Chapter 11: Power
The elevator ride to the penthouse was a vertical eternity of contained suffering. Every slight shift of the car made the eggs grind against each other inside me, a low, deep ache that was becoming the new constant of my existence. Marius stood beside me, one hand resting on the small of my back, fingers splayed possessively over the curve of my swollen stomach. He didn’t speak. The silence was a weight itself.
The doors slid open directly into the stark, minimalist expanse of his living area. Floor-to-ceiling windows showed the city as a grid of cold, distant jewels. It felt like standing on the edge of a silent, judging universe.
“The study,” Marius said, his voice cutting through my pain-fog. “On the desk. A black portfolio. Bring it to me in the kitchen.”
A command. A task. My legs trembled as I took the first step. The movement sent a fresh, rolling pressure through my lower abdomen. I walked with a wide, waddling gait, my hands instinctively cradling the heavy bulge. Each footfall was a careful negotiation. I could feel a single egg, lower than the others, pressing with insistent urgency against the clenched ring of muscle inside me.
The journey across the polished concrete floor was twenty yards. It felt like a mile. By the time I reached the dark wood desk in the book-lined study, sweat was beading on my forehead. I saw the portfolio. I reached for it.
As my fingers brushed the leather, a powerful, knifing cramp seized me. I doubled over, gripping the desk edge, a whimper leaking from my lips. It was the lower egg, demanding passage. My asshole fluttered helplessly, overwhelmed.
Footsteps sounded behind me. I hadn’t heard him follow.
Marius’s hand slid down the back of my trousers, his fingers cool against my feverish skin. He traced the pucker of my hole, which was strained and wet. “Already?” he murmured, a note of dark amusement in his voice. “We’ve only just begun. That one’s eager. But it’s not time.”
His other hand snaked around my hip, finding the pronounced bulge of my trapped cock. He squeezed it through the fabric. The sensation was a bolt of lightning straight to my ruined nerves. I gasped, arching my back.
“Focus on your task,” he said, giving my cock a rough, twisting rub. “The portfolio.”
Tears of frustration blurred my vision. The cramp subsided, replaced by the feverish throb he’d ignited. I grabbed the portfolio, clutching it to my chest like a shield, and turned. He was there, blocking my path, his eyes glacial.
“Now, the kitchen.”
I shuffled past him, each step re-igniting the low burn in my gut. In the kitchen, all stainless steel and harsh downlights, I placed the portfolio on the island.
“Good.” He unbuttoned my trousers, letting them pool at my ankles. The cool air hit my wet, sounding cock. He took it in his hand, his grip firm, and gave it three slow, agonizingly perfect strokes. The sound trapped every spark of sensation, concentrating it into a searing point of need. My knees buckled. I caught myself on the island’s edge.
“Don’t you dare,” he warned, his strokes continuing, a ruthless, measured pace. “You don’t come until I say. Remember?”
“I remember,” I choked out, my head hanging. Pre-cum seeped around the steel, dripping onto the floor. The dual torment was unraveling me: the deep, physical demand of the eggs and this sharp, superficial torture of my cock.
He stopped, leaving me trembling on the edge. “The whiskey. Glencairn glass. Top shelf.”
I turned, the movement awkward. I fetched the bottle and the heavy crystal glass. Another cramp hit, stronger this time. I stumbled, the bottle clinking against the glass. The lower egg was crowning. I could feel the thick, rounded tip of it stretching me open from the inside. A desperate, guttural sound left my throat.
Marius was immediately behind me. He took the bottle and glass from my shaking hands and set them aside. His fingers returned to my hole, pressing against the firm, descending bulge. “There it is,” he whispered, his breath hot on my neck. “Pushing so nicely. But no.”
He pushed the egg back in.
The sensation was a profound, shocking reversal. A deep, internal sliding as the sphere was forced back up into the crowded channel. I cried out, a mix of pain and bizarre disappointment. My body had been preparing to expel, and the denial was a physiological betrayal.
Before I could process it, his hand was back on my cock, stroking me hard and fast, using the slick mess of my own desperate fluid. “You want to push it out, don’t you? You want to empty that stuffed, pretty ass and finally get your reward. But you have to earn it.”
He edged me again, bringing me to the very precipice until my whole body was rigid, toes curling against the cold floor, a scream locked in my chest. He stopped.
“The veranda. Fetch the ashtray.”
The next hour dissolved into a cycle of exquisite, drawn-out hell. I shuffled, waddled, and stumbled through his penthouse on a series of trivial errands—a specific book, a adjustment of the thermostat, a fetch of a forgotten sweater from a bedroom. Between each, sometimes in the middle of a task, his hand would find me. Sometimes he’d work my sounded cock with cruel expertise, edging me until I saw white sparks behind my eyelids. Sometimes he’d finger my stretched, leaking hole, feeling for the progress of the leading egg.
Each time it began to crown, each time I felt that irreversible, full stretch beginning, he would stop it. He would press it back inside with a firm, unyielding finger, all while whispering filth in my ear. “Not yet, little incubus.” “I decide when.” “Your hole is mine to open and close.”
On the fourth denial, as he pushed the egg back in while simultaneously pinching the head of my cock, something in me broke open. A red, shimmering haze leaked from my pores, from my mouth on a ragged exhale. It was the scent of crushed roses and burnt sugar—an aphrodisiac mist, my incubus power manifesting involuntarily, a physical symptom of my extreme, denied state.
Marius inhaled it deeply, a dark smile spreading across his face. “Finally. There’s the real you. Desperation made tangible. Breathe it for me. Again.”
He sent me for another object, and as I moved, the mist trailed from me like steam from a crack in the earth. The fifth time the egg crowned, I was in the middle of the living room, holding a small sculpture he’d demanded. The contraction was monumental, bending me in half. The egg’s apex stretched me wider than ever before. I screamed, the sound echoing off the glass walls.
“Please! Please, Marius, it’s coming, I can’t—!”
He was there. But this time, he didn’t push it back. He knelt behind me. He watched. “Then let it come,” he said, his voice calm. “Show me what my vessel can do.”
The permission was a shock. My body, so long thwarted, seized the opportunity. I bore down with a primal, grunting effort. The egg moved, a vast, inexorable sphere parting my tortured ring of muscle. The stretch was beyond pain, a tearing, burning fullness that consumed my entire world. I was split open on a shuddering, physical truth.
With a final, wet, tearing push, it passed.
The egg dropped from me with a heavy, solid thud onto the polished floor. It was the size of a large apple, glistening with fluid, its surface a leathery, obsidian black. The relief was instantaneous and immense, a hollowing out that left me gasping, sweat-soaked, and trembling. My body went limp. I collapsed forward onto my hands and knees, staring at the thing I’d produced.
But the relief was a lie. The absence of that single egg only made the pressure of the others more distinct, more acute. A new leader immediately began its descent, the process starting anew with violent urgency. Another crippling cramp rolled through me.
Before I could even process it, Marius was moving. He had something in his hand—a large, black silicone plug, flared at the base, its widest point nearly matching the egg’s girth. It gleamed with lubricant.
“No time to rest,” he chided. As the next egg pressed against my entrance, he pressed the plug’s tip against me. “This one stays in.”
He pushed. The plug met the descending egg, a double invasion. I shrieked, the sound raw. He fed the plug into me with relentless pressure, forcing it past the resisting egg, stretching me anew. It seated itself deep, the flare sealing me shut. The immediate, intolerable pressure was locked inside.
He flipped me onto my back on the cold floor. My bloated stomach, still heavy with eggs, curved above me. He stood over me, looking down at his work. My cock, still sound-pierced, wept pathetically. My body was caught in a brutal limbo: desperate to expel, forcibly contained.
A contraction, with nowhere to go, rippled through my sealed guts. It was a deep, internal convulsion that made my back arch off the floor. A wave of nauseating pleasure-pain, with no outlet, crashed over me. I writhed, clawing at the smooth concrete.
Marius nudged the first born egg with the toe of his polished shoe. “One,” he said, as another silent, powerful contraction locked my muscles, making me cry out. He watched the tremor run through me, his icy eyes cataloging every spasm. “Only one.”
He knelt, his knees bracketing my hips, and leaned over my straining body. His palm pressed down on the swollen dome of my stomach, applying a steady, inescapable pressure that forced the remaining eggs hard against the inner obstruction of the plug. The sensation was a unique and startling agony, a trapped, crowded fullness that reverberated through my entire pelvis. “Seven more like that one are still inside you,” he said, his voice almost conversational. “You can feel them, can’t you? Each one a little anchor, holding you down for me.”
I could only nod, a frantic jerking of my head. Another contraction, spurred by his pressure, seized me. It was a deep, internal convulsion with no release, a silent scream within my muscles. It ratcheted the denied pleasure higher, a feedback loop with no outlet. The red, sugary mist seeped from my skin again, thicker this time, fogging the air around us with my raw, potent need.
He smiled, inhaling the scent. “Better.” He moved his hand from my stomach to my cock. His fingers traced the vein on the underside, brushing over the cold steel of the sound’s base. Even that feather-light touch was a galvanic shock. I jolted, a broken sob escaping my lips. Every nerve ending there was exposed, hypersensitive, and singing with a pain that was inseparable from white-hot desire. “This has been in you a long time,” he mused, giving the protruding metal a tiny, cruel twist.
The movement sent a bolt of searing sensation straight up my shaft. I shrieked, my back arching off the floor. “Fuck! Please!”
“Please what?” he asked mildly, his thumb now rubbing circles over the slick, swollen head, smearing pre-cum that welled uselessly around the intrusion. He began to stroke me in earnest, a slow, devastating rhythm designed to inflame the torment. Each pass of his hand over the sensitized flesh was a little death. The sound inside me felt like it was heating up, branding my urethra from within.
The dual assault was erasing my mind. The deep, rhythmic contractions of my womb-like gut, desperate to expel. The sharp, frantic torture of his hand on my imprisoned cock. They met in the middle of my being, a storm of conflicting directives that left only static and raw, animal need. My vision pulsed with the rhythm of my heartbeat.
He stopped stroking just as another brutal cramp rolled through me. The denial was a physical blow. I whimpered, my hands flailing, clutching at his trousers. My focus had narrowed to a pinhole. There was only the pain, the impossible pressure, the unfulfilled pleasure, and him. His face was the only solid thing in a swimming world.
“Stand up,” he ordered, rising smoothly to his feet.
I couldn’t. My body was a tremoring, heavy mess. I tried to push up on my elbows, but the weight in my stomach and the violent shudder of another contraction drove me back down. “I can’t,” I gasped, tears of pure frustration mingling with the sweat on my face.
He didn’t help me. He watched, arms crossed.“You can. You will. On your feet, Reese. Now.” His voice held no anger, only absolute expectation.
It was that expectation that got me moving. I rolled to my side, groaning, and with a Herculean effort, I pushed myself up to my knees. The eggs sloshed and settled, a nauseating, solid movement. I used the side of a low, cold steel table to haul myself upright. My legs shook violently, barely supporting the altered weight of my body.
He pointed to a far corner of the living space, where a tall, wrought-iron floor lamp stood. “Adjust the light. Turn it toward the sculpture on the pedestal.”
Each step was a marathon. I waddled, my cradling hands useless at my sides, my plugged hole a throbbing epicenter of pent-up force. The lamp seemed a mile away. Halfway there, a particularly powerful contraction hit, doubling me over. I gripped my stomach, a guttural moan tearing from my throat. The plug felt like it was being forced out by the sheer pressure behind it.
Marius was suddenly beside me. Not to support, but to torment. His hand dipped into my open trousers, his fingers finding my tortured cock again. He didn’t stroke it. He just held it, a firm, warm grip, while the contraction did its work. The juxtaposition was maddening. “Keep walking,” he whispered, his breath hot against my ear. “The light won’t adjust itself.”
I sobbed, but I moved. I reached the lamp, my hands fumbling on the cold iron. I turned the heavy shade, my arms weak.
“Not like that,” he said from behind me. He was stroking me again, a fast, brutal pace now, his other hand pressing hard on my lower back, increasing the internal pressure. “You’re not focusing. Do it properly.”
I couldn’t see straight. My world had dissolved into the syncopated rhythm of his fist on my cock and the deep, squeezing cramps in my core. The red mist was a cloud around my head. The need to come was a physical presence, a shrieking thing trapped behind the steel in my dick. The need to push out the eggs was a primal, biological scream. They were merging into one desperate, single-minded imperative: obey.Please. Make it stop. Make it continue.
I blindly reached back, my fingers scrambling for the fly of his trousers. I found the button, fumbled it open. I was operating on pure, pathetic instinct. My mouth watered. “Please,” I babbled, my words slurred. “Let me… I need to… I can suck you. Please, let me suck your cock. I’ll do it right. I’ll be good.”
I got his zipper down, my movements frantic and clumsy. I was trembling so hard I could barely grip the fabric. I didn’t wait for permission. I turned and sank to my knees before him, my bloated stomach pressing against his shins. I pulled his trousers and briefs down just enough to free him.
His cock, thick and already half-hard, sprung free. I didn’t hesitate. I leaned forward and took the head into my mouth, my lips stretching around the girth. I sucked desperately, my tongue lapping at the slit, tasting the clean, salt pre-cum. It was a frantic, graceless act, all need and no skill. I bobbed my head, trying to take him deeper, my throat convulsing. My only thought was to please him, to trigger any mercy, to find some anchor in this storm through the act of service.
Marius let out a low, contented hum. He looked down at me, a sadistic smirk playing on his lips. He didn’t thrust into my mouth. He just let me work, let me plead with my body. He tangled a hand in my sweaty hair, not guiding, just possessing.
My other hand went to my own cock, still trapped in his grip. I tried to mimic his rhythm, but my touch was a pathetic, shaky echo. The sound made every sensation hypersensitive, terrifyingly acute. The stretch of it was a constant, searing presence.
“That’s it,” he murmured, his voice thick with dark amusement. “That’s all you are right now. A desperate little mouth trying to earn a reward it can’t even comprehend. You’re not thinking of the eggs, are you? You’re not thinking of the sound. You’re just a thing, wanting.”
He was right. The contractions continued, rhythmic and brutal, but they were background noise to the foreground scream of my cock and the task of my mouth. I sucked him with a frenzied dedication, my eyes clenched shut, tears streaking through the smudged makeup on my cheeks. I hollowed my cheeks, using every succubus-born instinct to pull pleasure from him, to feed, even as I starved.
He began to harden fully in my mouth, the shaft thickening, pushing deeper against my tongue. I gagged slightly, but pushed forward, taking more. This was the only thing that mattered. Pleasing him. Getting him hard. Maybe if he came, he’d let me.Maybe.
His hand in my hair tightened. He finally began to move, setting a slow, deep pace, fucking into my mouth with a controlled precision that contrasted wildly with my franticness. Each thrust pressed the back of my throat. I relaxed my jaw, taking him, my nose pressed against the crisp hair at his base. I could smell his skin, his musk, a scent of power and cold dominance that was more intoxicating than my own aphrodisiac mist.
“Good,” he breathed, his hips moving with more insistence now. “Your throat is almost as tight as your ass was. Almost.”
The crude praise, the comparison, sent a fresh wave of that confusing, dark ecstasy through me. I moaned around his cock, the vibration making him grunt. His pace quickened. His control slipped a fraction. The rhythm became harder, more demanding. He was using my mouth in earnest now, his fingers a vise in my hair, his other hand still wrapped around the base of my own weeping, sounded cock, a constant reminder of my captivity.
He was going to come. I could feel the tension coiling in him, the subtle change in his thrusts. I redoubled my efforts, sucking and swallowing, a mindless instrument of his pleasure. The eggs, the plug, the sound—they were all part of a distant, painful world. This, the stretch of my lips, the weight on my tongue, the taste of him, was my entire universe.
“Fuck,” he growled, the word a sharp exhale. His body tensed. He drove deep, holding my head still, and I felt the hot, sudden pulse of his release against the back of my throat. I swallowed convulsively, taking every drop, the act a completion in itself.
He held there for a moment, then slowly pulled out. His cock, glistening with my saliva, slid from my lips with a soft, wet pop. I remained on my knees, panting, looking up at him, my mouth sore and used. A strange, hollow peace settled over me for a single second.
It shattered instantly as a massive, rolling contraction, unimpeded by any distraction, locked my entire abdomen in a vice of clenching muscle. It was stronger than any before. It stole my breath. My eyes flew wide. A sharp, guttural cry was torn from my used throat.
Marius looked down, his expression one of cool, satisfied observation. He had his release. Mine was still a chained beast, rattling its cage. He tucked himself away, fastening his trousers with deliberate slowness. “Now,” he said softly, his eyes glinting in the low light. “Where were we?”