Chapter 15: The Service of Four

Piggy waits on the sofa, hands cuffed in front, the collar chafing against her throat. The leash trails from the D-ring to the coffee table, tethered to a chipped mug of pens, a token anchor that makes her feel even less substantial. The air in the flat is dead—cooked eggs from earlier, bleach, the sickly undertone of latex and stale sex. Piggy’s legs are together, knees pressed so tight her thighs are numb, and her mind loops: Don’t fuck it up. Do what they want. Four men, maybe more. If you’re good, you get to leave. If you’re bad...

The thought doesn’t finish; it doesn’t need to. She can still feel Yaseen’s hands in her hair, the whisper in her ear. She’s ready, she tells herself. She can do this.

The camera is already running, the red eye on the tripod facing her, always on, always watching. Nadia told her once that it streamed directly to the apartment’s router, and from there to a server in Moldova. Piggy doesn’t know if she believes it. She doesn’t know if she cares.

The clock on the wall shivers to two. The door opens. Her first client stands there, filling the frame: not tall, not broad, but built like a wrestler, every muscle defined, the skin brown and just starting to lose its summer tan. His hair is black and cropped close; his moustache is thick, wet with pomade, like a wall between his mouth and the world. He’s in a navy tracksuit, zipped halfway to show a brush of chest hair, and his hands are so big the knuckles have their own separate scars.

Piggy’s gut contracts. The moustache, the face, the body—she’s seen him before, in porn, in mugshots, in nightmares. The strongman archetype, the Balkan alpha. He stands there, keys still in hand, and looks her over with total indifference, as if she’s a used car at an auction. Then he sees the camera and smiles. It’s not a warm smile.

Piggy remembers her script, stands up awkwardly, and faces him, leash clinking against the cup.

She pitches her voice high, clear, the way Nadia coached her. “Hello, Master. How may I serve you?”

He says nothing, just steps forward, closes the door, and sets his keys on the kitchen counter. Then he grabs the leash, yanks her forward so fast her ankles tangle, and steers her down the hallway. His hand never leaves the leash. He walks like he’s late for a train, and the humiliation of stumbling after him, hands cuffed, is almost enough to make her forget what’s next.

In the bedroom, there’s another camera—mounted on a high shelf, the lens pointed at the bed. Piggy wonders if they’ll use both angles. Maybe a split-screen. Maybe a highlight reel.

The man sits on the bed and, with one hand, unzips his tracksuit. His cock is already stiff, veined, a heavy curl of black pubes at the base. He flicks a finger at the floor. Piggy kneels. The carpet burns her knees, but she holds herself upright, waits for his direction.

He doesn’t bother undressing her; the only thing she wears is the T-shirt Nadia gave her, and even that barely covers her tits when she sits upright. He slides a thumb along the collar, then traces her jaw, opens her mouth with two fingers. The smell of him—smoke, sweat, something bitter—fills her nose.

He says, in a low, guttural accent, “Show me you are good girl.”

Piggy bends forward and takes the head of his cock in her mouth. The taste is acrid, a lingering trace of urine, and underneath, the animal salt of man. He’s not gentle. He grabs her ponytail, sets the pace. Each thrust is a lesson: deeper, faster, with the root pressed hard against her lips. He fucks her mouth like it’s a test, and she must not fail.

Piggy gags, once, then clamps down the reflex. She focuses on the rhythm, on the camera’s presence, on the way her cheeks balloon out around his girth. She doesn’t look up. Her face is just a mouth now, a sheath.

He finishes without warning—no groan, no buildup—just a tightening of the hand in her hair, a flare of hot salt against her tongue. He holds her nose shut, forces her to swallow. She does, eyes watering. He wipes his cock on her cheek, then pushes her head away.

Piggy waits, breath ragged, face slick with spit and cum. The taste coats her teeth.

He stands, tugs the leash so she stumbles to her feet, and spins her to face the camera. With one motion he bends her over the bed, spreads her ass cheeks, and spits on the exposed skin. The cold surprise makes her flinch, but he just laughs and spits again, working the froth into her hole with his thumb. Piggy clenches, but the hand is iron.

“Good piggy,” he says, more to the room than to her.

He pulls a condom from his pocket, rips it open with his teeth, but then seems to think better of it. He drops the wrapper to the floor and lines up behind her, the head of his cock pressed against her cunt.

Piggy bites her lip. The first thrust is brutal—dry, stretching, a pop of pain as he forces himself in. She grunts, low and shamed, but doesn’t move away. The strongman grabs her hips, starts to fuck her in a piston rhythm, each slap of his thighs echoing off the bare walls. He grinds her face into the duvet, the carpet burn on her knees now replaced by a raw scrape along her forearms.

Piggy’s body reacts despite her. The sting becomes warmth, then an ache, then a traitorous heat that builds in her pelvis. She tries to hold still, to be a good product, but the movement is automatic—her ass rocking back against him, her breath coming faster. She can hear herself moaning, a real noise, and the shame is so thick it makes her dizzy.

He lasts a long time. Too long. By the time he is ready, Piggy’s arms are shaking and her cunt is swollen, slick with spit and leaking his pre-cum. He finishes with a roar, shooting deep, then pulls out and holds her in place. She can feel the mess running down her leg.

He spins her around, sits her back on the bed, and holds his cock to her lips. “Clean,” he says.

Piggy opens her mouth, cleans him with tongue and lips, swallowing everything he gives her. When she is done, he pats her cheek and walks to the bathroom, leaving the door open so she can see him piss in the sink.

When he returns, he is naked, and his cock is hard again.

“On the bed,” he says. “Back, legs open.”

Piggy obeys. She lies on her back, cuffs pressing into her wrists, legs spread wide. He climbs on top, pins her arms above her head, and lines himself up for her ass.

“No, please—” she starts, but his hand clamps her jaw shut.

He lubes his cock with spit, then pushes in. The burn is instant, a splitting that rips a scream from her chest, but the sound is muffled by his palm. He goes slow, a centimetre at a time, savouring every twitch. Piggy’s eyes roll back, the pain so sharp she floats above her own body, watching herself from the corner of the room.

The strongman fucks her ass in long, slow strokes, making sure she feels every inch. He leans down, bites her neck, whispers filth in Russian and then in English: “You like this? You like being Piggy? You make me so hard, little slut. You take it all, yes?”

She wants to say no, but the words don’t come. She is a thing now, a hole, a sleeve. The room is hot, her skin is slick with sweat. Each thrust stretches her wider, empties her out a little more.

At some point, the pain mixes with pleasure—a sick, melting fusion. She feels her pussy pulse, a clutching inside her, and realizes with horror that she is about to cum.

She fights it. She tries to think of the twins, of Luton, of her old life, but the sensation builds, impossibly. The strongman is relentless. He grinds his cock against her ass wall, using her as leverage. The sound of their bodies, wet and obscene, fills the air.

Piggy cums. It is violent, involuntary, her cunt spasming, juice spraying onto the bed. The orgasm shames her more than anything that has come before. Her body has betrayed her, and she wants to die.

The strongman notices. He laughs, kisses her cheek, fucks her harder.

He finishes with a deep groan, emptying himself into her ass. He pulls out, wipes the head on her thigh, then holds her face to his cock again. “Clean.”

She licks him clean, tastes her own shit and lube and his cum, the mix making her gag. He holds her there until she swallows, then lets her drop.

Piggy curls on the bed, tears leaking from her eyes. The camera is still running. The strongman gets dressed, zips his jacket, and leaves without another word.