Chapter 5: Again
The trembling in Reese’s limbs had subsided into a deep, systemic exhaustion. The cold of the obsidian slab had seeped into his bones, a grounding counterpoint to the furnace-heat of his skin. Roman remained inside him, a static, overwhelming presence, but his movements had stilled. He was waiting, watching Reese’s face with an academic curiosity.
“Breathe,” Roman instructed, his voice low. It wasn’t a comfort; it was a command to continue functioning.
Reese dragged in a shuddering breath. The reprieve was an illusion. Another contraction was already coiling in the depths of him, a spring tightening with unbearable slowness. He could feel the lead egg lodged stubbornly, its passage obstructed.
Roman felt it too—the gathering tension, the internal clench around him. A slow smile touched his lips. “There it is,” he murmured. He began to move again, a languid, almost thoughtful withdrawal.
He pulled out.
The sudden absence was a shock of cold air and agonizing relief. For a fraction of a second, the pathway was clear. The contraction surged, a mighty heave of muscle and will. Reese cried out, back bowing, as the first egg was forced from him. It was a strange, solid pressure, then a wet, heavy release onto the stone beneath him. A wave of dizzying, empty-space nausea followed.
Before Reese could even process it, before the contraction fully ebbed, Roman was pushing back in. The slide was easier now, slick with effort and release, but the sensitivity was astronomical. Reese whimpered, oversensitive and raw.
Roman set a ruthless, efficient rhythm. He wasn’t seeking his own pleasure yet; he was an instrument of deliberate torture. He would fuck into Reese with deep, measured strokes, pushing the next egg ever lower. Then, as Reese’s body tensed around the invading pressure, fighting itself, Roman would pull out completely. The dual sensations—the brutal fullness, then the shocking void—would trigger another violent, expulsive contraction.
An egg would push free. And Roman would sheathe himself again before the echoes of the pain had faded.
Reese lost count. The world narrowed to a cycle of piercing fullness, searing emptiness, and the deep, visceral ache of passage. Each expulsion was accompanied by a brutal, unwanted climax, his incubus nature wringing a dry, shattering orgasm from the sheer intensity of the sensation. He wasn’t coming from pleasure; he was being electrocuted by overload.
“See how tidy this is?” Roman grunted, his own breath starting to come faster. His control was fraying. The sight of Reese unraveling, the feel of those internal convulsions, the stolen bursts of power from each of Reese’s climaxes—it was fueling him. His own orgasm built, hot and urgent. He pinned Reese’s hips down, driving in hard, and came with a stifled groan.
He pulled out immediately. The gush of his release followed by the sudden vacancy made Reese’s stomach muscles lock in a brutal spasm. Another egg. Another empty, wrenching climax that left him seeing stars.
Roman didn’t pause. He was hard again in moments, a testament to stolen energy and demonic stamina. He re-entered Reese, who could only sob, a broken, continuous sound.
“You’re making a mess,” Roman observed, his tone light, conversational, as he thrust. “A beautiful, productive mess.”
Another orgasm took Roman, sharper this time. Out. Contraction. Release.
Reese’s begging had become a formless mantra. “No more, no more, no more, please.” His body was a vessel being scraped clean, each passage leaving him more hollowed out, more spent.
Finally, the relentless pace seemed to slow. Reese lay utterly spent on the slab, heaving for air, surrounded by the evidence of his labor. The unbearable pressure had diminished, but a final, lingering fullness remained. Three eggs. He could feel them, a final, stubborn cluster.
Roman loomed over him, his cock still painfully erect, gleaming in the low light. He placed a hand low on Reese’s abdomen, fingers splayed. “Last ones,” he said, his voice thick. “Let’s not dawdle.”
He pushed in, one last time. The stretch was agonizing on Reese’s ravaged body. Roman fucked him with short, focused jabs, his own jaw clenched, chasing a third release. When it hit him, he pulled out roughly.
The contraction was weaker now, Reese’s strength gone. He couldn’t push. He could only endure.
Roman’s hand on his stomach pressed down, firm and unyielding. “Now,” he commanded.
The first of the last three slid free. Reese’s body convulsed, a final, pathetic orgasm shivering through him.
Roman pushed back in, once, twice, and came again with a hoarse shout. Out. Press. The second egg.
One left.
Roman was breathing like a bellows, sweat dripping onto Reese’s chest. He looked utterly wrecked, yet his eyes burned with dark fire. He entered Reese slowly, a grotesque parody of tenderness. He didn’t thrust. He simply held himself there, buried to the hilt, and kissed Reese, deeply, swallowing his ragged cries.
He broke the kiss. “This one’s mine,” he whispered.
He pulled out, and with his hand, he pushed.
The final egg passed from Reese’s body. The climax that followed wasn’t a shiver or a spasm; it was a total systems failure, a full-body whiteout that emptied his mind completely.
When awareness seeped back, he was on his knees on the cold floor. How he got there was a blur. His cheek was pressed against Roman’s thigh. The scent of sex and salt and stone filled his nose. His body, operating on instinct alone, nuzzled against Roman’s still-hard cock. His lips parted, tongue dragging lazily across the sensitized skin. A low, tired hum vibrated in his throat.
He was kissing it, suckling gently at the tip, a blind, instinctive seeking of comfort and connection from the source of his torment.
Roman’s hand fisted in his sweat-damp hair, not forcing, just holding. A low laugh rumbled above him. “Even now,” Roman mused, voice ragged but amused. “You’re something else.”
After a moment, he tugged Reese’s head back. Reese blinked up at him, eyes glazed and utterly vacant.
“You did well,” Roman said, the words stark and simple. He released Reese’s hair and smoothed a thumb over his bruised lips. “The product is delivered. Intact.”
He stepped back, and Reese swayed, catching himself on his hands. He felt light as a ghost, hollowed out and weightless.
Roman looked down at him, then at the aftermath on the obsidian slab. His own satisfaction was evident, but his black eyes were already calculating, restless. The edge of his hunger had been blunted, but not the nature of it.
“Get up,” he said, not unkindly, but with a firm expectation. “You’ll need to clean yourself. And all this.” He gestured vaguely.
He turned and walked toward the adjoining bathing chamber, the hard line of his back still radiating a tense, unsated energy. The test was over. The boundaries had held. But as Reese shakily tried to find the strength to rise, he knew Roman was already devising the next one.
But as Reese shakily tried to find the strength to rise, he knew Roman was already devising the next one. The thought didn’t frighten him. It ignited a slow, smoldering coal deep within his hollowed core. His submission had been real, his breaking absolute. But the aftermath left a vacuum, and into that vacuum flowed his own peculiar defiance. He would not just recover. He would answer.
It took minutes of agonized shifting to get his legs under him. Roman had disappeared into the bathing chamber; the sound of flowing water echoed. Reese used the slab to pull himself up, his thighs slick and trembling. The evidence of his labor lay around him, wet and gleaming. He ignored it. He focused inward, past the raw ache, to the dormant power that defined him. He wasn’t just an elf who’d been used. He was an incubus. And he’d been fed a banquet of violent emotion.
He walked, each step a measured victory, toward the sound of water. The opulent bathroom was steamy, scented with dark myrrh. Roman stood under the cascade of a black stone shower, head bowed, water sluicing down the powerful planes of his back. His posture spoke of a tension unreleased, a knot left tightly wound.
Reese didn’t speak. He let the door click shut. Roman didn’t turn.
Leaning against the damp wall, Reese let his gaze travel over the demon. Then, he pushed a soft, focused thread of his will into the humid air. It wasn’t an assault. It was an invitation, a slow seep of pure, undiluted arousal aimed at the base of Roman’s spine. He watched the muscles in Roman’s shoulders tighten, then ripple.
Roman turned his head, just slightly. His profile was sharp in the mist. “You should be cleaning the sanctum.”
“Later,” Reese said, his voice raspy but clear. He pushed off the wall and approached the shower. He reached in, not into the water, but to trail his fingertips down the soaked, corded length of Roman’s forearm. The touch was a whisper, a promise. His incubus power pulsed with it, a focused thrum that bypassed skin and went straight to the nerve.
Roman’s breath hitched. It was almost imperceptible. Reese smiled, a fragile, dangerous thing.
He stepped into the shower, fully clothed in his ruined garments. The water soaked him instantly, plastering the fabric to his lean, tattooed frame. He placed both hands on Roman’s lower back, his thumbs pressing into the tight muscle beside the spine. He kneaded, finding the stubborn knots left by hours of relentless tension. At the same time, he dialed up the psychic pressure, aiming it like a laser at Roman’s groin.
“Fuck,” Roman muttered, his head dropping forward. His hands braced against the wet stone.
“That’s the idea,” Reese whispered, his mouth close to Roman’s shoulder. He worked his hands lower, his touch morphing from therapeutic to suggestive. He skimmed the powerful curve of Roman’s ass, then back up. He was everywhere and nowhere, a ghost of sensation amplified by his power. He avoided Roman’s cock, which was already thickening, trapped between Roman’s stomach and the cold shower wall.
Reese turned him, gently. Roman allowed it, his l
black eyes cloudy with a need he hadn’t authorized. Reese dropped to his knees on the shower floor. The water pounded his back. He looked up, meeting Roman’s gaze, and finally wrapped his hand around Roman’s cock. It was fully hard, a heavy, heated weight in his palm. He didn’t stroke. He just held it, his power surging, making the simple contact feel like the inside of a mouth.
“Reese,” Roman warned, but it was a plea.
“You’re not in charge right now,” Reese said softly. He began to move his hand, an agonizingly slow pump from root to tip. He used his thumb to smear the bead of pre-cum, spreading it, making the glide torturously smooth. He leaned in, his breath hot, and flicked his tongue over the head. Once. Then he pulled back, his hand stilling.
“You fucking tease,” Roman snarled, his hips giving a tiny, involuntary jerk.
“Yes,” Reese agreed. He resumed, varying his rhythm—fast, tight strokes that made Roman’s thighs tremble, then slowing to a maddening, lazy circle with his thumb. He’d bring Roman to the very precipice, feeling the balls tighten, hearing the ragged catch in Roman’s throat. He’d smell the sharp, desperate scent of his imminent release.
Then he’d stop. Completely. He’d just hold him, press his lips to Roman’s hip bone, and wait until the crisis passed.
“Please.” The word was torn from Roman on the fourth edge, gravel and need. “Let me come.”
“I don’t think you’ve earned it,” Reese breathed, his own body humming with the power he was conducting. He could feel Roman’s control shattering, piece by precious piece. It was more intoxicating than any sexual energy he’d ever consumed.
With his free hand, Reese gestured beside him. The air shimmered, and his magic coalesced into physical form. A large, rubber enema bag appeared, already filled to capacity with deep, blood-red wine. The long hose ended in a polished, intimidating tip.
Roman’s eyes, hazy with want, focused on it. A flicker of something raw—surprise, vulnerability—crossed his face. “What are you—”
Reese didn’t explain. He just shifted his grip on Roman’s cock, stroking him firmly again, pushing him back toward that trembling edge. As Roman gasped, lost in the sensation, Reese reached for the tip. He lubed it hastily with the water and his own spit, then positioned it.
He pressed it in, rough and unceremonious, burying it to the hilt in Roman’s ass.
Roman cried out, a sharp, stunned sound. His body went rigid. Reese held him there with one hand on his hip, the other still working his cock with relentless precision. He reached up and released the clamp on the enema bag.
A gurgle echoed strangely in the shower. Roman’s eyes flew wide. He could feel it, the insistent, heavy flow of liquid invading him, cold at first then warming rapidly to body temperature. It was an overwhelming fullness, deep and expanding, completely different from the solid stretch of the plug. He was being filled, relentlessly, with no possible release.
“Oh, god—shit, Reese, stop—it’s too much—” Roman babbled, his hands scrabbling at the wet stone for purchase. The dual sensations were demolishing him: the expert, edging hand on his cock, and the deep, internal deluge flooding his guts.
Reese watched his face, enthralled. He massaged Roman’s cockhead with his thumb, pushing him again toward orgasm even as Roman’s stomach began to distend slightly, taut and round under the onslaught. “Breathe through it,” Reese instructed, echoing Roman’s earlier cold command. “Just take it.”
The bag emptied, its contents transferring completely. Roman was panting, his body strung tight as a bow, stretched and sloshing painfully full. The need to come was a physical scream in his veins, but the crushing pressure in his abdomen held him in a vise of desperate, conflicting sensations.
When Roman’s breathing settled into shallow, forced hitches, Reese proceeded.
He squeezed the bag.
A fresh, brutal surge of wine forced its way in, seeking space where there was none. Roman’s back arched, a choked gasp ripped from him. His dignity was gone, obliterated by the sheer, uncompromising physicality of it.
“Reese, please, no more—I can’t hold it—fuck, I’m going to burst—” he begged, tears mixing with the shower spray. His cock throbbed in Reese’s hand, leaking helplessly.
Reese squeezed the bag again, a smaller, sadistic pulse. “You can,” he murmured, his own voice thick with power and a dark, mirrored pleasure. “You will. Until I say otherwise.”
Until I say otherwise.
His words hung in the steam, a perfect echo of Roman’s own earlier cruelty. The power had not just shifted; it had inverted, crystallizing in the grip of Reese’s hand and the brutal, internal flood. Roman trembled, a fine, constant vibration that had nothing to do with the cold water. His knuckles were white against the shower wall. The pressure inside him was a living, sloshing entity, a second heartbeat of liquid weight that threatened to split him open. Every desperate clench of his stomach muscles to contain it sent vicious feedback to his cock, which wept steadily into Reese’s fist.
"Please," Roman gasped again, the word dissolving into a moan. "I need to… I can’t hold…"
"Shhh," Reese soothed, his voice a hypnotic murmur. He tightened his grip on Roman’s hip, anchoring him. His other hand began to move again on Roman’s cock, a masterpiece of timed cruelty. He used the base of his palm to grind against the root, his fingers a twisting vice around the shaft, his thumb a relentless, circling dictator on the frenulum. He read Roman’s body like a scripture, each twitch and gasp a verse. He dragged him up, higher and higher, using the obscene internal pressure as an accelerator. The wine-filled distension in Roman’s gut wasn't just pain; it was a profound, destabilizing fullness that amplified every flick of Reese’s wrist, made every nerve ending scream for a release that his own body now physically blocked.
Roman’s world dissolved into a white-hot pinpoint of sensation. The water, the steam, the cold stone—it all vanished. There was only the volcanic need to come and the oceanic pressure holding it back. His breaths were sobbing, ragged things. His stomach muscles fluttered uncontrollably, a chaotic spasm around the enormous liquid volume. He was right there, balanced on a razor’s edge, his entire being coiled into a single, impossible tension.
“Now,” Reese whispered, his command a dark blessing.
It was the permission Roman’s body was screaming for. The orgasm detonated, a cataclysm he could not stop. A guttural, broken roar was torn from his throat as the first pulse gathered deep in his core. His stomach clenched in a violent, agonizing cramp around the enema, the muscles fighting the liquid immensity within.
In that exact second of supreme vulnerability, as Roman’s consciousness was obliterated by the climbing wave, Reese moved.
His free hand came up from where it had been stroking Roman’s thigh. Between his fingers was a slender, cruel length of polished steel—a urethral sound. He didn’t hesitate. As Roman’s body seized with the first throb of his thwarted climax, Reese pressed the cold tip to the weeping slit of Roman’s cock and pushed.
The initial inch was a shock of strange, cold intrusion, lost in the sensory hurricane. Roman, in the throes of an almost-orgasm, barely registered it, his brain interpreting it as just another piercing thread of climax.
Reese pushed further, the sound sliding deeper into the sensitive internal channel.
Roman noticed when the sound got sucked halfway in.
The orgasm that was trying to rip through him met a solid, metallic wall. His body convulsed, the ejaculation blocked, trapped behind the steel rod now lodged in his urethra. The pain was instantaneous and monstrous—a sharp, rending stretch from the inside out, a fullness that mirrored and mocked the one in his gut. He groaned, a sound of pure, animal anguish, his back slamming against the wet tiles.
His stomach clenched again, a reflexive, painful spasm around the enema, as if trying to expel one violation to accommodate the other.
Reese stopped with the sound halfway into Roman’s cock. He held it there, motionless, a monument to this new, exquisite torture. Roman panted, tears of pain and frustration streaming down his face, his body shuddering through the aftershocks of an orgasm that had been brutally rerouted, its power circling back into him with nowhere to go.
“Breathe,” Reese said softly, mirroring the past once more, but his actions were entirely present. He released the sound, leaving it protruding obscenely. His hands, now gentle, went to Roman’s stomach. He began to rub slow, soothing circles over the distended, wine-filled curve, his touch a stark contrast to the internal torment. “Just breathe through it. Let your cock adjust to the stretch.”
Roman could do nothing else. Each breath was a negotiation with the pressure in his guts and the foreign, burning presence in his cock. The pain was a bright, constant star, but Reese’s hands on his stomach were a grounding, puzzling kindness. He looked down, his vision blurry, to see the metallic glint halfway into his own flesh, and a weak, stunned sound escaped him.