Chapter 10: Last Rites
The silence in the car was a physical thing, a third passenger soaked in the residue of what they’d left behind on Mark’s kitchen floor. Julia stared out the window as the city bled into industrial outskirts, then into scrubland. She was clean, superficially. A scalding shower had melted the honey and milk from her skin, but the scent of chlorine and damp concrete that now filled the car told her the cleansing was temporary. Mark had packed a duffel bag. She didn’t ask what was in it.
He turned down a broken chain-link service road, the car bouncing over potholes. In the pre-dawn gloom, the skeleton of the old “Splash Canyon” waterpark rose against the lightening sky. Its colors were ghosts of themselves—faded turquoise slides, rusted steel supports, the cracked mosaic of a giant octopus smiling emptily from a wall.
“Why here?” Her voice sounded small, used up.
“No one’s here,” Mark said, cutting the engine. The silence rushed in, absolute but for the distant cry of a gull. “No one to hear. No one to call.” He looked at her, and the reference to the buzzing phone was a needle to her gut. “Just us and what you really are.”
He got out, shouldering the duffel. She followed, the dawn air sharp and cold on her cheeks. They climbed a broken turnstile, their footsteps echoing in the canyon of dead attractions. The empty wave pool was a vast concrete crater, stained with long-dried mineral deposits and littered with dead leaves. A lonely seagull stood sentinel on the broken diving platform.
Mark led her down the slick steps into the bowl of the pool. The floor was gritty, cold, and sloped toward a giant drain cover. He dropped the duffel with a thud.
“Take off your clothes. All of them.”
She didn’t hesitate. The cold air pebbled her skin as she stripped, leaving a small pile of jeans, sweater, underwear on the concrete. She stood naked, pale and shivering in the giant arena, feeling more exposed than she ever had in his kitchen.
From the duffel, he pulled out a white dress shirt—his, from the day before, she recognized it. It was crumpled, and even in the low light, she could see the faint, yellowish streaks across the back and shoulders, the dried, pearlescent spots on the cuffs. His semen. His mark.
“Put this on. Only this.”
The cotton was cold and carried his scent—his sweat, his sex, his dominance. She slid her arms into the sleeves. The shirt tails hit her mid-thigh. She buttoned it slowly, her fingers numb. It felt like a perverse uniform.
“Kneel,” he said. “By the drain.”
She walked to the center of the pool, the concrete rough against her bare knees. The giant covered drain was before her, a dark metal circle. She knelt. The position was submissive, devotional. The dampness from the concrete seeped into her skin.
She heard the rasp of his zipper. He moved to stand directly in front of her. He wasn’t fully hard yet, but he held himself in his hand, aiming at the center of her chest where the shirt parted.
“Open your mouth,” he instructed.
She did, tilting her head back. Her green eyes were wide, locked on his dark ones.
He began to piss.
It wasn’t a gentle stream. It was a forceful, hot arc that hit her first in the open mouth, a shocking, salty-bitter flood that made her gag reflexively. She swallowed convulsively, some, but most of it overflowed, cascading down her chin, her neck. He adjusted his aim, hosing down the front of the shirt. The pristine white cotton turned translucent instantly, plastered to her chest, her stomach. The heat was immense, a shocking contrast to the cold air. The smell, sharp and animal, rose around her, cut through the chlorine.
“Get it all wet,” he grunted, moving the stream back and forth. “Soak it. Soak my fucking come right into your skin.”
The urine saturated the shirt, running in hot rivers down her torso, pooling in the fabric where she knelt, creating a warm, spreading puddle beneath her knees. It dripped from the hem onto her thighs. She kept her mouth open, taking it, her throat working, her eyes streaming. This was ownership, literal and visceral. He was marking her, inside and out, with the most basic fluid of his body.
He finished, shaking off the last drops onto her hair. She was drenched, the shirt a soaked, reeking second skin. He tucked himself away, then stepped closer. His fingers, rough and cold, worked the wet buttons of the shirt open, one by one. He pushed the sopping flaps aside, exposing her. Her nipples were tight from the cold, her skin goosefleshed and gleaming.
Without a word, he unbuckled his belt, pushed his jeans and briefs down just enough. He was fully hard now, angry and erect. He gripped the back of her neck, not gently.
“Suck me clean,” he ordered, guiding himself to her urine-wet lips.
She obeyed. The taste of him, of his piss and his skin, filled her mouth as she took him in. She worked him with her tongue, her throat, the act a messy continuation of the degradation. He fucked her mouth with slow, deliberate thrusts, his hand tight in her hair.
“That’s it,” he breathed, looking down at her. “Your fucking museum. Your park dates. This is what it’s for. This is what you’re for.”
He pulled out of her mouth with a wet pop, saliva and pre-come stringing between her lips and him. He shoved her backwards. She fell onto her back in the puddle she’d made, the cold, piss-wet concrete a shock against her skin. He fell on her, his knees pushing her thighs apart. He didn’t enter her. He rutted against her, his cock sliding through her wetness, mingling with the urine, grinding against her clit with a brutal, slippery friction.
“You’re a fucking toilet,” he spat, his face inches from hers. “A beautiful, filthy fucking toilet. And I’m the only one who gets to use you.”
The crude words, the raw, grinding sensation, the overwhelming smell and wetness—it detonated something in her. A climax ripped through her, involuntary and violent, a seizure of pleasure so mixed with shame it felt like dying. She cried out, a raw sound that echoed off the empty slides.
Feeling her convulse around nothing, watching her face break, sent him over the edge. With a final, harsh grind, he pulled back and came. Hot stripes of semen landed across her stomach, her breasts, mixing with the drying urine on the shirt and her skin. He painted her with it, marking the territory anew.
He collapsed beside her for a moment, both of them breathing ragged clouds into the cold dawn air. The seagull had been joined by two others, all watching with indifferent eyes.
After a few minutes, he stood, pulling his clothes back into order. He looked down at her, a ruined girl in a ruined shirt lying in a puddle of piss in the bottom of the world. He zipped his jeans.
“Get up.”
She struggled to her feet, the soaked shirt clinging heavily, dripping. The cum on her skin was already growing cold and sticky.
“Take it off.”
She unbuttoned the shirt the rest of the way, shrugging out of the sodden, reeking garment. She held it, limp and heavy, in her hand.
“There,” he said, pointing to a nearby metal hatch that likely led to a filtration tank. “Toss it. Toss everything.”
Numb, she walked to the hatch, lifted the heavy lid. Darkness and a faint, metallic smell wafted up. She dropped the shirt into the void. She returned to her pile of clothes—her jeans, her sweater, the normalcy of yesterday—and threw them in too. They fluttered down into the dark.
She stood naked, covered in his drying fluids, completely possessed.
From the duffel, he threw her a thin, black athletic dress. It was cheap, short. “Put this on. Let’s go.”
She pulled it over her head. It provided minimal cover, no warmth. She was bare underneath, her skin sticky. He slung the duffel over his shoulder and started walking out of the pool, not looking back to see if she followed.
She did, climbing the steps on trembling legs. The first true rays of the sun broke the horizon, painting the rust and decay in gold. It was beautiful and utterly desolate.
They didn’t speak on the walk back to the car. As he opened the driver’s door, she saw it, sitting in the cup holder: her phone. The screen was dark. He’d had it the whole time.
He saw her looking. He picked it up, powered it on. It buzzed immediately, lighting up with a cascade of notifications—missed calls, message previews. He scrolled for a second, his face impassive. Then, without a word, he rolled down his window and flung the phone in a high, spinning arc. It disappeared into the deep, stagnant water of the abandoned lazy river with a soft, final plop.
He got in the car. After a heartbeat, she got in too.
The car started. They left the waterpark behind, the rising sun at their backs, her past sinking into the murk behind them. She watched the world go by, clean and waking up, through the window. She didn’t feel the cold anymore. She just felt empty. And his.
C," Mark said, his voice flat and final, cutting through the silence. He reached across the console, his fingers cold as they brushed her thigh. "Unbutton your dress," he ordered, his eyes never leaving the road. The fabric clung to her sticky skin, a reminder of the waterpark, of his piss and cum. She fumbled with the buttons, her breath catching as the car sped into the rising sun.