I sat at my desk, my fingers drumming a frantic, staccato rhythm against the mahogany. My mood was foul, a black cloud of anxiety hanging over me that no amount of ambient lighting could dispel. Angela. The mistake gnawed at me. I had let her walk out—covered in my cum, yes, but with her mind fully intact. No trigger phrase. No amnesia command. just a “medical necessity” that, in the cold light of day, might look a lot like sexual assault to a woman who wasn’t currently being stimulated by a machine. I was a genius, yes, but I was also, apparently, capable of profound sloppiness when my dick was involved.

I checked my watch. I needed Emily to get her back in here, but until then, I had to function. I had to work.

The door opened, and Amy walked in.

She looked different today. The heavy, shapeless sweater was gone, replaced by a slightly more fitted cardigan. Her hair was actually brushed, and—god help her—she was wearing a touch of lip gloss. She looked lighter. Happier.

“Hello, Doctor Wagstaff,” she said, offering a shy, almost hopeful smile.

I stared at her, feeling a sudden, sharp spike of irritation. Her happiness felt like an insult to my anxiety. I didn’t have the patience for the preamble today. I didn’t want to hear about her week. I just wanted to use her.

“Sit down, Amy,” I said, my voice flat.

She sat on the edge of the couch, sensing my mood shift. “Is... is everything okay?”

I didn’t bother walking over to the machine. I didn’t bother with the lights or the scent. I just looked her dead in the eye.

“Avalon Avalanche.”

The effect was instantaneous and gratifying. Her spine collapsed as if I had cut her strings. Her head lolled back against the leather, her mouth falling open in a slack, empty expression. The light left her eyes, replaced by the dull, glazed look of a doll waiting to be played with.

I stood up and walked around the desk, looming over her.

“You seem happy today, Amy,” I said, my tone cold. “Why is that?”

“Mary asked me out,” she murmured, her voice a monotone drone that contrasted sharply with the content of her words. “A real date. Dinner. Not just a hookup. She wants to see me.”

I let out a short, bark of a laugh. A real date. Poor, stupid Amy. She thought she was finding romance, while I knew exactly what Mary—my other masterpiece—had planned for her. Mary wasn’t taking her to dinner to gaze into her eyes; she was fattening her up for the slaughter. She was prepping her fuckmeat.

The irony was delicious. It almost made me smile.

“Is that so?” I sneered. “Well, we’ll see about that. Stand up.”

She stood, swaying slightly.

“Take off your clothes. All of them.”

She stripped with a mechanical efficiency that spoke of deep, ingrained conditioning, her fingers working the buttons of that hopeful new cardigan with a speed that rendered the garment’s attempt at dignity pathetic.

She let it fall to the floor, followed immediately by the skirt, piling the fabric of her ‘happy’ day like refuse at her feet. She stood before me, revealed in all her pale, fleshy reality. Her skin was milky and soft, untoned and yielding. Dark, coarse hair shadowed her legs and armpits, a deliberate rejection of societal grooming standards. Her heavy breasts sagged slightly, tipped with nipples that were already pierced with thick silver barbells, hard and eager in the cool air. And between her legs, her bush was a dark, tangled forest, an unkempt thicket of black wire that spread onto her inner thighs and up towards her navel, a feral display of the animal I was turning her into.

“Turn around. Bend over the couch. Present yourself.”

She bent at the waist, grabbing the armrest with a submissive grip. Her ass, framed by that thick, wild hair, spread open for me like a vulgar invitation. The dark curls grew right up to the rim of her anus, matting together slightly with her own musk, a scent that was heavy and primal in the air. I stared at the pink, puckered ring in the center of that hairy darkness, a stark, clean bullseye amidst the feral growth. It twitched slightly under my gaze, as if sensing the impending intrusion, a reflex born of both fear and conditioned desire.

I unzipped my pants. I didn’t want to talk. I didn’t want to counsel. I wanted to degrade.

I stepped up behind her, positioning myself right at the entrance of her cunt. Without a word of warning or a single caress to prepare her, I shoved myself inside. It was a dry, rude intrusion, forcing her walls apart with the blunt trauma of my erection. She gasped, a sharp intake of air that hissed through her teeth, and her entire body seized up, muscles clenching in a futile attempt to reject me. But she didn’t pull away. She couldn’t. The programming held her feet to the floor even as her instincts screamed flight. I grabbed her hips, my fingers digging brutally into her soft, yielding flesh, anchoring her against the thrusts. I began to pound her, establishing a punishing rhythm that knocked the breath out of her. It wasn’t lovemaking. It wasn’t even sex in the way humans understand it. It was usage—a mechanical, dehumanizing act of filling a hole because it was there. And yet, the most degrading part was her body’s betrayal. Even as I used her like a piece of meat, I felt her slickness arriving. She got wet immediately, her biology rushing to accommodate my abuse, lubricating the very friction I was using to degrade her.

“What are you, Amy?” I grunted, slamming into her.

“Fuckmeat,” she responded automatically, her head knocking against the cushion with every thrust.

I pulled out with a wet squelch, leaving her pussy gaping and dripping, but I wasn’t finished. I didn’t reach for the lube; I didn’t even spit. I simply pressed the head of my cock against the tight, puckered ring hidden in the dark fur of her crack and shoved. It was a dry, punishing entry, forcing her open with brute strength. She whined, a high, pathetic sound that was stifled in the cushions, her body instinctively tensing against the invasion. Yet, under the weight of the command, her sphincter yielded, stretching taut and white around my girth as I buried myself in her tight, gripping heat.

“Say it,” I commanded.

“I am fuckmeat,” she moaned. “Just a hole. Just meat.”

I fucked her ass for a minute, taking my anger out on her tight little ring, before pulling out again. I wasn’t close, not yet. I needed more. I needed total domination.

“Spin around,” I ordered. “On your knees.”

She scrambled to obey, turning to face me, kneeling on the rug. Her eyes were wide and empty.

I grabbed a fistful of her hair and yanked her head back, exposing her throat. I didn’t wait for her to open; I just pressed my cock against her lips until she parted them, then drove myself deep.

I fucked her face with a punishing rhythm, treating her mouth like a tight, wet sleeve that existed solely for my friction. I anchored my grip in her hair, ignoring her body’s protests as I claimed her. I could feel her gag reflex triggering, her throat muscles spasming and clamping around the sensitive head of my cock, but I didn’t stop to let her breathe. I pushed deeper, burying myself to the hilt, the wet smack of my balls slapping against her chin marking the relentless cadence of her degradation.

I reached over to the desk and hit the intercom button.

“Emily,” I barked. “Get in here.”

The door opened seconds later. Emily walked in, her face composed, though her eyes darted to the scene before her—Amy on her knees, choking on my cock, tears streaming down her face.

“Get over here,” I said, my voice thick. “She’s close. Make her cum. Use your hand.”

Emily dropped to her knees beside Amy. She didn’t hesitate. She reached between Amy’s spread legs, her fingers diving into the wet, hairy mess of Amy’s snatch. She located the hard little nub amidst the slick, tangled hair and immediately went to work with a ruthless, mechanical efficiency. Her fingers moved in a blur, circling and drumming against the sensitive flesh with a punishing rhythm that prioritized forced release over any semblance of pleasure.

Amy’s body jerked. She was trapped between the suffocation of my cock in her throat and the relentless stimulation of Emily’s hand. She started to make a gurgling, desperate sound. I could feel her stomach heaving.

She was going to throw up.

I pulled back slightly, just enough to give her an inch of air, but I didn’t leave her mouth. She retched, a wave of bile and saliva washing over the head of my cock, slick and hot.

“That’s it,” I growled, the sight of her sick degradation pushing me over the edge. “Take it, you filthy animal.”

Emily pumped her fingers faster, her own breathing ragged. Amy’s hips began to buck wildly.

“Cum!” I roared.

Amy convulsed. She screamed around my cock, her body seizing in a violent orgasm that shook her from head to toe. Pussy juice flooded over Emily’s hand, dripping onto the carpet.

At the exact same moment, I shoved my hips forward, burying myself deep in her vomit-slicked throat one last time. I erupted, pumping heavy, rhythmic ropes of scalding seed directly into her heaving esophagus, the thick white fluid churning instantly with the acrid, yellow bile bubbling up from her stomach, forcing her to swallow it all.

I held her there for a long moment, draining myself completely, before finally pulling out with a wet squelch.

Amy collapsed. She fell sideways onto the floor, curling into a ball in a heap of her own vomit, my cum, and her own juices. She coughed, hacking up strands of white slime, her body trembling in the aftershocks of the orgasm.

I stood over her, zipping up my pants. For a second, looking at the wretched pile of humanity on my expensive rug, I felt a twinge—a small, sharp pang of something that might have been empathy. She looked so broken.

But then, the arousal hit me again, a warm, satisfied glow in my belly. It was beautiful in its own way. Total surrender. Total use.

“Emily,” I said, my voice calm now. The anxiety was gone, replaced by the clarity of post-coital dominance. “Take her to the back. Clean her up. Thoroughly.”

Emily nodded, grabbing Amy’s arm and hauling the dazed woman to her feet. Amy stumbled, leaning heavily on the taller woman, her face a mask of fluids.

“Amy,” I said, catching her wandering gaze. “Listen to me.”

She blinked, focusing on me through the haze.

“You will internalize this. All of it. But you will remember it as a dream. A vivid, intense dream where you were the star. You will remember the vomit in the dream. You will remember the objectification in the dream. You will cherish every sordid detail of the dream, finding a perverse, addictive comfort in your own absolute degradation. You will leave here feeling refreshed. You have had a breakthrough today. You are lighter.”

“Dream,” she whispered, a string of saliva hanging from her lip. “Refreshed. Lighter.”

“Go.”

Emily led her into the hidden bathroom. I heard the water start running.

I walked back to my desk and sat down. I smoothed the calendar page. My hand wasn’t shaking anymore. The monster had been fed.