The house loomed ahead, a sleek, modern monstrosity with floor-to-ceiling windows and a vibe that screamed "TikTok mansion." Cleo, a fiery 17-year-old with cascading crimson hair, stepped out of the Uber, her heart thumping a little too hard in her chest. Her outfit—skin-tight jeans, a cropped top that barely covered her midriff, and a choker hugging her neck—felt like armor, but her fingers betrayed her nerves as they fidgeted with the hem of her shirt. She wasn’t used to places like this, all polished and pretentious, and the uncertainty gnawed at her teenage bravado.
Dragging her suitcase behind her, she approached the door, only to have it swing open before she could knock. Three guys, all in their mid-20s, greeted her with grins that were equal parts welcoming and predatory. Glen, the tallest with a scruffy jawline, leaned against the doorframe. Tim, broader with a buzz cut, cracked his knuckles playfully. Richard, lean and sharp-eyed, gave her a once-over that made her skin prickle.
“Well, damn, Red, you look like you walked straight outta a music video,” Glen drawled, his voice dripping with amusement as he eyed her hair and outfit. “What, you here to dance for us or just set the place on fire?”
Cleo’s cheeks flushed, but she jutted her chin out, refusing to shrink under their gazes. “Maybe I’ll burn it down if you don’t watch your mouth,” she shot back, her voice steadier than she felt. “Where’s my room?”
Tim chuckled, stepping forward to grab her suitcase with an exaggerated grunt. “Feisty. I like it. Come on, princess, let’s get you settled before you start swinging.”
Richard smirked, falling into step beside her as they led her through the sprawling house. “That choker’s cute. You wear it for style, or you just like being collared?” His tone was teasing, but there was an edge to it that made Cleo’s stomach twist.
She rolled her eyes, forcing a laugh to mask her unease. “Keep dreaming, creep. I’m not here for your weird fantasies.” But as they showed her to her room—a cozy space with a vanity mirror and a plush bed—her bravado faltered. Alone for a moment, she caught her reflection in the mirror, smoothing her hair and trying to look tougher than she felt. Her hands trembled just slightly. *Get it together, Cleo. You’ve got this.*
A knock on the door snapped her out of her thoughts. Glen’s voice called through, casual but insistent. “Yo, Red, come down to the living room. We’ve got something to show you.”
Curiosity piqued, she adjusted her top and headed downstairs, her boots clicking on the hardwood floor. The living room was massive, all modern furniture and ambient lighting, but as she stepped inside, the door slammed shut behind her with a loud *click*. She jumped, spinning around with wide eyes, her pulse racing. “What the hell—?”
Her words died in her throat as she took in the scene. The room wasn’t just a hangout spot. A padded bench—or was it a “sawhorse”?—sat in the center with a dildo strapped to it, gleaming under the lights. Whips and paddles lined a nearby rack, and skimpy lingerie hung on hooks like some twisted art display. Glen, Tim, and Richard stood there, stripped down to tight t-shirts, their grins wider now, hungrier, as they openly sized her up.
“What… what is this?” Cleo stammered, taking a step back, only to freeze as a new presence loomed behind her. She didn’t even have time to turn before a pair of strong hands gripped her hips, sliding down to brazenly squeeze her ass. A low, amused voice murmured in her ear, “Relax, sweetheart. You’re in for a treat.”
She whipped around—or tried to—but the blond, muscled guy behind her, Brendon, held her in place with a grip like iron. Her breath hitched, shock rooting her to the spot. “Get your hands off me!” she snapped, but her voice wavered, betraying her.
Brendon just laughed, his hands roaming shamelessly as the other three closed in, forming a tight circle around her. “Oh, come on, Red,” Glen taunted, reaching for the hem of her top. “You dressed like you wanted attention. We’re just giving it to you.”
“Stop it!” Cleo tried to push him away, but her arms were weak against their combined strength. Tim tugged at her jeans, yanking them down with a rough jerk, while Richard’s fingers hooked under her choker, pulling her face closer to his. “Look at her squirm,” he mocked, his breath hot against her cheek. “Bet she’s secretly loving this.”
Her clothes came off piece by piece, their crude jokes and laughter drowning out her protests. Soon, she stood bare before them, shivering under their relentless touches. Hands groped her everywhere—her breasts, her thighs, her ass—until her body betrayed her with involuntary gasps, a confusing heat pooling in her core despite her humiliation.
“Damn, she’s got a tight little body,” Brendon growled, his fingers digging into her skin. “Can’t wait to break her in.”
Before she could process his words, a cold metallic *click* sounded, and her wrists were yanked behind her back. Handcuffs. Panic surged through her as she tugged against them, but it was useless. Tim crouched down, grinning up at her. “Aw, look at that face. Nowhere to run now, huh?”
“Fuck you,” she spat, her voice trembling but defiant. “You’re all sick.”
Richard stepped forward, grabbing her choker and pulling her down to her knees with a rough yank. “Big talk for a girl who’s about to choke on me,” he sneered, unzipping his pants. Cleo’s eyes widened as he freed himself, his erection inches from her face. She tried to turn away, but his grip on her hair was unrelenting. “Open up, princess. Don’t make this harder than it needs to be.”
Her lips parted in a mix of fear and forced compliance, and he didn’t hesitate, pushing himself into her mouth. She gagged, tears pricking her eyes as he controlled her movements, thrusting deep. “That’s it,” he grunted, his voice thick with lust. “Take it like a good girl.”
The others cheered him on, their voices a humiliating chorus as Cleo struggled to breathe, her body reacting in ways she didn’t understand. When Richard finally pulled back, he aimed deliberately, his release hitting her face, dripping down her cheek and over one closed eye. She flinched, the sticky warmth a stark reminder of her powerlessness.
“Goddamn, that’s a pretty picture,” Glen laughed, shoving her forward until she was on all fours, her ass in the air and her face pressed to the cold floor. “Now, dance for us, Red. Shake that ass.”
A sharp slap landed on her backside, making her yelp and jolt. “I said *dance*,” Brendon barked, his tone leaving no room for argument. Another slap, this time across her chest, sent a sting through her, and a rough tug on her hair forced her to her feet.
Humiliation burned through her, but so did something else—something dark and primal. With their eyes locked on her, some of them stroking themselves, Cleo moved, swaying her hips and shaking her ass as commanded. Their hungry stares made her skin crawl, yet a twisted part of her reveled in the attention.
“Fuck, look at her go,” Tim muttered, stepping closer. Without warning, they grabbed her again, pinning her against the wall. Brendon took her from behind, his thrusts hard and unyielding, while Glen forced himself into her mouth once more. Her moans mingled with gasps, her body rocking between them as slaps rained down on her ass and a whip grazed her back with sharp, teasing stings.
When they finished, their releases coating her back, they stepped away, leaving her trembling and breathless. Richard clipped an o-collar around her neck, the weight of it heavy against her skin, before unlocking the cuffs. “Go clean yourself up,” he ordered, tossing her a smirk. “And don’t think we’re done with you.”
Naked and dazed, Cleo stumbled back to her room, her body aching and her mind a whirlwind. In the bathroom, she caught sight of a small camera blinking in the corner of the shower. Her cheeks burned hotter as she stepped under the water, knowing they were likely watching, their invisible eyes tracing every inch of her as the water washed away the evidence of her initiation—but not the memory.
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