Chapter 21: Feast of Submission
The aftermath of the office was a silent, humming tension. Roman had simply stared at him, those dark eyes pools of shattered pride and unspent need, for a full minute after Reese uttered that final, devastating “No.” Then, without a word, he had stood—movements stiff, burdened by the obsidian plug and the sloshing weight inside him—and walked from the room.
Reese had followed, his own steps careful, the heavy fullness in his ass and cunt a constant, grounding ache. The eggs nestled deep within him, a dormant clutch. The wine in his gut churned softly. He felt potent. Dangerous.
Now, they sat at opposite ends of the Grand Dining Hall’s absurdly long table, a gorge of polished black obsidian stretching between them like a frozen river. A hundred candles flickered in silver sconces, casting their light over porcelain so fine it looked like solidified moonlight. The air smelled of roast fennel, smoked venison, and the cloying sweetness of pomegranate molasses.
Servants moved like ghosts, their feet whispering on the marble, presenting dishes with bowed heads. A soup of pureed chestnut and black truffle was placed before Reese. A plate of rare, blood-roses sirloin was set before Roman. Neither touched their cutlery.
Roman looked carved from the same stone as the hall. He sat perfectly straight in his high-backed throne, his fine silk trousers stretching taut over the pronounced swell of his stomach. The plug inside him was a fierce, unyielding pressure, a cork in a bottle under immense strain. His balls, still swollen with their dense clutch of eggs, felt like twin stones weighing down his sac. Every slight shift in his chair sent a slow, internal ripple through the wine, a reminder of his captivity.
His cock, semi-hard and trapped against his thigh by the silk, throbbed with a dull, persistent ache. The sound was still there, a cold intrusion.
Reese watched him from the other end of the table, a faint, challenging smile playing on his lips. His own discomfort was a symphony. The large plug in his ass stretched him to a burning sweet spot, a constant presence. The plug in his cunt was smaller but no less insistent, nestled against his inner walls, pressing on the hidden fullness of eggs within. He felt bloated, heavy, powerful.
A servant approached Roman’s side, murmuring about the vintage of the red wine in his goblet. As the man spoke, Reese’s fingers curled under the lip of the table, out of sight.
He focused on the intricate, invisible threads of his magic. It was a subtle, invasive touch—not a shove, but a gentle, insistent persuasion. He visualized the spiced wine in Roman’s gut, then pictured more of the same dark liquid from the decanter at the table’s center. He willed it to move.
Under the table, his fingers twitched.
Roman’s fork, which he had just picked up, froze halfway to his mouth. His knuckles whitened around the silver handle. A faint, almost imperceptible flush crept up his neck.
Inside him, past the stubborn resistance of the obsidian plug, a new surge of warm, spiced wine forced its way in. It wasn’t a flood, but a stealthy, magical trickle, a violation of physics and will. His already swollen gut tightened further. A soft, internal slosh became a thicker, heavier roll. The pressure mounted, a bloated, liquid fist squeezing his insides.
His cock gave a violent twitch against the confines of his trousers, a fat bead of pre-come soaking into the silk.
Reese’s smile deepened. He took a small, deliberate spoonful of his soup.
A servant placed a dish of glazed carrots beside Reese. As the man leaned in, Reese saw Roman’s other hand slide slowly from the tabletop and disappear into his lap.
A moment later, Reese felt it.
A phantom touch, light as a moth’s wing, traced the curve of his asscheek over his trousers. It was Roman’s magic, a mere whisper of sensation, but it landed directly on the stretched ring of muscle around his plug. Reese’s breath hitched. The spoon clinked against his bowl.
The phantom finger didn’t push in. It circled. It teased the tight, strained rim where the flared base of the plug met his body. It pressed just enough to make the silicone shift minutely inside him, nudging the deepest egg.
A low, involuntary sound escaped Reese’s throat. He pressed his thighs together, feeling the corresponding plug in his cunt press deeper.
He retaliated. Another flick of his fingers under the table.
This time, the magical push was stronger. Another ounce, then two, of rich, claret-red wine slithered past Roman’s defenses and joined the churning pool within.
Roman’s jaw tightened. A low grunt was swallowed by the hall’s vastness. He looked down at his plate, his abdomen now visibly rounder, tighter against the silk of his shirt. He was filling past comfort, past fullness, into a realm of aching, liquid pressure.
His magical touch on Reese, however, didn’t retreat. It intensified.
The ghostly finger became a hand. It cupped Reese’s entire ass, a weightless, impossible grip. Then, a second spectral finger joined the first, both now pressing insistently against his plugged entrance. They didn’t just circle; they vibrated, a faint, maddening hum that resonated through the plug and into the raw, stretched nerves of his channel.
Reese bit his lip, his own fork now clenched in his fist. Pleasure, sharp and electric, lanced up his spine. He was so fucking full, and this phantom tease was threatening to unravel him. He could feel slickness gathering at his cunt plug.
“Does the venison not suit my lord?” a servant dared to ask Roman, noticing his untouched plate.
Roman’s head snapped up. His eyes, dark and gleaming with pain and fury, locked onto Reese’s from across the endless table. “It’s exquisite,” he said, his voice strangely flat. “I am simply… savoring the anticipation.”
As he spoke, his magical assault on Reese changed. The fingers teasing his ass remained, but a new, separate tendril of sensation ghosted over the inseam of Reese’s trousers, finding the damp spot over his cunt. A single, intangible point of pressure began to circle the base of that plug, rubbing slow, torturous circles over his clothed, sensitive clit.
Reese’s hips gave a tiny, helpless jerk. A soft moan escaped before he could catch it. One of the servants glanced his way, then quickly looked down.
This was madness. A silent war fought over crystal goblets and glazed vegetables. Reese, filled to bursting, was being teased toward the edge by a man whose own guts were stretched to near-bursting. He focused his will, his magic coiling tight.
He didn’t just send a trickle this time. He formed a narrow, pressurized stream of wine and pushed.
Across the table, Roman gasped. It was a short, sharp intake of breath that echoed in the silent hall. His hand shot out to grip the table’s edge. His stomach visibly distended another fraction, the silk of his shirt straining at the buttons. The liquid inside him wasn’t just sloshing now; it was a pressurized tide, seeking any escape, finding none. A sheen of sweat broke out on his temples.
His magical fingers on Reese’s cunt plug dug in, the pressure becoming almost painful. The fingers at his asshole intensified their vibration, the hum deepening, becoming a brutal, internal massage.
Reese saw stars. His head fell back against his chair. He was panting, his own stomach tight with wine and eggs, his channels packed and now being ruthlessly stimulated. He was going to come. Here, at the dinner table, in front of the silent, oblivious servants.
No.
With a snarl of effort, he redirected his magic. He didn’t push more wine in. Instead, he reached inside Roman, into that bloated, liquid-filled cavity. He squeezed.
It was a cruel, internal clench, a fist of magic tightening around the volume of wine.
Roman cried out. A raw, guttural sound of pure, shocked agony. He doubled over, his forehead nearly hitting his plate. Every servant in the hall froze.
“Leave us,” Roman choked out, the command shredded by pain.
They scattered, bowls and platters abandoned, their footsteps a frantic rustle retreating into the shadows.
The moment the great doors thudded shut, the fragile pretense shattered.
Roman shoved himself upright, his chair screeching back on the marble. He stumbled around the end of the table, his gait hobbled, one hand clamped to his grossly swollen stomach. His face was a mask of fury and unbearable need.
Reese stood too, his legs unsteady. The phantom touches vanished, leaving only the brutal, aching emptiness of their absence.
Roman reached him. He didn’t speak. His free hand, the one not holding his gut, seized Reese by the throat and slammed him back against the cold obsidian wall. The impact knocked the air from Reese’s lungs.
“You vicious little thing,” Roman rasped, his breath hot and ragged against Reese’s face. The scent of spiced wine was strong on him. “You think you’ve won?”
Reese, pinned, gasping, grinned wildly. “Look at you,” he spat. “You’re about to pop.”
Roman’s hand on his throat tightened, then slid down, tearing open the front of Reese’s shirt. Buttons pinged across the floor. His other hand left his own stomach and went to the fastening of Reese’s trousers. He yanked them down, along with the underclothes, in one violent jerk.
The cool air hit Reese’s heated skin. The plugs were exposed—the large, black silicone base protruding from his ass, the smaller one nestled in his cunt.
Roman’s eyes drank in the sight. Then, with a groan that was half pain, half lust, he spun Reese around to face the wall. He pressed his own swollen, straining body against Reese’s back. Reese could feel the hard, round globe of Roman’s wine-filled gut pressed against his own full ass, the demon’s engorged, egg-heavy balls nudging his thighs. The sound in Roman’s cock was a hard line against his tailbone.
“You filled me,” Roman hissed in his ear, his voice trembling with the effort of holding back his orgasm, with the pain of containment. “Now feel what you’ve made me.”
His hand groped between Reese’s legs, fingers slick with his own pre-come. He found the base of the plug in Reese’s cunt. He didn’t pull it out. He pushed it.
He twisted it, forcing it to rotate inside Reese’s slick, stretched channel.
Reese screamed, his forehead thudding against the cold wall. The plug shifted, grinding against his inner walls, pressing directly onto his G-spot with brutal accuracy. The eggs inside him were jostled, a deep, internal stirring.
“That’s it,” Roman growled, his own body shuddering against Reese’s back. He kept twisting the plug, a slow, sadistic corkscrew motion. “You wanted me full? I am full. I am drowning in you.” He punctuated his words with a sharp, deep push of the plug.
Reese was babbling, curses and pleas falling from his lips. He was hurtling toward climax, his body strung tight by days of edging, by the relentless fullness, by this brutal, targeted assault.
Roman’s brutal twisting of the plug punched the air from Reese’s lungs. “Please,” Reese gasped, the word scraping his throat raw, his fingers scrambling against slick obsidian. He was a bowstring pulled taut, vibrating with a need so profound it felt like terror.
Roman leaned in, his teeth scraping the pointed tip of Reese’s ear. “Ask properly,” he snarled, his own voice thick with the strain of holding back, of containing the ocean of wine inside him.
“Please, sir,” Reese whimpered, the title a surrender he usually fought against. “Please, let me come.” He was shaking, tears of frustration mixing with the sweat on his temples.
“No.” The word was a flat, final stone dropped into the chasm of Reese’s need. Roman pulled his hand away from the plug entirely, leaving Reese achingly empty of even that torment.
Reese sobbed, his body sagging against the wall. The denial was a physical blow. He heard the rustle of silk as Roman stepped back, heard the demon’s ragged, pained breathing. He turned his head, cheek pressed to cold stone. Roman stood hunched, one hand pressed to the grotesque, beautiful curve of his stomach. The other was fisted in his own hair, his face a grimace of pure agony.
“You’ve broken your toy,” Reese whispered, a hollow victory in his tone.
Roman’s head snapped up. His eyes were pits of black fire. “I’m not broken.” He staggered forward, grabbing Reese’s arm with a grip that would leave bruises. “I’m expanding.” He pulled Reese from the wall, dragging him stumbling across the vast dining hall. “And you’re going to watch.”
He hauled him through a side archway Reese had never used, down a narrow corridor lit by guttering pitch-black torches. The air grew colder, the stone rougher. Roman stopped before a door of aged, iron-bound oak. He didn’t need to touch it; it swung inward with a groan.
The BDSM room wasn’t a dungeon of clichéd chains and racks. It was a clinical, terrifying space. The walls were seamless polished steel, reflecting their distorted images back at them. The floor was poured black rubber, cool and slightly giving underfoot. One wall held a gleaming array of tools—hooks, clamps, needles, all suspended on magnetic strips. In the center of the room stood a heavy, articulated frame of black-lacquered steel, its straps hanging limp.
Roman dragged Reese to it. He pushed him against the cold metal support pole. “Hold this,” he commanded, his voice brittle.
Reese obeyed, clutching the steel, watching as Roman, movements stiff and pained, walked to a cabinet. He pulled out a long, coiled hose with a polished steel nozzle and a complex digital control unit. A temp-controlled enema spout. The sight of it sent a fresh, sharp thrill through Reese’s exhausted nerves.
Roman brought it over, the hose slithering across the rubber floor like a silver serpent. He pressed the control unit into Reese’s free hand. “You did this,” he said, his breath hot on Reese’s face. “You put the plug in. You take it out. And then you put this in.” He held up the steel nozzle. Its surface was smooth, unrelenting. “You turn it on. And you don’t turn it off until I say.”
Reese nodded, his throat too tight for words.
Roman turned, presenting his backside. The obsidian plug gleamed, a dark, fatal jewel nestled between his asscheeks. The skin around it was stretched pale and tight. “Do it.”
Reese’s hands trembled. He reached out, his fingers slick with his own sweat. He grasped the flared base of the plug. It was warm from Roman’s body. He took a shuddering breath and pulled.
It came free with a wet, sucking pop that echoed in the sterile room. For a second, nothing happened. Then a thin, dark trickle of spiced wine escaped the loosened ring of muscle, tracing a path down Roman’s inner thigh.
Roman groaned, a deep, gut-punched sound. His knees buckled slightly. “Now the hose,” he gritted out. “Now.”
Reese fumbled with the steel nozzle. He coated it with a clear lubricant from a bottle on a nearby shelf. His hands were unsteady. He pressed the cold, tapered tip against Roman’s now-gaping entrance. He pushed.
It slid in with terrifying ease. Roman’s body, already stretched and violated, offered no resistance. The nozzle fed deep into him, a cold, foreign intrusion. Reese attached the hose to its base, the connection clicking with a final, ominous sound.
He looked at the control unit in his hand. A digital display glowed. Temperature: 98.6 F. Pressure: Variable. Timer: Infinity symbol.
“Turn it on,” Roman whispered, bracing his hands on the steel frame, his head bowed.
Reese pressed the ‘ON’ button.
A soft hum filled the room. For three seconds, nothing. Then Reese watched, mesmerized, as a clear, endless stream of warm water began its journey through the hose, into the nozzle, and deep into Roman’s body.
Roman gasped. His fingers tightened on the steel until his knuckles were bloodless. The water wasn’t a sudden flood; it was a relentless, measured invasion. His flat, muscular abdomen began to soften, then to curve outward once more.
“Harder,” Roman grunted, the word strained. “Increase the flow.”
Reese’s thumb danced over the pressure control, nudging it higher.
The curve of Roman’s stomach grew more pronounced, rounding into a firm, taut dome. The water wasn’t spiced or colored; it was perfectly clear, a distorting lens that showed the faint shadow of his internal organs pressed against the skin from within. He was filling, visibly, undeniably, with a cool, weighty ocean.
Roman’s breaths came in short, sharp pants. He looked over his shoulder, his eyes glazed. “Your turn,” he slurred, a manic light in his gaze. “Distract me.”
He shoved Reese backward, not toward the frame, but onto a low, padded bench in the corner. He forced Reese down onto his back, his legs hanging over the sides. Roman knelt between them, his movements jerky, his swollen stomach brushing against Reese’s thigh. The water continued to pour into him, a soft, sinister gurgle if Reese listened closely.
Roman’s hands went to the plugs still buried in Reese. He didn’t tease this time. He grabbed the base of the large anal plug and pulled it out in one swift, brutal motion.
Reese cried out, the sudden emptiness a shock. Before he could recover, Roman pushed two slick fingers into the loose, aching channel, scissoring them wide. “So empty now,” Roman muttered, his focus split between the violation of Reese’s body and the overwhelming pressure building in his own. He worked a third finger in, stretching him brutally.
Then Roman took the smaller plug from Reese’s cunt. He discarded it. He replaced his fingers with his mouth.
He ate Reese out with a furious, desperate hunger. His tongue was a flat, brutal pressure on Reese’s overstimulated clit, flicking and circling with a rhythm that was almost angry. His lips sucked, his teeth grazed. He was drowning in the sensation, using Reese’s body as a life raft from the unbearable expansion happening inside him.
Reese screamed, his back arching off the bench. It was too much. After days of denial, of filling, of teasing, this direct, savage assault on his clit was a sensory detonation. He thrashed, but Roman held his hips down with impossible strength, his own distended stomach pressing heavy on Reese’s leg.
The water kept flowing. Roman’s belly was a tight, quivering globe, his skin shiny and stretched. He moaned against Reese’s cunt, the vibration of his groan sending fresh lightning up Reese’s spine. He was using the pain-pleasure he inflicted on Reese as a blade to cut through the breaking pressure in his own gut.
“You feel that?” Roman gasped, lifting his head, his mouth glistening. “You feel how deep I am?” He plunged three fingers back into Reese’s ass, crooked them, and rubbed hard against his prostate. At the same time, his thumb found Reese’s clit again, pressing down in a firm, relentless circle.
“I’m gonna burst,” Roman whimpered, his body trembling, his eyes squeezed shut. The hose was still humming, the water still pumping. His stomach was a monstrous, beautiful thing, taut as a drum. “I’m gonna fucking burst inside.”
He looked down at his own body, then back at Reese’s wrecked face. A desperate, wild idea seemed to seize him. He pulled his fingers from Reese’s ass. He shifted his weight, his swollen stomach sloshing heavily. He positioned the head of his cock, still pierced by the cold steel sound, at Reese’s dripping, stretched entrance.
“This,” Roman panted, “is your fault.” And he slammed himself inside.
Reese saw white. The fullness was immediate, brutal, complete. Roman was huge, and the sound added a terrifying, unyielding thickness. He filled Reese in a way the plugs never could, a live, throbbing invasion. And with every thrust, Roman’s watery, bloated stomach slapped against Reese’s own wine-and-egg-filled belly.
The slap of skin, the internal slosh of two overfilled bodies, the guttural, pained groans from Roman, the shattered screams from Reese—it was a symphony of mutual ruin. Roman fucked him with a frantic, desperate pace, using the violent motion, the piercing pleasure-pain of the sound inside Reese’s cunt, to stave off the inevitable.
“I can’t—!” Roman roared, his body seizing. His thrusts became erratic, slamming into Reese with bruising force. The hose was still connected, still pumping. A thin trickle of water began to leak from around the nozzle at his entrance, the pressure inside him finding a weak point.
He was going to break. And he was going to take Reese with him.