Chapter 3: Submission
The rhythm was a clock’s tick inside Roman’s skin. Stroke. Twist. The cold metal of the sound gliding against hypersensitive inner walls, his own hand providing a counterfeit promise of relief on the outside. Reese’s face was a study in focused calm, his shifting eyes a pale, crystalline grey, fixed on the minute reactions he was orchestrating.
“Four,” Reese counted, his voice soft as he stopped the twisting pressure of the sound just as his thumb swept over the leaking tip. Roman’s whole body jolted, a stifled curse gritted between his teeth. The denied climax was a lightning strike trapped in a cage of his own nerves.
Reese gave him no quarter. He resumed, his pace languid, almost bored. He talked about the market fluctuations on one of the screens, the quality of the linen on the bed he’d woken in, the way the new weight in his stomach changed his center of gravity. The casual commentary was a second, psychological invasion.
“Five.”
Roman was breathing in sharp, controlled pulls through his nose. Sweat beaded along his hairline, tracing the severe line of his jaw. His knuckles, where they gripped the chair, were bloodless. The obsidian plug was a constant, deep pressure, a stark counterpoint to the fleeting, teasing friction of the sound.
“Six.”
Reese varied his touch. A slow, agonizing glide from root to tip, followed by a rapid, fluttering twist of the sound. Then, just a firm, still grip, letting the sheer, throbbing need build on its own before he intervened again. He was composing a symphony of frustration, and Roman was the instrument, strung unbearably tight.
“Seven.”
Roman’s composure was fracturing. Low, guttural sounds escaped him with each exhale. His eyes, when they flicked up to meet Reese’s, were black pools of pure, unadulterated need, shot through with a dawning, furious helplessness. The ancient demon was being unmade by a cool hand and a piece of iron.
“You’re shaking,” Reese observed mildly, beginning the slow climb toward eight. His strokes became deliberate, each one a perfect, maddening simulation of what Roman’s body was screaming for. The sound inside mirrored them, a cold, internal echo.
Roman was trembling. Fine, constant tremors ran through the powerful muscles of his thighs, his abdomen. The dual fullness was becoming untenable. The plug, in particular, felt like it was slowly being driven deeper by the very tension of his body. He needed relief. Any relief.
As Reese’s hand tightened for the final approach, as Roman felt the terrifying, beautiful peak rushing up to meet him, instinct overrode pride. He couldn’t take the eighth. Not like this. With a ragged, inarticulate cry, he tried to surge up from the chair, to break the contact, to force the plug to shift and grant some minute change in pressure.
The movement was aborted, uncoordinated. His trembling legs buckled under the combined weight of his own desperation and the invasive objects anchoring him. He didn’t rise. He sank.
He fell back into the leather seat with a solid, heavy thud.
The impact drove the obsidian plug brutally deeper, a sudden, shocking invasion that forced a punched-out groan from his lungs. At the same moment, the shift in angle made the sound press against a cluster of nerves with a precision that was purely agonizing. It wasn’t pleasure. It was a white-hot spike of sensory overload that short-circuited everything else.
Reese had stopped his hand, watching with wide, fascinated eyes.
“Please.” The word was raw, scraped from a place Roman rarely acknowledged. It wasn’t a command. It was a surrender. “Reese, please. No more. I can’t—” His voice broke, choked off by another full-body shudder as his muscles convulsed around the unyielding intrusions.
Reese leaned in, his huge stomach pressing against Roman’s knee. “Can’t what?” he whispered, his breath cool against Roman’s feverish skin. “Can’t take it? Or can’t admit you love it?” He brought his hand up, a hairsbreadth from Roman’s cock again. “Eight?”
Something in Roman’s eyes snapped. The surrender ignited into a flash-fire of predatory rage. As Reese’s fingers moved to make the final, taunting stroke, Roman’s own hands shot out.
He didn’t push Reese away. He captured him.
His grip was a vise, locking around Reese’s wrists with terrifying, immutable strength. The bones ground together. Reese gasped, his grey eyes flashing to a startled, metallic silver. He tried to pull back, but he was anchored, his own newfound weight working against him.
For a suspended second, they were locked there, frozen. Roman panting, trembling, utterly filled and denied, his face a mask of sweat-streaked fury and shattered control. Reese, caught, his moment of dominion slipping through his fingers.
Then Roman moved.
It wasn’t a graceful motion. It was a raw, powerful lunge fueled by pure adrenal wrath. He surged up from the chair, dragging Reese with him. The sound and plug shifted violently inside him with the motion, a brutal penalty he ignored. He used his momentum and superior strength to spin Reese, slamming him forward against the polished black wood of the desk.
Reese’s breath left him in a whoosh. The edge of the desk dug into his hips, the massive swell of his stomach pressed awkwardly, painfully against the hard surface. He was pinned, Roman’s body a furnace-hot, trembling wall at his back.
“You clever, wicked thing,” Roman growled into his ear, his voice ragged and dark with promise. One hand splayed possessively over the curve of Reese’s stomach, not gently. He pressed down, a firm, insistent pressure that mashed the eggs deep inside Reese’s core, a mirror of his own internal torment. The familiar, profound fullness within Reese surged, a visceral reminder of their connection.
With his other hand, Roman guided himself. He was still sounded, the metal-cool length unbearably hard. He didn’t seek entry. Instead, he rutted against the back of Reese’s thigh, then the cleft of his ass, the smooth, cold tip of the sound dragging against sweat-slick skin before finding the hem of the soft sweatpants. He shoved the fabric aside, exposing the swell of Reese’s hip.
Then he pressed himself there, his sounded cock a line of furious heat against the bony prominence of Reese’s hip. The metal was a shocking, foreign sensation against Reese’s skin.
Roman began to move. Short, sharp, frantic thrusts. It wasn’t fucking. It was claiming. A physical branding. Each drive of his hips ground the cold sound into Reese’s hip bone, while the motion simultaneously fucked the obsidian plug deeper into his own ass. He was using Reese’s body to torment himself further, to push himself over some internal cliff he could no longer avoid.
Reese was trapped, crushed between the unyielding desk and Roman’s frantic weight. The pressure on his stomach was immense, making the eggs shift in a nauseating roll. He could feel every jerking movement, the damp heat of Roman’s skin, the terrifying vibration of the demon’s barely-leashed control.
“You wanted a reaction?” Roman panted, his mouth against Reese’s pointed ear. “Here it is. You feel that? That’s what you do. That’s what you are.”
His thrusts lost rhythm, becoming erratic, desperate. The dual sensations—the brutal friction against Reese, the deep, internal pressure on himself—were converging into a single, unsustainable point. His hand clamped harder on Reese’s stomach, as if trying to fuse them together through the contact.
Reese could only brace himself, his own breath coming in short gasps, overwhelmed by the sheer, chaotic force of the reversal. The hunter was caught, the game upended in a whirlwind of raw need. He turned his head, his cheek against the cool wood, and his eyes, wide and silver, watched the shadows dance on the far wall as Roman unraveled against him, chasing a release that had been twisted into something altogether darker. The chapter of his defiance was ending not with a whispered count, but with the ragged, physical punctuation of Roman’s surrender to the very chaos he’d ignited.
The chapter of his defiance was ending not with a whispered count, but with the ragged, physical punctuation of Roman’s surrender to the very chaos he’d ignited. That surrender, however, was not a cessation of power. It was a transfer, a redirection of energy as absolute and brutal as a lightning strike finding ground. Roman’s hand slid from Reese’s stomach, down, fingers digging into the soft waistband of the sweatpants and yanking them roughly down his thighs. There was no finesse, no preparation beyond the residual slickness from earlier. He pressed the cold, metal-tipped head of his sounded cock against Reese, and with a single, powerful thrust of his hips, he was inside.
The sound entered first, an impossible, stretching chill that made Reese gasp, his eyes flying wide. It was followed instantly by the heated, solid flesh of Roman himself, a dual invasion that filled him to a shocking, brutal completeness. Roman didn’t move. He held there, buried to the hilt, both of them trembling with the overload. Reese could feel the rigid shape of the sound inside him, a foreign line against his own inner walls, a cold core within Roman’s heat.
“One,” Roman snarled, the word a hot gust against Reese’s neck. Then he moved.
It was not the slow, teasing rhythm Reese had employed. This was a punishing, piston-like drive, each thrust slamming Reese into the desk’s edge, each withdrawal dragging the cold metal through oversensitive flesh. The eggs inside Reese rolled and compressed with the impact, a deep, internal pressure that built with every merciless stroke. Roman’s hand returned to his stomach, not pressing, but gripping, holding him in place like a anchor point. Pleasure, sharp and bright, flared from the sheer, violent friction, but it was already twining with something else—the familiar, dreadful promise of growth.
Reese came the first time with a choked, startled cry, his body seizing around the twin intrusions. The climax was less a wave and more a detonation, short-circuiting his nerves. As the pulses faded, the eggs swelled in a sudden, lurching expansion. The stretch was immediate, a stomach-dropping shift that stole his breath. He felt his skin tighten further, the existing fullness becoming profound, dominant.
“Two,” Roman growled, never breaking his pace. His own breath was ragged, each thrust jolting the plug and sound within himself, a self-inflicted torment he wielded as a weapon. He shifted his angle, and the cold metal inside Reese struck a new, devastating point. Reese’s back arched, a second orgasm torn from him almost instantly, a raw, screaming thing that felt like his spine might fuse. The eggs answered again, another ruthless swell. Reese’s stomach pressed even harder against the desk, a huge, taut curve that left no room for anything but its own reality. A sob broke from him. “Roman, please—”
“Three.” Roman’s voice was iron. He wrapped a hand in Reese’s hair, pulling his head back, and slammed into him with focused, deep precision. The sound inside him seemed to vibrate. Reese shattered. This climax was endless, a white-out of sensation that felt less like pleasure and more like a system failing. The eggs didn’t just swell this time; they settled, their final, mature size locking into place with a heavy, inexorable gravity. The pressure was colossal, permanent. He was grotesquely, impossibly full, every breath a conscious effort against the weight.
“Stop, please, I can’t, they’re too big, I can’t—” Reese babbled, tears streaking his face, his hands scrambling against the slick desk. He was begging, truly begging, his defiance vaporized under the somatic reality of his own transformed body.
Roman stilled, buried deep, both of them panting. He leaned over, licking a stripe up the side of Reese’s throat. “You can,” he murmured, his voice suddenly calm, almost conversational. “You will. Now get up. You’re making dinner.” He pulled out, the sound slipping free with a cool, slick pop.
Reese slumped against the desk, legs shaking, trying to comprehend the magnitude of his own form. The simple command was more disorienting than the torture. Dinner. The mundanity of it was a psychic gut-punch. He pulled his sweatpants up over the monstrous curve with trembling hands, the fabric straining.
The kitchen was a vast, modern space of dark granite and stainless steel, warmthless compared to the organic greenhouse. Roman followed him, moving with a stiff, deliberate gait. The sound and plug were still evident within him, a hidden tension in his frame. He didn’t sit. He stood by the central island, a dark pillar of contained suffering, his black eyes tracking Reese’s every clumsy movement.
Reese moved like a stranger in his own body, a wide, wobbling gait necessary to manage the forward heaviness. Gathering ingredients from the refrigerator was an ordeal of balancing, his arms cradling the underside of his stomach for support. He could feel Roman’s gaze like a physical touch.
A hand snaked out as he passed, fingers skating over the stretched cashmere covering his hip. “You’re walking differently,” Roman observed, his voice low.
“No shit,” Reese muttered, heaving a cast iron skillet onto the stove. The clang was too loud.
Roman’s palm smoothed over the crest of his stomach, a possessive, lingering touch that made Reese’s breath hitch. “It suits you. This absolute fullness.” His thumb traced the line of a silver stretch mark. Reese focused on dicing an onion, his eyes stinging.
While the aromatics sizzled in oil, Reese felt the heat of Roman’s body directly behind him. Hands settled on his hips, pulling him back until his immense stomach pressed against the island’s edge, Roman’s hardness, still encased by the sound, nudging against him. Reese leaned into the touch for a moment, then smirked. He let the spatula clatter onto the counter and slowly, with great effort, sank to his knees between Roman and the island.
He nuzzled the soft wool of Roman’s trousers, then mouthed him through the fabric, feeling the rigid outline of the sound beneath. Roman hissed, his hands flattening on the granite. Reese undid the fastenings, freeing him. The cool metal gleamed against flushed, heated skin. Reese ignored it, pressing his lips to Roman’s inner thigh, a soft, open-mouthed kiss over the taut muscle, then another higher up. He laved the skin with his tongue, tasting salt and stress.
“The food will burn,” Roman said, his voice strangled.
“So turn down the flame,” Reese whispered against his skin, then took the head of his cock into his mouth, his tongue swirling around the base of the cold metal intrusion. Roman groaned, a deep, resonant sound that vibrated in the quiet kitchen. One hand buried itself in Reese’s hair, not guiding, just holding.
Reese sucked lightly, teasingly, his hands coming up to grip Roman’s thighs. He could feel the fine tremors in the powerful muscles. As the scent of searing meat and herbs filled the air, Reese let one hand drift back, over the curve of Roman’s ass. His fingers found the cool, flared base of the obsidian plug, slick with oil. He gripped it.
Roman went preternaturally still.
Reese looked up, meeting his black, desperate eyes. He didn’t pull the plug out. He began to twist it, a slow, incremental rotation that made the embedded length shift internally. A ragged moan tore from Roman’s throat. Reese twisted it the other way, then pushed it in a fraction, fucking it into him with minute, precise presses of his palm.
“You—” Roman choked out, his hips jerking helplessly. The sound in his cock denied him any release, turning the building pressure into a loop of pure, frantic sensation. Reese continued his slow, tormenting ministrations with his mouth and his hand, a dual assault. Roman shook, his control a visible, cracking facade, every muscle corded as he stared down at the incubus who was meticulously dismantling him amid the domestic smell of cooking dinner. The breaking point was no longer on the horizon; it was in the room with them, in the twist of his wrist and the cool, relentless metal, and in the agonizing, gorgeous denial he could no longer master.
The breaking point was no longer on the horizon; it was in the room with them, in the twist of his wrist and the cool, relentless metal, and in the agonizing, gorgeous denial he could no longer master. Roman’s thighs trembled, a fine, constant vibration against Reese’s palms. The air in the kitchen thickened, saturated with the scent of seared meat, rosemary, and the sharp, electric tang of sweat.
Reese pulled back, his lips leaving Roman’s skin with a soft, wet sound. He gazed up, his eyes a turbulent, silvery grey, watching the raw struggle on Roman’s face—the clenched jaw, the flared nostrils, the sheer, desperate want vibrating through every muscle. Roman stared back, his black eyes begging for a release that the cold metal inside him physically prohibited.
With deliberate slowness, Reese leaned forward again. He didn’t take him in his mouth. He let the very tip of his tongue trace the seam where flesh met the base of the metal sound, a feather-light, torturous tease. He felt Roman’s cock jump against his lips, a frantic, helpless spasm.
Then Reese pulled off completely.
He braced his hands on Roman’s trembling thighs and pushed himself up. The motion was awkward, monumental. He had to rock his weight back, get one foot under him, and heave the impossible, ponderous mass of his stomach upwards. His abdominal muscles clenched, a deep, familiar internal tightening he’d felt a dozen times before during the torment in the Sanctum.
This time, it didn’t stop.
The clench seized, digging deep, a fist of pure pressure closing around the eggs. It wasn’t a swell. It was a contraction. A sharp, brutal cramp that locked the air in his lungs and sent a shockwave of pure, undiluted ache radiating from his core to his spine. He froze halfway up, a choked gasp escaping him, his knuckles white where they gripped Roman’s legs.
“Fuck,” he breathed, the word thin and strained.
The cramp held for a ten-second eternity before releasing in a dizzying, nauseating wash. He managed to stand fully, swaying, one hand instinctively going to cradle the bottom of his stomach. The weight felt different now. Active.Threatening.
Roman watched him, his own suffering momentarily eclipsed by predatory fascination. His breathing was still ragged, but his gaze sharpened, cleared. He looked from Reese’s pained face to the skillet where the sauce was beginning to reduce too quickly. “Finish the pan,” he said, his voice low and rough, but unmistakably an order. “Then plate it. You’re not done.”
Another, smaller contraction tightened Reese’s middle as he turned back to the stove. He gripped the edge of the counter, riding it out, before forcing himself to move. His movements were jerky, robotic. He stirred the reduction, his other hand pressing into the small of his back where a deep, throbbing ache was taking root. He plated the food, herbs and seared meat and a gloss of sauce, his vision tunneling briefly with the next wave of pressure.
He carried the plates to the long, obsidian dining table, his waddling gait more pronounced, each step sending a fresh, internal shift through the volatile cargo in his belly. He set Roman’s plate down first, then his own. As he moved to his chair, another contraction hit, stronger this time, a band of iron squeezing around his middle and dropping him the last few inches into the seat. He landed with a hard thud, a groan pulled from him.
Roman approached his own chair at the head of the table. He eyed it, his body still thrumming with the unresolved tension of the sound and plug. He sat down slowly, with clear, deliberate hesitation. The descent drove the obsidian plug another fraction of an inch deeper inside him. His breath hitched, a sharp intake he couldn’t suppress, and he shifted slightly, trying to find a position that didn’t scream of internal violation.
He picked up his fork, cut a precise piece of meat, and ate. He chewed slowly, watching Reese across the table. Reese pushed food around his plate, his jaw tight, his free hand rubbing slow circles over the crest of his stomach.
“My water glass is empty,” Roman said after a moment, nodding to the crystal goblet beside his plate.
Reese looked up, a flash of his old defiance in his eyes. It was extinguished by another tightening, a longer, more insistent contraction that made him curl forward over the table’s edge. He breathed through it, a low hum in his throat, before pushing his chair back. The legs screeched on the stone floor.
Getting up was a battle. He used his arms to lever his upper body, his stomach a massive, uncooperative weight. He waddled to the kitchen island, fetched the chilled pitcher, and waddled back. His steps were slow, measured, each one a negotiation with the gathering storm inside him. He poured the water, his hand shaking enough that the pitcher clinked against the glass.
Roman took a sip. “The sauce needs more reduction. It’s thin.”
Reese stared at him. Another contraction was building, a steady, mounting pressure he could feel gathering like a wave. He didn’t move.
“Now, Reese,” Roman said, his tone leaving no room. It was the voice from the Sanctum, cool and absolute.
Reese turned, the movement triggering the peak of the contraction. He stopped, bracing himself against the table, head bowed, breathing in sharp pants as it crested and finally, painfully, ebbed. He made it back to the kitchen, turned the heat on, and stood stirring, each stir a minor agony. He brought the reduced sauce back, his face pale and sheened with sweat.
“Better,” Roman acknowledged, not tasting it. He pointed to his wine glass. “The ’82. From the left rack.”
The trips became a rhythm. A contraction would grip Reese, sometimes while seated, sometimes as he stood. Roman would wait for it to pass, his face an impassive mask, then make another casual, impossible request.More water. A different napkin. The sea salt from the far counter. Each journey was a slow, torturous pilgrimage across the room, Reese’s body bowing under its own internal tide, Roman’s black eyes missing nothing, absorbing every wince, every caught breath, every moment where Reese had to stop and simply endure.
The contractions graduated from sharp cramps to overwhelming, all-consuming events. They stole his vision, his balance, his thought. During one, halfway back from fetching a second bottle of wine Reese had no intention of drinking, his legs simply dissolved.
There was no collapse, just a slow, inevitable melt. His knees buckled, his weight too great and his muscles too seized to hold it. He sank down the side of Roman’s chair, ending up on the floor beside him, his back against the carved wooden leg, his huge stomach resting on his thighs. He panted, staring blankly at the opposite wall, sweat soaking through his sweater.
Roman looked down at him, a curious, almost tender expression on his face. He didn’t offer help. He shifted in his seat, adjusting to the persistent, deep presence of the plug, and took another sip of wine.
From his position on the floor, Reese turned his head. His gaze was level with Roman’s lap. The shaped bulge of the sound in his trousers was obvious. The frantic, denied energy coming off Roman was a beacon. The incubus hunger in Reese, starved through all this pain, twitched awake.
He didn’t ask. He simply reached out, his fingers working the fastenings with clumsy persistence. He freed Roman’s cock, the sound gleaming cold and hostile. Reese leaned in, his breath ghosting over the heated skin, and took him into his mouth.
The relief for Roman was instant and monumental. A broken, grateful sound escaped him. His hand fell to rest on Reese’s head, not guiding, just anchoring. Reese worked him with a desperate, focused energy, his own contractions a distant thunder compared to the immediate goal. He swirled his tongue around the metal base, sucked just the head, took him deep, varying his rhythm like he had at the desk. He was pulling Roman back to that brilliant, jagged edge.
He felt it coming, the tense coiling in Roman’s belly, the change in his breathing. Reese pulled off just before the precipice, his lips slick and swollen. Roman groaned, a sound of pure loss.
Reese dove back in, drawing him up again with rough, urgent pulls of his mouth. Again, he denied him at the last possible second, pulling off to let the cold air hit the wet, trembling flesh.
“Please,” Roman whispered, the word ragged and real.
Instead of answering, Reese reached for the sound. His fingers found the cool, smooth end. He looked up, meeting Roman’s desperate, shattered gaze, and began to pull. It slid out with a slow, slick, impossible drag. Roman’s entire body shuddered, a cascade of sensation as the relentless internal pressure was finally, gloriously withdrawn.
The metal rod came free, glistening. Reese set it aside on the floor with a soft click.
He took Roman back into his mouth, his hand replacing the sound’s function, stroking in tight, perfect synchrony. He brought him to the edge a third time, a beautiful, trembling point of no return. And he stopped.
He pulled off, resting his forehead against Roman’s thigh. His own body was seized by another contraction, a huge, rolling wave that made him whimper against Roman’s skin.
When he could speak, his voice was wrecked, a raw plea. “Roman.Please. Fuck me. I need it. I need you. Before… before they come. Please.”
He was begging, not for mercy, but for culmination. For the final, violent punctuation before the storm broke.