Chapter 5: Obsidian Altar
The car finally stopped. The silence after hours of engine noise and vibration was a physical void. Erye hadn’t moved from the floor. His body felt used, hollowed out, hypersensitive to the chill seeping through the chassis. He heard Vic’s door open and shut, then the crunch of boots on gravel.
His own door opened. The mountain air was a slap—thin, cold, and smelling of pine and deep, wet stone. Vic stood silhouetted against a sky choked with bruised clouds. Behind him, sheer cliffs rose into the gloom, and nestled against them was a structure of jagged, dark rock. It wasn’t a house. It was a fortress, a brutalist spike driven into the mountain’s flank. Narrow, slit-like windows glowed with a sullen orange light, like embers in a skull.
“Up,” Vic said. He didn’t offer a hand.
Erye pushed himself up, his muscles protesting. He fumbled with his jeans, pulling them up over his still-trembling thighs. The dampness in his briefs was a cold, shameful reminder. He staggered out onto the gravel, the wind whipping his short silver hair. He looked small against the monstrous landscape, a shimmering insect against the granite.
Vic was already walking towards a heavy, iron-banded door set into the rock face. Erye followed, his legs unsteady. The door swung inward silently at Vic’s approach, revealing a passageway lit by flickering torches mounted in iron sconces. The air inside was dry and carried the scent of cold stone, old incense, and something metallic.
The corridor was a descent. They walked down rough-hewn steps, the torchlight throwing their elongated, dancing shadows on the walls. The sound of their footsteps echoed into a profound stillness. Erye’s magic, so agitated and potent in the car, now felt thin and brittle inside his glass bones. The mountain seemed to press in, absorbing all energy.
They entered a chamber. It was circular, the walls smooth obsidian that reflected the torchlight in dim, liquid swirls. In the center was a dais, and upon it, an altar of the same polished black stone, carved with runes that seemed to move in the flickering light. Chains, dark and heavy, were fixed to its corners.
Vic didn’t pause. A gesture of his hand, and Erye was lifted off his feet by that familiar, brutal telekinetic grip. He was carried, limp as a doll, to the altar. His back met the cold, unforgiving surface with a shock that traveled through his spine.
The telekinetic force shifted. It became precise, unyielding bands around his wrists and ankles, pulling them taut towards the four corners of the stone slab. The cold of the obsidian seeped into him, a deep, grounding chill that muted the last remnants of the enhancing drink’s fire. He was spread-eagled, utterly exposed, looking up at the vaulted ceiling where shadows pooled like oil.
Vic stood at the side of the altar, looking down at him. His face was all hard planes in the uneven light. He ran a hand, almost curiously, over the bare skin of Erye’s stomach, where the crop top had ridden up. His touch was clinical.
“You’re fractured,” Vic said, his voice echoing softly in the chamber. His fingers traced a barely-visible line, a hair-thin crack, along Erye’s lowest rib. It was from the elevator impact, a stress fracture singing a faint, painful note. “In more ways than one.”
Erye shivered, but not from the cold. The touch, after the violence in the car, felt like a violation of a different order. “I heal,” he whispered, his bravado a ghost.
“Not fast enough. Not strong enough.” Vic’s hand moved lower, over the sharp cut of Erye’s hip bones. “Your power is a leaky faucet. Wasted on parlor tricks and making politicians drool. It needs a vessel. A focus.”
From the shadows at the edge of the room, Vic summoned something with a flick of his wrist. A small, darkwood box floated to his open palm. He opened it. Inside, nestled on velvet, were three objects. They were crystalline, each roughly the size of a quail’s egg, but their surfaces were impossibly complex—faceted like geode interiors, catching the torchlight and holding it in deep, purple-hued cores.
They were beautiful. They were terrifying.
Erye’s breath caught. His magic recoiled inside him, a visceral flinch.
“Obsidian, from the heart of this mountain,” Vic said, picking up one of the crystals. It looked small in his large hand. “Infused with a binding resonance. A battery, of sorts.” He held it up, examining it. “Your body, your essence, will charge them. Your magic will make them grow.”
“What…” Erye’s voice was dry. “What are they for?”
Vic ignored him. His black eyes locked onto Erye’s. “The process is simple. The crystal is placed inside you. Your natural energy, your… essence… will feed it. It will anchor itself, and it will grow.”
A cold dread, colder than the stone beneath him, pooled in Erye’s gut. “Inside… where?”
Vic’s gaze drifted down the length of Erye’s body, over the tight jeans still concealing him. “Where do you think?” he asked, his tone conversational. “It requires a warm, muscular conduit. A channel rich with your particular magic.” His free hand came to rest on the button of Erye’s jeans. “You’ll carry them. One at a time. Until they’re mature.”
The reality of it crashed over Erye. He struggled against the invisible bonds, a useless, frantic motion. “No. Vic, please, you can’t—“
“I can.” The button popped open. The zipper lowered. “You will.”
With another gesture, the telekinetic force peeled the jeans and briefs down Erye’s legs and off, tossing them into the darkness. The chill of the chamber bit at his naked skin. He was completely bare now, vulnerable in a way that transcended physical exposure. Vic’s eyes on his cunt felt more intrusive than any touch.
“The growth,” Vic continued, as if lecturing, “is catalyzed by orgasm. Yours. But more effectively, by the presence of another’s… contribution. The energy released during sex, particularly yours, is potent fuel.” He placed the obsidian crystal on the altar beside Erye’s thigh. It was cold against his skin. “To ensure proper development, the vessel must be regularly… stimulated. Filled.”
Erye stared at the rough, glittering ceiling. A hysterical laugh bubbled in his throat. “So I’m to be a broodmare for your fucking rocks?”
“You are to be a useful asset,” Vic corrected, his hand returning to stroke the inside of Erye’s thigh. His touch was deliberate, possessive. “This will concentrate your power. Store it. Make it tangible. No more wasted sweat, wasted glances. Every sigh, every shudder, every drop of come you take or make… will have purpose.”
His fingers brushed through the fine silver hair, then parted him. Erye jerked at the contact, a shock of unwanted sensation. He was still sensitive from the car, from the drink, from the sheer exhaustion. A low, traitorous heat began to stir in his belly.
“You’re already wet,” Vic observed, his voice low. “Anticipating it.”
“It’s the aftermath of your goddamn potion,” Erye spat, but the denial was weak. His body was responding to the claim in Vic’s touch, the dark promise in his words. His magic, confused and seeking an outlet, swirled low in his pelvis, a warm, aching pulse.
Vic picked up the first crystal. He held it before Erye’s eyes. Deep within its purple facets, something seemed to pulse with a faint, hungry light. “It will feel… intense,” Vic said. “The bonding. It needs to be seated deep.”
He leaned over, his body blocking the torchlight, casting Erye in shadow. With his other hand, he continued to stroke, to open him, his touch now slick with Erye’s own readiness. The juxtaposition was obscene: the clinical discussion, the brutal purpose, and the gentle, preparing fingers.
Erye turned his head away, squeezing his eyes shut. He couldn’t watch. He felt the cold, hard tip of the crystal nudge against him. It wasn’t smooth. It was jagged, faceted. The temperature was a shock—not the chill of the room, but a deep, mineral cold that seemed to leach the warmth from his very flesh.
“Breathe out,” Vic commanded.
Erye exhaled a shuddering breath. Vic pushed.
The crystal was too large. It was wrong. It wasn’t flesh, it wasn’t alive. It was a stone, invasive and unyielding. Erye gasped, a sharp sound that echoed off the obsidian walls. He felt stretched, filled in a way that was entirely alien. The cold of it speared deep into him, a counterpoint to the heat of his own magic. As it slid deeper, guided by Vic’s relentless pressure, he felt a sudden, sharp click, as if a latch had closed inside him. A connection snapped into place.
The cold vanished.
It was replaced by a radiating, deep warmth. Not a pleasant warmth. A hungry warmth. The crystal began to draw on him. He could feel it, a subtle suction at the core of his magic, a siphon pulling on the well of his energy. It wasn’t painful. It was deeply intimate and profoundly violating. A low moan escaped his lips, not from pleasure, but from the sheer, unsettling reality of it.
Vic withdrew his fingers. He watched, his expression one of detached fascination. “There. It’s anchored.” He ran a hand over Erye’s lower belly, as if he could feel the object buried within. “How does it feel?”
“Get it out,” Erye whispered, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes. His hips tried to arch, to dislodge the foreign weight, but the bonds and the deep-seated nature of the crystal held him fast.
“It’s part of you now,” Vic said. He unbuckled his own trousers, freeing his cock, which was already half-hard. “Now, we feed it.”
“No, wait—“
But Vic was already positioning himself. The broad, hot head of his cock pushed against Erye, alongside the unfamiliar bulk of the crystal. The stretch was immediate, brutal. Erye cried out, a raw sound of overwhelmed sensation. He was too tight, too full. The crystal’s edges seemed to press against Vic’s invading flesh from within, creating a maddening, textured friction.
Vic didn’t stop. He pushed in slowly, relentlessly, sheathing himself completely in the clutching, overfilled heat. He groaned, a sound of pure, dark satisfaction. “Fuck. That’s… deep.” He leaned down, his mouth near Erye’s ear. “Can you feel it? The crystal? It’s thrumming. It likes this.”
Erye could feel it. The warmth had intensified, becoming a pulse that matched the rhythm of Vic’s thrusts. It was drawing energy not just from him, but from the act itself. From the friction, the sweat, the violent intimacy. With every drive of Vic’s hips, the crystal seemed to vibrate, sending little shocks of feedback through Erye’s nerves. It wasn’t pleasure. It was a magnified, distorted echo of sex, stripped of all joy, reduced to pure somatic transaction.
Vic set a punishing pace. He fucked into the tight, resisting channel with a focused intensity, his hands braced on the altar on either side of Erye’s head. His eyes were open, watching Erye’s face contort with each impact. “This is your purpose now,” he gritted out, his breath hot on Erye’s skin. “To be filled. To take what I give you and turn it into power. My power.”
Each thrust drove the crystal deeper, rubbed against its facets. The feedback loop intensified. Erye’s own body, betrayed by its nature and the remnants of the aphrodisiac, began to respond. The sharp, overfull ache began to blur into a brutal kind of stimulation.
“That’s it,” Vic panted, his control fraying. “Give in to it. Let it use you.”
The sensation was too much, too convoluted. The pressure of Vic’s cock, the internal weight and pulse of the crystal, the relentless draw on his magic—it coalesced into a wave that crashed over him with no regard for his will. His orgasm was less a release than a seizure, a violent clenching around the twin invasions that milked a hoarse shout from Vic as he followed, spilling deep inside the clutching heat.
For a moment, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing and the crackle of the torches.
Vic pulled out slowly. Erye felt empty and yet obscenely full. The crystal was still there, a now-warm, weighted presence inside him. It hummed with a satisfied, sated energy, fattened by their combined release.
Vic fastened his trousers, his movements efficient. He looked down at Erye, who lay motionless, tears drying on his temples, spent and hollow.
“The first feeding is always the most… intense,” Vic said, his voice flat once more. He traced a rune on the altar with his fingertip. “You’ll need to be fucked regularly. Several times a day. To ensure stable growth. Someone will attend to it.” He finally met Erye’s dazed, violet eyes. “Until the egg is ready. Then we begin the next.”
He turned and walked towards the chamber’s entrance, his footsteps echoing in the silence.
“Wait!” Erye’s voice was a croak. He strained against the chains. “You… you can’t just leave me like this!”
Vic paused at the threshold, a dark silhouette against the torchlight of the corridor. He didn’t look back.
“I can,” he said, and his voice carried the finality of the mountain itself. “And I will. Rest. You’ll need your strength.”
The heavy door swung shut, plunging the chamber into near-darkness, save for the guttering torches. Erye was alone, shackled to the stone, a strange, humming weight lodged deep inside him, a testament to a new and terrible purpose. The only sound was the distant wail of the wind outside, a fitting dirge for what he had become.
The only sound was the distant wail of the wind outside, a fitting dirge for what he had become.
Time lost meaning. The torches burned low, their light wavering over the obsidian walls. The cold of the altar leached into his bones, a deep ache that throbbed in time with the subtle, humming weight inside him. He drifted in a hollow space between shame and a terrible, creeping anticipation. The crystal’s presence was a constant pull, a gravitational center in his being that felt both alien and unsettlingly familiar.
The heavy door groaned open. It wasn’t Vic. Two figures entered, silhouetted against the corridor’s torchlight. They moved with a synchronized, silent purpose. They wore simple dark tunics, their faces impassive, empty of any malice or pity. They were tools, as he was becoming.
Without a word, they set to work. One produced a key and unlocked the heavy manacles from the altar itself. The other, stronger, caught Erye as he slumped forward, his limbs numb and uncooperative. They didn’t speak as they half-carried, half-dragged him from the ritual chamber. His feet scraped over the rough stone floor.
They took him to a different room, smaller, windowless. It held only one thing: the machine. It was a construction of dark iron and polished wood, a cruel parody of a medical device. A narrow bench topped with a thin pad, over which arched a series of articulated, jointed arms. At the end of each arm were attachments: straps, cuffs, and a central, phallic protrusion made of the same slick, dark material as the dungeon toys from Vic’s penthouse.
A deep, instinctual terror shot through Erye’s lethargy. “No,” he rasped, trying to dig his heels in. “You can’t—”
They were stronger. They laid him on the bench, his back against the cold pad. The first attendant secured his wrists to the armrests with soft leather cuffs that felt more violating than the iron. The other worked on his legs, spreading them wide and fastening his ankles to the far corners of the bench. He was spread open, utterly helpless, staring up at the iron arms looming over him.
The first attendant produced a small, crystalline vial filled with a clear, oily liquid. He uncorked it. The scent was familiar, triggering a panic that clenched around the egg inside him. It was a concentrated version of the aphrodisiac tincture from his own glands, refined and amplified.
“Please,” Erye whispered, his voice breaking.
The attendant ignored him. He poured the oil over the machine’s central phallus, coating it thickly. The smell bloomed in the enclosed space, a cloying cloud of jasmine and heat that forced its way into Erye’s lungs. His body, so recently spent, responded instantly. A flush spread across his glass skin. The low, hungry pulse from the obsidian egg quickened, sending a throb through his cunt.
The second attendant approached the head of the bench. He held a strap of dark leather. Before Erye could turn his head, the strap was fitted across his forehead and buckled tight behind the bench, immobilizing his head. He could only stare straight up at the arched ironwork of the ceiling.
The first attendant pressed a sequence of runes carved into the machine’s base. A low, mechanical hum vibrated through the bench, up through his bound body. The central arm descended with a smooth, relentless hydraulic whine.
Erye watched it come. The phallus was larger than Vic, thicker, an inhuman shade of black. It gleamed with the slick oil. His breath came in short, sharp gasps. The egg inside him seemed to clench in anticipation.
The cold, blunt tip nudged against him. He squeezed his eyes shut. The machine did not pause, did not care. It pushed forward with impersonal, mechanical force.
The stretch was brutal, immediate. A raw cry tore from his throat, muffled by the strap across his brow. It filled him with a single-minded, punishing thrust, deeper than Vic had gone, stretching him around the foreign bulk of the egg. He felt the crystal grind against the machine’s invasion from within, a double penetration that made his vision blotchy at the edges.
Then it began to move.
The rhythm was flawless, relentless. In and out, a precise, measured stroke that allowed no adjustment, no respite. The pace was slower than a human’s, but each thrust was full, deep, and devastatingly complete. The oil did its work, his body betraying him completely, his own magic-enhanced wetness mingling with the artificial lubricant.
The machine fucked him. There was no other word. It was an act devoid of passion, of hatred, even of cruelty. It was a process. A function. Each forward drive pressed the egg firmly against his deepest internal walls. Each withdrawal created a terrible, empty suction.
His body, wired for sensation, translated the violation into a harsh, unyielding signal. The pain of the overstretch was there, a bright, sharp line. But his incubus nature, flooded with the amplified aphrodisiac, warped it. The nerve endings screamed, and his magic twisted that scream into a jagged spire of forced, horrific pleasure.
An orgasm built, not from desire, but from sheer, overwhelmed stimulus. It came like a seizure, a wave of clenching agony that the machine simply pistoned through. His back arched as much as the restraints allowed, a silent scream locked behind his clenched teeth. The release was a violent, uncontrolled flood, milking nothing from the uncaring machine.
As the contractions racked him, he felt it. A distinct, sickening shift inside his lower belly. The egg swelled. It was a subtle expansion, a fractional increase in its dense mass. It pressed outward against his own fragile anatomy.
The machine did not stop. It maintained its pace, its relentless, hydraulic rhythm. The overstimulation was constant, a firestorm in his nerves. Another climax was wrung from him minutes later, another brutal, grinding peak that left him sobbing. The egg swelled again. This growth was more pronounced. A hard, rounded prominence began to distort the flat plane of his lower abdomen.
On and on it went. The machine fucked him through orgasm after orgasm, each one less a pleasure and more a somatic convulsion, a mandatory release of energy that the crystal fed upon. With each feeding, the egg grew.
His stomach distended. It pushed outward, tautening the iridescent skin over his belly. The fragile architecture of his glass ribs, never meant to bear such internal pressure, began to protest. A thin, hairline crack spiraled up from his lowest left rib with a sound like a ticking clock. The pain was instant, a white-hot lance of pure fracture.
And his magic, ever the traitor, seized that pain too. It transformed the sharp, structural agony into a deep, muscular clench of pleasure that rippled through his cunt around the invading machine. He came again, a scream finally breaking past his lips, as his own body celebrated its breaking.
The cycle became his universe. The thrust. The stretch. The grinding against the ever-growing egg. The building, twisted pressure. The cracking of his frame. The transference of that breaking into a deep, internal convulsion of fucked-out release. Then the swelling. Again.
His hips, slender and glass-structured, gave way next. A fine, spiderweb of fractures laced across his pelvic bones under the relentless outward pressure of the egg. Each new fissure sent a shockwave through him that the machine and his own corrupted biology translated into another wrenching, dry orgasm. He was trapped in a feedback loop of destruction and forced ecstasy.
When the door finally opened, hours later, his world had narrowed to the whine of the mechanism, the slap of flesh on oiled material, and the crackle of his own bones. His belly was grotesquely rounded, swollen and heavy as if he were carrying a litter of stones. The skin was stretched thin and glittering, the obsidian egg visible as a dark, massive shadow within. His ribs were a cage of aching fractures; his hips felt ground to powder.
The machine stopped. The sudden silence was louder than the noise.
Boots clicked on stone. Vic’s scent—sandalwood, ozone, power—cut through the stench of sex and oil. He came into view, looking down at the wreckage on the bench. His expression was one of analytical interest.
Erye turned his head, the movement agony. The strap had been removed at some point. His vision swam, but he found Vic’s black eyes. All the wit, the seduction, the defiant pride, were gone. Erased. In their place was a raw, animal desperation.
Tears, long since drained, still managed to leak from his burning eyes. His voice was a shattered, wet thing, barely recognizable.
“Please.” The word was a guttural scrape. “Vic. Please.”
Vic said nothing. He just watched.
“It’s… it’s breaking me.” Erye tried to lift a hand, but the cuff held it fast. A sob racked his body, jostling the egg, sending a fresh wave of crackling pain-pleasure through him. He whimpered. “Get it out. Please. I can’t… I’ll do anything.”
Vic’s eyebrow lifted a fraction. A silent prompt.
“Anything,” Erye repeated, the promise pouring out of him in a desperate stream. “I’ll be good. I’ll be whatever you want. No more games. No more… just please. Help me. Please, Vittorio. Just help me.”
He was babbling, clinging to the name, to the man, as his only possible anchor in a world of unending mechanical violation. He was swollen, broken, and utterly, completely owned.
Vic finally moved. He reached out, not to the machine’s controls, but to lay his palm flat on the terrifying curve of Erye’s distended belly. He felt the hard, massive shape of the egg within, the heat of it, the fractured structure beneath.
A slow, satisfied smile touched his lips.
“Good,” he said softly, his hand stroking the taut, damaged skin.