The double doors hiss open, and a gurney rolls out, pushed by a silent attendant in surgical grays.
On it lies what used to be a man. Tubes protrude from fresh suture lines on his thighs, his groin a smooth, scarred plateau. His chest is swollen and round with new, livid tissue. But it’s the eyes Jamie locks onto. Wide, wet, and utterly vacant. They track nothing, understand nothing, just leak tears in a steady, mindless stream. The asset’s mouth is slightly open, drooling.
They pass within a foot of each other. The thing on the gurney turns its head. Its eyes focus, just for a second, on Jamie. There’s a flash—a final, desperate recognition of another soul about to be unmade. Then it’s gone, snuffed out. The eyes go blank again, leaking.
Jamie’s feet stop. His stomach is ice. That’s the recipe. That’s the end result. Not just a body cut and welded, but a mind poured out and left empty.
“Move,” Graadar’s rasp comes from behind, a gauntleted hand shoving him between the shoulders.
He stumbles forward, through the doors, expecting the white hell of a surgical bay. The smell hits him first: antiseptic, burned flesh, and the coppery tang of blood. His breath hitches, waiting for the hands to grab him, to strap him down.
But Graadar guides him straight down a central aisle. To either side are stations: restraint tables, trays of glittering, brutal tools, drains in the floor stained dark. A figure writhes on one table, muffled screams against a gag. Jamie forces himself to look forward, at the doors on the far side. Just walk. Don’t look. Don’t think.
His mind screams anyway. They’re not doing it here? Why? Is it worse somewhere else?
The doors at the far end open, and they exit into a dim corridor. The relief is so violent it makes him dizzy. He’s not being cut. Not yet.
They pass other assets. A young man with cybernetic legs polished to a shine, leaning against a wall, staring at his own hands. A woman with iridescent scales grafted along her spine, being led by a collar and leash. None of them look at Jamie. Their eyes are turned inward, to private ruins.
Graadar stops at a heavy airlock door. A viewport shows the silent, star-dusted black. Jamie’s blood freezes. The pod. They’re going to jettison him. Captain Vance’s betrayal flashes, bright and acid. Of course. He’s defective. Unmodifiable. Waste.
“Please,” the word scrapes out of him. He turns, but Graadar isn’t even looking at him, his red lens eye fixed on a control panel.
The entire ship shudders. A deep, metallic groan runs through the deck plates. Docking clamps. Jamie staggers, grabbing the wall. The airlock status lights cycle from red to amber.
With a hiss of equalizing pressure, the inner door slides open. The air that washes in is different: warmer, thick with perfume, incense, and the underlying smell of bodies and sex.
A woman stands there, silhouetted against the opulent, soft lighting of the other vessel. She steps through, and the light catches her fiery red hair and the emerald silk of her gown. Her eyes, a matching green, sweep over Graadar and then land on Jamie. They assess. Inventory.
“This is the product?” Her voice is a low purr. She steps closer, the scent of jasmine and something sharper clinging to her.
“As per the manifest. Condition as specified. Pre-trained, compliant, strong physiological responses.” Graadar’s voice is all business. “Inspect him.”
Madam Michelle’s smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “Turn around, sweet thing. Let me see what my credits are buying.”
Humiliation burns his cheeks. He’s naked, covered in the ghost of Vance’s ship, Graadar’s touch, his own sweat. He turns slowly, feeling her gaze like a physical touch on his back, his ass, his legs.
“Arms out,” she commands. He obeys, spreading them, staring at the opposite wall. He feels like a piece of meat on a hook. Her fingers, cool and ringed, prod the muscles of his shoulder, trace the line of his spine. “Good muscle tone. Residual tension. Fear.” She sounds pleased. “Interesting tattoo’s. Good advertising. They will make him popular amoung the clientel.” Shame burns his cheeks at her remarks. “Turn back.”
He faces her. Her eyes drop, cataloging. He wants to cover himself. He doesn’t. “adaquate cock, barely at least.” She grabs his balls and gives them a sqeeze causing Jamie to groan. “His nuts are still sensitive. That could be of interest to some.”
“Open your mouth.” He does. She peers inside, then grips his chin, turning his head side to side. “Teeth are good. No modifications to the face. That’s a blank canvas.” Her hand drops to his chest, her thumb rubbing over a nipple. He flinches. “Sensitive. Excellent.”
Her inspection is worse than the crew’s. It’s colder. There’s no heat, no hunger—just appraisal. She’s checking for defects, for market value. He’s not a person, or even a toy. He’s just stock to be sold.
“Satisfactory,” she announces, releasing him. She turns to Graadar. “The agreed price stands. The paperwork is transferred.”
Just like that. Sold. The finality of it empties him out. He belongs to her now.
“Follow, darling,” Michelle says, already turning back toward her ship. “Don’t dawdle.”
Jamie takes one step, then another, crossing the threshold from the cold, brutal metal of the slaver ship into the plush, perfumed corridor of the Vixen. The door hisses shut behind him, sealing his fate.
“Welcome to your new home,” Michelle says, not looking back as she leads him down a corridor lined with rich, patterned fabric. “This is a place of service. You will learn its rules. You will learn your place. Which is on your back, or on your knees, for any client who can pay.”
She stops before a set of ornate doors. “First, you meet your new colleagues. So you understand the standard you must meet.” She pushes the doors open.
The room beyond is a lounge. Low lighting, plush couches. Several figures lounge or stand. A man with delicate feline modifications sipping a drink. A woman with shimmering skin and no hair. They all turn. Their eyes are not vacant like the thing on the gurney. They are sharp, knowing, and they look at Jamie with a blend of pity and cold evaluation.
“This is our newest asset,” Michelle announces, her hand gesturing to Jamie as if presenting a new tool. “He has much to learn. Be sure to teach him.”
The feline-modified man uncurls from his couch. He moves with a liquid, predatory grace, his tail twitching as he approaches. Jamie tries not to shrink back.
“A fresh one,” the man purrs, his voice a soft, amused ripple. He circles Jamie slowly, his golden, slitted eyes missing nothing. “Still smells like fear and shame. It’s almost quaint.”
Jamie stares straight ahead, at a painting of some alien landscape on the far wall. Don’t look at him. Don’t give him anything. The thought is a weak echo from a person who no longer exists.
“What’s your name, fresh thing?” The man stops in front of him, so close Jamie can smell the spiced liquor on his breath.
“Jamie.” The name feels absurd here. A relic.
“Mm. I’m Lysander.” A cool, soft finger tilts Jamie’s chin up. The touch is gentle, which is worse. “Michelle said we should teach you. Lesson one: you have no name here. You are what the client needs you to be. A hole. A fantasy. A toy.”
Lysander’s hand slides down Jamie’s neck, over his collarbone. It’s an appraisal, not a caress. “The tattoos are a start. Clear branding. But the body is still… stubbornly masculine. All this useful muscle.” He squeezes Jamie’s bicep, and Jamie flinches. “Some will like that. The roughness. But others…” He trails off, his hand drifting lower.
“Let’s see the merchandise up close, Lys,” Michelle says from her perch on a velvet armrest. She sips something clear and sparkling. “He needs to understand the level of inspection he’ll receive.”
“Of course, Madam.” Lysander’s hands settle on Jamie’s hips, turning him slightly toward the dim light. “No mods yet. Pure stock. That’s rare.” His fingers trace the line of hair leading down from Jamie’s navel. Jamie’s skin crawls. He can feel every other eye in the room on him, watching his reaction.
Just a piece of meat. Just a tool. The mantra feels thin, useless. This isn’t the crew’s brutal, hungry use. This is colder. This is being dissected while still alive.
“Adequate size,” Lysander murmurs, his tone clinical. He takes Jamie’s soft cock in his hand, weighing it. Jamie’s face burns. He wants to die. “Good vascularity. It will engorge nicely under proper stimulation. Not that he’ll get to use it much” He gives a light, testing tug. “The balls are still full. Sensitive. A selling point for certain… specialized tastes. Some like the taste of fresh cum. Other’s just like punishing a sensitive nutsack.”
“He was pre-trained on a deep-space hauler,” Michelle offers, as if discussing a vehicle’s service history. “Conditioned to submit. To service multiple users. The basics have already been learnt.”
“I can see that.” Lysander moves behind him. Jamie stiffens, anticipating a touch on his ass, the probing of his most secret yet violated place. Instead, Lysander’s hands run over the muscles of his back. “Tension here. And here. Residual defiance in the tissue. That will need to be worked out. Literally.”
“Can he be broken to elegance, do you think?” Michelle asks. “Or is he destined for the grunt work? The dockside gang shacks?”
The question isn’t for him. It’s about him, as if he’s not there. Dockside gang shacks. The words conjure images darker than the Venture’s Star, more brutal than Graadar’s hold.
Lysander’s hands slide down to cup his ass, squeezing. “The foundation is strong. But the posture is all wrong. He carries himself like a man, not a thing of sexual seduction. We need him to be a thing that gets used if we are to make any money out of him.” A sharp slap lands on his right cheek, the sound cracking through the perfumed air. Jamie gasps, more from shock than pain. “See? He jumps. He’s still in there, thinking he deserves warning.”
Another slap, on the other side. Harder. The sting blossoms, hot and sharp. A low laugh comes from somewhere in the room. Humiliation floods him, followed by a terrifying, familiar heat in his gut. No. Not here. Not for this.
“There,” Lysander purrs, rubbing the reddening skin. “A little color. A little submission. It’s a start.” He steps back, his inspection complete. “My professional opinion, Madam? He has potential. But he requires finishing. The mind is still too present. The body still believes it belongs to him.”
Michelle nods, setting her glass down. “My thoughts exactly. We’ll begin his re-education tonight. The clients on the third tier have paid for a ‘raw recruit’ experience. He’ll do nicely.”
She stands and walks over to Jamie. Her emerald eyes hold no pity, only calculation. “You understand now, darling? You are not a person among people here. You are a product among products. Your only value is in how well you perform the functions we assign you. Your thoughts are irrelevant. Your shame is a seasoning. Your fear is a lubricant.”
She reaches out and runs a thumb over his lower lip. “You will learn to smile when you are inspected. You will learn to arch into the touch, no matter who is giving it. You will learn to beg for the use you are about to receive. This is your life now. The sooner the last of Jamie accepts that, the less it will hurt.”
She turns to the room. “Lysander, show him to the preparation cells. Get him cleaned and oiled. Tier three clients dock in two hours. I want him presented and ready.”
“With pleasure, Madam,” Lysander says, taking Jamie’s arm in a firm, unbreakable grip. His claws prickle Jamie’s skin. “Come along, fresh thing. Time for your first real lesson.”
As he’s led away, Jamie looks back once at the lounge. The other assets have returned to their drinks, their quiet conversations. None of them meet his eyes. They have already finished their evaluations. They have already seen everything they needed to see. He is just another piece of stock, moving through the system. The doors close behind him, and the final, perfumed darkness of the Vixen swallows him whole.
Lysander’s grip on his arm is firm, the prickle of claws a constant reminder of the unyielding hold. Jamie stumbles once on the plush carpet runner, his bare feet sinking into the thick pile, so different from the cold grates of the slaver ship or the Venture’s Star. The corridor seems to stretch, doors of dark wood passing in a blur. He can hear muffled sounds from behind them—laughter, a low moan, the clink of glass. Each one feels like a promise of what’s to come.
“You’re trembling,” Lysander observes, his voice a soft murmur beside Jamie’s ear. “Good. It means you’re not completely numb yet. Numb assets are boring. They break too easily, or they don’t break at all. Just hollow shells.”
Jamie says nothing. He focuses on the sensation of the carpet under his feet. The way his own sweat feels cold between his shoulder blades. Anything to avoid thinking about the words ‘tier three clients’ and ‘raw recruit experience’.
“You’re wondering what that means,” Lysander continues, as if reading the silence. “Tier three. It’s not the worst. Not the dockside gangs. Those are tier five. No, tier three clients are… connoisseurs of a sort. They pay a premium for the experience of breaking in new stock. They enjoy the struggle. The fresh shame. The way a new asset tries to hold onto a name.”
They stop before an unmarked door. Lysander releases his arm to key a code into a panel. The door slides open with a whisper. The room beyond is small, tiled in white ceramic, and brutally bright. It smells of antiseptic and something floral, sickly sweet underneath.
“In,” Lysander commands, giving him a slight push between the shoulder blades.
Jamie steps into the light. The door shuts behind them, sealing with a definitive click. The room is a sterile box. A drain in the center of the floor. A shelf with bottles and jars. A single stool.
“Strip,” Lysander says, leaning against the closed door. He crosses his arms, his tail flicking idly. “Everything. Now.”
Jamie’s hands move to the waistband of the thin pants he’d been given on Graadar’s ship. His fingers fumble. The silence is worse than an order. It’s just an expectation, and his failure to meet it instantly is its own kind of humiliation.
Finally, the fabric pools at his feet. He stands naked under the glare of the lights, his tattoos on full display. CUMDUMP. WHORE. The words feel etched into his soul, not just his skin.
“Ah, yes. The branding.” Lysander pushes off the door and walks a slow circle around him again. “Graadar has a crude hand, but effective. Leaves no room for ambiguity, does it?” He stops in front of Jamie. “But we add our own touches here. Refinements.”
He reaches for a bottle from the shelf, uncorking it. A thick, floral oil glugs out into his palm. “You will be oiled. For inspection. For touch. Your skin must gleam. It must invite hands.”
Before Jamie can react, Lysander’s slick palms are on his chest, rubbing the oil in broad, firm circles. The touch is impersonal, efficient. It’s like being prepped for a machine part. Jamie grits his teeth, staring at a hairline crack in the tile near the drain.
“The muscle is good,” Lysander muses, working the oil into Jamie’s shoulders, down his arms. “Solid. Honest. We’ll play that up. The rugged mechanic, forced to kneel. It’s a popular fantasy. Men and women alike enjoy the idea of reducing a capable man to a begging hole.”
His hands move lower, over Jamie’s stomach. Jamie can’t suppress a flinch as slick fingers trace the trail of hair below his navel. “This may go,” Lysander says conversationally. “Smooth is more versatile. But we’ll see what the clients prefer tonight.”
The oil is everywhere now. Cool at first, then warming with the friction of Lysander’s hands. It makes his skin feel hypersensitive, exposed. He can feel every pass, every lingering press.
“Turn around.”
Jamie turns, facing the blank white wall. He feels Lysander’s hands on his back, sliding the oil down the line of his spine. They cup his ass, spreading the oil, kneading the flesh where he’d been slapped. The sting has faded to a warm throb, now amplified by the slick touch.
“You’re clenching,” Lysander notes, a thumb pressing insistently against his hole. Jamie jolts. “Relax. This is just cleaning. A necessary preparation.”
It’s not just cleaning. The thumb circles, presses, not entering but threatening to. It’s a violation that feels even more degrading than a brutal fuck. It’s casual. Assured. As if this body and all its openings are simply landscape to be maintained.
“Please,” Jamie whispers, the word escaping before he can stop it.
“Please what, fresh thing?” Lysander’s other hand comes to rest on his hip, holding him still. “Please stop? Or please continue?” The thumb presses harder. “This is kindness. A client paid for a ‘raw recruit’, not a filthy one. We are making you presentable.”
Jamie squeezes his eyes shut. Humiliation is a heat in his chest, rivaling the heat blooming low in his gut. His body, the traitorous thing, is responding to the relentless, intimate touch. His cock, hanging soft between his legs, gives a helpless twitch.
Lysander sees it. He chuckles, a low, vibrating sound. “There it is. The conditioning runs deep. Your body knows its purpose, even if your mind is still whimpering. That’s good. The clients will enjoy that contradiction most of all.”
He steps back. “Rinse. In the drain. Use the handheld sprayer. Be thorough. I will inspect you again after.”
Jamie moves to the drain, his movements clumsy. He picks up the sprayer, a cold metal nozzle. He turns it on himself, the water a shocking blast that quickly warms. He scrubs at the oil, but the scent clings, a perfumed layer over his skin. He feels watched. He is watched.
When he’s done, dripping, he turns back. Lysander is holding a small, silken garment. It’s barely there—a sheer wrap of black fabric.
“For your presentation,” Lysander says. “Arms up.”
Jamie obeys. The silk whispers over his skin, tying loosely at his waist. It covers nothing. It accentuates everything. The tattoos. The shape of him. The damp trail of hair. He feels more exposed than when he was naked.
Lysander looks him over, his golden eyes critical. “Better. The oil makes you shine. The silk hints. It suggests removal. That is the art of it.” He steps close again, his hand coming up to cup Jamie’s jaw. “Now, the final touch. Your expression.”
His thumb brushes Jamie’s lower lip. “You will not look at the floor. You will not glare. You will keep your eyes downcast, but open. Submissive, but aware. You will have a slight, soft smile. Not a grin. A suggestion of pleasure in service. Practice it.”
Jamie tries. His face feels like a cracked mask.
“No. That’s a grimace. Think of something that brings you shame. The first time you came for your crew on that hauler. The sound you made. The relief you felt. Let that heat your cheeks. Let that soften your eyes.”
The instruction is its own violation. Jamie thinks of the mess hall table. The overwhelming, shameful crest of pleasure as Petrov used him. A hot flush spreads across his face, genuine and terrible.
“Yes,” Lysander purrs. “Just like that. Hold that. That is the look. That is the product.” He releases Jamie’s face. “The clients will see that flush and know they are the cause. They will want to see it deepen.”
A chime sounds from a panel by the door. Lysander checks it. “They’re early. Good. Eagerness commands a surcharge.” He looks back at Jamie. “Remember: you are a raw recruit. You are allowed to be nervous. You are allowed to tremble. But you are not allowed to refuse. You are not allowed to speak unless given a direct question. Your body is the answer to every question they have.”
He opens the door. The perfumed air of the corridor floods in, now carrying the distinct scent of expensive tobacco and impatient desire. “Come. Your education begins.”
Jamie follows, the silk clinging to his damp skin. Each step feels like walking toward an airlock he knows will open. The corridor seems to narrow, the sounds from behind the doors growing louder, more distinct. He can hear a man’s gruff laugh ahead. He holds onto the shameful memory, lets it heat his face, lets it shape the soft, broken smile on his lips. It is the only shield he has left, and it is made of his own degradation.
The lounge door hissed open.
Smoke, thick and sweet, rolled out to meet them. The room was low-lit, dominated by a sunken seating pit lined with crimson cushions. Four men sat there, glasses in hand. Their conversation died as Jamie appeared in the doorway.
"Gentlemen," Lysander announced, his hand firm on Jamie's shoulder, guiding him forward. "Your fresh recruit."
Jamie kept his eyes downcast, as instructed. He saw boots. Expensive, polished leather. The hem of a fine wool coat. The glint of a heavy signet ring on a thick finger. The shameful, soft smile felt like a crack in his face.
"Well, bring him into the light. Let's see the merchandise." The voice was gravelly, used to being obeyed.
Lysander pushed Jamie forward until he stood at the edge of the pit, fully illuminated by a overhead spot. The sheer wrap was a joke. He felt every eye on his oiled skin, on the dark ink declaring his purpose.
"Turn around." It was a different voice, younger, edged with anticipation.
Jamie turned slowly. The silence was a physical pressure. He heard the wet sound of a sip, the rustle of fabric as someone leaned forward.
"The branding is... direct," the gravelly voice said. "CUMDUMP. I suppose that's one way to manage expectations."
A laugh, sharp and humorless. "Efficient. Saves on conversation. Does he come with a manual, or do we write our own?"
Lysander's purr answered from behind Jamie. "He comes with conditioning. His previous crew saw to that. He is... responsive. Despite the front."
"The front is part of the product," the younger voice said. "Look at his shoulders. Still carries himself like he's got a wrench in his hand. I want to see that break."
"Then break it," Madam Michelle’s voice rasped from the doorway. Jamie hadn't seen her follow. The Madam’s calculating eyes surveyed the scene. "You paid for the raw experience. The resistance is included in the price. Do not damage my property permanently. Otherwise, his use is yours."
"Understood," the gravelly voice said. A heavy glass was set down on a table with a click. "You. Recruit. Look at me."
Jamie's eyes lifted. The man was older, with a close-cropped grey beard and hard eyes. He wore the uniform of a corporate security director. He gestured with two fingers. "Come here. Kneel."
The order was so familiar, so deeply etched into Jamie's nerves from his time on the Venture's Star, that his body moved before his mind could protest. He stepped down into the pit, the cushions giving under his weight, and knelt on the floor before the man.
"Hands behind your back."
Jamie complied. The posture arched his chest forward, made the tattoos stretch across his pectorals. The man leaned forward, his knuckle under Jamie's chin, tilting his face up.
"You were a mechanic."
"Yes, sir." The title slipped out, automatic.
"You fix things. You understand systems. Pressure. Flow." The man's thumb brushed Jamie's lower lip. "You are the system now. Your function is to receive. Understood?"
Jamie felt a tremor start in his thighs. "Yes, sir."
The man sat back, looking at the others. "See? Not broken. Just... repurposed." He nodded to the younger man. "You wanted to see the front break. Proceed."
The younger client stood. He was sleek, dressed in a dark silk tunic, his eyes bright with cruel curiosity. He circled Jamie. "The oil is a nice touch. Makes him look used already." He stopped behind Jamie. "But we're not using that yet."
His hand fisted in Jamie's hair, yanking his head back sharply. Jamie gasped, the forced arch of his throat exposing him completely.
"First, we use this," the young man said, his other hand coming around to Jamie's front, fingers wrapping around his cock. It was soft, vulnerable. "Let's see if the conditioning is as deep as they say."
He began to stroke, his grip tight, impersonal. Jamie squeezed his eyes shut. Humiliation burned through him, a white-hot brand in his chest. This was different from the crew. This was cold, clinical, an experiment. He willed his body not to respond.
"Not cooperating?" the young man mocked. He leaned down, his breath hot on Jamie's ear. "Your old captain sold you. Your crew rejected you. Graadar sold you again. You are a thing. Things don't get to choose. So give us the show we paid for."
The stroking continued, rough, relentless. Against his will, Jamie felt a treacherous heat gather. His cock began to fill in the man's hand. A low, ragged sound escaped him.
"There it is," the gravelly voice observed, a note of satisfaction in it. "The betrayal. That's the moment. Look at his face."
Jamie's shame-flush was everywhere now. He could feel it, could feel his own traitorous body hardening under a stranger's dispassionate touch. The soft smile was gone, replaced by a grimace of pained arousal.
The young man laughed, speeding his hand. "See? Just a hole. A conditioned, responding hole. Even the shame gets him off. It's perfect."
He released Jamie's hair and his cock abruptly. Jamie sagged forward, his erection standing stark and obvious between his legs, a testament to his degradation. He panted, staring at the patterned carpet, the world reduced to the ache in his scalp and the throbbing in his groin.
"Enough preamble," the fourth man spoke for the first time, his voice bored. "I didn't pay to watch a handjob. I paid to use a whore. Put him on the table."
"You heard him," the young man said, his hand still fisted in Jamie's hair. "But we're not just putting you on the table. You're going to ask for it. Beg for it."
Jamie's breath hitched. The overhead spot burned his skin. He could see the bored man's polished boots, the security director's folded arms, the fourth client's indifferent sip of wine. "Please," he whispered.
The grip tightened. "Please, what?"
"Please... use me." The words tasted like rust. His cock, still hard, twitched against his thigh as blood rushed to his cock, making his glans swell painfully. A fresh wave of shame followed the involuntary movement.
The security director leaned forward, his grey beard catching the light. "Louder. And specify. What are you?"
Jamie squeezed his eyes shut. The tattoos on his arse seemed to pulse. "I'm a whore. Please use your whore."
"On the table," the bored man said, not looking up from his glass.
The young man hauled Jamie up by his hair and arm, shoving him toward the low, wide table in the center of the pit. The surface was cool, polished synth-wood. Jamie stumbled against it, his palms flat on the smooth finish.
"All fours. Present that fucking hole."
Jamie got onto his knees, then bent forward, resting his weight on his forearms. The position arched his back, raised his hips. He felt the cool air on his exposed ass, the sheer wrap bunched at his waist. He heard the rustle of clothing behind him.
"Lubricant," the young man said.
A tube was tossed onto the table near Jamie's face. He stared at the stark white cylinder. The click of the cap opening was deafening.
"Look at the workmanship on those shoulders," the young man mused, a slick finger probing roughly at Jamie's entrance. "All that strength, built for lifting engine cores. And now it's just here to keep this pretty hole in the air."
Jamie flinched at the intrusion, the cold lubricant, the blunt pressure. He buried his face against his arm.
"None of that," the security director said. "Eyes forward. I want to see your face when he takes you."
Jamie lifted his head. His vision blurred. The red emergency strips from the corridor outside painted streaks across his sight.
The young man positioned himself. Jamie felt the blunt, hot pressure of a cock against him. Not the young man's—this was the bulbous, artificial head of a strap-on. Of course. This was still appraisal. Testing the merchandise.
"Beg for it again. Properly."
Jamie's throat closed. The pressure increased. It was a threat, a promise. "Please," he choked out. "Please fuck me. Please use your whore."
The young man thrust in one sharp, brutal motion. Jamie cried out, his back bowing, his fingers scrambling for purchase on the slick table. It was a dry, burning stretch despite the lubricant.
"Good," the security director noted, clinical. "Vocal. Receptive. No active resistance."
The young man set a punishing rhythm, each thrust slamming into Jamie's hole, each thrust stretching him out, opening him up to further invasion. The pain was bright, sharp, a counterpoint to the humiliating fullness. Jamie panted, drool smearing on his forearm.
"See how he takes it?" the young man grunted, his hands digging into Jamie's hips. "Like he's built for it. His body knows the job even if his face is still catching up."
The bored aristocrat stood, finally interested. He walked around the table, coming to stand in front of Jamie. He unzipped his trousers. His cock was half-hard. "Open."
Jamie stared at it, the reality of what was demanded crashing over him. He opened his mouth.
The man pushed himself in, not waiting, his hand on the back of Jamie's head. The thrusts from behind jolted him forward, making him gag. Tears welled in his eyes as the mans cockhead forced its way into his throat. The taste was salt, skin, a faint chemical soap.
"Efficient," the bored man said, looking down at him with detached curiosity. "Two points of service. No wasted space."
Jamie was a warm fleshy conduit for their carnal desires. Just fuckmeat to use. The realization was a cold void opening inside his chest. The young man hammered into his ass. The aristocrat fucked his mouth. The other two watched, discussing him.
"The conditioning is exceptional," the security director said to the fourth client. "Total obedience, total compliance. The psychological break is complete. See the eyes? He's not even here anymore."
The fourth client, a woman with sharp features, finally spoke. "I want to test the claimed arousal. Despite the brutality."
The young man pulled out abruptly. Jamie gasped around the cock in his mouth. The woman approached, her heels clicking on the grate. She knelt, her gaze level with Jamie's exposed groin.
His cock was hard, leaking, bobbing with the force of the thrusts he was still taking in his mouth.
"Fascinating," she said. She reached out, her fingers tracing the vein on the underside. Jamie shuddered, a broken sound vibrating in his throat. "The humiliation is the stimulus. His own shame is what makes him hard. An infinate loop of disgrace and arousal."
She took him in her hand, pumping slowly, her touch expert, deliberate. It was the cruelest thing yet. Pleasure, unwanted, undeniable, coiled in his gut. His hips jerked.
"He's going to come," she observed, her voice cool. "From this. From being used like a toy in front of strangers who paid to break him."
The young man laughed behind him. The aristocrat groaned, his thrusts becoming erratic. The woman's hand worked him faster. The three sensations converged—the choke of a cock down his throat, the ache of his violated ass, the skillful torment of his own.
Jamie's orgasm tore through him, a violent, shameful convulsion. He came over the woman's hand and onto the polished table, his body seizing, a raw, muffled scream trapped around the cock in his mouth. The aristocrat finished with a grunt, spilling down his throat.
Jamie swallowed reflexively, the act as conditioned as kneeling. He sagged, spent, trembling, coated in his own degradation.
The young man pulled out of his mouth with a wet pop. Jamie collapsed onto his side on the table, breathing in ragged sobs. The woman wiped her hand in his hair.
"Satisfactory," the security director announced. "The whore performs as advertised."
Madam Michelle’s voice cut through the haze from the doorway. "I trust the demonstration was to your liking, gentlemen, madam. Lysander, clean him up.