Chapter 13: The Measuring Ceremony
The sleep sack was a memory etched into his skin. Damon stood in the prep room of The Velvet Cage, the club’s subdued murmur seeping through the walls like a distant heartbeat. He was shaved, oiled, and empty. Rhys had personally inserted the plug before they left—a heavy, flared silicone tail with a bushy black faux-fur tip that now brushed the back of his thighs. It was a ridiculous, degrading ornament, a symbol of his lowered state. His cock, soft and shrunken after the brutal fisting the night before, lay inert against his thigh. It felt like a foreign object, a useless scrap of flesh.
“Hands behind your back,” Rhys said, his tone brisk. He fastened a simple leather cuff there, not tight enough to hurt, but tight enough to remind. “You will stand on Platform Three. You will not speak. You will not look anyone in the eye. You are an exhibit. A testament to applied conditioning. Understood?”
“Yes, Sir,” Damon murmured, the title ash on his tongue.
Rhys led him out, not into the main labyrinth of private rooms, but toward the central lounge—a space of low leather banquettes, intimate lighting, and a perpetually stocked bar. It was where deals were brokered, where dynamics were displayed, where reputations were made and unmade.
A low platform, about a foot high, stood near the back, usually used for auctions or demonstrations. A tall, framed chalkboard on an easel had been placed beside it. The chalkboard was clean, except for a neatly drawn line down the middle. On the left side was written: 11/7. On the right: Today.
A hush, subtle but palpable, rippled through the assembled crowd as Rhys guided him onto the platform. Damon felt the cool air of the climate-controlled room on every inch of his skin. He kept his eyes down, focusing on the grain of the polished wood beneath his feet. He saw feet: polished loafers, sleek boots, high heels. He heard the clink of ice in glass, a stifled laugh, a low, appreciative whistle.
“Good evening, friends,” Rhys announced, his voice projecting a warm, conversational authority. “Some of you remember Damon Blackwood. Architect. Former master of the house on Willow Street. A man known for his… exacting standards.”
A few knowing chuckles floated from the shadows.
“Damon has been on a journey of rediscovery. Of simplification.” Rhys paced slowly in front of the platform. “The body is an honest thing. It adapts to its primary function. We’ve been encouraging a specific adaptation. Tonight, I’d like to share a measurable result.”
Rhys picked up a tailor’s soft measuring tape from the easel’s shelf. He dangled it in the air. “A simple metric. Length. Girth we can estimate by eye.” He stepped onto the platform. The wood creaked under his weight. Damon flinched as Rhys’s hand closed, not around his cock, but around the base of the tail plug. He gave it a firm, wiggling pull, seating it deeper, making Damon gasp. The sensation was immediately familiar, a filling pressure that made his hole clutch automatically.
“First, the baseline.” Rhys pointed to the 11/7 date on the chalkboard. “As recorded seven weeks ago, in private. Five and a quarter inches. A respectable, if unremarkable, measurement for a man in his late thirties.”
He let that hang. Then he turned to Damon. “Now. The current state.”
Rhys didn’t hurry. He let the silence build. He knelt, bringing himself to eye level with Damon’s groin. The direct, clinical attention from so many eyes was a fire on Damon’s skin. He trembled, a fine, constant shake he could not control.
The cool tape touched his flaccid flesh. Rhys manipulated him, pinching the tip gently to stretch the soft length out. He laid the tape along the top, from root to head. He held it there, adjusting slightly, his brow furrowed in concentration.
He stood, walked to the chalkboard, and made a mark. He didn’t speak. He simply wrote the number next to Today.
4 ½
A murmur, louder this time, rolled through the lounge. Someone said, “Shrinking.” Another voice, female, tinged with contempt, said, “It’s cute. Like a little mushroom.”
Rhys smiled. “Indeed. A loss of three-quarters of an inch. A significant reduction in just under two months.” He turned back to Damon. “But we must be scientific. Stress, temperature, all factors. We need a second measurement. Under arousal.”
He snapped his fingers. Julian emerged from the crowd, holding a small, vibrating wand. He mounted the platform without looking at Damon’s face. He switched the wand on—a low, insistent buzz—and pressed it directly against Damon’s perineum, right behind his balls, where the plug’s base stretched him.
The effect was instantaneous and humiliating. Damon’s body jolted. A soft, ragged moan escaped him before he could choke it off. The combined stimulation—the deep, full pressure of the plug and the intense, targeted vibration on his oversensitive taint—sent a bolt of unwanted electricity straight to his nervous system. His traitorous cock began to swell.
“Watch,” Rhys instructed the crowd, as if conducting a biology lesson.
They watched. Damon felt his flesh thickening, lifting away from his thigh under the relentless buzz. He was getting hard, a full, aching erection born not from desire, but from direct, invasive stimulation he could not escape. He hated it. He hated the warmth spreading through his groin, the tight pull of his balls. Most of all, he hated the low, approving sounds from the onlookers.
“Seems the machinery still works,” a man’s voice drawled. “Just needs the right button pushed.”
“It’s all rerouted to the back door,” another replied, and laughter followed.
When Damon was fully erect, a state that felt both alien and obscenely public, Rhys pushed Julian’s hand away. The vibration stopped, leaving a throbbing silence. Rhys applied the tape again, stretching the now-rigid length.
He returned to the board. He wrote the second number.
5
“A half-inch gain under direct stimulation,” Rhys announced. “But note: still a quarter-inch shy of his original flaccid state. The trend is clear. The tissue is atrophying. The neural pathways are rewriting. Pleasure is being relocated.” He turned, gesturing to Damon’s erect cock. “This is a superficial response. A parlor trick. The truth…” He walked behind Damon, gripped the furry tail, and gave it a sharp, clockwise twist.
Damon cried out, his back arching, his hard-on bobbing grotesquely. A sharp, deep pleasure-pain radiated from his prostate, making his knees buckle.
“The truth,” Rhys repeated, louder, “is here. The dedication is here. He is, functionally, becoming a hole. A very specialized, very capable hole.”
The crowd was leaning in now. Damon could feel their collective gaze like a physical pressure. He saw a woman in a crimson dress sipping her drink, her eyes dark and fascinated. A man he vaguely recognized, a commodities broker, was openly adjusting his own trousers.
“Who wants to record the girth?” Rhys asked, holding up the tape. “For posterity.”
A young man, eager, stepped forward. “I will.”
He climbed onto the platform. He didn’t ask. He wrapped the tape around the thickest part of Damon’s shaft, pulling it snug. His fingers brushed Damon’s skin, curious and impersonal. “Five and a half inches,” the young man called out, grinning.
Rhys chalked it on the board: Girth: 5.5".
“Now,” Rhys said, his voice dropping into a more intimate, conspiratorial register. “The real question for a hole is capacity. Resilience.” He looked at Damon, his blue eyes glinting. “You’ve been stretched. You’ve been filled. Let’s see how well you’ve retained the lesson. How well you perform your function.”
He nodded to Julian, who stepped forward again, this time with a bottle of lube. Leo emerged from the other side of the crowd, already unbuckling his belt, a familiar, hungry look on his face.
“You remember Leo,” Rhys said to the crowd. “And my assistant, Julian. They’ve been instrumental in Damon’s re-education. They’ll demonstrate his current usability.”
Damon’s heart hammered against his ribs. Not here. Not in front of everyone. The private ravaging in the dungeon was one thing. This was a spectacle.
“On your hands and knees,” Rhys commanded. “Present.”
The position was instinctual now. Damon lowered himself, the tail plug angling upward. The posture exposed him completely, his shrunken balls and hard cock dangling, his stretched hole on display with the silly tail sticking out. The wood was cold against his palms and knees.
He heard the tear of foil packets, the squirt of lube. He didn’t know who would be first. It was Julian who knelt behind him. A slick, firm pressure touched his rim—not the plug’s narrow stem, but the broad, familiar head of a cock.
“Look at the audience,” Julian whispered, his voice a hot, private violation in the public space. “Look at them while I fuck you.”
Julian shoved in. Damon’s head snapped up, a choked gasp torn from him as his body, already loosened by the plug, accepted the invasion with shocking ease. He was met with a sea of faces—some blank, some smiling, some rapt with lurid fascination. A man had his phone out, recording.
Julian set a punishing pace from the start, his hips slamming against Damon’s ass with sharp, loud smacks. Each thrust drove Damon forward on the platform, making his hard cock sway. The penetration was deep, brutal, and obscenely public. The wet sounds of sex mixed with the low music and the murmurs of the crowd.
“See how easily he takes it?” Rhys narrated, circling them. “No resistance. His body knows its purpose.”
Just as Damon was adjusting to the brutal rhythm, Leo appeared in front of him. He gripped Damon’s hair, forcing his head up. Leo’s cock, thick and already weeping, slapped against Damon’s cheek.
“Open,” Leo grunted.
Damon hesitated for a fraction of a second. Leo’s hand tightened, yanking. “Don’t make me ask again, fuckhole.”
Damon opened his mouth. Leo fed his cock in, not slowly, but with a single, shoving thrust that hit the back of Damon’s throat. Damon gagged, tears springing to his eyes as he was filled at both ends, a living conduit. Leo began to fuck his face with short, brutal jabs, his pubic bone hitting Damon’s nose with each push.
The dual penetration was overwhelming. Julian’s deep, pounding assault from behind and Leo’s choking, face-fucking from the front pinned him in a vise of raw, debasing use. He was a thing being used in tandem, his body a public utility. Drool dripped from his stretched lips, coating Leo’s shaft. The sounds he made were muffled, animal grunts and gags.
The crowd was closer now, forming a semicircle around the platform. He could see the shine of their eyes, the part of their lips. He heard them.
“Fuck, look at him take it.”
“That’s a well-trained bitch.”
“Bet he comes just from getting reamed like that.”
“Wouldn’t you?”
The comment cut through the haze of sensation. He was hard. His cock, ignored and untouched, was a rigid, leaking rod between his belly and the platform. The shame of it—of being publicly used like a fucktoy and responding, of his body’s betrayal being so visibly obvious—was a poison in his veins. Yet, the pressure built. The deep, prostate-milking thrusts from Julian, the dominance of being so utterly claimed, were orchestrating a climax he didn’t want but couldn’t forestall.
His breathing became frantic, nasal and ragged around Leo’s pumping cock. His hips jerked helplessly. A high, desperate whine keened in his throat.
“He’s gonna pop,” Leo chuckled, fucking his mouth harder.
Julian’s rhythm became erratic, his thrusts sharper, deeper. “Yeah,” he hissed, his hands digging into Damon’s hips. “You gonna come, you slut? Gonna spurt all over the floor like the dog you are?”
It was the final trigger. The degradation, the words, the relentless physical stimulation coalesced into a detonation. Damon’s orgasm ripped through him, silent and violent. His body locked, every muscle taut as a wire as his untouched cock erupted, shooting thick, white ropes onto the polished wood of the platform in pulsing jets. His ass convulsed wildly around Julian’s driving cock, his throat constricting around Leo’s.
Julian came moments later, a guttural groan escaping him as he pulsed deep inside the condom, his hips stuttering. Leo, with a final, driving shove, emptied himself down Damon’s throat. Damon had no choice but to swallow, the bitter taste another layer of violation.
Damon collapsed onto his side, lungs heaving, painted in sweat and spend. His hardness evaporated instantly, leaving that familiar, shameful softness. The crowd’s applause was a distant, mocking wave. He heard the clinking of glasses, casual conversation resuming as if a minor divertissement had concluded.
Rhys let the moment settle. He gestured, and Julian and Leo stepped away, re-dressing, melting back into the audience. Rhys stood over Damon’s curled form. He tapped the chalkboard with a knuckle, the sound sharp in the settling din.
“A convincing performance,” Rhys announced, his voice recapturing the room. “But let’s be precise. He came from being fucked. A cock in his ass, another in his mouth. For this…” he toed Damon’s limp body, “…this is now a straightforward transaction. Input: penetration. Output: orgasm. Simple. Efficient. Rather crude.”
He knelt, his face close to Damon’s. “But I remember a different man. In a private room upstairs. Tall. Arrogant. Cufflinks gleaming.” Rhys’s voice dropped, becoming almost confidential, forcing the crowd to quieten to listen. “He lectured me on psychological nuance. On the sacred trust of taking a submissive’s will, not just their body. He said, and I recall this precisely, ‘Any brute can fuck an ass, Rhys. I build cathedrals in the mind.’“
A soft, derisive laugh echoed from someone in the crowd.
“Cathedrals,” Rhys repeated, letting the word dissolve into the thick air. He looked down at Damon. “Now look. This wreck on the floor. His mind is a ruin. And his body?” Rhys straightened up, addressing everyone. “His body has become something so specific, so expertly broken, that it has surpassed mere fucking. We have moved into… specialized engineering.”
He snapped his fingers. “Julian. The table. The gloves.”
A padded massage table was carried forward and set squarely in the center of the platform. The chalkboard was wheeled closer. Julian set down a fresh bottle of oil and the box of thick, black nitrile gloves.
“On the table. On your back,” Rhys commanded, pulling a glove onto his right hand with a menacing stretch of latex.
Damon’s entire being recoiled. He knew what was coming. The memory of the night before—the splitting fullness, the catastrophic, involuntary climax—flooded him with a nausea that was pure terror. “Please, Sir. Not here. I’ll do anything else.”
“You will do this,” Rhys stated, his tone leaving no oxygen in the room. “Because it is what you are for. Up.”
Damon dragged himself onto the table, the leather warm and sticky beneath him. He lay back, staring at the dark ceiling, feeling the spotlight’s heat on his skin. Rhys gestured, and two men from the crowd stepped up to hold Damon’s ankles, spreading his legs wide, bending his knees back toward his chest. His ruined hole, still slick and loose, was exposed to the entire room.
Rhys coated his gloved hand liberally, the oil catching the light. He dripped more directly onto Damon, the warm stream making him flinch. “The first time I put a finger in this man,” Rhys narrated, pressing one, then two fingers inside with obscene ease, “he wept from the shame. The violation was psychological.” He scissored his fingers. Damon’s body offered no resistance, swallowing them to the knuckles without a sound. “Now, the violation is purely physical. The shame is a given. We are testing capacity. We are testing neurological rewiring.”
He added a third, then a fourth finger, working them in a steady, stretching rhythm. The stretch was significant, but Damon’s breathing remained a ragged, controlled pant. He had been here before. This was the prelude.
“Watch the board,” Rhys told the audience. Damon’s eyes, wide and helpless, were dragged toward it. Under Today, below the measurements of his cock, Rhys wrote in clean capital letters: ORGASM SOURCE.
On the first line, he chalked: Dual Penetration (Anal/Oral).
Then, he withdrew his fingers. He began oiling his entire hand, working it over the knuckles, making the black latex shine. The room was utterly silent save for the soft, slick sounds.
“Now,” Rhys said quietly, positioning his knuckles at the puffy, dilated entrance. “We test the new circuitry.”
He pushed.
The pressure was immediate and apocalyptic. Damon’s back arched off the table, a strangled scream tearing from his throat. The men holding his legs leaned in, their grips tightening. Damon’s entire world narrowed to that one, impossible point of invasion—the blunt, spreading force of a human fist forcing its way into a space that had just housed a cock. The burn was exquisite, a seamless fire of stretch that felt like it would cleave him in two.
“Breathe out, you pathetic fuck,” Rhys grunted, his own composure thinning with the intense, physical effort. “Push out. Accept it.”
Tears blurred Damon’s vision of the chalkboard. He tried to obey, to force his clenched muscle to relent. For a long, agonizing moment, there was only the terrible, unwavering pressure. Then, with a wet, internal surrender that felt like a piece of his soul tearing, the widest part of Rhys’s knuckles breached him.
The scream that followed was raw, unmodulated agony. It echoed in the hushed lounge. His body was impaled, filled beyond all rational dimension. The outline of Rhys’s fist distended his lower abdomen, a visible, lumpy bulge under his skin. The crowd gasped, a collective intake of breath.
Rhys paused, his forearm buried deep, his own breath coming hard. He looked not at Damon, but at the audience. “See the change? The first time, he fought this for minutes. Now, it is a matter of seconds. His body recognizes its true purpose.”
He began to move. A slow, deep rotation. Damon’s screams dissolved into continuous, choked sobs. The sensation was beyond pain, beyond fullness. It was a profound, internal conquering. Every inch of his colon was massaged, dominated, claimed by the relentless turning of that embedded fist. His cock, which had lain completely soft and ignored, began to thicken.
“Look,” someone whispered, urgently.
All eyes flicked from the monstrous connection between Rhys’s arm and Damon’s body to his groin. His cock, that shrunken, atrophied thing, was swelling. Unprompted. Unbidden. It lifted from his thigh, thickening, filling with blood until it stood fully erect, a stark, traitorous flagpole of flesh.
“Impossible,” a woman muttered.
“It’s not,” Rhys corrected, his voice strained but triumphant. He pistoned his fist in a shallow, fucking motion. Each inward plunge forced a guttural “ungh” from Damon’s chest. Each withdrawal made his leaking cock jump. “This is the rewiring. The prostate is no longer a secondary gland. It is his primary sexual organ. It is being stimulated directly, completely. His brain has no choice but to respond.”
He focused on the brutal, gliding rhythm. Damon was adrift on a sea of overwhelming sensation. The splitting stretch, the deep, internal friction, the crushing fullness—it anathema and apotheosis. His own cock was a barometer of his ruin, achingly hard, pre-come beading at the tip.
Rhys nodded to the chalkboard. “Julian.”
Julian stepped forward, a fresh piece of chalk in his hand. Under ORGASM SOURCE, on the next line, he wrote: Solitary Fisting.