Chapter 9

The images wouldn’t leave him: Nina’s face flushed with pleasure as she ground against Raymond, her moans loud and unashamed; her hand moving over his cock, slow and secretive, drawing out a release he hadn’t been able to suppress despite everything; Drake’s smirk as he left, arms swaying, eyes gleaming with the satisfaction of having broken another man down.

But it was Nina, the way she had looked at him while touching him, the way her voice had softened when she whispered, Just let it happen. Don’t fight it. that stayed with him longest.

Not only had his daughter milked his dick, she hadn’t even seemed to mind it. Had she’d enjoyed making him come under her fingers and subverting the crushing authority of this apartment complex?

The thought made Herbert’s stomach curdle.

He had spent years thinking of Nina as his little girl—innocent, pure, someone to protect. Now she was pregnant again (Luthor’s this time), taken by black men on a near-daily basis. She was broken by them she would pleasure her own father without hesitation.

That fact that he had cum from her daughter’s manual effort, kept him in bed all the following day, sick from despair.

When he finally rose from the bed on Monday, just before dawn, it was with a stiffness from sore muscles fresh resignation in his bones.

He dressed mechanically: jeans, a t-shirt, socks, shoes. He emptied his small bag, the same one he’d used for the botched escape attempt, of the change of clothes, toiletries, and made a simple lunch, keeping the granola bar.

He walked downstairs, his footsteps muffled by the carpet. The lobby was empty save for the flickering glow of the malfunctioning overhead light and the soft hiss of the radiator near the mailboxes.

The walk to work required deliberate steps. He kept his head down, shoulders slightly hunched, eyes fixed on the pavement ahead rather than the people around him—black men walking dogs, women pushing strollers, couples laughing on stoops.

He didn’t acknowledge them. Didn’t nod. Didn’t make eye contact.

At the office, he settled into his cubicle, booted his computer, opened the ledger software, and began working. It was another day of balancing accounts, tracking shipments, reconciling discrepancies, but now there was a sharpness to his focus, a precision that hadn’t been there before.

When Mr. Henderson stopped by mid-morning with a stack of files, Herbert told him, “Got it, sir. Will have them done by noon.” This was his escape, and the greater the effort, the more enjoyed it, as if he had been trained to be a better workhorse.

Henderson blinked, surprised at the directness, then gave a curt nod and walked away.

At lunch, he ate his sandwich by chewing each bite thoroughly before swallowing, no longer letting his mind drift to Lila’s flushed face or Nina’s moans or the way Drake had slammed into her from behind. He focused on the food, on the taste, on the act of eating itself. Grounding himself in the mundane might kept darker thoughts at bay.

In the afternoon, when a coworker asked him about weekend plans. Herbert just said, “Staying in. Catching up on rest.” Then he turned back to his work without another word.

By the end of the day, Herbert felt drained. The effort of holding himself together, of keeping his face neutral, of sticking to the script, was exhausting. But it was a cure for his new life condition.

He left the office at five sharp, walked back to the Down in Arms apartments without deviation, and let himself inside. He accepted it as the place he lived in but like a cell he occupied until his next assignment: watch the feed, obey the rules, don’t make trouble, don’t think too hard about what’s been done to you or what might still come.

He kicked off his shoes, peeled off his jeans and t-shirt, and shuffled to the kitchenette. He heated a frozen dinner took it to his chair.

Then he turned on the TV.

The feed played—black men with white women, tender touches, whispered endearments, slow, loving thrusts that looked more like affection than conquest—but Herbert didn’t let himself get lost in it. He watched, yes, but with a detachment now, as if observing a study rather than living it.

He ate his macaroni and cheese. He drank water. And when the meal was done, he set the plate aside and kept watching without reservation, because he had decided, that for now, survival meant compliance.

After cumming into a handful of tissues, he lay down on the bed, pulled the thin blanket over his chest, and stared at the ceiling as the apartment settled into nighttime quiet.

His wrists were still sore where the ropes had been. His stomach fluttered with the memory of Nina’s hand on him. In the back of his mind, a seductive voice whispered, “Maybe it wasn’t so bad after all.”

He closed his eyes and tried to sleep. Sleep was just one component of enduring his now established future, one day at a time. The entire next week was five similar days.

The brainwashing hadn’t won yet, not completely, but Herbert had decided, for now, that fighting it openly was too costly. Better to bend than break. Better to seem compliant than to risk another weekend like the last.

Better to be a quiet cuckold than one who gets the whip.

Herbert stood outside Jay Kessler’s door on Saturday morning. His knuckles rested against the wood as he waited for an answer. He’d slept fitfully that night, dreams of Nina’s hand on him and Drake’s smirk looping in broken fragments until dawn forced him awake. But this morning felt different. His week of experimental submission had lifted a burden from his spirit.

The door opened. Jay stood there, hair mussed, wearing an oversized hoodie and sweatpants. His eyes were sharp behind thick-rimmed glasses. He scanned Herbert’s face with a flicker of surprise.

“Herbert,” he blinked. “Come in.”

Jay stepped back, letting Herbert enter the apartment. It was just as small as his, but cluttered—papers were stacked on every surface. Cables snaked across the floor. An open laptop on the coffee table presented lines of code. A half-empty mug sat beside it, steam long gone.

“Thought you might want to go for another hike,” Herbert said, holding up his hands as if offering peace.

Jay’s head bobbed noncommittally. A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips. Then he grabbed Herbert by the wrist and tugged him inside fully before shutting the door.

Jay’s voice dropped to a whisper when it clicked shut, but Jay grinned wide. Speaking softly, he moved manically. “Herbert, I did it!”

Herbert blinked. “Did what?”

“The feed,” Jay’s excitement was barely contained. He gestured frantically at the laptop screen. “I hacked into the surveillance system! Not just the lobby or hallway cams, I got into the building’s internal surveillance system!”