Chapter 5: The Plug Stays In
The plug was a heartbeat inside her.
Leah lay on her side in the dark, knees drawn up, one hand pressed between her thighs. The initial burning ache had subsided into a persistent, warm fullness, a presence that announced itself with every slight shift of her hips. She could feel the cool silicone base, the heart-shaped jewel resting against the sensitive pucker of her asshole. It wasn’t painful. That was the frightening part. Her body, traitorously efficient, was accommodating the violation.
The forum was quiet for now. The money—over eight hundred dollars from the last video alone—sat in the digital wallet, a numbingly large number. She’d scrubbed the taste of vomit from her mouth, brushed her teeth until her gums bled, but the memory of the act remained, playing on a loop behind her eyes: the stretch, the pop, the feel of the bulb lodging inside her.
Her fingertips found her clit, a slick, swollen nub. A shudder ran through her. This was different. The arousal that crept up on her now was tinged with a filth that felt fundamental. She wasn’t just touching herself. She was touching a girl who had a plug in her ass. The thought made her wetter.
She rolled onto her stomach, the movement forcing the plug to shift, a tiny, internal nudge that drew a sharp gasp from her lips. The pressure changed, bearing down on a secret spot that sent a jolt of pure, undiluted sensation straight to her core. “Oh,” she whispered into her pillow.
Her hand slid down, fingers slipping easily through her soaked folds. She was embarrassingly, profoundly wet. She spread her lips, circling her entrance, imagining it wasn’t her own fingers but the thick, veined dildo from earlier. The phantom stretch made her cunt clutch at nothing. She pushed two fingers inside herself, moaning at the familiar heat. Each thrust of her hand made the plug in her ass move just a fraction, a dual rhythm that was quickly driving her insane.
The shame was still there, a cold, thin sheet beneath the building heat. But it was being smothered. Her ex’s face swam before her—his dismissive eyes, the casual cruelty of his words. I’m just not really attracted to thick girls. The memory, which once would have made her curl inward, now fed the fire. He didn’t want this. He didn’t get to have this. This was hers. This degradation was her own.
“Fuck,” she breathed, the word a prayer and a curse. She hooked her fingers inside her pussy, curling them, fucking herself with a desperation that rattled the bed frame. With her other hand, she reached back and pressed against the base of the plug, not pushing it in further, just holding it, owning the fullness. The sensation was overwhelming. She felt invaded, stuffed, used in the most complete way. Her breaths came in ragged sobs. She pictured the forum comments, the demands, the filthy praise. She pictured LordSinister, a faceless authority, watching her from the void and nodding.
The orgasm built not as a cresting wave but as a seismic fracture. It tore through her with a violence that felt like splintering bone. Her back arched off the bed, a silent scream locking her throat. Her cunt spasmed wildly around her fingers, and her asshole clenched tight around the silicone plug, the dual pulses syncing into a single, shattering convulsion. Lights exploded behind her eyelids. For a few seconds, there was nothing but raw, screaming sensation, a white-noise obliteration of every thought, every memory, every fragile piece of her old self.
She collapsed, drenched in sweat, her fingers still buried in her dripping cunt, the plug a satisfied, settled weight. Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes, but they were empty of meaning. The aftermath was a hollow, buzzing quiet.
She didn’t remove the plug. She curled onto her side, feeling it nestle deep, a perverse companion. She fell asleep like that, and her dreams were formless, full of grasping hands and the smell of sterile silicone.
The morning light was an affront. It highlighted the dust on her textbooks, the neglected Pilates mat, the normal world waiting. The plug was a constant, low-grade reminder. She showered with it in, the water cascading over the jewel, her muscles fluttering nervously around the intrusion. She dressed for her biology seminar in loose linen trousers and a high-necked sweater, armor against the world. Inside, she was secretly, profoundly different.
Inside, she was secretly, profoundly different. The linen trousers brushed against the plug’s base with every step, a tiny friction that kept the night’s degradation alive in her nervous system. She crossed the sun-dappled quad, her backpack heavy with organic chemistry, the secret weight inside her a counterpoint to the academic load.
The air was crisp with impending autumn, carrying the smell of wet grass and distant fried food from the student union. She kept her head down, focusing on the sensation of fullness, using it as an anchor. It was hers. A choice. A power. She rounded the corner of the Hawthorne Building, adjusting the strap of her bag on her shoulder.
Then she saw them. On a bench beneath a gnarled oak, wrapped in a patch of early morning sun. Her ex, Mark, his familiar laugh lines crinkling. His arms were locked around the skinny girl from the coffee shop, her bird-like frame engulfed by his varsity jacket. The girl threw her head back, laughing at something he said, her collarbones sharp as knife-edges under her thin tank top.
Leah’s feet stopped. The world narrowed to a tunnel. The new confidence, the leather and lace and digital obedience, evaporated like mist. The old, familiar heartache punched through her ribs, cold and definitive. She was just Leah again. The thick girl. The one he traded in.
Mark’s eyes flickered up, meeting hers over the girl’s shoulder. His smile didn’t falter. It just tightened at the edges, a subtle shift from warmth to polite, distant acknowledgment. He gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. Then he looked back down at the girl, nuzzling into her hair. The dismissal was absolute.
A hot, shameful flush crawled from Leah’s chest to her hairline. She felt enormous in her loose clothes, a clumsy giant observing delicate creatures. The plug inside her felt absurd now, a pathetic fantasy. She wanted to peel her own skin off. She forced her legs to move, walking past them with a rigid spine, her vision blurring. She heard the girl’s light, tinkling voice. “Who was that?”
“Nobody,” Mark’s voice, muffled but clear, followed her. “Just somebody I used to know.”
The words were a physical shove. She made it into the shadow of the building’s entrance, her hand trembling as she pushed the heavy door. The lecture hall was a cavern of muted chatter and clattering seats. She slid into a spot in the back, her throat clenched tight. For fifty minutes, Professor Hendricks diagrammed protein synthesis on the board. Leah’s notebook remained blank. All she could see was the sharp line of that girl’s collarbone, the ease with which Mark held her, the word “nobody” echoing in the hollow place where her worth had briefly flickered.
The bell rang. She filed out with the herd, a numb automaton. The morning’s secret sensation was now a taunt, a humiliating reminder of a game she was too grotesque to play properly. She needed to get it out. She needed to scrub the whole night away.
Her dorm room was a silent, sunlit indictment. The pilates mat, the neat stacks of books, the empty protein shake bottle on the desk—all artifacts of a girl trying to improve a product that was fundamentally flawed. She locked the door, her breath coming in short hitches. She shoved her hand into the waistband of her trousers, her fingers clumsy and frantic, finding the cold silicone jewel. With a sharp, pained gasp, she pulled it out. The sensation of sudden, vacant emptiness was worse than the invasion. It felt like loss.
Her phone, facedown on the desk, buzzed. Then buzzed again. A insistent, metallic tremor. She stood there, holding the slick, shameful little toy, staring at the device. It buzzed a third time. The forum. The money. The eyes. They had seen her. They had wanted her. Mark’s “nobody” warred with LordSinister’s “good girl.”
She dropped the plug into her wastebasket. It landed with a soft, final tap. She picked up her phone.
Twenty-three new direct messages. The previews were a blur of filth and demand.
The previews were a blur of filth and demand.
skullfucker93: i’d pin u down and fuck that asshole raw till u screamed
TitanGirth: My cock would split u in half u fatassed bitch. Here’s a preview. [Image Attached]
quietobserver: I want to watch you cry while you suck me off.
She opened the image. A thick, veined cock, angry and ruddy, filled her screen against a backdrop of a messy bedsheet. It was monstrous. It was real. Her breath hitched, a jolt of something hot and sharp shooting to her core. She quickly closed it, her face burning. Another message, this one with a video attachment titled for u. She didn’t open it. She didn’t need to. The thumbnails were enough—a gallery of anonymous, demanding erections, some ringed, some curved, all presented for her assessment.
She scrolled. The messages were a barrage of graphic fantasy. They wanted to spit in her mouth, cum on her grades, fist her, share her. They described her body in brutally specific terms—her “dumpy little ass,” her “slutty thick thighs,” her “tight Asian cunt.” Each crude word was a paradox. It felt like a violation, scrubbing her raw. It also felt like an antidote, a chemical burn cauterizing the older, deeper wound of being called nobody.
A private message window popped up, distinct from the rest. It was from a user named Grayson.
It was from a user named Grayson. Leah’s thumb, slick with a fine sweat, hesitated over the notification. She tapped it, and his message unfurled in clean, declarative sentences against the digital grime.
“Saw your video. The one with the toy.” He called her ass beautiful, round, and described wanting to squeeze and spank it, to maybe eat it. His confession about his own size felt startlingly vulnerable. “My dick is too small to get past your butt cheeks. Could we meet? I don’t want to fuck, I just want to spank you while you lay on my lap while calling you a bad girl. I’ll pay you.”
Leah exhaled, the air shuddering from her lungs. She was taken aback by how forward this request was. It wasn’t the crude “I’m going to gape that shit hole” type of message that flooded her inbox. This had a shape, a bizarre courtesy. It named an act without demanding her obliteration.
Her eyes flicked to the wastebasket where the glittering plug lay discarded. She felt self-conscious about being a novice, all fumbling fingers and shocking herself with her own wetness. Maybe a tame meeting like this would be an educational opportunity. A first step into the physical world behind the screen, with rules and a defined limit.
“Where?” she typed, the single word commitment glowing in the reply bar. Her pulse tapped a quick rhythm in her throat.
“Motel on Route 9. Room 114. 3 PM tomorrow. Cash.” His reply was instantaneous, a clinical set of coordinates. It was a place of transit, perfect for anonymous exchange.
She imagined it: the musty room, the weight of a stranger’s leg under her hips, the clean strike of a hand. It felt bizarrely simple compared to the complex violation of the silicone. “Okay,” she sent back, and the word seemed to echo in the silent room.
The next day bled by in a haze of lecture hall murmurs and textbook pages she didn’t absorb. Every glance from a classmate felt like an x-ray. She dressed deliberately in the same tight black skirt from her first forum photo, a familiar armor. The heels pinched her feet as she walked across the cracked asphalt of the motel parking lot.
Room 114’s door was a faded blue. She knocked, the sound swallowed by the distant whine of highway traffic. The door opened to a man in his forties, graying at the temples, wearing wire-rimmed glasses and a crisp polo shirt. He looked like a tax accountant. “Leah,” he said, not a question.
She nodded, stepping past him into the dim room. The air smelled of stale cigarettes and lemon-scented cleaner. A single lamp cast a yellow pool over a dated floral bedspread. “You know the terms,” Grayson said, his voice calm. He sat in the room’s sole armchair, patting his thigh. “Over here. Skirt up.”
Her mouth was dry. This was it. She moved to him, the leather of the chair cool against her shins as she positioned herself. She bent over, laying her torso across his lap, her face turned toward the stained carpet. The position pushed her ass high, the black fabric of the skirt taut. She felt utterly exposed, her heart hammering against his leg.
His hand settled on the curve of her right cheek, a warm, heavy weight. He squeezed, kneading the flesh through the material. “Such a beautiful, round ass,” he murmured, almost to himself. “A bad girl’s ass. A girl who shows off for strangers.”
The first spank landed with a sharp, cracking sound. Pain bloomed, bright and localized, a sting that made her gasp into the upholstery. He spanked the other cheek, a matching blow that jolted her. “You’re a bad girl, Leah,” he stated, his voice even, didactic.
He continued, a methodical rhythm of spanks that covered every inch of her exposed cheeks. Each slap was firm, precise, building a heat that seeped deep into her muscle. She clenched her teeth, her fingers digging into the chair cushion. The pain was clean, clarifying, a white-hot focus that burned away the memory of Mark’s dismissive eyes.
“You take pictures,” he said, spanking her harder. “You film yourself.” Spank. “You make strangers come.” Spank. The accusations were flat, factual. With every strike, her body jolted, her cunt, stupidly, treacherously, growing wetter. The friction of the skirt against her throbbing skin was maddening.
“Please,” she whispered, not sure what she was asking for.
“Bad girls say ‘thank you’,” he instructed, his hand pausing.
“Thank you,” she breathed, the submission a hot coil in her belly.
He hooked his fingers in the waistband of her skirt and her thong, tugging both down to her knees in one swift motion. The cool air hit her heated, reddening skin. He resumed spanking her now-bare ass, the slaps louder, more intimate, the sound of skin on skin echoing in the small room. She cried out, her body arching, her slickness undeniable now, coating her inner thighs.
His hand rubbed over the welts he’d raised, exploring the heat and the damp cleft between her cheeks. “A very bad girl,” he whispered, and she felt his mouth, hot and wet, press against her sore flesh. He licked a broad stripe over her asshole, the intimate violation so shocking her entire body seized.
He ate her ass with slow, languorous attention, his tongue circling the tight pucker, dipping shallowly inside. Leah moaned, a raw, broken sound, her hips pushing back against his face. The sensation was obscene, degrading, and it unraveled her completely. Her hand snaked between her legs, fingers frantically working her clit as his tongue probed her.
“Come for me, bad girl,” he growled against her skin, his breath hot.
Her orgasm ripped through her with violent, silent intensity, her cunt clamping around nothing, her asshole fluttering against his tongue. She shuddered, a wave of aftershocks making her legs tremble against his.
She shuddered, a wave of aftershocks making her legs tremble against his. The humiliation was a live wire, but the physical release had been absolute. His tongue was still tracing slow, wet circles around her asshole, a sensation so intimate it bypassed thought and lodged directly in her spine.
“Fuck, I’m coming!” Leah moaned, the words torn from her, as another lesser climax rippled through her. She had never thought a man eating her ass would feel so good. The filthiness of it, the total surrender of that untouched place, was a revelation that burned away the last of her prim propriety. She was just a body, receiving a specific, degrading pleasure.
Grayson stood up, leaving her bent and dripping over the armchair. “On the bed. On your knees.” His voice was thicker now, stripped of its clinical calm. She obeyed, moving on unsteady legs to kneel in the center of the faded bedspread, her reddened ass toward him. She heard the rustle of his pants, the click of his belt.
“I’m going to jack off on your sexy ass,” he said, breathing heavily. “Fuck, you’re perfect.” A beat of silence, then a mumbled, “Sorry I have such a small dick.”
Leah turned her head to look over her shoulder. He was stroking himself, his cock erect. It was, as he’d said, small. Maybe three inches, a little bigger than the jewel plug she’d purchased and then thrown away. It looked earnest and inconsequential in his fist. The sight didn’t repulse her. It felt like a perverse equalizer.
“Don’t be sorry,” she heard herself say. Her own hand moved between her legs, her fingers smearing through the slick mess he’d helped create. She rubbed her clit in slow, tight circles, watching his pale hand pump his short, stubby length. A raw, transactional energy crackled in the motel air. “Cum for me,” she urged, her voice husky and strange. “Cum on my fat ass.”
She didn’t recognize the words coming out of her mouth. They belonged to the forum, to the Leah who performed. Yet she meant them. She wanted the physical proof, the hot splatter on her marked skin. It was the finale this scene demanded.
His breath hitched. “Oh, Christ.” His strokes turned frantic, his hips jerking. With a sharp grunt, he came. Thick, white stripes jetted across the welts on her right cheek, hot and sudden. Leah gasped, her fingers working faster, pushing herself toward another peak fueled by this spectacle of use. The final drops spattered her lower back. He sighed, a sound of profound relief.
Silence pooled in the room, broken only by their breathing. The smell of sex and cleaner was overpowering. Grayson stepped back, tucking himself away with the efficiency of a man finishing a task. He pulled a folded envelope from his back pocket and placed it on the nightstand. “There’s five hundred. As agreed.”
Leah didn’t move from her knees. The cum was cooling on her skin, a sticky testament. He cleared his throat, the kindly tax accountant reasserting himself. “You can use the shower. I’ll, uh, step outside.”
The door clicked shut behind him. She stayed there for a long moment, feeling the weight of the money in the room, the cooling streaks on her ass, the profound hollow where her self-respect used to be. It wasn’t shattered anymore. It was just gone. In its place was a functional, numb space.
In its place was a functional, numb space. The motel’s water pressure hissed, a weak, lukewarm stream that did nothing to scour the feeling from her skin. She dressed in silence, the envelope of cash a thick weight in her skirt pocket.
She paused before the foggy mirror, turning to look over her shoulder. The welts were a vivid, mottled red. Against them, Grayson’s drying cum formed erratic, pearlescent trails. It was a map of the encounter. It was proof.
Her phone was cold in her hand. She didn’t think. She acted. She angled the mirror, captured the brutal, sticky evidence on her skin, and posted it directly to her main forum thread. The caption was simple, final.
LeahChen21: I was a bad girl.
The response was a digital tsunami. Notifications scrolled upward like a stock ticker crashing.
commentslit: holy fuck she’s marked up and painted
anal_architect: needs a thicker load. i’d pump a gallon onto those stripes.
The praise was a barkeep’s slap. It stung her awake. She stood in the dingy motel bathroom, reading each one, her body humming with a perverse energy. The numbness retreated, replaced by a sharp, clarifying ache. She had done this. She had asked for it. The forum was her witness.