Olivia confronts her creditor but didn't go the way she had hoped.
Olivia stared at her reflection in the full-length mirror of their master bedroom. A box was placed in front of her house earlier this morning. Her hands trembling as she adjusted the skimpy outfit Rahman had demanded via text that morning:
Put on what's in the box. No bra, no panties. Be here by noon, slut.
The white sheer crop top was basically a scrap of very thin fabric, stretched tight over her 36C tits, her pink nipples poking through like hard little bullets begging for attention. The black shorts were even worse—high-waisted but cut so short they rode way up her ass cheeks. More bikini than shorts. The crotch seam digging deep into her bald pussy lips, already damp from the low-level phantom teases Rahman had been sending all morning. Six-inch stilettos completed the look, making her long legs look endless and her ass pop like a ripe peach ready to be slapped and fucked.
She felt like a cheap whore, but that's exactly what she was now—Rahman's plaything, her body becomes a remote-controlled cum dump for anyone with access to the doll.
"This ends today," she whispered to her reflection, but even she didn't believe it. The drive to Rahman's office was a blur of anxiety and unwanted arousal; every bump in the road made the shorts rub against her clit, and by the time she parked in the seedy lot, her inner thighs were slick with her own juices.
Rahman was waiting at the door, his thick black beard framing a shit-eating grin as he eyed her up and down. "Damn, Olivia—you clean up like a proper fucktoy. Those tits are begging to be squeezed, and that ass? I'd bend you over right here if I didn't have plans." He grabbed her arm roughly, pulling her inside the rundown house. The air smelled of stale smoke and cheap cologne, and as they walked down the hallway, she heard muffled moans from behind closed doors—other "debtors" paying their dues, no doubt
In the office, Rahman wasn't alone. Half a dozen shady guys lounged around—Marcus, the massive black guard with his tree-trunk arms crossed; Jamal, the wiry assistant from yesterday, smirking as he stroked his bulge through his jeans; and four others she didn't know: a tattooed biker type with a scarred face, a skinny Latino guy licking his lips, a bald fat man sweating through his shirt, and a young punk with piercings and a cruel glint in his eye. They all stared at her like fresh meat, cocks already twitching in their pants.
"Boys, meet Olivia—our new star debtor," Rahman announced, shoving her forward into the center of the room. "She's here to work off that 50k plus interest. Ain't that right, slut?"
Olivia's face burned with shame, her voice barely a whisper. "Please, Rahman... I just want to end this. Unlink the doll, and I'll find another way to pay."
The room erupted in laughter. Rahman stepped close, his breath hot on her neck as he grabbed her ass cheek hard, squeezing until she yelped. "End it? Bitch, you're just getting started. The doll's making me bank—guys paying top dollar for remote fucks. But today, you earn in person. Shift starts now at the brothel across the street. Dance, strip, entertain. The doll's linked to the VR booths for premium clients—feel every cock they shove in it while you shake that ass on stage."
Olivia's stomach dropped. "No... please, I can't—"
Marcus cut her off with a deep chuckle, his voice like gravel. "You can, and you will, white girl. Or we send those restaurant videos to your hubby. Imagine Josh seeing his wife squirting like a fountain in public, pussy on display for the world."
Jamal piped up, grinning. "Yeah, and don't forget the morning after—us pounding that doll while you rode your man's cock. Bet you came harder than ever, huh?"
The tattooed biker leered. "I'd love to test that tight cunt myself. When do we get a turn, boss?"
Rahman held up a hand. "Patience. She dances first—earns tips. Premium VR users get the doll. If she defaults on performance... well, then she's open for business." He turned to Olivia, eyes cold. "Strip down to your heels and get across the street. Now."
Trembling, Olivia peeled off the crop top, her tits bouncing free, nipples hardening in the cool air as the men whistled and catcalled. "Look at those perky fuckbags—bet they taste sweet." "Shake 'em for us, bitch." She shimmied out of the shorts next, her bald pussy exposed, lips puffy and glistening. The fat man groaned. "Shaved smooth like a good slut. I'd eat that snatch for hours."
Rahman nodded approval. "Good girl. Now march."
The brothel across the street was a neon-lit hellhole: "Paradise Palace" flickering in red lights, the entrance guarded by a bored bouncer who leered as she approached naked except for heels. Inside: sticky floors reeking of cum and booze, pulsing bass from cheap speakers, dim red lighting casting shadows over private booths with one-way mirrors. The main stage was a small platform with a pole, surrounded by tables of leering men—truckers, junkies, businessmen slumming it—nursing drinks and tossing crumpled bills.
Rahman pushed her toward the stage. "Dance, whore. Shake that ass, grind the pole. Make them want to pay for VR time with the doll."
Olivia climbed the steps on wobbly legs, the music thumping a heavy beat. She gripped the pole, swaying her hips tentatively at first, her tits jiggling with each movement. The crowd hooted.
"Show us that pussy, blondie!"
"Bend over—let’s see that tight hole!"
As she ground against the pole, the cold metal pressing into her wet slit, Rahman leaned in from the side. "Good—now spread those legs. Let them see what they're paying for."
She obeyed, parting her thighs, her pussy lips opening like a flower, juices dripping down her inner thighs. The men cheered, phones out, recording. "Fuck yeah, look at that dripping cunt—she's soaked already!"
Then the real horror began. A voice crackled over Rahman's earpiece: "Premium client in Booth 3—full access."
The doll activated.
Invisible fingers pinched her nipples mid-twirl—hard, twisting pulls that made her gasp and arch her back. "Ahh—fuck!" she yelped, stumbling against the pole. The crowd thought it was part of the act, tossing more bills. "Yeah, play with those tits, slut!"
Then a cock slid into her ass—thick, unlubed, burning as it forced past her ring. Olivia's eyes widened, knees buckling as the phantom shaft buried deep. "Oh god—no, not here—it's too big, it's splitting my asshole!" she cried inwardly, but aloud it came out as a muffled moan. She gripped the pole tighter, grinding her hips to disguise the involuntary thrusts, her ass clenching around the invisible intruder.
The client wasn't gentle. The cock pounded her relentlessly—deep, brutal strokes that made her body jerk forward with each slam. "Feel that, you dirty anal whore? Taking a stranger's dick up your shithole while you dance like a stripper slut," Rahman's voice. She bit her lip, trying to keep rhythm, but the burn turned to forbidden pleasure, her pussy dripping freely now, juices splattering the stage.
Another client joined—Booth 5. A second cock breached her pussy—ridged, curved, hitting her G-spot with every thrust. "Double-fucked like a cheap pornstar—your cunt's gripping me so tight, you love it, don't you?" the phantom voice growled in her head.
Olivia's dance devolved into frantic grinding, her tits bouncing wildly, clamps from the doll translating as sharp pinches that made her nipples ache. The crowd went wild: "Look at her— she's cumming already! Squirt for us, bitch!"
She did. The first orgasm hit like a tidal wave—her pussy spasming around the invisible shaft, squirting in forceful arcs that soaked the stage and splashed the front row. "Fuck—I'm cumming, oh shit, my holes are so full!" she screamed, voice breaking as the anal pounding intensified. The men cheered, throwing bills: "Yeah, drench that floor, you squirting whore!"
But Rahman wasn't satisfied. "Keep dancing, slut—or I add more clients," he barked from the side.
Olivia forced herself to twirl, pole between her legs rubbing her clit as the double penetration continued. Dialogue from the VR booths flooded her mind: "Pound that ass harder—she's loving it!" "Make her gag on my cock—stuff her throat full."
A third intrusion: phantom dick down her throat, tasting salty and musky, forcing her to deepthroat air while drool poured from her lips. She gagged audibly on stage, the crowd mistaking it for a sexy choke. "Swallow it deep, you cocksucking bitch—take my load down your greedy throat!"
The orgasms chained together—second, third, fourth—her body convulsing, squirt flooding the platform until it was slick and dangerous. She slipped once, landing on her knees, ass up, pussy exposed to the room. The men surged forward, phones flashing. "Bend over more—show us that gaping cunt!"
Rahman hauled her up. "Enough stage time. Into the booths—premium clients want close-ups."
He dragged her to a private booth: mirrored walls, a small pole, one-way glass for voyeurs. "Dance here—let them see you break."
The VR escalated: five cocks now—two in pussy, two in ass, one in mouth. "Feel us wrecking your holes, you multi-cocked slut? Your body's our cum dump now!" The voices overlapped, smells of sweat and cum filling her nostrils, tastes coating her tongue.
Olivia danced—grinding, twerking, tits bouncing—as orgasms ripped through her. Squirt sprayed the mirrors, her reflection showing a woman lost in degradation: face contorted, body slick, pussy gaping and pulsing. "Please—stop, I can't take more cocks in my stretched-out cunt and ass!" she begged aloud, but the clients laughed in her head.
By shift's end—four hours later—she was a cum-soaked mess, knees bruised, holes sore, stage money stuffed in her discarded shorts. Rahman counted the tips: "$1,200—not bad, whore. Come back tomorrow—or Josh gets the full video collection."
She drove home sobbing, body aching, but her phone buzzed with Josh's text: "Miss you, babe. Send nudes?" She complied—cropping out the red welts and bruises—but Rahman had already hacked her device, forwarding the pics to his forum: "Bid on this squirting blonde's doll—tight holes guaranteed."
Back home, Olivia collapsed into the shower, scrubbing furiously, but the phantom touches lingered. That night, as Josh called from the mine, Rahman activated the doll again—another remote gangbang while she faked normalcy on the phone. "I miss you too, honey—fuck, yes, tell me more," she moaned, disguising her orgasms as dirty talk, squirting onto the bed while Josh jerked off oblivious.