Morning brought not relief, but a new kind of hunger. And a new kind of horniness. Kavi woke, or rather, drifted into a hazy awareness, sprawled across the velvet sofa. His body ached in places he hadn't known existed, every muscle protesting the night's relentless assault. The air was thick with the cloying scent of stale perfume, sweat, and something else – a raw, primal musk that clung to everything. Lipstick smears adorned his chest, his neck, even his forehead, like tribal markings. He felt less like a human and more like a canvas, or perhaps, a commodity.
He tried to sit up, but a hand, surprisingly strong, pressed him back down. It was Mona Cho, her usually severe expression softened by a strange, almost possessive glint in her eyes. She held a small, almost empty bottle of water to his lips. "Drink, toy," she murmured, her voice low. "You'll need your strength."
The word "toy" sent a shiver down his spine, but the water was cool, a desperate balm to his parched throat. He drank greedily, his eyes scanning the lounge.
The scene was a bizarre tableau. Girls, disheveled and weary, were sprawled everywhere – on the floor, draped over furniture, some still half-dressed. But the dazed exhaustion was quickly giving way to a new energy, a restless, competitive hum. They were hungry, yes, for food, but also for something else, something that had been unleashed the night before.
Sloan Vega, already looking remarkably composed despite the chaos, stood by the flickering emergency light, her arms crossed. Her eyes, sharp and calculating, surveyed the room. "Alright, ladies," she announced, her voice cutting through the murmurs like a scalpel. "This is unsustainable. We have a finite resource." Her gaze flicked to Kavi, then back to the expectant faces. "And we need a system."
Jada Valentine, the former MMA fighter, stepped forward, her stance wide and authoritative. "A lottery," she proposed, her voice flat. "Fair. Random. No favoritism."
A murmur of agreement rippled through the group. Fair. Random. These were concepts they still clung to, even as their world spiraled into primal chaos.
Mona, however, scoffed. "Random? No. We need order. And accountability." She produced a small, almost empty tube of lipstick from somewhere in her torn clothes. "Each session, a mark. On his body. A lip print. So we know who's had their turn. And who's next." She looked at Kavi, a slow, chilling smile spreading across her lips. "A living ledger."
Kavi's stomach churned. A living ledger. He was no longer just a body; he was a checklist.
Factions began to form almost immediately. "The Rotators," led by Sloan, argued for a strict, scheduled system to ensure everyone got their "fair share." "The Randomizers," championed by Jada, insisted on a blind draw, believing it prevented resentment. And then there were "The Harem Purists," a smaller, more intense group, spearheaded by Lili Zhang, who believed Kavi was a sacred vessel and should only be approached through ritual, not mere scheduling.
Brie Caruso, the smiling schemer, pulled out a crumpled piece of paper and a pen. Her sweet face belied the surgical precision in her eyes as she began to draw columns and rows. "I'll manage the spreadsheet," she chirped, oblivious to the horrified look Kavi gave her. "We can track sessions, duration, even… perceived satisfaction metrics."
Kavi felt his mind reel. He was no longer a person. He was a breeding device. A resource to be managed, logged, and optimized. The names, the faces, the desperate cries from the night before began to blur into a single, terrifying, insistent demand.
He heard his name screamed into his ear. He felt hands pulling at him again, strong and insistent. He tried to resist, but his body was weak, his will shattered. He lost track of whose touch was whose, whose breath was hot against his skin. His legs ached. His head throbbed. He didn't remember sleeping, only the relentless, suffocating press of bodies, the whispers of names he couldn't place, and the chilling realization that he was no longer his own.
The lipstick marks, fresh and vibrant, began to appear on his skin, a grotesque mosaic of ownership. Sloan's crimson, Jada's deep plum, Pepper's neon pink. Each one a brand, a claim. He closed his eyes, wishing for unconsciousness, for oblivion. But it didn't come. The cycle had begun, and he was trapped within its relentless, fevered spin.