Chapter 33: Pet
The day dissolved into a liquid agony of minutes.
Reese lost track of time. He existed only as a nexus of sensation, a trembling vessel for the cold, unforgiving steel inside him. He tried to lie still. But the human body is not made for stillness. A shallow breath made his diaphragm contract, shifting the plugs a millimeter. A swallow tightened his throat and seemed to echo in a clench deep in his core. Each micro-movement was a fresh catastrophe.
He’d managed to crawl from the couch to the floor, the cool marble a shock against his feverish skin. The journey of ten feet had taken an hour. Every shift of his hips, every time a knee pressed down for leverage, drove the implants deeper, rubbed them against raw nerves. He’d come four times during the excruciating crawl, each climax a dry, pathetic shudder that left him weeping and breathless on the stone.
Now he lay on his side, curled around the agony. His cunt was a live wire of overstimulation, a constant, pulsing throb around the thickest plug. His ass ached with a deep, full soreness. He was hollowed out, stuffed full, completely owned. He drifted in a haze, jolted back to horrifying awareness by the next inevitable, involuntary tremor of pleasure that was indistinguishable from pain.
The click of the penthouse door lock was a sound from another world.
Reese’s eyes, swollen and blurry, struggled to focus. The sun had set. Gotham’s electric glow painted the room in washes of sodium orange and icy blue. Roman stood silhouetted in the entryway, removing his black overcoat. He placed his ebony mask carefully on its stand. His movements were precise, unhurried. He’d been gone for nine hours.
He didn’t call out. He simply walked into the living room, his polished Oxfords tapping a slow rhythm on the marble. He stopped a few feet from where Reese lay. He looked down, his expression unreadable in the dim light.
Reese tried to speak. His throat was parched, his voice a ruined scrap. “Out.” It was less a word than a exhaled plea. “Take them out.”
Roman said nothing. He stepped closer, the toe of his shoe nudging Reese’s hip. The slight pressure made the plugs shift. Reese gasped, his back arching, a fresh tear cutting a track through the grime on his cheek. A weak orgasm trembled through him, making his legs kick against the floor.
“You’re still wearing them.” Roman’s voice held a note of clinical approval. “Good.”
“Can’t,” Reese sobbed, his face pressed to the cold stone. “I can’t move. Please.”
“Get up,” Roman said, his tone flat. “On your knees. Now.”
The command was a stone in Reese’s gut. The impossibility of it was absolute. His muscles were water. His will was ash. He shook his head weakly against the floor.
“I won’t ask again.” Roman’s voice dropped, a quiet promise of worse violence. “On your knees. Or I leave them in you until tomorrow.”
Terror, cold and slick, cut through the haze of exhaustion. Another day of this would break his mind. With a sound that was pure animal distress, Reese dragged his arms under him. He pushed. His elbows wobbled, buckling instantly. He collapsed, the impact sending a brutal shockwave through his filled core. He cried out, a ragged, broken noise.
He tried again. An agonizing inch upward. His body trembled violently, every muscle fiber screaming. The plugs felt heavier, larger, like they were made of lead. He got one knee under him, then the other. The change in angle was exquisite torture. The weight of his own body forced the plugs into new, devastating positions. The one in his cunt ground directly onto the spot that made stars burst behind his eyes. The one in his ass pressed relentlessly against his prostate, a deep, alien pleasure-pain.
He knelt, swaying, his head hanging low, strings of saliva dripping from his lips to the marble. He was a ruined sculpture of submission. He couldn’t hold the position. His strength gave out and he pitched forward, his forehead coming to rest against Roman’s shins, his hands clutching weakly at the fine wool of his trousers.
“Please,” he begged, the word hot against Roman’s calf. “Please, take them out. I’ll do anything. I’ll be good. Just get them out of me.”
Roman let him lean there, let him use his body as a support. He looked down at the shivering, broken form at his feet. He carded his fingers through Reese’s sweat-damp hair, not a caress, but an inspection. “Show me,” he said softly. “Show me you want them out.”
Reese understood. His mind, fogged with pain, grasped the transaction. He fumbled with shaking, numb fingers for Roman’s belt buckle. The metal was slick under his touch. He couldn’t coordinate. His hands jerked and trembled, dropping away from the task again and again as his body was hijacked by another relentless, squeezing orgasm. He’d freeze, his whole frame seizing, a low moan tearing from him as the climax wracked him, before he returned to the buckle with desperate, clumsy focus.
“Pathetic,” Roman murmured, but there was a dark warmth in the word.
Finally, the buckle gave. The button of the trousers. The zipper. Reese pulled the fabric apart, burying his face in the fine linen of Roman’s shorts. He mouthed at the hardening shape within, his breaths coming in hot, ragged pants. He used his teeth to pull the waistband down. Roman’s cock sprang free, already thick and heavy.
Reese tried to take it in his mouth. His jaw ached. He was so tired. He managed to get the head past his lips, tasting salt and skin. He sucked weakly, his tongue flat and uncoordinated.
Another orgasm hit him, this one stronger, triggered by the obscene fullness inside him combined with the act of submission. He convulsed, his mouth going slack around Roman’s cock. A choked cry vibrated against the sensitive flesh. He collapsed forward further, his forehead grinding into Roman’s stomach, his hips rocking unconsciously, seeking friction, relief, anything.
In his shuddering descent, his hips rutted forward. The soaked, swollen lips of his cunt, stretched wide around the base of the steel plug, pressed against the polished leather of Roman’s shoe. The cool, smooth surface was a shocking contrast to his burning flesh. A broken sound escaped him.
He didn’t consciously do it. It was a primal, spinal reflex. He ground himself down, his clit, hypersensitive and throbbing, finding a cruel, perfect pressure against the hard arch of the shoe. He moaned, long and low, his body moving in tiny, desperate circles.
Roman went very still. He looked down, watching the spectacle. Reese, utterly debased, forehead against his abdomen, mindlessly humping his shoe, while soft, ruined moans bubbled from his lips. Each tiny grind forced the plugs to move inside him, which in turn triggered another sharp, gasping climax. It was a feedback loop of degradation.
“Look at you,” Roman breathed, his voice thick with a possessive awe. He slid his cock from Reese’s slack mouth. He let his hand rest on the back of Reese’s neck, holding him in place. “You’re fucking yourself on my shoe. You can’t even help it.”
Reese couldn’t answer. He was trapped in the sensation. The pain was blurring, softening at the edges, transforming into a dizzying, compulsory pleasure. His hips moved of their own accord, chasing the pressure, each motion driving him toward another inevitable, shattering peak. Tears of shame and raw release soaked into the fabric of Roman’s trousers.
“You want them out?” Roman asked, his fingers tightening on Reese’s neck. “Then earn it. Cum for me. Just like that. Show me what a desperate, pretty thing you are.”
The command was the final trigger. Reese’s body, already balanced on a knife’s edge, plummeted. An orgasm, deeper and more wrenching than any before, tore through him. It wasn’t a wave; it was an eruption. His scream was muffled against Roman’s stomach. His cunt clenched viciously around the unyielding steel, a series of brutal, rhythmic spasms that felt like his insides were turning themselves inside out. His ass followed, milking the other plug in helpless, agonized pulses.
He shook, utterly possessed, for what felt like a minute. When it passed, he was a dead weight, held up only by Roman’s grip on his neck and his own forehead pressed to Roman’s body. He was silent, empty, gone.
Roman waited. He watched the violent tremors subside into fine, constant shivers. With his free hand, he stroked Reese’s hair, a parody of comfort.
“Good,” he said, the word final. He pushed Reese back, letting him slump to the floor. Reese lay on his back, breathing in shallow hitches, eyes glassy and unfocused.
Roman knelt. He didn’t look at Reese’s face. His attention was on the gleaming steel bases, slick with lubricant and Reese’s own spend. He took hold of the one in Reese’s ass first. He didn’t pull it out slowly. He twisted it, once, a cruel corkscrew motion that made Reese’s breath catch in a silent scream, then drew it out in one smooth, firm motion.
The emptiness was almost as shocking as the fullness had been. A cold rush of air, a profound, aching void. Reese whimpered.
Then Roman’s fingers found the other plug. He wrapped his hand around the base, his knuckles brushing Reese’s swollen, sensitized flesh. He paused, applying a slight, teasing pressure inward, making Reese jerk.
“This one hurt the most, didn’t it?” Roman whispered. “Every time you moved, it rubbed you raw.” He began to pull, slowly. The thick shaft dragged against the tortured, overstimulated walls of Reese’s cunt. It was a sensation of exquisite, brutal friction. Reese cried out, his back bowing off the floor.
“Please, just… fast…”
“No.” Roman kept the pace agonizingly slow. He watched Reese’s face, watched every flicker of torment. “You’ll feel every millimeter. You’ll remember this stretch.” He pulled further, the widest part stretching the entrance obscenely. Reese sobbed, his hands fisting at his sides.
With a final, slick pop, it came free.
Reese felt ruined. Hollowed out and gaping. The cool air on his ravaged flesh was a searing brand. He lay spread-eagled, utterly exposed, completely spent. He couldn’t move. He could barely breathe.
Roman stood, holding the two wet, gleaming implements of his will. He looked from them to the wreckage on the floor. A slow, satisfied smile touched his lips. He walked to the sideboard, placed the plugs on a silver tray as if they were fine artifacts, and poured himself two fingers of whiskey.
He returned, sipping his drink, standing over Reese. “Can you stand?”
Reese’s eyelids fluttered. He tried to form the word ‘no’. Nothing came out.
“I’ll take that as a no.” Roman set his glass down. He bent, sliding one arm under Reese’s shoulders and the other under his knees. He lifted him as if he weighed nothing. Reese’s head lolled against his chest.
He carried him not to the bedroom, but back to the massive leather couch. He laid him down on it, on his stomach. Then he left again.
Reese heard water running in the bathroom. Roman returned with a damp, warm cloth and a dry towel. He sat on the edge of the couch. His touch, as he cleaned between Reese’s thighs, was startlingly gentle. He wiped away the evidence of the long day’s torture, patting the inflamed, sensitive skin dry with soft dabs. It was a tenderness more devastating than any cruelty.
Roman said nothing. He finished, tossed the cloth aside. He then picked up a soft, black blanket from a nearby chair and draped it over Reese’s naked body. His hand rested, heavy and final, on the center of Reese’s back, right over his spine.
“Sleep,” Roman commanded, his voice low. “You’re not done. Tomorrow, you work. You have a shipment to oversee on the docks. You’ll do it walking soft, sitting careful, remembering every second of today. Every time you wince, you’ll think of me.”
He rose, collected his whiskey, and walked towards his study. He paused at the door, looking back at the still form under the blanket.
The study door shut, leaving Reese alone in the vast, quiet dark, filled with nothing but the echoing, aching truth of those words.
The study door shut, leaving Reese alone in the vast, quiet dark, filled with nothing but the echoing, aching truth of those words.
Sleep was a shallow, feverish pool. He woke with the dawn, every nerve firing a report of damage. The blanket was stuck to him in places, dried come and sweat welding fabric to skin. He peeled it off, a slow agony. Sitting up was a tactical operation. He braced his hands, shifted his weight, and felt the raw, swollen flesh between his legs protest with a bright, sharp sting. The emptiness was a physical presence, a phantom fullness that made his stomach clench.
Standing was worse.
His legs, underused and trembling, nearly folded. A wave of dizziness washed over him, hot and metallic. He gripped the back of the couch, knuckles white, and waited for the world to solidify. The walk to the bathroom was a marathon of humiliating adjustments. Each step sent a jolt through his core, the motion of his thighs rubbing denim against his brutally sensitized clit. He was already panting by the time he reached the sink.
He avoided the mirror. He didn’t need to see the ghost-pale skin, the bruise-colored hollows under his eyes, the bitten lips. A shower was out of the question. The thought of water hitting that flesh made him nauseous. He cleaned himself at the sink with a cloth, hissing through his teeth at the contact. The skin was inflamed, puffy, and a deep, angry red. Just patting it dry sparked a low, throbbing ache that settled into a permanent, edging hum.
He dressed with deliberate slowness. Boxer briefs, then jeans. The coarse seam of the denim was a torture device. As he pulled them up, the fabric dragged over his clit. A shockwave of sensation, far too close to pleasure, ripped through his groin. He froze, one leg in, hands braced on the wall, breath held. A pathetic, weak orgasm trembled through him, leaving him shaky and disgusted. He was being edged by his own fucking clothes.
The day was a lesson in controlled collapse.
The docks were all grating noise and looming shadows. He oversaw the transfer of ceramic tiles from a container ship to a fleet of unmarked trucks. His usual prowl was reduced to a careful, stiff-legged shuffle. Every shift of his weight on the asphalt, every time he leaned against a shipping container for support, sent that telltale pulse through his cunt. His stomach muscles, tender and weak from yesterday’s convulsions, quivered with the effort of simply standing straight.
“You look like shit, Reese,” Marco grunted, handing him a clipboard. The big man’s eyes, like chips of flint, scanned him. “You sick?”
“Just peachy,” Reese snapped, his voice rougher than he intended. He took the clipboard, his hand trembling slightly. He focused on the manifest, on the numbers, on anything but the relentless, grinding need building between his legs. The wind off the water was cold, but he was sweating under his leather jacket.
A pallet jack rattled past, its driver nodding at him. Reese nodded back, and the micro-movement made his jeans rub again. His vision hazed for a second. He locked his knees, willing the weakness away. He could feel a slick, hot gather of wetness in his underwear, his body stupidly responding to the abuse. He was constantly on the verge, a live wire stripped bare and sparking against the air.
Lunch was a protein bar he couldn’t keep down. His stomach recoiled, cramps knotting his insides. He spent ten minutes in a bathroom, forehead pressed to the cold metal wall, riding out the waves of nausea and the tighter, sharper waves of sensation that threatened to buckle his legs. He didn’t touch himself. He didn’t need to. His body was doing all the work for him, betraying him with every heartbeat.
By the time the last truck rolled out, the sky was the color of a fresh bruise. The journey back to the penthouse was a blur of neon and pain. He rode the elevator up, leaning heavily in the corner, counting the floors. He concentrated on the numbers, on the hum of machinery, on not letting his legs give out before the doors opened.
He stepped into the foyer. The air was still, scented with polish and whiskey. Roman was there, already home, standing by the grand piano with a glass in hand. He’d removed his jacket and tie. He looked relaxed, victorious. He watched Reese enter, his blue eyes missing nothing: the slight hitch in Reese’s step, the deliberate way he didn’t slam the door, the faint tremor in the hand that hung at his side.
“Long day?” Roman asked, his voice a smooth pour of bourbon.
“Productive,” Reese said. His own voice was tight, strained. He walked forward, aiming for the kitchen, for water, for space. He willed his legs to move normally, to not betray the fire in his groin or the jelly-like weakness in his thighs.
He almost made it.
As he passed the open space of the living room, Roman moved. It wasn’t a rush; it was an intercept. One moment Reese was walking, the next Roman’s body was a wall in front of him, and a strong hand planted itself in the center of his chest. The shove was calculated, effortless. Reese’s back hit the cold, polished marble of the wall beside the piano. The impact stole his breath.
Roman closed the distance, his body caging Reese in. He brought his other hand up, pinning Reese’s shoulder. Reese’s legs, exhausted and trembling, immediately began to shake. He tried to lock them, to hold his own weight, but they quivered violently, threatening to drop him to the floor.
“Look at that,” Roman murmured, his face inches away. He smelled of expensive aftershave and clean, ruthless power. “You can’t even stand up straight. Your whole body remembers.”
“Fuck you,” Reese breathed, but there was no heat in it. It was a reflex, a ghost of his defiance.
Roman smirked. He leaned in, his mouth brushing the shell of Reese’s ear. “You already did. All day. In your head, with every step you took.” His free hand drifted down, skating over the worn leather of Reese’s jacket. He didn’t go for his zipper. He palmed the front of Reese’s jeans, his thumb finding the hard line of Reese’s pubic bone and pressing down.
It was agony. It was ecstasy. The direct pressure on his swollen, aching clit, even through the layers of denim and cotton, was a lightning strike. Reese cried out, a sharp, broken sound, and his legs completely gave way. He slid a few inches down the wall, saved from total collapse only by Roman’s body pinning him.
“Uh-uh,” Roman chided, hauling him back up by his shoulder. “Stay. I’m not done.” His hand left Reese’s crotch, and the sudden absence was a different kind of torture. Reese whimpered, hips jerking forward involuntarily, seeking the pressure again.
Roman’s smirk widened. He unbuttoned Reese’s jeans with quick, efficient tugs. He didn’t pull them down. He simply shoved his hand inside, past the waistband of the briefs. His fingers, cool and dry, slid through the wet, tangled hair and found the scorching-hot, slick flesh beneath.
Reese sobbed. His head thudded back against the marble. Roman’s touch wasn’t a caress. It was an exploration of damage. His fingertips traced the swollen, puffy lips, the hypersensitive nub of Reese’s clit that jumped at the contact. He didn’t rub. He just pressed, with a steady, infuriating pressure, right on the epicenter of the ache.
“So raw,” Roman observed, his breath hot on Reese’s throat. “So fucking wet for it. You’ve been dripping all day, haven’t you? Just thinking about this.”
Reese couldn’t speak. He was panting, his hands coming up to clutch at Roman’s biceps, not to push him away, but to hold on. His hips moved in tiny, desperate circles, trying to fuck himself on Roman’s motionless fingers. Every shift made the denim scrape against his thighs, a secondary torment.
“Please,” he gasped. “Just… move. Do something.”
“I am doing something.” Roman’s voice was a low, sadistic purr. He kept the agonizing, static pressure on Reese’s clit, but his other hand, the one pinning Reese’s shoulder, slipped down. His fingers found the hem of Reese’s shirt and pushed beneath it. They skated over the taut, quivering stomach, past the hip bone, and landed unerringly on the ridge of the healing gunshot wound on Reese’s lower abdomen.
The stitches were out, but the skin was still a tight, pink, and tender patch of scar tissue. Roman pressed his thumb into it, a firm, deliberate dig.
Pain, bright and surgical, lanced through Reese’s gut. It sliced through the sexual haze, a clean, shocking counterpoint. He shouted, his body bowing, trying to escape the twin points of assault—the devastating pleasure between his legs and the sharp pain in his side. It was too much. His vision swam.
“Sensitive?” Roman whispered, grinding his thumb in a slow circle over the scar. “This is mine, too. I own every piece of you that’s been broken.” He increased the pressure on Reese’s clit, a sudden, vicious twist of his fingers.
Reese came. It was violent, immediate, and utterly beyond his control. His cunt clamped down on nothing, a series of brutal, dry spasms that ripped a scream from his throat. Tears burst from his eyes. His legs, already gone, finally surrendered. He slid down the wall in earnest, a shuddering heap of overwhelmed nerve endings.
Roman let him fall, withdrawing his hands. He looked down at Reese, who was curled on the floor, jeans open, weeping from the force of the orgasm, one hand pressed to his throbbing wound. Roman’s expression was one of deep, smug satisfaction. He adjusted the cuff of his shirt.
Reese, through the blinding aftershocks, knew he hadn’t completed the instruction. Roman was still dressed, still in control, untouched. The thought was a spark in the wreckage. He couldn’t win. But he could try to distract. He could try to claim some sliver of agency, even if it was just the agency to please.
His hands were still shaking, but he pushed himself up onto his knees. He swayed, then lunged forward before he could fall again, wrapping his arms around Roman’s legs. He pressed his face into the hard line of Roman’s crotch, mouthing at the wool of his trousers. He fumbled for the belt buckle, his fingers clumsy.
“Off,” he slurred, his voice wrecked. “Let me… let me taste you.”
He looked up, meeting Roman’s gaze. His eyes were glassy with tears, his face flushed and streaked. It wasn’t defiance. It was a raw, sensual offering, a plea wrapped in the only currency he had left. He was trying to pull Roman into the pleasure, to drown the sadist in shared sensation, to make him forget, for just a moment, the meticulous project of breaking him.
Roman’s eyebrows lifted, a flicker of surprise cutting through his smugness. He looked at the ruined, beautiful thing on its knees, trying to negotiate with its mouth. A slow, interested smile replaced the smirk.