Chapter 15: Corporate Corruption
Consciousness was a seeping flood of ache. Reese awoke in Roman’s vast, silk-draped bed. The scent of bergamot and ash clung to the pillows. He was clean, dressed in soft black linen trousers and a simple tunic. His body felt hollowed out, scoured. The ghost of the obsidian phallus was a deep, persistent throb in his gut. He moved a leg and winced, the soreness a shocking, all-encompassing map of the previous night’s ravages.
The door clicked open. Roman entered, dressed for power. He wore a suit of charcoal wool, tailored to the millimeter, the stark lines speaking of ancient boardrooms rather than dungeons. His hair was swept back, his face a cool mask of aristocratic severity. Only the eyes held a glint of familiar darkness. And the suggestion, under the fine trousers, of a sleek, black containment.
He carried a velvet-lined box.“Good. You’re awake.” His tone was businesslike. “The Consortium meets in twenty minutes. You’ll attend.”
Reese pushed himself up on shaky arms. “You have got to be joking.”
“I never joke about quarterly dividends.” Roman set the box on the bedside table and opened it. Inside, nestled in midnight velvet, were two devices. One was a polished steel plug, sleek and subtly curved, a slender antenna at its base. The other was a ring of black silicone, ridged on the inside, with a small, rounded nodule.
Reese’s blood ran cold. “No. Roman, I can’t sit through a meeting like that. Not after last night. I’m raw.”
“All the better,” Roman said, his voice dropping into its hypnotic, intimate register. He picked up the plug, turning it in the light. “The sensitivity will make it more… effective. An object lesson in composure.” He placed it on the sheets beside Reese, then picked up the ring. “And this is for the neglect you’ve shown your other primary nerve. Wearing my cage demands a certain focus. You’ve been distracted.” He gave the ring a faint squeeze; it vibrated once, a low, ominous buzz.
“An object lesson for whom?” Reese asked, his voice tight.
“For me. For you. For anyone watching.” Roman’s smile was knife-thin. “Get on your hands and knees. Ass up.”
The command brooked no argument. Reese’s defiance was a distant echo, drowned out by the lingering physical memory of obedience. He moved slowly, every muscle protesting, and assumed the position. The soft linen of his trousers stretched over his backside.
He heard Roman uncap a bottle of lubricant. A cold, slick drip landed on his cleft, and he flinched. A thumb, impersonal and firm, rubbed the cool gel over his tender entrance. The touch was clinical, but it sent a bolt of shameful, residual heat through him.
“Breathe out,” Roman instructed.
Reese exhaled, and the blunt, cool tip of the plug pressed against him. He gritted his teeth. It was smaller than the things Roman used, but the invasion was agonizingly intimate against his sore, overused muscles. Roman pushed steadily. The plug slid in, the curved shape finding a path of least resistance, seating itself deep. It didn’t hurt, not exactly. It filled.It reminded.
A faint click. The tiny antenna sat snug against his cleft. Roman’s hand smoothed down his back, a parody of comfort. “Good.” Then his hand went to the waistband of Reese’s trousers, tugging them down just enough. The cool air hit his cock, which lay soft against his thigh. Roman took the silicone ring, stretched it, and in one smooth motion, rolled it down Reese’s shaft, catching his balls and settling at the very base. It was a snug, constant pressure. The subtle interior ridges pressed against the sensitive underside.
Roman helped him stand, pulling his trousers back up. The plug shifted inside him with the movement, a constant, intimate presence. The ring was a snug, faintly humiliating collar at the root of his sex. Roman adjusted his tunic, his fingers brushing the key that still rested against Reese’s chest. He tucked it inside the fabric, a hidden weight.
“The remote is synced to my phone,” Roman said, picking up his suit jacket from a chair. “They’re programmed in tandem. A delightful escalation feature.” He leaned in, his lips brushing Reese’s pointed ear. His whisper was a silken threat. “Try not to scream when I turn these to maximum during the Archduke’s financial report. He drones, but his figures are surprisingly… stimulating.”
Reese felt the blood drain from his face. The Boardroom of Sins was not a place for error, or for losing control.
Roman straightened, his expression smooth and unreadable once more. “Follow.”
The walk through the marble corridors was its own form of torture. Every step resonated through the plug, sending small, unwelcome tremors through his core. The ring was a subtle, constant presence, a promise. His body, a traitor, began to react. By the time the towering double doors of the Boardroom came into view, he was semi-hard, the silicone ring a constricting companion to his growing arousal.
The doors swung open silently.
The room was vast, a theater of power draped in oppressive crimson velvet. A table of dark, ancient obsidian, polished to a mirror sheen, dominated the space. Around it sat seven figures.
They were old. Not in years, but in essence. Their forms flickered: a scaled hand here, a flick of a forked tongue there, eyes that held starless voids. The air was thick with the scent of rare cigars, expensive ambergris perfume, and something older—the dry, cold scent of tomb dust and forgotten oaths. All conversation died as Roman entered, Reese a step behind.
Roman’s power seemed to expand, filling the space, a chill that demanded acknowledgment. He took his seat at the head of the table, a throne of gilded bone. He gestured to a small, straight-backed velvet chair set slightly behind and to his right. “Sit.”
Reese sat. The pressure of the chair on the plug made him inhale sharply. He crossed his legs, trying to find a position that didn’t make the internal intrusion so pronounced. The seven pairs of ancient, predatory eyes observed him with idle, chilling curiosity. He was an ornament.A pet. A known variable in the complex equation of Roman’s power.
“My new attaché,” Roman said, his voice filling the room without effort. “He learns quickly. Proceed, Arkon.”
The demon to Roman’s left—a being with skin like polished basalt and eyes of smoldering copper—began to speak. His voice was the grind of continental plates. It was a report on infernal trade tariffs through the third liminal barrier. Dull. Oppressively dull.
Reese focused on his breathing.In, out. He stared at the intricate grain of the obsidian table, tracing the frozen rivers of black and silver.
Roman’s phone lay on the table beside his elbow, screen down.
Ten minutes in, as Arkon detailed smuggling losses, Roman’s index finger tapped once, casually, on the back of the phone.
Inside Reese, the plug awoke.
It wasn’t a vibration. It was a deep, internal thrum, a bass resonance that seemed to emanate from the very core of him. His back straightened. His knuckles whitened where he gripped the edge of his seat. It was low, bearable, but utterly inescapable. It turned his guts to liquid heat.
He kept his eyes fixed on the table.
A brief flick of Roman’s eyes towards him. A micro-expression of approval. The thrum continued, a private, shared secret in a room full of monsters.
Arkon finished. Another demon, a gaunt creature wrapped in spectral robes, began a whispered analysis of soul-bond futures. Her voice was like wind through a crypt.
Roman’s finger tapped twice.
The plug’s intensity increased. The deep thrum gained a pulse, a rhythmic clench and release that mimicked a slow, deep penetration. Reese’s breath hitched. He uncrossed and recrossed his legs, the movement shifting the plug slightly, sending a sharper jolt through him. He felt his cock, constrained by the ring, begin to thicken further, pressing against the soft linen of his trousers. The ring’s own vibration remained off, a sleeping threat.
He pressed his thighs together, trying to stifle the sensation. It only made it worse, creating more pressure, more friction.
“The projections are optimistic,” the gaunt demon whispered, “assuming stable torment levels in the lower basins.”
Roman listened, his chin resting on steepled fingers. He gave a slight, thoughtful nod.
And turned the plug to its third setting.
It was a buzz now, a ruthless, insistent vibration centered directly on his prostate. Pleasure, sharp and electric and utterly unwelcome, arrowed through him. A soft sound, a faint gasp, escaped his lips before he could bite it back.
One of the demons, a corpulent entity with several sets of blinking eyes, glanced his way, a smirk playing on its rubbery lips.
Roman’s voice cut through, a sharp question about infrastructure investment, redirecting the room’s attention. But his left hand, under the table, found Reese’s knee. He gave it a firm, warning squeeze. The message was clear: Be silent.
The vibration continued. Reese was sweating now, a fine sheen on his temples and upper lip. His cock was fully hard, straining against the confining ring and his trousers, a visible, humiliating tent. He could feel the pre-cum leaking, a warm damp spot forming on the linen. The need to move, to grind against something, to come, was a drumbeat in his blood, perfectly synchronized to the demon’s droning analysis.
Then the Archduke spoke.
He was the oldest among them, a being of slumped, monumental flesh and a voice that dripped with phlegmatic malice. He began the financial report, columns of damnation and agony converted into cold, hard numbers.
Roman, appearing engrossed, picked up his phone. He swiped the screen once, as if checking a message.
Inside Reese, the world exploded.
The plug didn’t just intensify. It changed. It began a rapid, percussive series of contractions and pulses, a brutal, internal assault that felt like being fucked by a piston. At the exact same moment, the ring around his cock sprang to life.
It wasn’t a gentle buzz. It was a vicious, high-frequency vibration, a zipper of pure, concentrated sensation directly on his frenulum and along the tender veins. The two devices worked in tandem, a symphony of torture. The plug hammered his prostate, the ring savaged his cock.
Reese’s vision whited out. His body arched violently in the chair, a silent scream locked in his throat. Every muscle clenched. His hands flew to the armrests, gripping until the wood groaned. He tasted blood where he bit his cheek.
The Archduke droned on. “...yielding a seventeen percent increase in net spiritual anguish, quarter over quarter, though operational expenses in the pits of Despair have risen due to…”
Reese was panting, short, shallow gulps of air. He was vibrating apart in his seat. Pleasure was a firestorm, a catastrophe. He was being wound tighter and tighter, the coil screaming towards a snap, but the nature of the vibrations—the brutal, clinical assault—denied him the peak. It was pure, excruciating overstimulation. Tears pricked his eyes.
He looked at Roman, a desperate, pleading glance.
Roman was nodding along to the Archduke’s figures, his face a mask of thoughtful engagement. But his eyes slid to Reese.Held. In them was no mercy, only a dark, avid fascination. He was watching him unravel. He was enjoying the precise mechanics of his public ruin.
A soft, choked whimper escaped Reese. The demon to his right, a sleek entity with oil-slick hair, leaned over slightly. “Is the attaché unwell?” it hissed, its voice like steam escaping.
“A passing sensitivity,” Roman said smoothly, not looking away from Reese. “He’s moved by your figures, Archduke. As are we all.”
The Archduke grunted, pleased, and continued.
Roman’s thumb hovered over his phone screen. He tapped an invisible button, a slight adjustment.
The vibrations from both devices shifted again. The plug’s pounding became a sharp, erratic stabbing. The ring’s high-frequency buzz deepened into a grinding, twisting sensation, as if it were trying to bore into his very core.
Reese couldn’t hold it. A low, broken moan vibrated in his chest. He slammed his heels into the floor, his body trembling like a plucked wire. The coil was at its absolute limit. He was going to come. He was going to come in his trousers, in this room, in front of seven ancient evils, while a demon read a spreadsheet.
And Roman knew it.
Just as the crest of the unbearable wave was about to break, Roman’s finger swiped down.Everything stopped.
The sudden silence inside him was more shocking than the vibration had been. It was an absolute, hollow void. His body shuddered with the abrupt cessation, a series of helpless aftershocks. The need for release was a physical pain, a cramp deep in his gut and behind his balls. He was left trembling, wet, desperate, and utterly, completely denied.
The Archduke finished his report. A polite, cold applause rippled around the table.
Roman stood. “Fascinating projections. We’ll reconvene after the solstice.” Dismissal was in his tone.
The ancient demons began to rise, their forms flickering as they prepared to depart from the mortal plane. Eyes glanced once more at Reese, who sat frozen, panting, a portrait of beautifully engineered suffering.
As the last one vanished in a swirl of sulfurous smoke, Roman turned to him.
Reese looked up, his eyes glazed, his face flushed and damp. The key felt like a brand against his chest.
Roman’s expression softened into something predatory and satisfied. He walked over, leaned down, and put his mouth next to Reese’s ear. His breath was warm. His voice was a low, victorious growl.
“You didn’t scream.”
“You didn’t scream.”
The words were a benediction laced with poison. Reese could only stare at the swirling grain of the obsidian table, his body humming with a trapped, frantic energy. The sudden silence from the devices was a void, but his nerves still screamed, raw and exposed. He was painfully hard, a damp patch cooling against his thigh. The plug was a cold, dead weight inside him now, a mocking monument to his restraint.
Roman straightened, his own composure a perfect, infuriating contrast. He buttoned his suit jacket with a precise snap. "Dinner," he announced, as if suggesting a casual stroll. His hand closed around Reese’s upper arm, the grip deceptively light but unbreakable. "We're celebrating."
"Celebrating what?" Reese managed, his voice husky. He resisted the pull for a half-second, his muscles weak and trembling.
"My self-control," Roman said, pulling him to his feet. Reese stumbled, his legs unreliable. "And your burgeoning talent for silent suffering. It's a partnership."
He guided Reese from the boardroom, the echoing chamber of whispers replaced by the softer, deeper quiet of private halls. Reese walked stiffly, each step a small internal shock from the dormant plug. Roman’s touch was proprietary, a brand. He didn’t speak, letting the threat of the phone in his pocket, the remote to Reese’s unraveling, hang between them.
The dining room was long and narrow, a gallery of shadows pierced by the low glow of a single chandelier wrought from antlers and dripping black candles. A table of dark, scarred oak ran its length, set for two at the far end. Plates of bone china gleamed. Silver utensils lay beside crystal goblets filled with a wine so dark it appeared black.
Roman pulled out a heavy, high-backed chair for Reese."Sit."
Reese sat, the unforgiving wood pressing the plug into a new, uncomfortable angle. He looked at the spread before him—rare cuts of meat bleeding onto the plate, roasted root vegetables glossy with fat, a hunk of dark bread. His stomach turned. Hunger was a distant concept, drowned out by the throbbing, denied ache between his legs.
Roman took his seat at the head, unfolding a napkin with a quiet rustle. He picked up his fork and knife. He began to eat with elegant, measured bites, the scrape of metal on china obscenely loud in the silence.
Reese picked up his own fork. His hand shook. He tried to cut the meat. The knife skidded, a high-pitched screech.
Roman’s phone, resting beside his wine glass, lit up with a notification. He didn't look at it. His thumb brushed the screen.
Inside Reese, the plug reanimated. Not with the violent hammering from the boardroom, but with a low, insistent thrum. It was a constant presence, a subtle vibration that resonated deep in his core. It wasn't enough to push him over the edge, but it was enough to make the act of sitting still an exquisite torment. Every small shift in his seat amplified it. The pleasure was a slow, heated drip, coiling in his gut.
He dropped his fork. It clattered against the plate.
"Eat," Roman said, not looking up from his own meal. He took a slow sip of wine. "You need your strength."
Reese clenched his jaw, picked up the fork again. He forced a bite of meat into his mouth. It tasted of ash. He chewed, the mechanical motion absurd against the backdrop of the deep, internal pulse. He swallowed, the motion constricting his throat.
Roman’s thumb moved again, a ghost of a touch.The vibration intensified. It gained a pattern now, a slow, rhythmic pulse that felt like a phantom heartbeat buried in his ass. Reese’s knuckles whitened on the edge of the table. He gripped it, the solid oak a desperate anchor. His other hand pressed flat against his thigh, nails digging into the soft linen of his trousers.
"Good," Roman murmured, nodding toward Reese’s plate. "The boar was hunted in the Grey Forest. Tasted its own mortality. It gives the flesh a certain... piquancy, don't you think?"
He was talking about the food. He was discussing flavor profiles. All while Reese was being quietly, methodically fucked by a piece of polished steel he couldn’t escape. Tears of frustration welled in his eyes. He took another bite, choking it down.
"I asked you a question, Reese." Roman’s voice held a sharp edge.
"It's fine," Reese gasped out, his voice tight. "The meat. It's fine."
"Hm." Roman speared a vegetable, examined it, ate it. He reached for his phone, pretended to check the time. The movement of his thumb was deliberate.
The plug switched modes. It began a series of sharp, fluttering contractions, a quickening rhythm that targeted his prostate with pinpoint, cruel accuracy. The coil in Reese’s gut wound tighter, a spring compressed to its breaking point. A ragged moan tore from his lips before he could smother it. He dropped his fork again. It bounced off the plate and onto the floor with a loud, metallic clatter.
In the quiet room, the sound was a gunshot.
Roman slowly set his own utensils down. He leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. He watched Reese’s struggle, his eyes dark and unblinking."Clumsy."
Reese was panting, his chest rising and falling rapidly. He was so close. The denial from the boardroom had backed everything up, and this new, relentless assault was bringing him to the brink with terrifying speed. He needed to come. The need was a physical scream in his veins, a pressure behind his eyes.
"Pick it up," Roman said softly.
Reese stared at him, his vision swimming.
"The fork. Pick it up."
Reese bent, a clumsy, agonizing movement. As he leaned over, the plug drove deeper, the angle shifting. The fluttering intensified. He fumbled for the fork on the dark rug, his fingers numb. His body was shaking, a fine, constant tremor. When he straightened, the fork held in a white-knuckled fist, he was on the very edge. A single, slight increase would send him over.Roman smiled. He picked up his phone. He looked at the screen, then directly into Reese’s eyes. "Sit down, pet. Finish your dinner."
He pressed a button.
The plug didn’t just increase. The ring around Reese’s cock, dormant since the boardroom, awoke in vicious tandem.
The plug’s fluttering became a brutal, jackhammer pulse, a rapid-fire assault that slammed against his prostate. The ring buzzed to life with a high, fierce frequency, a shockingly intense vibration that seemed to burrow into the very root of his cock. The dual sensation was catastrophic.
Reese came.
It was not a release; it was an explosion. His body locked, a rigid arc slamming back into the wooden chair. A raw, guttural cry was ripped from his throat, echoing in the cavernous room. His cock, trapped in the vibrating ring and confined by his trousers, pulsed violently. Seed spurted, hot and sudden, soaking through the linen in a series of quick, wet bursts. The orgasm was blinding, a seizure of pure sensation that obliterated thought.
It rolled through him in waves, prolonged and tortured by the unrelenting vibrations. Just as the peak began to subside, the devices shifted again. The rhythm changed, becoming a deep, grinding roll, milking another spurt, then another dry, agonizing clench from his oversensitive flesh. It was too much. It was a violation of his own climax.
He sobbed openly, tears streaming down his face. His hands flew out, not knowing where to go, what to cling to. They found Roman’s forearm across the table. He gripped it, his fingers digging into the fine wool of the suit jacket, anchoring himself to the source of his torment as his body was ruthlessly, technically wrung out.
Roman let him cling. He didn't pull away. He watched the mess spread on Reese’s trousers, watched his face contort in ruined ecstasy. He observed it all with the detached air of a scientist, but his eyes burned with a hot, possessive fire.
Finally, after an eternity, he tapped his phone.Silence.
The sudden absence of sensation was a different kind of shock. Reese slumped forward over the table, his forehead resting on the cool wood beside his ruined plate. He trembled violently, aftershocks rippling through him. He was empty, drained, humiliated. The smell of his own release, sharp and musky, mingled with the scent of cold meat and wax.
Roman let the silence stretch. He finished his wine. He dabbed his mouth with his napkin.
When he spoke, his voice was a low rumble, intimately close. He had risen and now stood beside Reese’s trembling form."See?" he whispered, his hand coming to rest on the back of Reese’s damp neck, a heavy, claiming weight. "You can be quiet. When you’re properly motivated." His thumb stroked the knotted vertebrae. "Now, let's get you cleaned up. The night is long, and I have more to teach you about silence."