Jennifer Whatley - Corruption Event 3

Saturday evening.

The stale air of my apartment was slowly suffocating me.

The taste of her mouth was still branded onto my lips.

I had spent the last two days oscillating between crushing despair and a cold, clinical depression.

No contact from her. Not a single message.

But I was sure it would come. I mean, I had broken the friend zone.

That was a fact.

I just needed to give her space.

But sitting around my rotting apartment, staring at the mold creeping up the wall, was driving me insane.

I needed a distraction.

I needed a power trip to scrub my neurotic hyperfocusing.

I pulled out my phone and opened the app.

Jennifer’s profile stared back at me.

Earlier that day, her scheduled action—“exercise extra hard, to look better for user”—had finished.

I could easily imagine her big tits bouncing painfully, driven by a magically induced compulsion to make her body more fuckable for a guy whose name she didn't even know.

That action had pushed her Love stat over the threshold. Her second Love-heart was now completely full.

I stared at the glowing red icon, feeling a strange disconnect. I had absolutely zero intention of pursuing her romantically.

Her current build was for… fun. Not heavy stuff. That was for Sandy.

But as I scrolled through her schedule, I frowned.

There was no Love Event on the grid.

Usually, the moment a heart filled up, a glowing block would override one of her time slots. But her schedule for the upcoming week was clear of any love-events.

I tapped the screen, trying to figure out the app’s arcane, bullshit logic. Why wasn't it there?

Then I looked at the weekend slots.

Right there, glaring at me in bright, neon colors, were the two event blocks.

Saturday Night: CORRUPTION EVENT 3.

Sunday Night: OBEDIENCE EVENT 3.

I leaned back in my chair, scratching my chin.

Maybe it was hard limit or something?

Maybe you could only have a maximum of two active events queued up at any given time?

Or maybe the Love Event required a weekend night slot, and since both Saturday and Sunday were already occupied, the app just couldn't spawn it yet.

So maybe it was stuck in a queue, waiting for me to clear the board?

Either way, it didn't fucking matter. I didn't want her love.

I wanted her submission. I wanted her to corruption.

And right now… I needed it. To clear my mind.

I clicked on the Corruption 3 event block.

The location coordinates popped up, along with a venue name: The Abyss.

A nightclub.

My stomach instantly tied itself into a knot.

A nightclub. The absolute pinnacle of everything I despised about modern society. A dark, loud, sweaty meat-market where Chads and Stacy-clones rubbed their disease-ridden genitals together to the sound of mind-numbing bass drops.

The kind of place where a guy like me was either invisible or actively mocked.

Just the thought of standing in a line, waiting for some steroid-injected bouncer to judge my worthiness based on my shitty clothes and lack of social status, made me want to jump from a bridge.

But the event was locked in. And the promise of Corruption 3… the promise of seeing just how far I could push Jennifer this time… was a throbbing temptation pulling at my groin.

I dragged myself off the bed.

I threw on a clean pair of dark jeans and a black button-down shirt that I hadn't worn since a funeral three years ago.

It was the closest thing I had to "club wear."

I decided I should probably shave my face.

I didn't bother with hair product. I think I looked presentable enough to get in. That’s all I really needed. Any more and I was close to becoming one of “them”.

---

The Abyss was located in the warehouse district, a repurposed industrial brick monstrosity vibrating with low-frequency bass that I could feel in the soles of my shoes two blocks away.

The line outside was exactly the nightmare I had envisioned.

A writhing snake of ****, horny humanity.

Women shivering in skirts so short they were basically belts, their tits spilling out of flimsy tops, caked in cheap perfume and desperation. Men with gelled hair and expensive cologne, laughing too loud, aggressively posturing like baboons in mating season.

I took my place at the back of the line, keeping my head down, burying my hands in my pockets.

Fucking NPCs.

I stood there for forty agonizing minutes, my anxiety spiking with every step closer to the entrance.

When I finally reached the front, the bouncer—a massive slab of tattooed muscle with a shaved head—looked me up and down.

His eyes lingered on my scuffed sneakers, my funeral-shirt, my pale, exhausted face.

I could see the rejection forming on his lips.

I was the antithesis of the club's aesthetic. I was a stain.

Shit. I should have done something to my hair. Fuck.

I braced myself for the humiliation.

But, something weird happened.

Suddenly his expression was filled with strange empathy. He unhooked the velvet rope and jerked his thumb toward the heavy steel doors.

"Go ahead. Have fun, kid," he muttered.

I got over my shock as quick as I could, and slipped past him, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm.

“T-thank you” I stuttered, realizing too late that the cool people, those who get in, never thank for the privilege.

But I was in. I was actually inside.

What the fuck happened there?

Could that have been the app?

Maybe he had to let me inside because the event was going to happen here?

Could it actually affect people that weren’t even registered into the app?

Was the power of the “event” really that endless?

Or, maybe, the guy actually had a soft side, as unlikely as that seemed?

Too many questions, no answers.

As I pushed through the inner doors, a wall of sound and heat slammed into me.

The music wasn't just loud; it was a violent ****. The bass thumped so hard it rattled my teeth and vibrated deep in my prostate.

The air was a thick, humid soup of sweat, spilled ****, and heavy breathing.

Strobe lights sliced through the darkness in blinding, epileptic flashes of neon pink, sickly green, and harsh white.

It was a literal hellscape.

A sea of bodies writhed on the massive dancefloor, a tangled mass of limbs and grinding hips. The strobe lights illuminated flashes of sweaty cleavage, grabbing hands, open mouths.

It was an orgy with clothes on. But only for good looking people.

I hugged the perimeter, pressing my back against the sticky, damp brick wall, trying to make myself as small as possible. People bumped into me—sweaty, drunk, uncaring—spilling drops of their neon-colored drinks onto my shoes.

I needed to find Jennifer. Get this event triggered, reap the rewards, and get the fuck out of here.

Perhaps I could start the event here, take it somewhere else? Every second in this joint felt like pain.

But finding one specific goth girl in a crowd of five hundred grinding bodies in near-total darkness was like finding a needle in a haystack.

I began my agonizing patrol.

I pushed through the outer edges of the crowd, my skin crawling every time some sweaty stranger brushed against me. The sheer volume of the music made thinking impossible.

Ten minutes passed. Then twenty.

I checked the bar. A crowd of **** men waving credit cards at bartenders who ignored them. No Jennifer.

I checked the lounge area. Couples making out aggressively on sticky leather sofas, hands shoved down pants, tongues down throats. No Jennifer.

Thirty minutes of pure, unadulterated ****. My ears were ringing, my shirt was clinging to my back with nervous sweat, and my jaw ached from clenching it so tight.

I was on the verge of a panic attack.

The app had dragged me into this nightmare, and now it was leaving me to drown in it.

I pushed my way toward a slightly elevated VIP section sectioned off by a glowing glass railing, **** for a vantage point.

I gripped the cold glass, scanning the strobe-lit chaos below.

And then, I saw her.

The breath was violently sucked out of my lungs.

I knew her Corruption was at Level 2, bordering on 3. I knew she had been secretly fingering herself in public and wearing a croptop for a work uniform based on the schedule I had **** upon her. I had been corrupting her pretty hard, but I still didn’t expect this.

Her outfit was... aggressive.

She was wearing a tight black mini-dress made of some kind of stretchy vinyl material that clung to every curve. The hem cut off mid-thigh, high enough to be provocative but not obscene. The neckline plunged deep in a V-shape, showing off the soft, pale swell of her cleavage. Just smooth, glossy black hugging her heavy tits like a second skin.

Over it, she wore a sheer black mesh top with long sleeves, the kind that was more atmosphere than actual clothing. It didn't expose anything directly, but it added a layer of dark, gothic sexuality that drew the eye. A thick black leather belt cinched her waist, emphasizing her hourglass figure, and she wore thigh-high boots with heels that added four inches to her frame.

A thick leather choker with a heavy metal O-ring encircled her neck.

She was wearing chokers now?

Her dark makeup was smeared, smoky and intense, making her blue eyes look like predatory lasers.

And her hair was… actually open.

It looked good on her.

She looked like the kind of girl who knew exactly what she wanted and wasn't afraid to take it. She was among the sluttiest chicks in the entire club, and every man within a twenty-foot radius was staring at her with raw, carnivorous hunger.

That was my work. I had done that to her.

I had broken the haughty, bitchy goth and turned her into this public spectacle of raw, oozing sex.

And she still had plenty more room to evolve.

Fuck. I wanted to claim my prize. Right now.

I started walking towards her, the intoxicating rush of power temporarily overriding my crippling social anxiety.

I had no idea what I was going to actually do when I reached her, but I didn’t care.

But as I got closer, the strobe lights shifted, and my stomach plummeted into an icy abyss.

She wasn't alone.

There were three other people huddled around her high-top table.

Friends.

I had never even considered the fact that Jennifer had a social life outside of work and the dive bar.

But there they were. Two girls and a guy.

One girl had a shaved head dyed neon green, wearing combat boots and an oversized band tee. The other was a more traditional goth, wrapped in layers of black lace and velvet, glaring at the dancefloor like she wished everyone would burst into flames. The guy was tall, rail-thin, wearing a leather jacket covered in studs, smoking a cigarette indoors despite the massive "NO SMOKING" signs.

I knew it instantly.

They were her pack. Her tribe.

And they were currently laughing, passing around a tray of neon-colored shot glasses.

I stopped dead in my tracks, my boots glued to the sticky floor.

The power trip evaporated, instantly replaced by a tidal wave of crippling inadequacy.

How the fuck was I supposed to do this?

In the convenience store, it was just us. In the woods, it was just us. In the coffee shop, yeah, there were other people, but it was basically still just us.

How could I make her do stuff now? In front of her intimidating, alternative friends?

They would look at me—a pale, exhausted coder in a cheap shirt—and they would laugh me out of the building.

If I walked up and tried to assert dominance, they would verbally castrate me.

They weren’t under the app’s power.

I took a step back, the urge to flee overwhelming me.

Then I remembered.

The bouncer.

So… it was quite possible… that her friends were under the influence of the app as well?

Either that, or what happened at the door was pure chance.

…

Yes.

I can do this.

At least I needed to find out more about what the power of the event can do.

I **** my legs to move, pushing through the last layer of sweaty bodies separating us.

I stepped into the dim, purple-lit circle of their VIP table.

"Jennifer," I said.

I meant for it to sound deep and commanding, but over the deafening roar of a sudden bass drop, it came out as a weak, reedy croak.

She didn’t even hear me.

Which was a blessing, in this case.

I cleared my throat and tried again, louder. "Jennifer."

Her head snapped toward me.

For a split second, the heavy, seductive haze of the club vanished from her face. Her blue eyes widened in absolute, unadulterated shock.

Her jaw physically dropped, her red-painted lips parting as she stared at me like I was an alien that had just beamed down onto the dancefloor.

"You?" she breathed.

The dynamic of the table shifted instantly. The three friends stopped laughing. Their heads turned in unison, locking onto me with the precision of a firing squad.

The silence at that table, despite the 120-decibel music pounding around us, was deafening.

The girl with the green shaved head looked me up and down, her lip curling into a sneer of profound disgust. "Who the fuck is this dork?" she yelled over the music, not looking at me, but at Jennifer.

The guy in the studded leather jacket scoffed, blowing a cloud of smoke directly into my face. "Jesus, Jen. Did you adopt a stray from the accounting department? Is he lost?"

The traditional goth girl didn't say anything; she just stared at me like I was a piece of dog shit she had scraped off her shoe.

My face burned with a sudden, humiliating heat.

The blood rushed to my ears.

My hands started to shake.

This was exactly what I had feared. The brutal, unforgiving judgment of the social hierarchy.

I was a freak invading their space. I had no witty comeback. I had no alpha-male retort. My mind went completely, utterly blank.

Jennifer looked at her friends, then back at me. I could see the gears turning in her head.

The old Jennifer—the arrogant, bitchy clerk who had treated me like a nobody—would have joined in.

She would have laughed, called me a creep, and told me to fuck off. That was the socially acceptable play. That was what one did in front of their pack.

But she didn’t laugh. She didn’t sneer.

Instead, a wicked, corrupted little smile curled the edges of her red lips.

She turned her gaze slowly from me to the guy in the studded leather jacket.

"Yeah, Damian," she purred, her voice dripping with a dark, intentional malice that cut right through the heavy thumping bass. "Turns out they had a guy who could actually fill me up."

The words hit the table like a live grenade.

Damian’s face went completely slack, the cigarette nearly tumbling from his lips.

My stomach did a violent, awkward flip.

Oh, shit.

The casual cruelty, the specific phrasing—Damian wasn't just some guy in her pack.

They had dated. They had a history.

And she had just verbally castrated him in front of his friends by using me as the weapon.

The green-haired girl and the traditional goth stared at me, their jaws practically hitting the sticky table. The absolute shock radiating from them was palpable.

They couldn't compute it.

They all gave me a double-take.

This pale, boring-looking nobody was claiming their goth queen?

Before Damian could recover enough to form a coherent sentence, Jennifer stood up. She reached out, wrapping her black-polished fingers tightly around my wrist.

"I might be somewhat interested to see what happens this time," she monotoned, but her eyes flashed with an interest that was far from the bored, apathetic clerk I had met a month ago.

She didn't wait for me to lead. She pulled, dragging me away from the table and straight toward the writhing, strobe-lit mass of the dance floor.

As we moved, the hairs on the back of my neck prickled.

I could feel Damian’s burning, humiliated eyes drilling holes into my spine.

Jesus. I needed to watch out. A guy like that might stab me in the shadows.

But as the sea of sweaty bodies swallowed us, a much more immediate, terrifying realization hit me, paralyzing my lungs.

I was about to step onto a dance floor. And I had absolutely no fucking idea what to do.

---

Okay, full disclosure. I was planning to relaunch my Patreon last weekend and had everything lined up - reading a few chapters ahead of what I publish here and exclusive short stories - but apparently some policies at Patreon have changed. The main issue appears to be my use of "hyperrealistic images". So yeah, to start using patreon, my choices are either stop using images alltogether or go back to my comic style of ai images. I think it would rather choose latter. But it will take at least a week to transform all my new images to that style, so I cant use Patreon quite yet. (Just to be clear, I won't stop publishing chapters here for free, this is for people who want to read ahead.)

I've also now created an account at Subscribestar. But, from what I've read on the net, in some cases it can take a long time until they approve you. But I'll let you know when they do. (I'll replace this note with links to my account). In the meanwhile, as much as I liked the hyperrealistic style, I think I should return to my comic style (which is still realistic, just with a drawn aesthetic.)

So, yeah, right now I'm trying to get things set up for a second attempt. Please stay tuned.

Oh yeah, check out my third story The Sweetest Corruption if you haven't yet! It'll be a somewhat shorter running serial, if you consider ~70 chapters to be short.