Chapter 32: Master
Time pooled around them like spilled blood, thick and slow. The neon skyline kept its indifferent vigil. Roman’s breath evened first, a reluctant tide returning to a ruined shore. He didn’t look at Reese. His gaze was fixed on the middle distance, on some internal ledger where his absolute authority had just been liquidated.
Reese’s knees ached against the hard floor. His jaw hurt. Every muscle protested. The taste of Roman was a brutal fact in his mouth. He watched the play of micro-expressions on Roman’s face—the vacant shock hardening into a cold, familiar shame. The fortress was rebuilding its walls, stone by stone.
He couldn’t let it.
Slowly, Reese pushed himself up. His legs screamed. He staggered the two steps to the sideboard, picked up the crystal decanter of whiskey, and poured two fingers into a clean glass. He didn’t sip it. He returned to where Roman sat, a fallen king in a puddle of his own shadow, and placed the glass on the floor beside him. The clink was soft, final.
Then Reese knelt again, not in supplication, but in proximity. He leaned his head against Roman’s bare thigh. The muscle was stone once more. Reese didn’t speak. He just breathed, his cheek against the skin that smelled of sex and salt and him.
Minutes bled. Finally, Roman’s hand descended. It didn’t pet or caress. It settled on Reese’s head, a heavy, possessive weight. An acknowledgement. His fingers threaded through the sweaty, choppy hair, and he gave a single, firm tug—not painful, just defining. Mine.
“Get up,” Roman said, his voice scraped raw. “You’re making a mess on my floor.”
Reese snorted, a weak, wet sound. “You made the mess, boss.”
Roman’s hand tightened, pulling his head back. Their eyes met. The chaos was gone, buried under a glacial layer of exhausted control. “And you licked it up.” He released him. “Now get up. You need to sleep it off.”
It was the closest to care he would ever get. Reese pushed to his feet, his body a catalog of aches. He extended a hand. Roman stared at it as if it were a foreign object, then took it, allowing Reese to pull him up. They stood unsteadily, two fighters after a fifteen-round draw, leaning into each other’s space.
Reese guided him, not leading, just steering. They moved through the darkened penthouse, a slow, silent procession, leaving a trail of scattered clothes and spiritual wreckage. The bedroom was a cavern of shadows. Reese pushed Roman gently onto the edge of the vast, black-sheeted bed.
“Lie down,” Reese murmured, his voice almost gone.
Roman obeyed, the movement stiff. He lay on his back, staring at the ceiling. Reese climbed in beside him, the sheets cool against his heated skin. He didn’t hesitate. He molded himself against Roman’s side, his head on Roman’s shoulder, one leg thrown over Roman’s thighs. An act of claim in itself. He felt the instant rigidity, the instinctive recoil at such vulnerable proximity.
“Don’t,” Reese whispered into the hollow of his collarbone. “Just for tonight.” He pressed his lips to the skin there, a ghost of a kiss. “No one’s watching.”
Roman exhaled, a long, shuddering release of held breath. His arm came up, not around Reese, but his hand found the back of Reese’s neck, fingers splaying over the fresh bite mark. Anchoring. Owning. They fell into sleep like that, two violent pieces of a broken machine shoved into the same drawer.
Reese woke to fire and intrusion.
A rough, calloused hand was already between his thighs, a thick finger working inside his cunt with a ruthless, sleepy rhythm. He was wet—sleep had done nothing to soften the raw, overstimulated sensitivity. The touch was pure, undiluted agony.
He gasped, arching off the mattress, a choked sound tearing from his throat. His eyes flew open. Roman was propped on one elbow beside him, watching his face in the pre-dawn gloom. His expression was serene, calculative, devoid of the previous night’s shattered madness.
“You’re tight,” Roman observed, his voice a low rumble. His finger curled, scraping a spot that sent a bolt of white-hot pleasure through the pain. “Sore. Good.”
“Fuck,” Reese hissed, his hands coming up to grip Roman’s shoulders. The muscles there were solid, immovable. “Christ, Roman, it’s too much—”
“It’s exactly enough.” A second finger pushed in alongside the first, the stretch a bright, burning sting. Reese cried out, his nails digging into Roman’s skin. Roman didn’t speed up. He scissored his fingers slowly, deeply, spreading the tender flesh open. “You took ten last night. You’ll take more this morning.”
It wasn’t passion. It was reclamation. A reassertion of the natural order. Reese could see it in the cool blue of his eyes, in the set of his jaw. This was Roman Sionis fixing a leak in his dam, brick by brick.
Reese’s head fell back. Tears pricked his eyes. The pleasure was there, a deep, throbbing ache coiling in his gut, but it was wrapped in layers of brutal, overwhelming sensation. His clit was a live wire, untouched but screaming for attention. Roman’s thumb brushed over it now, a casual, cruel graze, and Reese jolted as if electrocuted.
“Please,” he whimpered, not knowing what he was begging for—more or less.
“Please, what?” Roman’s voice was a velvet-covered blade. He began to pump his fingers in a steady, piston-like rhythm, his palm grinding against Reese’s clit with each thrust. It was too direct, too hard, too everything.
Reese’s orgasm hit him like a seizure. It ripped through him without preamble, a brutal wave of release that tore a ragged scream from his throat. His body convulsed, clamping down on Roman’s invading fingers. Stars exploded behind his eyes.
Roman didn’t stop. He didn’t even slow. “One,” he counted, his breath warm against Reese’s ear.
The sensitivity was instantaneous and excruciating. Every movement was amplified a thousandfold. Reese sobbed, pushing weakly at Roman’s wrist. “Stop, stop, I can’t—”
“You can.” Roman shifted, his weight pinning Reese harder into the mattress. He removed his fingers, making Reese gasp at the sudden emptiness, only to return with three, pushing in relentlessly. The stretch was immense, punishing. Reese thrashed, but Roman held him down, a hand splayed over his sternum. “You will.”
He fucked him with his hand, a ruthless, deep drilling. His thumb found Reese’s clit again, a rough, circular grind that was more pain than pleasure now. Reese’s protests dissolved into choked, shattered sounds. His second orgasm was a dry, wrenching thing, pulling muscles he didn’t know he had. Tears streamed down his temples into his hair.
“Two.”
And he kept going. Reese lost count. He lost time. He lost himself. The world narrowed to the brutal, pistoning thrust of Roman’s hand, the grinding pressure on his clit, the raw, searing ache of his own overworked cunt. Orgasm bled into orgasm, each one weaker, more painful, less satisfying than the last. He came a third time with a broken whimper, a fourth with only a silent, full-body shudder.
“Five,” Roman breathed, his own voice taut with a dark, focused intensity. He was watching, cataloging every flinch, every tear, every shattered gasp. This was his symphony, and Reese was the instrument being played until the strings snapped.
Reese’s vision swam. He was floating, detached, a piece of meat being used until it was spent. Roman’s pace became brutal, his fingers curling, searching. He wasn’t just thrusting now; he was fisting him, his knuckles pressing against the outermost rim with each deep push. The sensation was obscene, overwhelming, a total violation that tipped Reese over another ragged edge.
“Six.”
He couldn’t speak. He could only make sounds, animal and desperate. He clutched at Roman’s face, his fingers slipping on sweat-slick skin.
He clutched at Roman’s face, his fingers slipping on sweat-slick skin. “Enough,” he begged, the word a broken thing. “Please, I’m empty.”
“You’re not empty.” Roman’s voice was clinical, detached. He withdrew his soaked fingers completely, making Reese gasp at the sudden absence. “I can still feel you clenching on nothing.” He brought his hand up, smearing the glossy wetness over Reese’s lower belly. “You’re greedy. You’ll take whatever I give you.”
He didn’t use his fingers again. He used his whole hand. The heel of his palm ground down on Reese’s swollen clit with a pressure that was pure, sadistic purpose. His other hand pinned Reese’s hip to the bed, fingers digging into the bruise he’d left the night before. He began a slow, relentless circular motion, a torturous grind that bypassed pleasure and went straight to systemic shock.
Reese’s back arched off the mattress, a silent scream caught in his throat. The sensation was catastrophic. It was too much, a direct line of agonizing friction to nerves that were already scorched and screaming. His body seized, trembling violently, but no release came. He was trapped on a peak with no descent.
“Cum.” Roman’s command was a low, cold whisper. He increased the pressure. “Now.”
The seventh orgasm was less a wave and more a structural collapse. Reese’s vision whited out. A raw, guttural sound was torn from him, all air and agony. His cunt spasmed around nothing, a series of painful, dry contractions that felt like his insides were trying to turn themselves inside out. Tears flooded his eyes, blurring Roman’s impassive face above him.
Roman didn’t stop. He leaned down, his mouth close to Reese’s ear. “You have three more.” He bit the lobe, sharp and sudden. “Give them to me.”
He shifted his weight, moving his hand lower. Two fingers speared back into Reese’s impossibly sensitive entrance, fucking in with short, brutal jabs. His thumb replaced his palm on Reese’s clit, rubbing in tight, furious circles. The dual assault was precision torture. Reese thrashed, but Roman’s body was an iron cage.
The eighth hit like a cardiac arrest. His whole body stiffened, every muscle locking. A high, thin wheeze escaped his lips. The pleasure was a distant, theoretical concept; this was pure neurological overload.
“Nine.” Roman’s fingers curled, scissoring, stretching him open wider than he’d ever been. The burn was exquisite, a bright line of fire. He rubbed his thumb faster, a dizzying rhythm against the overstimulated bud. “Don’t you fucking dare pass out.”
Reese was sobbing, great heaving breaths that held no air. He was a piece of wreckage in a hurricane. The tenth orgasm was a mere shudder, a final electrical surge through a fried system. He went limp, completely spent, tears and saliva mingling on his cheek.
Roman didn’t grant reprieve. He worked him through an eleventh, a weak, pathetic tremor. A twelfth. A thirteenth. Each one was wrung from him with mechanical cruelty, each convulsion weaker than the last until Reese was just a shaking, twitching form on the sheets, his eyes unfocused, barely seeing through a haze of pain and exhausted tears.
Roman finally stilled his hand. He watched, his breathing the only steady sound in the room. He observed the violent, uncontrollable tremors wracking Reese’s frame, the glazed eyes, the tear-streaked face. A slow, smug satisfaction settled into his features, a craftsman admiring a thoroughly broken tool.
He pulled his hand away, wiping his fingers indifferently on the black sheet. “Up.” He swung his legs off the bed and stood, looking down at the wreck he’d made.
Reese tried to move. His legs refused to cooperate. They were useless, boneless things. A weak, pathetic sound escaped him as he struggled to push himself up on rubbery arms.
Roman let him struggle for a moment, watching the futile effort with dark amusement. Then he bent, hooking an arm under Reese’s shoulders. He hauled him upright. Reese’s legs immediately buckled, his full weight collapsing into Roman’s chest. He moaned, a deep, pained sound that vibrated against Roman’s skin with every staggering step.
Roman half-dragged, half-carried him across the bedroom, through the penthouse, his grip unforgiving. Reese’s feet scraped the floor. Each jostling movement sent fresh shocks of overstimulation through his ravaged cunt. He buried his face in Roman’s neck, moaning weakly with each step, clinging to the very source of his destruction.
The bathroom lights were painfully bright. Roman walked them into the large glass shower stall and let go. Reese collapsed onto the teak shower chair, his body slumping against the wall. The cool tile was a shock against his feverish skin.
Roman turned on the water. It was hot, almost scalding. He let it beat down on them both for a minute, washing the sweat and spend from his own skin. Then he picked up a bar of expensive, sandalwood soap.
His hands were efficient, clinical. He washed Reese’s back, his arms, his neck. He was thorough, like grooming a prized animal after a hard ride. Then his hand slid between Reese’s thighs. Reese flinched, a full-body jerk, but had no strength to pull away.
Roman soaped him there, his fingers sliding through the swollen, traumatized folds. He wasn’t gentle. He washed his cunt with the same brutal efficiency, his fingertips passing over Reese’s clit again and again with deliberate, grinding pressure under the guise of cleaning.
“Stop,” Reese whispered, his head lolling against the wall. “It hurts.”
“I know.” Roman’s thumb circled the hypersensitive nub, slow and relentless. The soap made it sting. The pressure made Reese’s exhausted body spark back to a terrible, unwilling life. A weak orgasm was dragged from him, a mere flutter of muscles and a choked sigh. Roman didn’t pause. He kept washing, kept rubbing.
His fingers found the healing gunshot wound on Reese’s side, the stitches still tender. He pressed the soapy pad of his thumb against it, not hard, but with enough firmness to make Reese gasp. The twin sensations—the torment between his legs and the sharp protest from his wound—collided.
Reese’s vision tunneled. A second, deeper orgasm ripped through him, one his body had no business producing. It was a black wave, pulling him under. He shuddered violently, his head knocking back against the tile, his consciousness fraying at the edges. He hovered on the brink of blacking out, sensation whiting into a silent, static buzz.
Roman turned off the water. The sudden silence was deafening. He toweled himself dry with brisk movements, then wrapped a large, black towel around Reese. He pulled him to his feet. Reese’s legs were still useless, his body sagging.
Back in the living room, Roman lowered him onto the same black leather couch where the night had begun its violent turn. Reese lay naked on the cool material, his damp hair plastered to his forehead, his body a map of bites, bruises, and shuddering aftershocks.
Roman walked away. Reese heard the distant clink of glass, the quiet rustle of fabric. His true consciousness returned in slow, painful increments. First was the cold air on his skin. Then the deep, aching throb between his legs, a constant, punishing pulse. Then the fine, uncontrollable trembling in his hands, his thighs, his jaw.
He turned his head slightly. Roman stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, now dressed in a flawlessly tailored black suit, sipping from a cup of black coffee. He was watching Reese with focused, analytical eyes. He watched the tremors, listened to the faint, involuntary moans that slipped from Reese’s lips as another aftershock clenched through his core.
A smug, profound satisfaction settled into Roman’s expression. He took another slow sip of his coffee, his gaze never wavering from the broken, beautiful thing he’d made and placed on display. The city waited outside, demanding its mask. But here, in his fortress, he had his proof.
But here, in his fortress, he had his proof.
He set the coffee cup down with a soft, definitive click. The sound echoed in the vast, silent room. Reese watched him through a haze of exhaustion, his mind too fogged to parse the purpose in Roman’s stride as he crossed to a sleek, minimalist cabinet set into the far wall.
Reese heard a lock disengage, the whisper of a drawer opening. Roman’s back was to him, his shoulders blocking the view. When he turned, he held two objects that gleamed dully in the grey morning light.
They were plugs. Not beginner’s toys. These were pieces of brutal engineering, made of heavy, polished stainless steel. The base of each was a flared, intimidating circle. The shafts were thick, tapering only slightly, designed for a stretch that would linger.
Roman walked back to the couch, the weights in his hands. He looked down at Reese, whose breath hitched.
“What are those for?” Reese’s voice was sandpaper on stone.
“For you.” Roman’s tone was matter-of-fact, as if discussing the weather. “While I’m gone. A reminder.”
Reese tried to push himself up on his elbows. His arms trembled violently, failing him. He collapsed back onto the leather. “Roman, I can’t. I’m fucking raw. You just—”
“I know exactly what I just did.” Roman knelt beside the couch. He placed the toys on the floor. From his suit pocket, he produced a small bottle of clear lubricant. The snick of the cap opening was obscenely loud.
Reese’s heart hammered against his ribs. This wasn’t passion. This wasn’t even revenge. It was logistics. A maintenance schedule for ownership.
“Turn over,” Roman said. It wasn’t a request.
“No.”
“Turn over. On your knees. Face the back of the couch.” Roman’s hand landed on Reese’s hip, his grip impersonal and firm. “Or I call Marco up here to hold you down. Your choice.”
The threat was cold, real. Marco was Roman’s head of security, a man with hands like cinder blocks and less empathy than a landslide. Shame burned through the exhaustion. Reese bit his lip, tasted blood from where he’d bitten it earlier. With a groan that was pure agony, he rolled onto his stomach, then forced his trembling body up onto his knees. He pressed his forehead against the cool leather backrest, his ass in the air, exposed. Every muscle screamed in protest.
“Good.” Roman’s approval was a clinical note.
Reese heard the slick, wet sound of lubricant being generously applied. A cold, thick drip landed on the heart of him, on his still-throbbing cunt. He flinched. Another cold dollop touched his other entrance, the tight, unused pucker of his ass. Roman’s slicked fingers rubbed circles there, a perfunctory preparation.
“Breathe out,” Roman instructed, his voice devoid of warmth.
The pressure at Reese’s ass was immense, immediate. The tapered tip of the steel plug pushed against his resistance. Roman didn’t coax. He applied steady, inexorable force. Reese cried out, his knuckles whitening where he gripped the couch.
“It’s too big,” he gasped, pushing back instinctively against the invasion.
“It’s the correct size.” Roman shoved.
The plug popped past the tight ring of muscle. The burn was searing, bright. Reese screamed, a short, sharp sound. The fullness was unreal, a deep, stretching ache that felt like it reached his spine. He could feel the cold, unyielding metal inside him, a foreign anchor.
Before he could adjust, before he could even draw a full breath, Roman’s attention shifted. Two slick fingers shoved into his cunt, scissoring roughly in the soaked, tender channel. Reese sobbed, the dual sensation overwhelming.
“This one will be easier,” Roman murmured, almost to himself. “You’re practically gaping.”
The blunt, wide head of the second plug nudged his entrance. It was colder, larger. It pressed against flesh that was swollen, abraded, exquisitely sensitive from hours of abuse. Reese whimpered, a high, desperate sound in his throat.
“Please,” he whispered. “Not there. It’s too sore. I can’t.”
“You can.” Roman leaned his weight forward.
The plug began to push in. The stretch was different here—a burning, tearing sensation that eclipsed the dull ache in his ass. It wasn’t just stretching him; it was rubbing raw every oversensitized nerve. He felt every ridge, every millimeter of its girth as it was pressed inside. His body fought it, clamping down in painful spasms, which only made the insertion more agonizing.
Roman grunted with effort, seating it fully with one final, brutal push.
Reese’s world dissolved into white-hot static. He was filled, stretched in two directions, impaled on cold, unforgiving steel. The plugs felt huge, monstrous. They pressed against each other through the thin wall of tissue, a constant, dual pressure. He slumped forward, his forehead sliding down the leather, drool slicking his chin. He couldn’t breathe. He could only feel.
Roman stood. He wiped his hands on a small cloth from his pocket. He observed his work. Reese was on his knees, shuddering, two intimidating bases visible between his ass cheeks, gleaming against his reddened skin.
“Try to sit,” Roman said, a dark curiosity in his voice.
Moving was an unthinkable proposition. Reese tried to lower himself, to sink back onto his heels. The moment his weight shifted, the plugs moved inside him. A shockwave of sensation detonated in his core. The plug in his cunt ground against his ravaged G-spot. The one in his ass shifted, a deep, alien pressure.
A raw, guttural cry tore from Reese’s throat. An orgasm—painful, sharp, and utterly unwanted—ripped through him. His cunt convulsed wildly around the cold steel, the muscles fluttering in agonized pulses. Tears flooded his eyes. He collapsed onto his side, his legs splaying.
“Fuck,” he wept, the word mangled. “Oh god, get them out.”
Roman watched, his expression one of profound satisfaction. He adjusted his cufflinks. “They stay. All day. Think of them as my fingerprints.”
He walked to the door, collecting his ebony mask from a side table. He paused, looking back at the figure trembling on the couch. “If you remove them, I’ll know. The punishment will be inventive.” He considered for a moment. “Try to walk to the bathroom. I want you to feel it with every step.”
The door shut behind him with a soft, final sound.
Silence poured in, thick and heavy. Reese lay paralyzed, afraid to twitch. The plugs were a constant, humiliating presence. He could feel his own pulse in both of them, a twin rhythm of thudding ache.
He needed water. He needed to piss. The thought of moving was a terror.
Gritting his teeth, he attempted to roll onto his back. The slight internal shift was catastrophic. The base of the anal plug pressed hard into the couch, driving the shaft deeper. The other twisted, sending a fresh, searing bolt of sensation through his abused cunt. Another orgasm, dry and wrenching, seized him. His back arched off the leather, a silent scream contorting his face.
He lay panting, sweating, utterly defeated. He stared at the ceiling, at the distant, indifferent lights. Every tiny movement—a cough, a deep breath—caused the toys to move just enough to send devastating shocks through his system. He came again, weaker this time, just a flood of heat and a shudder. Then again. And again.
It was a cycle of tortured, involuntary release, each one draining him further, leaving him hollow and shaking. He was a prisoner in his own body, sentenced to a day of relentless, mechanical climax. The proof of Roman’s control wasn’t just on his skin anymore. It was buried deep inside him, and it was just beginning its work.