Chapter 16: Power
Sleep was not unconsciousness. It was a shallow, grey estuary where the aches pooled and convened. The weight of the chain around my throat—thick, cold, and padlocked to the wrought-iron headboard—was a less subtle reminder than the throbbing in my ankle or the raw, burning memory in my guts. I drifted in that grey place, aware of the city’s pre-dawn murmur outside, aware of his even breathing beside me. He slept like a monument: still and formidable.
A hand on my stomach woke me. Not a shake. A firm, pressing palm laid over my still-sensitive, hollowed abdomen. Daylight, sharp and judgmental, cut through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
“Up,” Marius said. He was already dressed in a charcoal suit, his face freshly shaved, smelling of sandalwood and ice.
I tried to sit. The chain rattled, choking me back. He watched, unmoving, as I fumbled with clumsy fingers for the small key on the nightstand. He had left it there, a test of dexterity and submission. I unlocked the padlock, the metal click loud in the quiet room. The collar remained, a band of black leather.
“Shower,” he instructed. “You smell of pain and sick. Be quick.”
The bathroom was a cavern of marble and steam. He followed me in, leaning against the counter, observing as I turned on the water and stumbled under the spray. The heat was a shock on my battered skin. I braced my hands against the wall, letting it sluice over me, hoping he would leave.
He did not. When I reached for the soap, his voice cut through the steam. “Leave the front. Turn around.”
I froze. Then, slowly, turned my back to him. The water pounded my shoulders. I heard the click of a cap, then the slick sound of lubricant. His fingers, slippery and blunt, found my hole without ceremony. They pushed in, a swift, stretching intrusion.
I gasped, forehead against the cool tile.
“Relax,” he said, a clinical command. His fingers scissored inside me, an impersonal assessment. “You are still tight from the sound. Good.” He removed his fingers. Before I could exhale, something broader, colder, and unforgiving pressed against me. The nozzle. Not the slender one from the enema bottle. This was wider, a gleaming steel attachment connected to a hose.
“What are you—?”
The rest of my question was forced out of me on a grunt as he pushed it home, seating it deep in my rectum. My body clenched in automatic, futile protest.
“Cleansing,” he replied. His free hand flattened against the small of my back, holding me in place. With the other, he turned a valve on the wall.
The water that rushed into me was clean, warm, and under tremendous pressure. It wasn’t the slow, weighted fill of the wine. This was a blasting, hydraulic invasion. It hit my inner walls and surged deeper, a colonizing flood that erased all other sensation. I cried out, the sound swallowed by the shower spray.
“Hold it.”
I couldn’t. My body, traumatized and overfilled, convulsed. The water wanted out. I strained, shaking, tears mixing with the shower.
“I said hold it.”
His palm pressed down on my lower belly, an external counter-pressure. The cramp that ensued was blinding. A white-hot knot of agony. I whimpered, legs quivering violently.
He held the pressure for a count of ten, a sadistic decade, before finally releasing the valve on the wall and withdrawing the nozzle in one smooth pull.
The evacuation was instantaneous and violent. A torrent of water and emptiness rushed out of me, splattering against the shower tile with a sound like a waterfall. My knees buckled. I would have collapsed if his hand hadn’t been anchored on my back, holding me upright through the convulsive, helpless voiding. It went on and on, a humiliating purge that left me trembling and hollow.
He repeated the process. Twice. By the third cycle, I was sobbing openly, hanging onto his arm for stability, my body wracked by involuntary shudders each time the water filled me. The overstimulation was a live wire in my core, connecting the raw nerves of my ass to the tremors in my thighs. There was no pleasure, only a brutalizing hypersensitivity.
He shut the water off. The sudden silence was broken by my ragged breaths and the drip of the showerhead. He handed me a towel. I dried myself with fumbling hands, avoiding his gaze. The leather collar was sodden.
“On the bed. On your hands and knees.”
I obeyed, moving like an old machine. The linen was cool against my skin. I heard him at the bar again, the familiar clink of the green bottle. Dread, heavy and cold, settled in my newly emptied bowels.
He didn’t use the nozzle this time. He used a funnel, its wide mouth a dark promise. The wine poured in, a rich, continuous stream that felt thicker than the water, more substantial. The aphrodisiac tingled instantly, a familiar, unwelcome heat spreading through my pelvic floor. He took his time, filling me with a slow, decadent precision that was worse than the violent shower. The pressure built, a deep, stretching fullness. When the bottle was empty, he produced a second, smaller one. “A reserve,” he murmured, pouring until a thin rivulet of dark red escaped my stretched rim and traced a path down my thigh.
I was grotesquely full. Fuller than before. My stomach distended, rounding outward, pulling the skin taut. I looked down between my arms and saw the curve of my belly, a swollen, winy burden.
“Now, the finishing touches.”
A vibration buzzed to life. I flinched. He pressed the first bullet vibrator against my over-stretched entrance. It was a struggle to get it past the tight ring of muscle, already strained to its limit. It slid in, a thick, intrusive presence. The buzz was a deep thrum inside me, magnified by the liquid.
He pushed in a second. Then a third. The stretch became a burning, impossible ache. My breathing turned to panting. A fourth. I was so full I was nauseous, the vibrations traveling through the wine, making my insides hum.
“One more,” he said, his voice close to my ear. The fifth was agony. A tearing, packed-tight sensation that made stars burst behind my eyelids. I felt like a vessel at its breaking point.
Then, the plug. It was not the one from before. It was larger, obsidian black, flared at the base. He lubed it and pressed the blunt head against the collection of vibrators. With a steady, relentless pressure, he worked it in, pushing the five buzzing bullets deeper into my colon, before the widest part of the plug stretched my rim to a blinding, white-hot sting and popped snugly into place.
The seal was absolute. The vibrations were now a constant, maddening internal massage against the immense fluid pressure. I couldn’t move without feeling the slosh, the buzz, the stretch. I was a walking, tortured decanter.
“Stand.”
It took me three tries. My legs, watery and weak, barely held me. The added weight in my gut altered my center of gravity. I stood, hunched, cradling my swollen stomach with both hands. I was obscene.
He appraised me, circling like a sculptor evaluating a piece. He nodded, seemingly satisfied. “We’re going out.”
“Out?” The word was a croak. “I can’t… like this.”
“You can, and you will.” He approached, fastening a lead to the ring on my collar. “You are a testament. A lesson in excess and containment. It would be a shame to waste the presentation.”
He dressed me himself, selecting simple, black clothes: soft cotton pants and a loose silk shirt. The pants were a struggle to pull over the bulk of the plug. The shirt did nothing to hide the pronounced swell of my belly. He left me barefoot, my injured ankle visibly bruised and swollen.
“The bar is neutral territory. You will not speak unless spoken to. You will keep your eyes down. You will stay at my heel. If you leak, if you stumble, if you disgrace me, the consequences will make last night feel like a pleasant dream.” He pulled on the lead, just enough to make the collar press against my throat. “Do you understand?”
I nodded, a sickening mixture of terror and that dark, aphrodisiac-induced stirring twisting in my gut.
The walk to the elevator was a marathon of humiliation. Every step made the wine slosh, the vibrators buzz against sensitive inner walls. The plug felt massive, an anchoring, undeniable presence. I focused on breathing, on putting one foot in front of the other. The elevator ride down, empty thank god, was a silent ordeal under his dispassionate gaze.
The lobby was a gauntlet of polished floors and human eyes. I kept my gaze on the marble, feeling the heat of stares. A low whisper, a muffled laugh. My face burned. Marius’s stride was unhurried, forcing me to keep up, each hurried step a jostling torment inside me.
The car, a sleek town car, idled at the curb. The driver, a man with hollow eyes, showed no reaction. Marius opened the door and gestured for me to enter.
Getting in was a fresh nightmare. Bending at the waist was nearly impossible with the fullness. I had to half-fall onto the leather seat, a slosh of liquid shifting painfully inside me. He slid in beside me, his demeanor one of effortless calm.
The bar, when we arrived, was tucked down an unmarked staircase in the Village. The air changed as we descended—from the city’s chill to a moist, pulsating warmth that smelled of ozone, blood, and expensive perfume. The door opened to a low-ceilinged space thrumming with latent power. Eyes, in every shade and shape, turned toward us. The chatter dipped.
Marius towered over me, his hand on my shoulder, guiding me forward. His touch was possessive, proprietary. “Breathe,” he whispered, a cruel parody of comfort. “And remember, you belong to me. Every drop in you, every vibration, is mine. Let them see what that means.”
I stared at the floor, at the shifting feet of predatory shapes, feeling the wine churn and the relentless buzz between my legs, a frantic, hidden scream in a den of monsters. My legs began to shake in earnest, a tremor born of exhaustion, overstimulation, and raw, unadulterated terror. I didn’t know if I could take another step. His grip on my shoulder tightened, the only thing holding me up.
His grip on my shoulder tightened, the only thing holding me up. We moved through the thicket of bodies, the lead a visible tether. A murmur followed us, a current of low, appreciative sounds and sharper, hungry inhalations. They weren’t looking at him. They were looking at me, at the impossible swell of my belly under the thin silk, at the hobbled, barefoot shuffle. They could smell the wine, the pheromones, my desperation. “A vintage presentation, Marius,” a smooth voice purred from the shadows. “Philadelphia, was it? A bit… fragile for your usual tastes.” Marius didn’t pause. “Fragility has its own appeal. It’s the breaking that’s so fascinating.” He pulled me to a stop before a group lounging on a low velvet pit. Their eyes, slitted and glowing, drank me in. My stomach gave a loud, liquid slosh as I tried to balance. One of them, a creature with obsidian skin and needle-teeth, leaned forward. “What’s in the bottle?”
Marius’s hand left my shoulder and came to rest flat on the curve of my belly. He pushed, gently.
The internal pressure spiked. A choked gasp escaped my lips. The five vibrators, agitated by the shift, seemed to find a new, more violent frequency against my prostate. The sensation was a lightning bolt. My cock, which had been a soft, pained thing, twitched violently to life inside my pants, a betraying surge of blood.
“A ’98 Château Margaux,” Marius said conversationally, his fingers tracing my distended navel through the fabric. “Infused with a little something to keep the vessel responsive.”
He pushed again, a firmer, kneading motion, like testing the ripeness of fruit.
My legs turned to liquid. A jolt of electric, brutal pleasure-pain arced from my stuffed ass to the base of my spine. It wasn’t an orgasm. It was a prelude, a seismic warning. My knees buckled. I started to crumple.
Marius’s arm hooked around my chest, hauling me back upright against him. My back pressed to his front. His other hand splayed possessively over my entire stomach, holding the curve of it, feeling the slosh. “Steady,” he breathed into my ear, his voice a parody of a lover’s concern. “The night is young.”
He began to walk, dragging me with him. My feet stumbled, barely catching the floor. Every step jostled the sea inside me. The vibrators were a relentless, buzzing torture. The hand on my stomach began to move in slow, firm circles, applying a deep, rotating pressure.
“Look at him,” Marius said to a hooded figure we passed. “He’s so full he can’t think. Every circuit is overloaded.”
The pressure built, a coiling, unbearable tension deep in my gut, independent of my will, a bomb made of wine and vibrations and cruel, circling fingers. My breathing became frantic pants. I clutched at the arm across my chest, my nails digging into the fine wool of his suit jacket.
“He’s going to—” I didn’t know who said it.
I came.
It wasn’t a release. It was a detonation. My body seized, back arching violently against Marius’s solid frame. My stomach clenched in a hard, agonizing spasm, squeezing the reservoir of wine, making the pressure behind the plug skyrocket. My cock pulsed, and a hot, wet stripe of come painted the inside of my pants. A ragged, broken sound tore from my throat.
The demons nearby laughed, a sound like shifting stones.
Marius didn’t stop walking. He held me up, my weight entirely on him, and kept moving. “There we go,” he murmured, his analytical smirk audible in his tone. He squeezed my belly, hard, as another, smaller orgasm rippled through me, milking another pathetic spurt into my underwear. “See how the contractions work? The system is simple. Fill it, agitate it, and it expresses itself.”
We reached the bar. He propped me against the polished onyx surface, his hand never leaving my stomach. A bartender with molten gold eyes watched, unmoving. “He’ll have water,” Marius said. Then, to me, his voice low and intimate with menace, “You need to hydrate. The night is long, and you have five more of those to give me. At least.”
He accepted a glass of water and held it to my lips. I drank, sobbing between gulps, the liquid adding to the terrible internal volume. My stomach gurgled, cramped.
“Now,” he said, turning me to face the room again. His arm was a steel bar across my chest. “Let’s make the rounds. I want everyone to see the aftershocks.”
He forced me to walk. Each shuffle was agony. The come in my pants was cooling, sticky. My gut was a turbulent, sloshing prison. Another wave of spasms built, a terrifying inevitability. He felt it, his hand pressing down to encourage it.
“Please,” I whimpered, my head lolling back against his shoulder. “I can’t walk.”
“You can,” he said, and pinched the side of my bloated belly, a sharp, cruel tweak.
I came again, a weaker but sharper burst, my legs giving out completely. He held me aloft, my feet dragging, as my abdomen clenched in a series of violent, visible ripples under the silk shirt. The room blurred through a haze of humiliated tears.
“Fascinating,” he said to no one and everyone, walking again, carrying me like a broken doll, parading my incapacitated, orgasming form through the crowd. He paused near the door, his hand rubbing my stomach in slow, taunting circles, feeling the tremors within. “The body remembers its training. Even when the mind begs for mercy, the flesh obeys its programming.”
He leaned close, his lips brushing my ear as another climax, dry and wrenching, stole the air from my lungs. “Six, little succubus. We’re just getting started.”
We’re just getting started.” He adjusted his grip, shifting me so my back slid down his front until I was on my knees on the grimy, sawdust-strewn floor of the bar. The impact sent a fresh surge of wine sloshing up under my ribs, making me gag. All around us, the chatter died to a low, attentive hum.
My vision swam, fixing on the fine wool of his trousers, the subtle bulge beneath. His hands, those instruments of such precise torment, unbuckled his belt with a soft click and the rasp of leather. The zipper sounded like a teeth-grinding scream. He freed his cock, already hard and flushed in the dim, neon-tinged light.
“Clean it,” he said, his voice detached. “You’ve made a mess of yourself. Let’s see if your mouth is any less chaotic than your other holes.”
A fresh, shallow orgasm trembled through my lower belly at the command, a pathetic damp spot spreading further in my pants. I leaned forward, the movement stretching my full stomach uncomfortably, and took him into my mouth. The taste of him, salt and clean skin and power, was a dark anchor in the sensory storm.
I sucked, desperately, trying to focus on the solid weight on my tongue, trying to do this one thing right. My technique was all need and no finesse, a frantic, sloppy bob of my head. I could feel the eyes of the bar on me, a physical pressure like a hand between my shoulder blades.
Marius let out a slow breath. One of his hands came to rest on the back of my head, not guiding, just present. The other he placed over the swell of my belly again. “Look at him,” he said, not to me, but to the room. “So full he can barely think, but the instinct remains.To serve. To consume.”
Then he did something new. He didn’t move his hand on my stomach. He didn’t shove the plug. He simply focused.
A low, sub-audible hum vibrated through the floor into my bones. It wasn’t sound. It was intent. It was his will, a coil of invisible force that snapped tight around the obsidian plug buried inside me. I felt it twitch.
My entire body went rigid, my mouth freezing around his cock in a choked gasp.
The plug didn’t just twitch. It began to turn. A slow, grinding, clockwise rotation that stretched my abused rim in a brand new, terrifying way. The flared base moved against my perineum, a brutal massage. But the true violation was deeper. The length of it, the part nestled amidst the vibrators and wine, began to screw itself inward, a corkscrew of impossible pressure boring into the deepest part of my colon.
“Fuck,” I groaned, the word muffled around his flesh. My jaw went slack. Drool dripped down my chin. The magical force was inexorable, a slow, penetrating invasion that made the previous fullness feel benign. It was being fucked from the inside by a stone.
“Suck,” Marius commanded, his voice strained with concentration and something else—the effort of holding back his own climax against the sight and the sensation he was orchestrating. His fingers tightened in my hair.I tried. I sucked him deep, my throat working around his head, my tongue flattening against his shaft. But my focus was shattered, divided between the hot flesh in my mouth and the cold, magical intrusion in my ass. The plug turned another fraction, pushing deeper. A sharp, white spark of pain-pleasure lit up my spine.
My body betrayed me again. An orgasm ripped through me with no build-up, a direct neurological short-circuit. My cock jerked in my soiled pants, spilling another thin, hot stream. I convulsed, my throat constricting around Marius, my abdomen clamping in a series of hard, visible spasms that made my stomach look like a tumultuous sea.
A collective, low murmur of appreciation rolled through the bar’s patrons.
Marius threw his head back, a muscle in his jaw feathering. “Again,” he gritted out, and sent another pulse of will into the plug.
It rotated another half-turn, burying itself to what felt like the hilt. The pressure was monumental, a solid, unforgiving presence crowding my insides, displacing the wine, pressing the buzzing bullets against nerves I didn't know I had. The sensation was less like being filled and more like being impaled.
I came again.And again. They weren’t peaks and valleys anymore, but a continuous, rolling seismic event. My body was no longer mine. It was a puppet strung between his cock and his magic, jerking and spurting helplessly. Tears and saliva slicked my face. The sounds I made were inhuman, guttural things, stifled by his relentless, thickening cock.
I sucked with a frenzied, hopeless rhythm, trying to please him, to make him come, to end this. His pre-come, bitter and electric, coated my tongue. His hips gave a tiny, involuntary stutter.
“Watch the vessel break,” Marius said, his voice thick now, the control beginning to crack. He forced the plug to rotate once more, a full, devastating turn.
Something inside me gave a soft, internal pop. Not a rupture, but a surrender. A floodgate opened.
Orgasm became a permanent state. A ceaseless, milking clench of my prostate, a never-ending drip of semen from my cock that pooled warm on my thighs and the sawdust below. My vision whited out. My awareness narrowed to two points: the stretch of my lips, the tearing fullness of my ass. The bar, the watching eyes, it all melted into a buzzing, indistinct periphery.
Marius was breathing hard now, his thighs trembling where my hands braced against them. His control was a dam about to burst. “You greedy little… fuck…” he snarled, his fingers clutching my hair in a fist.
He came.
His orgasm was a silent, powerful convulsion. His cock jerked in my mouth, and the first hot, salty jet hit the back of my throat. I swallowed instinctively, greedily, the act automatic. Another pulse, another swallow. He fucked my mouth in short, sharp thrusts as he emptied himself, his magic finally releasing its grip on the plug, leaving it buried at that impossible depth.
As the last of his come spilled onto my tongue, a final, devastating climax was torn from me. It was dry, a whole-body wrenching spasm that left me hollow and shaking, curled over myself on the floor, his softening cock slipping from my lips.
Silence, for a heartbeat.
Then, scattered, languid applause echoed from the shadows. A glass was raised.Someone chuckled.
Marius tucked himself away, his movements precise again, but his breathing still uneven. He looked down at me, a spent, twitching heap in a puddle of my own fluids. He nudged my thigh with the toe of his polished shoe.
“Get up,” he said, his voice restored to its chilly calm. “We’re leaving. You have made enough of a spectacle for one evening.”
I couldn’t. My legs were useless noodles. The plug was a lead weight, the wine a sickening ballast. I tried to push myself up, and collapsed back onto my side with a whimper.
He sighed, a sound of profound annoyance. He bent, hooked his hands under my arms, and hauled me upright like a sack of grain. My legs buckled, but he held me, propping me against the bar for a moment as he threw a stack of bills onto the onyx surface.
“A memorable evening, Volkov,” the golden-eyed bartender said, not looking at the money.
“Merely a calibration,” Marius replied. He turned, dragging me with him. My feet skidded on the floor. Every demon’s eyes followed our exit, their gazes lingering on the wet, dark stains on my pants, on the pronounced, unnatural swell of my gut.
The climb up the stairs was an agony he had to half-carry me through. The cold night air hit me like a slap. He bundled me into the waiting car, my body slumping against the door. As the car pulled into the frantic pulse of New York traffic, he finally spoke, staring out the window at the streaming lights.
“You held six. More, in the end. A surprising resilience.” He turned his head, those icy eyes assessing me. “But you are still a leaky vessel. We will work on containment. Tomorrow.”
I closed my eyes, feeling the ghost of his magic twisting inside me, the deep, permanent ache of the plug, the sour aftertaste of his climax in my mouth. The city blurred past, a river of light I was too broken to even think of feeding from. There was only him, and the vast, terrible emptiness he had carved inside me, an emptiness that already, sickeningly, ached to be filled again.