A Girlfriend's Dare: Ch. 14

The morning after the public live stream and the mother goose challenge began with two things: a parched tongue, and the memory of having laid a full clutch of eggs on a public park bench. Both were impossible to ignore, and neither was helped by the kitchen's ruined state--the stink of latex, the feathers trampled into the tile, the gold eggs rattling in a grocery bag by the sink. Steph was up, hair tied back, making espresso and answering texts one-handed. She didn't say good morning.

Annie slunk past in a T-shirt, only just remembering she'd ditched the breastplate and skirt somewhere in the living room hours earlier. She considered putting them back on, for Jamal's sake, but decided against it. She was tired. She was over it.

Today, if pressed, she'd say she was "Andrew" again, which was a lie so brittle it could cut glass.

Jamal arrived ten minutes later. He didn't knock; he never knocked. He just pushed through the door, hoodie half-zipped, sunglasses perched on his head, and scanned the apartment like a foreman inspecting a demolition site. He clocked Annie instantly, the boy mode, and made a sound halfway between a tsk and a groan.

"Wow," he said. "Didn't know we were back to Basic Bitch hours."

He kicked off his slides, set his duffel by the door, and fished a phone from his pocket. "Hope you're not planning on hiding out today," he said, scrolling. "We got a full schedule. Two private calls and one custom request. There's even a tip in it if you can actually follow instructions for once."

Annie glared, but it was toothless. "You want coffee?" she asked, not even trying to sound hostile.

"Already had three," Jamal replied. "But I do need the bathroom. Unless you want me to just whip it out here and mark territory."

He grinned, and without waiting, beelined for the hall. Annie trailed behind, feeling the anxiety rise as she saw what Jamal must have: the bathroom, an absolute war crime. The mirror was streaked with Steph's lipstick; the toilet seat was up and splashed; there were two gold eggs floating in the tank and another cracked open in the sink. The only clean surface was a packet of flushable wipes, unopened.

Jamal stood in the doorway, surveying. "You call this cleaned?" he said.

Annie shrugged. "You want me to go at it now?"

He considered, then shook his head. "No, no. I want you to get in uniform first. Otherwise what's the point?"

Steph, who had followed just to see, snorted into her phone. "You're so fucking predictable," she said.

Jamal winked at her. "Only thing worth being in this world."

He turned to Annie. "You know where the maid shit is, right? Black and white, petticoat, all that? Don't forget the heels and the gloves." He made a "go on" gesture, as if sending a dog to fetch a stick.

Annie wanted to argue, but the threat was always there, unspoken: every time she pushed back, the punishment got meaner, or more public, or both. So she went to the closet, dug out the French maid ensemble--trimmed with ruffles, the apron so short it barely covered her pubes--and wrestled it on. The breastplate was cold and clammy, the wig still sticky with whatever Steph had used to shellac it last night. She added the heels, the gloves, the collar, and checked herself in the full-length mirror. The look was humiliating, but at least familiar. Like a mascot costume for a team that never won a game.

When she returned, Jamal and Steph were waiting in the bathroom, arms folded, expressions identical.

"Start with the toilet," Jamal said, pulling a vape from his pocket. "But before you touch anything, kneel."

Annie hesitated. He tapped the vape against the counter, impatience growing. "Let me make it simple: You're on bathroom duty this week. That means you're the only one who cleans. You're also the only one who gets to use it. Unless, of course--"

He smiled. "We need to go. Then it's your job to take care of it. Understand?"

She looked at Steph, hoping for rescue, but Steph was pure deadpan.

Annie knelt, knees biting into the tile. She felt the skirt ride up, the cold air on her ass, the breastplate squeezing every shallow breath.

Jamal uncapped the wipes, offered one to her with a flourish. "Go ahead. Make it shine."

It was less cleaning than hazing. For every pass of the wipe, Jamal had a new instruction: "Lick the seat. That's how you check if it's really clean." Or, "Get your face in the bowl, see if you can smell the difference." Steph filmed from the doorway, phone aimed steady, eyes flat with boredom. But every time Jamal upped the stakes, she smirked a little, as if this was all just improv and Annie was blowing her lines.

By the end, Annie's gloves were soiled, her knees numb, her tongue coated in disinfectant and something worse. She'd scrubbed the bowl, the rim, even the tank, while Jamal lectured on the importance of "attention to detail."

He checked her work, then gave a single, regal nod. "You're a natural," he said. "But there's one more thing."

She already knew. There was always one more thing.

Jamal unzipped, fished out his cock, and pointed at the bowl. "Open wide," he said, voice soft but absolute. "This is what you get for being a lazy bitch."

Annie looked up, eyes stinging. "No," she said. "I'm not doing that."

Jamal blinked, then looked at Steph, as if confirming what he'd just heard.

Steph raised both eyebrows, but said nothing.

Jamal squatted, got right in her face, voice low. "You think you get to say no now?"

Annie wanted to stand. She wanted to throw the wipes at his chest and storm out and never come back. But she could feel the walls closing: the videos, the chat logs, the hundred clips of her in worse positions. She could imagine Jamal's thumb hovering over "share," could see her face popping up in a Discord at her college, in her parents' group chat, on a thousand meme pages by midnight.

"Fine," she said, mouth bitter. "Just do it."

Jamal's smile was slow and certain. He angled his cock at her face, the tip already beading, and said, "Say 'please.'"

She wanted to scream. Instead, she forced the words out: "Please, Jamal. Use me. I'm a filthy maid and I deserve it."

He let loose, a hot arc across her cheeks, the taste salty and chemical, some of it running down to her collar. He pissed for what felt like a full minute, then shook the last drops onto her tongue.

Steph kept filming the whole time, dead steady, no expression.

When he finished, Jamal zipped up, then patted her head. "Good slut," he said. "That's what I want to see."

Annie wiped her mouth, the humiliation burning from scalp to soles.

Steph stepped in, crouched beside her, and whispered: "You did good. I'd have made him swallow the gold egg if it were me."

Annie stared at her, then at the phone, then at the floor.

Jamal washed his hands, then turned to both of them, voice all business. "Here's how it's going to work from now on. You're the house toilet. You're on call, twenty-four seven. If I gotta piss, you drink it. If I gotta shit, you eat it or clean it. No more porcelain. No more wipes. Your tongue, your hole, that's it."

He let the words settle, then added: "And if you ever say no again, I send the Mother Goose link to everyone in your contact list. Hell, I'll post it in the college Discord. We'll see how many of your debate club friends want a piece after that."

Steph's smirk was gone, replaced by something like pity. But she didn't speak up.

She just watched, eyes calculating, as Annie tried to process the new rules.

Annie's mouth was dry, her hands shaking. "This is too much," she said. "You can't--"

Jamal cut her off. "I can. And I will."

He pointed at the toilet, then at her. "Prove you get it."

She didn't move.

He unlocked his phone, tapped once, and showed her the screen: a DM draft, the Mother Goose video cued up, the "To:" field filled with the first ten names from her contacts.

"I can do it right now," he said. "Or you can do what you're told."

Annie stared at the bowl, the water still swirling from where she'd cleaned it. She felt herself shatter, piece by piece.

She leaned over, pressed her mouth to the rim, and whispered: "I'm the toilet now. I get it."

Jamal smiled, put the phone away.

Steph helped her up, led her to the sink, and rinsed her face with warm water. "I'm sorry," she said, voice just above a breath. "I should have stopped it."

Annie shook her head, mascara running. "No point," she said. "He'll just find something worse."

They stood there, silent, until Jamal called from the living room: "Hurry up, sluts.

Next video in ten."

* * *

It got worse, of course.

Jamal's "full schedule" meant three more bathroom humiliations before lunch. He made Annie kneel, mouth open, for every piss break; he filmed each one, narrating for the chat. "Bathroom break number two, folks. Let's see if she can take it all this time." The comments rolled in, each one more vile, more imaginative, than the last.

By the third time, he announced a "challenge round": no hands, no swallowing, just hold it all in your mouth until I say so. The warm, bitter flood filled Annie's cheeks, sloshing against the back of her throat. She gagged, but kept it in, eyes locked on the lens.

Steph watched each time, sometimes filming, sometimes just observing, her face a study in numb fascination.

After the third round, Jamal leaned back, stretched, and said, "Now for the grand finale."

He unzipped, shimmied out of his jeans, and sat on the toilet, legs spread, cock already half-hard from the show. "C'mere," he said, motioning for Annie to kneel between his knees.

She did. She knew what was coming.

He grunted, then sighed. "Should've had more fiber," he said, laughing.

The smell hit first: dense, chemical, inescapable. He shat, slow and deliberate, the log landing with a wet plop in the bowl. The sound alone made Annie want to scream.

Jamal reached back, grabbed her hair, and pulled her face to the edge of the seat. "You know the drill," he said. "Get me clean."

She hesitated, just for a second.

Jamal squeezed harder. "Remember our deal," he said, voice deadly calm.

Annie leaned in, tongue out, and licked. The taste was worse than the smell: acrid, earthy, the lube from last night still clinging to his skin. She licked again, then again, until he was satisfied.

When she was done, Jamal turned, twisted her head, and kissed her, deep and slow. "That's my bitch," he said, licking her cheek clean.

He stood, wiped his ass with her wig, then flushed.

Steph helped Annie up, steadied her as she stumbled to the sink. "You okay?" she whispered, voice soft.

Annie rinsed, spat, rinsed again. "I'm fine," she said, which was a lie, but it was easier than the truth.

Jamal washed his hands, then came up behind them. "Almost forgot," he said, pulling a phone from his pocket. "There's one more request."

He showed the message: "Have her swirl her face in the bowl after he's done. Like, really get in there."

Steph read it, looked at Annie. "You don't have to--"

But she did. She had to.

Annie knelt by the bowl, the water still brown and flecked with shit. She leaned in, pressed her face to the water, and swirled. The cold hit her skin, the stench filling her nose. She stayed there, submerged, until Jamal said, "Good enough."

He filmed the whole thing, of course.

When she pulled back, Steph handed her a towel, eyes shining with something like horror.

Jamal uploaded the video, then wiped his hands on the back of Annie's dress.

"You're a fucking icon," he said, voice lazy with satisfaction. "Tomorrow, we'll try it with guests."

He left then, slinging his duffel over one shoulder, the door banging behind him.

Annie sat on the floor, knees drawn to her chest, shivering.

Steph crouched beside her, wrapped both arms around her, and held her tight.

They sat like that for a long time.

Neither of them said a word.

* * *

That night, Annie couldn't sleep. She lay on her back, staring at the ceiling, the taste of shit and piss and bleach locked in her mouth.

She scrolled through her phone, found the videos--already up, already viral, comments and DMs flooding in like sewage.

She watched one, then another, then another.

She didn't cry.

She didn't even flinch.

She just stared at the screen, blank and empty.

Then Jamal typed: "What does everyone want next?"

The responses were immediate.

She read them all, one by one, until the sun came up.