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Clancy walked into his bedroom and slammed the door closed behind him, instantly falling face down onto his bed.
His clothes barely hung onto his thin frame, and the cotton was ripped in a few places. His legs felt like jelly, and he couldn’t feel the bottom half of his body at all. He could still feel burning scrapes and bruises on his back, his jaw sore and cramping, and semen still leaking out of him and down his face.
To say the least, Clancy was exhausted.
To make it even worse, his living quarters were an eyesore. The Bishops had it designed after a love hotel—lack of windows, red velvet carpet, dim lighting. Red everywhere. The room was decorated ceiling to floor with Vialism propaganda, of course, sprinkled with BDSM and sexual items that Clancy just absolutely loathed to look at. It was meant to be his dream room anyway. Bishop Keons asked him what he wanted, and he immediately received it. There is a grand piano in the far corner, a writing desk, a few notebooks, and a lone wooden ukulele. That was all he wanted.
Clancy groaned into his pillow and arched his back, stretching out as far as he could without injuring himself. He had just finished recording a music video for one of his new songs, Never Take It. They had to constantly reshoot scenes and change the script because Clancy kept forgetting his cues. They couldn't cut him any slack, as if he could sleep after what they had done to him in the last video they forced him to do.
“Clancy, can you please just stand up? This shot is supposed to be of you with the fender,” The director instructed him, snapping his fingers in front of Clancy’s face. The boy was leaning against the ground, close to making full-face contact with it, and dozing off.
“Can we take five, or even 10? I’m– I’m just really tired.” Clancy yawned, but was quickly jolted awake when someone from behind was yanking him off the floor and onto his feet.
“When we say get up, that means you get the fuck up.” A man, clearly bigger and stronger than Clancy, was manhandling him, pushing him onto the stage and shoving Clancy’s guitar in his face.
Clancy stumbled, almost slipping and falling forward onto some equipment. He knew this music business was serious—at least serious to the Bishops. But everyone else was just using it as an excuse to push and pull Clancy around like molding clay, to berate and use him as a toy. He didn't feel like an idol or royalty or anything but lesser than human—a prop. Clancy wasn’t sure if he was content with that. He was just fighting to stay alive.
After the recording, the man who was pushing him around pushed him even farther. He took Clancy to the side, practically ripped his clothes off, and slammed him onto a nearby riser. He yanked Clancy’s pants and underwear down to his thighs, only far enough to expose his ass, pushed his legs up to his chest, and then shoved his cock inside the boy. No lube, barely any prep. Just using Clancy and making him take, take, take it.
“You’re a fucking brat, always get what you want,” The man spat, grabbing Clancy’s hair by the freshly dyed pink roots and yanking his head up to look at him. He was a mess, tears already forming in his eyes.
“Yes-s-s,” Clancy’s voice bobbed with every thrust, his back scraping across the rough texture of the riser. He could hear his shirt ripping, and he wanted to slam his fists down and scream, but he had to play into it. “I’m a greedy little slut, please, harder—”
Embarrassingly enough, Clancy was hard, leaking precum on his ruined shirt. He liked being fucked, it was getting hard not to like it when your prostate is being abused nearly seven times a week. Yet he cried and let out wanton moans, tears sliding down his rosy cheeks. Clancy knew they liked it when he tried to fight back and scream.
“Yeah? Yeah, you’re gonna take this dick, bitch. You love it.”
Clancy hiccuped a sob. He did love it.
“You’d do anything for attention. Anything to get a dick shoved up your greedy ass.”
“I’m– I’m sorry!” Clancy sobbed, pretending to push the man off him weakly. The thrusts were hard enough to rock the whole riser, and skin-on-skin slapped through the studio set. “I’m s-sorry, sir! I’ll be good! I’ll listen! Please—!”
The man struck his hand across Clancy’s face, and he yelped, leaving his cheek with a burning red mark. “Shut up, slut.”
Clancy whimpered and cupped his stinging face, hiding from the rest of the world. He felt pathetic and little for crying; he should’ve already been accustomed to the pain. He prayed that the man wouldn’t tell the Bishops about his talk-back, or else he would have to suffer through another week of corrective treatment.
The man never let up; every push against Clancy’s prostate felt harder and harder than the last. There were still some people from the set crew lingering around, and Clancy knew they were watching him. Watching him become a piece of furniture—used, fucked, and humiliated.
Soon, the man’s thrusts picked up, and then he stopped. His cock twitched inside Clancy and quickly filled him up with hot ropes of cum. Clancy nearly shrieked and quickly covered his mouth, his body shivering. The man pulled out just as quickly as he shoved himself inside. He left Clancy there on the riser, the boy’s legs still in the air and trembling with his pants bunched up at his ankles.
Clancy’s walk back to his living quarters was actually worse. He was practically limping, pulling his pants up to his waist to have some decency, for he was too tired to button them back up. He got halfway down the main hall before one of the doors to someone’s room opened, and then Clancy was yanked inside by somebody.
In short, Clancy’s mouth got fucked as well, used by a random man who forced the sobbing boy to take his cock down his throat. And then Clancy got thrown right back out like Sunday’s trash, a cumshot dripping down his face. He was lucky he was alone in this hall, or else the commoners would get the idea that he was up for use. Clancy just wanted to go home and take a shower. Even a bath sounded nice.
He now slowly rose from his bed and trudged to the bathroom to turn on the bath faucet. Most citizens in Dema weren’t allowed to bathe alone and had to use communal showers or be washed by a worker. Clancy had the lucky privilege of having his own bathroom. Every bath felt like a deep cleanse for him. All the deeds and sins of the day slipping down the red drain.
However, when Clancy left his bathroom, only in his fuzzy towel, his skin immediately turned pale when he saw one of the Bishops standing in the middle of his room.
“Bishop Keons.” Clancy isn’t sure he was still expected to bow before them, since they saw him on a higher pedestal than regular Dema citizens. “I– I didn't hear you come in–”
Keons, donned in a heavy red robe, had his pasty face almost covered in the shadows of the dim room. He was taller than the rest of the Bishops, definitely more intimidating than Nico, and Clancy shut his mouth the moment the man lifted a finger, signaling silence.
“Quiet. You speak only when spoken to. Or did you forget?” The bishop drew in close to Clancy, and the younger was already bowing down to his knees, fear-stricken in his eyes. Clancy didn’t say anything; he knew he wasn’t supposed to. He only nodded in response and swallowed hard.
“How did the recording go this evening?” Keons didn't even look at him. “I have heard that you disobeyed.”
“I was tired. You know that they forced me to write for hours in the blue room–“
Suddenly, Keons was yanking Clancy by the roots of his hair, making the boy yelp. “I know everything. But that is what you were born to do here. You listen, you obey, and you work when you are told to.”
“I’m-m sorry—“ Clancy gasped, pain blooming over his scalp. “I’ll obey, I– I swear!”
Keons hummed and pulled Clancy’s hair harder, dragging him to the edge of his bed and throwing him onto it like a sack. “It does not matter. You get everything you ask for here, Clancy. It’s never enough.” The Bishop’s voice wasn’t completely laced in anger, but Clancy didn’t dare to sit up. He could already feel his eyes closing on their own, and the soft comfort of his bed made his body feel as heavy as lead.
“I just want to sleep, please…” Clancy pleaded into the duvet, but Keons couldn’t hear him. The man is getting on the bed behind Clancy and running his cold, wrinkly hands down his body, unwrapping his towel and untying his own robe.
“Head up.”
Hesitantly, Clancy lifted his head and looked back, the Bishop taking the boy’s chin in his hands and tsking. “How lovely you are. Such a shame that those delinquent Banditos threw you away.”
A tear slid down Clancy’s cheek before his head was pushed back into the mattress roughly. He groaned loudly into the fabric when Keons started to breach him, sliding with ease since Clancy was already used today. The boy couldn't stop the pain that he still felt, his body instinctively clenching on itself as every inch passed that tight ring of muscle. His cries ended up melting into moans anyways. They always did.
“Only one way to teach you a lesson is to fuck it into, huh?” Keons doesn't start at a ruthless pace like Nico normally did. He rocked his hips in waves, taking Clancy by his waist and lifting his ass in the air. Clancy’s cock is already half hard and leaking, staining the bed.
“Yes, father–!” It was useless. Clancy was getting his arms pinned behind his back, his knees threatening to give out below him.
“You’re lucky I'm the one punishing you. Nico would not have been so merciful,” Keons is leaning over him, spitting venom into his ear. It makes Clancy pant, his jaw gone slack. Thinking about his last session with Nico made his stomach churn, bile already building in the back of his throat. But he couldn't think about that right now, because he knew that as soon as he came Keons would stop.
Right now, he wasn’t sure if he wanted Keons to stop. The fear of being alone with his thoughts clawed and ripped apart his brain. This was the next best thing.
“P-please, father— keep using me, I’m your bitc—” Clancy babbled, but Keons pulled at his hair again, quickly shutting him up with a whine.
“You are nothing. Your life is worthless, and you have no purpose but to sit still and look pretty.” A harsh thrust that makes Clancy’s back arch. “All of those hungry eyes that watch you sing your idiotic songs are only ripping your clothes off, waiting to get their hands on you. To ravish you.”
Suddenly, Clancy was being lifted up by his midsection, Keon’s large hands placing him to lean back against him. The man took his weeping cock into his hands and stroked him vigorously. “And do you know who really owns you at the end of the day?”
Clancy hiccups and sniffles, tears flowing, and his face a complete wreck. His body convulsed in Keons’s hands, his orgasm being forced out of him, spilling onto the bed in short bursts. Keons gripped his jaw, forcing the boy to look at him, the black paint covering his fingers smearing against Clancy’s perfect flushed skin.
“Say it.”
“Nngh– Y-you do, father,” Clancy groaned, instinctively sticking his tongue out, and Keons released his cock, now shoving his fingers into Clancy’s mouth. Saliva dribbled from Clancy’s mouth and down Keon’s hand in a thick strand, the digits pressing harshly down on the boy’s tongue. Clancy gagged, loudly and obscenely.
Keons never let up; his cock pounded Clancy with more and more pressure, kissing that fleshed-out bundle of nerves inside the boy. The taste on Clancy’s tongue was foul, acidic-like, and it made his entire mouth go numb. When Keons finally pulled his fingers out and dragged them across Clancy’s cheek, leaving a long, black, inky trail, Clancy coughed.
“Need ‘ta cum, plea–se fath’r,” Clancy slurred and panted hot breaths, his tongue still hanging out and his eyes rolling back. Either the pleasure was frying his brain or Keons had smeared him orally. It could’ve been both, and Clancy was off the deep end. His cock bobbed uselessly in the air, begging for attention again.
“Oh, daddy, fuckmedaddy– Please!” Clancy’s babbling hysterics now, not even forming complete sentences. He’s swearing breathlessly, calling out for Keons, begging for him just to break his body. He starts crying all over again.
“Shh, shh, shh, little rabbit,” Keons pulls at Clancy’s mouth, stretching his lips back to his cheek to bare his teeth like a dog. Of course, he has pearly whites. “You’re good, taking me so well. Be a good boy and tell me what you want.”
Clancy’s shaking his head and squirming, the position they’re in becoming entirely too uncomfortable. He can’t speak properly with fingers violating his mouth. Instead, he grunts and grinds back against Keons, the sound of their skin pressed together loud and lewd. It was gross. Clancy should be disgusted with himself. Everything he was doing and saying went against everything he believed in.
It was too overwhelming; he was crumbling in on himself as he came onto the bed again, shooting thin hot ropes. He couldn’t stop crying when Keons began to touch him again, squeezing the head of his cock and milking him of all he had left. Keons had to shove his face back into the mattress, borderline suffocating him when Clancy’s sobs turned into shrieks. He’s screaming in panic, and Keons doesn’t care, only fucking him harder through his second orgasm.
At some point, Keons stops and grunts as he spills inside Clancy. It’s slow and painfully deliberate. Clancy is quiet now and can only whimper weakly whenever Keons pulls out, his load dripping down the back of Clancy’s thighs. The boy instantly collapses when Keons releases his body, falling on his side, sprawled out on the duvet.
“Ah, t–thank you, thankyoufather…” He’s mumbling repeatedly, too fatigued even to open his eyes.
Keons is kind enough to carefully lift Clancy’s body and wipe him off with his discarded bath towel. The Bishop redresses him in clean underwear and soft cotton pajamas and covers him with the heavy comforter. Clancy is completely immobile, limp, and as light as a feather. It is unknown whether he is conscious, but Keons addresses him as if he is.
“Whenever you awake, go to the infirmary first thing. There is a bruise on your neck,” Keons traces over Clancy’s skin on his throat, an ugly purple bruise now going black, leaving in its trail. “The producers have scraped today’s video due to your… performance issues.”
Before he leaves, he sorts through a ring of keys on his belt, adjusting the veil concealing his face. “But you will compensate for that later. We have chosen a winner for your little contest. I think you will be fairly pleased with our selection.”
Keons locks the bedroom door behind him, leaving Clancy to sleep in complete darkness.