the vinyl cool and sticky against your knees. All around you are hard cocks. You pretend to be the best cock craving slut you can. You reach up with your left have and grab the base of the closest cock. Its a 6 inch thick white cock. You close your eyes take the cock into your mouth. It tastes like sweat. You remove your left hand and take him deeper as someone pulls down your top. Another man stands to your right jerking off.
The sound was the worst part, a wet, rhythmic slap against skin that seemed to grow louder than their breathing. You kept your eyes on the cracked concrete between your knees, focusing on a dark stain that might have been old coffee or something else. The first hot stripe across your cheek made you flinch.
"Open wider," a voice above you grunted. It was Dex.
You complied, the stretch in your jaw a familiar, hated ache. The taste was bitter, pre-cum and salt. You thought about Brian’s kitchen, the smell of toasted bagels, the way he hummed off-key to the radio. The disconnect was a lifeline. Your mind could float somewhere near the ceiling, watching this borrowed body work.
Someone’s phone dinged with a notification. Someone else laughed, a choked, nervous sound. “Fuck, man, hurry up.”
The man on your right puts his penis head right against your cheek and begins ejaculating on your face.
The warmth was startling, a sudden slickness dripping down to your jawline. You didn’t blink. You kept your mouth occupied, your throat working automatically.
Another load hit your temple, sliding into your hair. “Good girl,” someone muttered, almost to themselves. The words were worse than the act. You grab a cock in your right hand and cock in your left.
Your hands moved with a mechanical rhythm, one pumping slowly while the other tightened its grip. The skin was fever-hot and pulsing. You focused on the differential texture, the veined ridges under your palms, anything to anchor you outside the moment. The stale air was thick with the scent of unwashed bodies, cheap cologne, and the sharp, biological smell of arousal.
A man to your left, one of the strangers, grunted. “Switch,” he said, his voice rough.
You turned your head, releasing the cock in your mouth, a string of saliva and pre-cum breaking as you transferred to the new one. It was thinner. The taste of latex and sweat was different. Your jaw ached a dull, constant throb.
“Look up here,” Dex commanded from directly in front of you.
Your eyes lifted. He was filming it all on his phone, the small red recording light a cyclops eye. The humiliation was a live wire, finally cutting through the numbness. You wanted to vomit.
“That’s it,” Mitch said from somewhere in the shadows, a curator admiring his exhibit. “Eyes open. Show him you love it.”
You stared at the phone’s lens, seeing only the blurred reflection of a woman with makeup streaking, hair matted. Marco was gone. There was only this performance, this debt being collected in warm, viscous installments. The man in your mouth shoved himself deeper, hitting the back of your throat. You gagged, tears springing to your eyes.
“None of that,” the stranger said, his hand tangling in your hair to hold you still.
Time lost all meaning. It was measured in loads, in the splatter patterns cooling on your skin. One on your chin. Another across your nose and lips. You kept breathing through your nose, the air tasting of cum and dust. Your knees were screaming against the concrete. The vinyl skirt was a suffocating second skin.
Dex lowered his phone. “My turn.”
He stepped closer, pushing the other man aside. He wasn’t fully hard. He stroked himself roughly, his eyes fixed on the ruin of your face. “Come on, Mitch. Tell her what she is.”
Mitch’s voice came from right beside your ear, calm and conversational. “You’re a payout, sweetheart. A return on our investment. Just a very pretty, very profitable hole.”
Dex’s breathing hitched. “Tell me you want it.”
You opened your mouth, but no sound came out. You just stared, your eyes wide and unblinking.
He took that as assent. His body tensed. He aimed carefully.
The next man cums on your forehead.
It was a direct, deliberate shot. Warmth bloomed and immediately began a slow, viscous slide down the bridge of your nose, into the corner of your eye. It pooled in your eyebrow. The world on that side blurred into a sticky, white haze. You didn’t flinch. You didn’t move. You became perfectly still, a statue baptized in their release.
“Fuck yeah,” Dex breathed, shaking himself off.
Mitch checked his phone. “Time’s up. Hour’s done.”
The men stepped back, zipping up, avoiding each other’s eyes now that it was over. The transaction was complete. You remained on your knees, the final trickle from your forehead tracing a path down your temple like a tear.
“Cleanup’s in the bathroom,” Mitch said, not looking at you. He tossed a pack of cheap shop towels onto the mattress. “The clerk will let you out the back. Don’t come back here unless we call.”
They filed out, their footsteps receding down the hall. Their voices returned to normal, discussing a basketball game, the mundane sound of them leaving more degrading than anything they’d said. You were alone with the buzzing bulb and the smell.
You grabbed the towels. The rough paper scraped your skin as you wiped your face. The mess came off in gummy, pale streaks. You scrubbed until your skin felt raw and burning, but the sensation lingered—a phantom, cooling slickness you knew you’d feel for days.
You pulled your top back up, your hands trembling now that no one was there to see. You stood, your knees popping, legs nearly buckling. You looked at the stain on the floor where you’d knelt.
You thought of Brian waiting for a text, trusting you, missing you. You thought of the clinic’s warning about contamination from a discarded life. You pulled out your phone. Your reflection in the black screen was a smudged ghost.
You typed a message to the number that wasn’t Liza’s. I’m safe. Staying here tonight. She’s really upset. Talk tomorrow.
You hesitated, then added a heart emoji. It glared up from the screen, a tiny, perfect lie. You hit send. The sound of it whooshing away into the world was the loneliest thing you’d ever heard. You shoved the damp towels into a trash bin full of empty boxes and pushed open the back door, emerging into a cool alley that smelled of garbage and rain. The city’s lights were a distant, indifferent shimmer. You started walking, nowhere to go, just moving to put space between you and that room. Each step felt like you were leaving pieces of yourself behind on the wet pavement.