Chapter 8: Begging
The dust settled in the attic silence, thick and granular in the moonlight. Vic’s sobs had subsided into ragged, uneven breaths, his forehead still pressed to the grimy floorboards. The cage gleamed, a grotesque jewel on his spent, trembling body. The stench of bile and frustration hung in the air.
Erye stood. His own legs felt unsteady, a hollow ache throbbing in time with his heartbeat from the now-still egg inside him. The key was a brand in his clenched fist. He looked down at the broken mob boss, at the powerful shoulders shuddering with aftershocks, and felt nothing resembling pity. It was something colder, more analytical. A predator assessing a wounded rival.
“Get up,” Erye said, his voice stripped of any seductive warmth. It was flat, a command.
Vic didn’t move.
Erye nudged Vic’s ribs with the toe of his shoe. A dangerous move, but the man seemed beyond retaliation. “I said get up. Or I leave you here, naked and caged, for the cleaning staff to find at dawn. Imagine the headlines.”
A low growl vibrated through Vic’s chest. Slowly, he pushed himself up onto his hands and knees. He wouldn’t look at Erye. His gaze was fixed on the dust, his face a mask of smeared tears and utter humiliation. He crawled, then staggered to his feet, swaying. The cage swung heavily between his thighs.
“Walk,” Erye said, nodding toward the far end of the attic where deeper shadows pooled. He followed a half-step behind, the invisible leash of control now absolute. Past a towering stack of crates, they reached a forgotten corner. An old, high-backed office chair, upholstery torn and spilling stuffing, sat facing a massive, circular window looking out onto the city’s distant, fog-shrouded lights.
“Sit,” Erye instructed.
Vic turned, finally meeting his eyes. The black pools were dull, defeated, but deep within them a new kind of fire was kindling—a cold, patient hate. He sank into the chair without a word. The old springs groaned.
Erye set to work. From the pocket of his discarded jacket, which he’d retrieved, he drew out two items: a coil of thin, strong silk cord and a smooth, black obsidian butt plug, its base a flared knot, its surface polished to a sinister gleam. It was a match to the egg still sitting in his own guts.
Vic’s eyes tracked the plug. His breath hitched. “No.”
“Yes,” Erye said simply. He came around behind the chair. “Lift your hips.”
For a moment, Vic remained still, a final bastion of defiance. Then, with a sound of pure self-loathing, he raised himself slightly off the chair. Erye quickly, efficiently, looped the silk cord around his ankles, tying each to the front legs of the chair. He moved to Vic’s wrists, pulling them behind the wooden back and securing them together with intricate, inescapable knots. The cord bit into flesh. Vic was trussed, spread, utterly vulnerable.
Erye came back around to face him. He held the plug up, catching a sliver of moonlight. “You’re going to beg for this, too,” he said conversationally. “You’re going to ask me to fill that tight, politician’s ass of yours. And you’re going to mean it.”
“Go to hell,” Vic spat, but his voice lacked its usual force.
Erye knelt. He ignored Vic’s still-caged cock. Instead, he leaned forward and pressed his mouth against Vic’s inner thigh, just below his scrotum. He let his tongue out, a slow, wet stripe over sensitive skin. Then he exhaled, a stream of heated, magically-charged breath that carried the subtle, drug-like scent of his aphrodisiac sweat.
Vic jolted as if electrocuted. His cock, impossibly, gave a painful throb against its titanium prison.
Erye moved lower, behind the cage. He pressed his face into the crease of Vic’s ass, his nose nudging against the tight, clenched ring of muscle. He breathed hot air there, then traced the furl with the very tip of his tongue. A light, teasing flick.
“Fuck you,” Vic whispered, but his hips gave an involuntary twitch.
“I intend to,” Erye murmured against his skin. He broadened the stroke of his tongue, lapping at him, wetting him, working him open with a relentless, degrading intimacy. Vic’s body betrayed him utterly. The muscle relaxed, then fluttered, welcoming the intrusion. A low, choked groan crawled out of Vic’s throat.
“Please,” Vic hissed, the word torn from him.
“Please, what?”
“Put it in. Just… put it in, you bastard.”
Erye smiled against his skin. He took the plug, slicked it thoroughly with his own spit, and pressed the blunt, cool tip against Vic’s loosened entrance. He didn’t push. He just held it there, a promise and a threat.
“Ask properly.”
Vic’s head fell back against the chair, tendons standing out in his neck. “Erye. Please. Shove that fucking stone up my ass. I need it. I need to feel full.”
With a slow, inexorable pressure, Erye complied. The plug was not small. It stretched Vic open, a burning, solid invasion that made him cry out—a sharp, shocked sound. Erye worked it in millimeter by millimeter, until the flared base seated snugly against him. Vic was panting, his hole clenching rhythmically around the foreign object.
“Now,” Erye said, standing. He held up the key again. “You want this?”
Vic’s eyes, wide and desperate, locked onto it. “Yes.”
“What do you want me to do with it?”
“Take it off. Take the sound out. Let me go. Let me fuck you.”
The words were a frantic, hungry chant. The plug inside him shifted as he strained against his bonds, a constant, maddening reminder of his emptiness and fullness all at once.
Erye unlocked the cage first. The titanium parted with a soft click. He peeled it away, revealing Vic’s cock, angry-red, impossibly hard, weeping. The head was swollen, the slit glistening. The steel sound still protruded, a cruel, metallic intrusion into the urethra.
Vic whimpered at the sudden exposure, the cool air a new torture.
With careful, almost surgical precision, Erye took hold of the sound. He looked into Vic’s eyes. “This will hurt.”
“Do it.”
Erye pulled. It slid out with a wet, slick sound, a length of cold steel leaving a heated, oversensitive channel. Vic screamed, a raw, ragged thing that echoed in the attic, his body bowing against the ropes. It was pain, but it was also the first step toward relief.
He was free. Unlocked, unsounded. Just a man, tied to a chair, brutally hard, a plug in his ass, completely at the mercy of the creature before him.
Erye unbuttoned his own trousers, pushed them and his underwear down to his knees. The cool air brushed his soaked cunt. He was already dripping, his folds swollen and eager, the trauma of the night translated into a sharp, physical need. He climbed onto Vic’s lap, straddling him, his back to Vic’s chest. He reached behind himself, took Vic’s throbbing cock in hand, and guided it to his entrance.
He didn’t sink down slowly. He impaled himself in one sharp, brutal drop, sheathing Vic to the hilt in his tight, clutching heat.
They both cried out. Vic’s was a sob of overwhelming sensation. Erye’s was a gasp of perfect, agonizing fullness. Vic’s cock was thick, stretching him wonderfully, deliciously, a live wire of sensation after the cold, hard egg. And inside Vic, the plug pressed forward, creating an indirect, overwhelming pressure against his prostate with every movement.
Erye began to ride him. He set a punishing pace from the start, rising and falling with a frantic, hungry rhythm, using his thighs to bounce on Vic’s lap. His cunt was a slick, tight vise, spasming erratically. He threw his head back against Vic’s shoulder.
“Is this what you wanted?” Erye gasped, slamming down. “This wet, fucking hole? After all that metal? Is my cunt better?”
“Yes! God, yes, it’s… it’s fucking divine, you’re so tight, you’re burning me up…” Vic’s words were muffled against Erye’s neck, his teeth scraping skin. He was helpless, unable to thrust, only to receive the relentless pounding. The combination of the fucking and the plug was driving him mindless. “I’m gonna come… Erye, I’m gonna come so hard…”
“Come then,” Erye snarled, slamming down harder, milking him with a powerful internal clench. “Fill me up. Mark your property.”
It was too much. Vic’s orgasm erupted, a cataclysmic wave that had been dammed for hours. He screamed, his body convulsing against the ropes, his cock pulsing violently as he emptied himself deep into Erye’s grasping depths. Jet after hot jet spilled inside, a flooding, possessive release. He slumped, boneless, sobbing in relief.
But Erye didn’t stop.
His cunt, supercharged by his own magic, by the aphrodisiac soaking his walls, by the sheer psychological ferocity of the moment, stayed clenched, rippling, hungry. It was a living, greedy thing. It milked Vic’s oversensitive, half-soft cock, demanding more.
Vic whimpered. “Stop… please, I can’t… it’s too much…”
Erye rode him through the sensitivity, the friction excruciating for Vic now. And then, impossibly, Vic felt another orgasm being torn from him. It wasn’t pleasurable. It was a wrenching, dry-heaving shock to his system, a spasm that hurt, his spent cock trying to ejaculate where there was nothing left to give. He shook, tears streaming anew.
Erye still didn’t stop.
He rode him through that one, and into another. And another. Vic lost count. They became a continuous, horrifying cycle of peak and collapse, each less potent than the last but no less physically devastating. His world narrowed to the agonizing friction, the relentless pressure of the plug, the burning, impossibly tight heat of Erye’s body demanding everything, taking everything.
Vic was no longer a man. He was a vessel for sensation, a puppet whose strings were being pulled by a cruel, beautiful master. He babbled, nonsense words, pleas, curses. He clung to Erye with his bound body, his face buried in silver hair, not in passion, but because it was the only anchor in a sea of sensory hell.
Finally, Erye’s own climax took him. It wasn’t the sharp peak he’d forced from Vic, but a long, rolling quake that seemed to go on forever, wracking his fragile glass-boned frame. His cunt clamped down in a series of brutal, rhythmic pulses, milking Vic for one final, pathetic twitch of release.
Then, stillness.
The only sounds were their wrecked breathing, the distant city, the faint ghost of music from far below. Erye slumped back against Vic, spent. Vic’s head lolled, his eyes closed, consciousness flickering. He was empty. Drained in every conceivable way.
Erye slowly, carefully, lifted himself off. Vic’s softened cock slipped free with a wet sound, followed by a trickle of spend. Erye stood on trembling legs, pulling his trousers up over the mess.
He walked around the chair, faced Vic. He looked ruined. Beautifully, utterly broken.
Erye leaned down, his lips close to Vic’s ear. His voice was a dry whisper. “You wanted to own me. To break me.” He placed a hand over his own abdomen, where Vic’s come was leaking out, mingling with the memory of the egg. “Now you know what it feels like to be possessed.”
He didn’t untie Vic. He simply turned and walked away, leaving the mob boss tied to the chair in the dark, the obsidian plug still buried inside him, a cold stone heart in the dark.
Erye made it three steps toward the stairs before the sound reached him. Not a word, not a sob. It was the chair, its old joints cracking under a sudden, violent strain, followed by the heavy, wet thud of a body hitting the floorboards. He stopped. Closed his eyes. The city’s lights bled into the dusty window, indifferent.
He turned back.
Vic had collapsed forward, chair and all, his face pressed into the grime. The silk cords held. He wasn’t struggling. He was just lying there, breathing in shallow, ragged hitches, his body periodically wracked by a full-body tremor that had nothing to do with the cold.
“Pathetic,” Erye whispered to the dark attic. The word lacked venom. It was an observation.
He knelt. The knots were intricate, his own work. His slender fingers, so often used for softer persuasions, picked them apart with methodical patience. The silk fell away. Vic didn’t move. Erye rolled him onto his back. In the fractured moonlight, Vic’s face was a ruin of track-lined dust and hollowed exhaustion. His eyes were open, fixed on the rafters above, seeing nothing.
“Come on,” Erye said, his voice low. He hooked his hands under Vic’s armpits and hauled. The man was solid, a dead weight of muscle and despair. “Up. You don’t get to die in a fucking attic.”
Some spark of obstinacy, or maybe just animal instinct, flickered. Vic’s legs pushed against the floor. Together, they got him upright, swaying. The obsidian plug shifted inside him as he moved; a sharp, wounded noise escaped his clenched teeth.
“Steady,” Erye murmured, draping Vic’s heavy arm across his own narrow shoulders. He bore the weight, his glass bones protesting. He began the slow, shuffling journey toward the spiral staircase. Each step was a negotiation. Vic’s feet scuffed the floor. The plug was a relentless, grotesque reminder with every movement.
“Take it out,” Vic croaked, his first words since the chair. They were frayed at the edges.
“Later,” Erye said, guiding him down the first twisting step.
The descent was a blind, precarious ordeal. Vic was half-conscious, his body leaning heavily into Erye’s fragile frame. They emerged into the servant’s corridor, empty and echoing. The gala’s sounds were a distant thrum behind polished doors. Erye oriented himself and pushed toward a heavy, unmarked door marked ‘Delivery Exit.’
The cold night air hit them like a physical blow. An alley, reeking of damp brick and rotting garbage. Vic’s sleek, black town car idled at the curb, a ghost in the fog. Leo, Vic’s driver, was a silhouette behind the wheel. He didn’t turn his head as they stumbled toward the car.
Erye wrenched the door open. The interior light was a soft, golden pool. He maneuvered Vic onto the cool leather seat, his body folding bonelessly into the corner. Vic’s head lolled against the window, his breath fogging the glass.
“Leo. Drive. The usual route. Slow.” Erye’s command was quiet. The partition between the seats slid up silently, sealing them in a mobile, private vault.
The car glided away from the curb. Erye slid in beside Vic, pulling the door shut. The world outside became a blur of smeared neon and shadow. Inside, it was just the hum of the engine, the whisper of the climate control, and Vic’s shattered breathing.
Erye didn’t look at him. He reached out, his touch landing not on Vic’s face, but on his chest, over the still-racing heart. He began to rub slow, firm circles through the ruined fabric of the shirt. His palm was warm. He summoned a faint, soothing heat into his fingertips, a low-grade magic meant to ease knotted muscle, not mend broken pride.
Vic flinched at the contact, then sagged into it. A tremor ran through him, a seismic aftershock.
Erye leaned close. His lips almost brushed the shell of Vic’s ear. His whisper was a thread of sound woven into the car’s hum. “It’s done. It’s over. Just breathe.” His other hand came up, rubbing Vic’s arm, feeling the coiled tension in the bicep. “You took it. You took everything I gave you. Now let it go.”
He wasn’t gentle. His rubbing was firm, almost clinical, as if trying to physically knead the horror out of Vic’s flesh. But his voice, that was a different instrument. It dropped into a register Vic had never heard—a low, resonant murmur stripped of all mockery, all seduction. It was just sound. Soothing, monotonous, a verbal anesthetic.
“The feeling will pass. The shaking will stop. You’re in the car. You’re safe.” The word ‘safe’ hung in the air, a blatant lie that somehow, in the cadence of the whisper, felt like a truth. “No one can see you. No one knows. It stays here. In this night.”
Vic’s eyes slid closed. A single, clear tear broke free, cutting a path through the grime on his cheek. He didn’t speak. He turned his face into the window, hiding.
Erye continued his ministrations, his hand moving to Vic’s neck, working at the knotted cords there. His whispers persisted, a steady stream of meaningless, calming sounds. “Just the engine. Just the road. Let it fade. Let me handle it.”
He was programming a silence, weaving a spell of forgetting into the very fabric of Vic’s exhaustion. The rubbing, the whispers, the heat from his hands—they were tools of reclamation. He had broken the man apart. Now, in the quiet dark of the moving car, he began the careful, possessive work of putting him back together.
Now, in the quiet dark of the moving car, he began the careful, possessive work of putting him back together.
His hands, still warm with magic, moved from Vic’s chest to his belt. The leather slid free with a soft hiss. Vic didn’t open his eyes, but his breathing hitched. Erye’s fingers worked the button of his trousers, then the zip. The sound was obscenely loud in the sealed compartment.
“Lift your hips,” Erye said, his murmur devoid of request. It was an instruction, clinical and clean.
Vic obeyed, a weak, grunting effort. Erye peeled the soiled fabric down to his thighs. The night air in the car touched Vic’s bare skin, raising gooseflesh. His softened cock lay against his thigh, spent and vulnerable. The obsidian plug gleamed, a dark, flared star against his skin.
Erye studied it, his head tilted. He didn’t rush. He let Vic feel the exposure, the cool air on his most violated places. Then he spat, once, into his own palm. The saliva shimmered faintly, charged with his essence. He reached between Vic’s cheeks, his fingers slicking the base of the plug where it met clenched, overstimulated muscle.
Vic tensed, a full-body rigidity. A small, choked sound escaped him.
“Relax,” Erye whispered, his breath cool against Vic’s temple. “You’re holding onto it. Let it go.”
His other hand pressed flat on Vic’s lower abdomen, a warm, heavy weight. He waited. The car turned a corner, its tires whispering on wet pavement. Vic’s breath shuddered out, and with it, the impossible tension in his ass.
Erye pulled.
It came free with a wet, sucking pop. Vic cried out, a short, sharp gasp of pain and relief. He slumped deeper into the leather, trembling. Erye held the slick, black object in his hand for a moment, examining it in the passing streetlight glow. Then he wrapped it in a handkerchief from his own pocket and set it on the seat between them, a paperweight for the night’s contract.
He produced a second cloth, dampened from a console bottle of water. He cleaned Vic with impersonal efficiency, wiping away spend, bile, and dust from his skin. Each pass of the cloth was firm, definitive. He was erasing the evidence, not offering comfort. He pulled Vic’s trousers back up, fastened them.
“There,” Erye said, sitting back.
Vic finally opened his eyes. They were black pools in the dim light, fixed on the roof of the car. “Why?”
The single word hung there, stripped of every pretense of power. It wasn’t a threat. It was a genuine, broken question.
“Because a shattered tool is useless,” Erye said, his voice flat. He looked out his own window. “And I’m not done using you.”
Silence enveloped them again, thicker now. The town car slid through backstreets, a ghost in the pre-dawn gloom. Vic’s breathing evened, deepened. The trembling in his hands subsided to an occasional faint tremor. The hollowed-out shock in his eyes slowly hardened into something watchful, calculating. The gears were turning again, rusty and damaged, but turning.
He turned his head on the seat leather to look at Erye. “Where are we going?”
“My place,” Erye said, not looking back. “Your bloodline’s security protocols are a joke. Your penthouse is a glass box for snipers. Mine is… quieter.”
Vic absorbed this. His lips, cracked and dry, parted. “The gala.”
“Leo will have sent your regrets. Sudden migraine. You were seen leaving with your delicate companion, who was tending to you. A touch of vulnerability humanizes a politician, don’t you think?”
A smirk, grotesque and fragile, touched Vic’s mouth. It vanished as quickly as it appeared. “You planned this.”
“I adapt,” Erye corrected softly. He finally met Vic’s gaze. The icy blue of his own eyes reflected the dashboard lights. “You provided the circumstances.”
The car descended into a subterranean garage, concrete pillars sliding past like a silent forest. It stopped in a reserved space before a private elevator. Leo cut the engine. The silence was absolute.
Erye moved first, exiting and circling to Vic’s door. He opened it, offering no hand. Vic unfolded himself from the seat, his movements stiff, testifying to deep muscular trauma. He stood, swayed, and righted himself against the car’s frame. His dignity, what remained of it, was a cloak he visibly pulled around his shoulders. He nodded once to Leo, behind the darkened glass, and followed Erye to the elevator.
The ascent was smooth and silent. The elevator cab was mirrored. Vic avoided his own reflection. Erye watched him in the polished surface, a spectral silver-haired ghost beside a storm-battered mountain.
The doors opened directly into Erye’s apartment. It was not what Vic expected. No ostentatious opulence, no cold modern lines. It was a nest of textured shadows. Walls of exposed brick were softened by hanging tapestries in deep indigos and bruised purples. The floor was dark, wide-plank wood, scattered with thick rugs the color of old wine. Low shelves held curios: jagged crystal formations, fossils, blown glass orbs that glowed with a faint internal light. The air smelled of cedar, bergamot, and something elusive—ozone and cold stone.
It felt ancient. Safe.
“Sit,” Erye said, gesturing to a deep, oversized sofa upholstered in worn charcoal velvet. “Or fall down. Your choice.”
Vic chose the sofa. He sank into it, its embrace swallowing him. He watched as Erye moved through the space, lighting a few more of the glass orbs with a touch of his finger. A soft, warm radiance filled the room, pushing the shadows to the corners.
Erye disappeared into another room, returning with two glasses of water. He handed one to Vic, then sat on the edge of a heavy wooden coffee table, facing him. He drank, his eyes never leaving Vic’s face.
Vic drank greedily, the water shocking his system. He finished the glass, set it down on the table with a soft click. The domesticity of the sound was absurd. Here they were, a monster and his broken monster-tamer, sitting in a quiet room after the world had ended.
“What happens now?” Vic asked. His voice was rough, scraped raw.
“You heal,” Erye said. “You sleep. And then we talk.”
“About what?”
“Terms.” Erye leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. The fragile lines of his body, his glass-bone structure, seemed more pronounced in the soft light. “You wanted to own me. To break what I am and keep the pieces. You failed.”
Vic’s jaw tightened. He said nothing.