Shower and prep

As they walked into her apartment, she marched him straight through to the adjoining bathroom, flipping the light switch with her elbow.

The glare was blinding. White subway tile, chrome fixtures, a large mirror over a double vanity. It was painfully clean. The scent of lavender was stronger here, poured from a fancy bottle on the edge of a deep, standalone tub. Lily shoved him toward the glass-walled shower.

“In.”

He stood on the cool tile, trembling, unable to move his limbs with any coordination. The monster plug was a lead weight in his guts. He felt cracked open. Hollowed out and yet obscenely full.

With an exasperated sigh, Lily reached for his bound wrists. She produced a small key from her pocket and unlocked the cuffs. The metal teeth finally released their bite. Then, her fingers found the end of the duct tape on his mouth. She didn’t peel it slowly. She ripped it off in one fast, brutal pull.

The pain was sharp and bright, tearing at the delicate skin around his lips. He cried out, the sound strange and raw to his own ears after hours of suppression.

“Shut up,” she said, her voice flat. She turned on the shower. Water hissed, then roared as it hit the tile floor, steaming. She tested it with her hand, then adjusted the knobs. “Get in. I’m not carrying you.”

Somehow, he stepped over the high lip of the shower stall. The hot water hit his chest like a thousand needles. It stung every abraded patch of skin, every bite mark, every raw scrape. He flinched, gasping, but the heat was also a relief, beginning to thaw the deep, sickening chill that had settled in his bones.

Lily stepped in behind him, fully clothed. Her tank top and shorts instantly soaked through, clinging to her skin. She didn’t seem to notice. She picked up a loofah from a caddy and squirted a thick stream of her lavender body wash onto it.

“Turn around. Face the wall.”

He obeyed, pressing his forehead against the cool, wet tile. The water beat down on the back of his neck.

She started on his shoulders, scrubbing. The loofah was rough, abrasive. She scoured his skin as if stripping paint, working in hard, circular motions. It hurt. It felt less like cleaning and more like erasure. She was scrubbing away the fingerprints, the saliva, the dried come. The evidence.

Her hands moved down his back, over the welts left by the leather straps. She scrubbed his ass cheeks fiercely, making him hiss. Then her fingers, slick with soap, slid into his crease.

He stiffened.

“Relax,” she commanded, but it was no comfort. Her fingers danced around the flared base of the plug, probing the stretched, swollen rim of his hole. The touch was clinical, assessing. “Fuck. They really worked you over.”

She took a hold of the base. Her grip was firm.

“This is gonna hurt.”

She didn’t count. She didn’t warn him. She just pulled.

A white-hot sheet of agony ripped through him. The nubbed texture, which had been a constant, vibrating torment, now raked backwards over his brutally sensitized flesh. The widest part of the shaft stretched him to a tearing point once more as it reversed its path. He screamed, his voice echoing off the glass, his hands slapping against the wall for support.

With a final, sickening, wet pop, the thing came free.

A feeling of catastrophic emptiness followed. He felt gaping open, ruined. A profound, aching void. He heard the dull thunk as Lily dropped the massive toy onto the shower floor.

A sudden hot gush followed—trapped lube, maybe other fluids—running down his trembling thighs. She shoved the loofah between his legs, scrubbing him there with a brutality that made him whimper, cleaning out the internal mess they’d left behind.

She rinsed him, the water running milky at their feet. Then she turned him around. Her dark eyes studied his face as the water streamed over them both. She reached up and twisted his left nipple, hard.

He yelped.

“Tomorrow,” she said, her voice a low whisper under the shower’s roar. “You’re going downtown. I rented you out by the hour. Construction workers on their lunch break. Good money.” A faint, cruel smile touched her lips. “But I told them you were a woman. A shy, submissive little thing who needs rough work. So we’ll have to get you ready.”

The words didn’t fully register. They bounced off the numb void inside him. Rented out. Construction workers. It was just more horror, layered onto the heap.

She pushed him back under the water, then began washing his front with the same impersonal roughness. She scrubbed his chest, his stomach. Her lathered hand closed around his soft, spent cock, scouring it without a hint of arousal, like she was cleaning a dirty dish.

“You’ll need to be smooth,” she said conversationally, as if discussing the weather. “They’ll expect it. And we can’t have you looking like this.” She gave his limp flesh a dismissive squeeze before releasing it.

She turned off the water. The silence was sudden, filled only by their dripping and the distant thump of music. She grabbed a large, fluffy towel from a warmer rack and threw it at him.

“Dry off. Don’t move.”

She stepped out, peeling her soaked clothes off and dropping them in a heap. She wrapped herself in another towel, turbaning her hair. John stood in the stall, trembling, patting at his skin with the towel. Every movement sent fresh aches through his pelvis.

Lily returned with a pair of electric clippers, a pink plastic razor, and a bottle of shaving gel. She pointed to the closed toilet lid. “Sit.”

He sat. The porcelain was cold through the towel. She plugged in the clippers. They buzzed to life with a vicious whine. Without ceremony, she pushed his head forward and began running the clippers up the back of his neck, through his hair. Chunks of his dark, wet hair fell onto his shoulders and the tile floor. She wasn’t giving him a style. She was reducing him. She moved to the sides, then the top, shearing it down to a uniform, prickly stubble. The vibration travelled into his skull.

When she was done, she ran her hand over the coarse field of his scalp. “Better.”

Next, she squirted a large mound of shaving gel into her palm and worked it over his face, his neck, then down his chest and stomach. The gel was cold. The razor was new, sharp. She dragged it over his jaw with practiced, precise strokes, rinsing it in the sink after each pass. There was no tenderness in the act. It was preparation. Manufacturing a product.

She saved the most sensitive areas for last. “Spread your legs.”

He hesitated. She pinched the inside of his thigh, hard enough to bruise. He jerked his legs apart.

She applied more gel to his pubic bone, his balls, the tender skin of his inner thighs. The first swipe of the razor there made him flinch violently.

“Hold still,” she snapped, her hand clamping down on his knee to steady him. “Or you’ll bleed all over my bathroom.”

She worked with a frightening efficiency, stretching the skin flat with her fingers and scraping the razor against the grain, removing every trace of hair. The sound was horribly intimate in the quiet room. When she finished, she wiped the area with a damp cloth, inspecting her work. His exposed skin felt hypersensitive, cold, and utterly ****.

“Stand up.”

He stood. She motioned for him to turn and bend over, gripping the edge of the vanity. He complied, the new position making his empty, aching hole pulse. He caught sight of himself in the mirror—a pale, hairless, hollow-eyed creature with a shorn head. He didn’t recognize the face.

He heard the click of a cap, then felt the cool drizzle of lube down his crease. Her fingers, slick again, pushed into him. One, then two. They slid in easily now, too easily, into the slick, loose channel. There was no resistance left. Just sore, open space.

“Good,” she murmured. “Still nice and open for them. We’ll keep it that way.”

Her fingers withdrew. He heard her moving behind him, the rustle of her towel dropping. Then her hands were on his hips again, pulling him back. He felt the hot, solid press of her against him. Not her body this time.

The blunt, flared head of a new toy. Smaller than the plug, but not by much. A dildo. It nudged against his ruined entrance.

“This is just to keep you stretched,” she said, her voice right by his ear. “Overnight. A reminder.”

She pushed. It slid in with a wet, shameful ease, filling the terrible emptiness with a different, solid presence. He groaned, a deep, helpless sound from his gut. It wasn’t the violent, tearing pain of before. This was a deeper, more profound violation—the casual, maintenance-level use of him.

She seated it fully, a constant, stretching fullness. Then her hands left his hips. He heard her step away, then return. Something cold and metallic clicked around his waist—a harness, the straps snug between his cheeks, holding the toy securely inside him.

“There,” she said, almost cheerfully. She came around to face him, naked now. She looked him up and down, her gaze critical, possessive. She cupped his shaven jaw. “My pretty little thing. All ready for your new job.”

She leaned in and kissed him. It wasn’t violent. It was soft, lingering. Her tongue traced his lips. He could taste her mint toothpaste, smell her clean skin. The contrast between the gentle kiss and the object lodged inside him was maddening.

She pulled back, her eyes glinting. “Get on the bed. On your back. Legs spread.”

The walk to her bedroom was a clumsy, obscene shuffle. The toy shifted inside him with every step. He lay on the crisp black comforter as instructed, feeling the foreign texture of the harness against the small of his back.

Lily climbed over him, straddling his hips. Her cunt was positioned just above the base of the toy inside him. She reached between her own legs, her fingers finding her clit, and began to touch herself, her eyes locked on his.

“Watch,” she commanded.

He watched. Her fingers, glossy with her own wetness, moving in tight circles. Her breath hitched. Her other hand gripped his hairless chest, her nails biting in. She rocked her hips slightly, grinding herself against the air above him, using the visualization of his penetration for her own pleasure.

“You’re just a hole,” she panted, her rhythm increasing. “A warm, rented hole. Tomorrow, big, rough men are gonna use it. They’re gonna fuck their lunch break frustration right into you.” Her voice was getting higher, tighter. “And you’re gonna take it. Because you’re mine. And this is what I made you for.”

Her orgasm built quickly. Her thighs clenched around his hips. She threw her head back, a sharp cry tearing from her throat as she came, her body convulsing. He felt the heat of her release drip onto his lower stomach.

She collapsed forward, catching herself on her hands, hovering over him. She was sweating, breathing hard. She looked down at him, her expression one of pure, sated dominion.

She rolled off and lay beside him, one hand resting possessively on the harness at his waist. “Sleep,” she said, flicking off the bedside lamp. The room plunged into darkness, slashed by thin bars of light from the window blinds—the party still raging downstairs. “You’ll need your strength. First appointment’s at eleven.”

She was asleep in minutes, her breathing slow and even.

John lay rigid, staring at the dark ceiling. The toy inside him was a constant, inescapable truth. The shaven skin of his body hummed with a phantom sensitivity. The ghost tastes of strangers still lived at the back of his throat. He was no longer a person who had done something wrong. He was a prepared object, awaiting delivery. His mind, scraped raw, finally began to fracture around the edges, letting the darkness seep in.