Chapter 37: Pony Play Perfection
The black car ate the miles in silence. Reese watched the city’s neon scar tissue fade into the deep bruise of suburban night, then into the absolute black of preserved forest north of Gotham. The only sound was the hum of tires on asphalt and the low, steady rhythm of Roman’s breathing beside him. His wrist still throbbed, a grounding metronome.
They turned onto an unmarked road, gates swinging open silently before them. The facility emerged from the pines: a low, modernist compound of dark glass and brushed steel, glowing with a subdued, ambient light. It looked like a billionaire’s retreat. It felt like a prison.
No staff greeted them. A single automated door hissed open. The interior was cooler, the air scrubbed clean and smelling faintly of ozone and sandalwood. The floors were polished concrete, the walls bare save for discreet lighting strips. Roman’s hand was back on the nape of Reese’s neck, steering him forward with impersonal force.
They entered a room that was not a room. It was a chamber. Windowless. The walls were padded with a matte black material that absorbed sound and light. The ceiling was high, punctuated by heavy anchor points. In the center, under a focused, cold beam of light, stood a stainless steel table. Arranged upon it were objects: leather, steel, silicone.
Reese’s mouth went dry. The bravado from the car was a distant memory.
“Strip,” Roman said, his voice echoing flatly in the dead space.
Reese obeyed. His fingers, usually so deft, fumbled on the buttons of the expensive suit jacket, the shirt. Each article of clothing felt like a layer of civilization being shed. The air was cool on his skin, raising goosebumps. He stood, barefoot on the cold floor, tattoos stark against his pale skin, his lean body humming with a tension that was part dread, part electric anticipation.
Roman circled him slowly, a predator appraising. He stopped behind him. Reese flinched as cold metal touched the back of his neck—not the gold collar from the gala, but a heavier, wider band of brushed steel. It locked with a definitive click that seemed to reverberate in his bones. Then came the cuffs: thick, padded leather backed with steel, snapping shut around his ankles, his wrists. Each closure was a punctuation mark in the silent room.
“Assume the position. Bend over the table. Hands wide.”
Reese leaned forward, his spread palms flat on the cold steel. The posture was one of utter vulnerability. He heard the sound of a cap unscrewing, the wet sound of lubricant.
“You will be fitted,” Roman stated, his tone clinical. “You will take it. You will thank me.”
The first intrusion was cold, a blunt, thick silicone shape pushing insistently against his asshole. Reese gritted his teeth, a sharp gasp escaping as his body resisted, then was steadily, ruthlessly overcome. The plug was large, stretching him obscenely, a relentless, burning fullness. Before he could adjust, a second, different pressure—this one at his cunt. A wider, flared base, a bulbous head. It wasn't gentle. Roman worked it into him with a brutal, steady pressure, his other hand splayed on Reese's lower back, holding him down. Reese choked, his vision spotting. The two plugs seated deep inside him, a dual violation that left him feeling packed, owned, impossibly open.
“Fuck,” he hissed, forehead against the table.
“Thank you,” Roman reminded him, his voice calm.
“Thank you,” Reese grated out, the words ash in his mouth.
Roman attached leads to the steel ring on his collar, then to the cuffs on his wrists and ankles. Short, sturdy chains. He was leashed, trussed. A tug on the lead attached to his collar forced his head up. “Walk.”
The journey to the next room was a hobble, the chains between his ankles forcing short, shuffling steps, the plugs shifting inside him with every movement. The next room was warmer, lit by the glow of real fire in a recessed pit. And there, in the center, was the pony.
It was a brutal, beautiful piece of furniture: polished oak, shaped like a narrow, steep-angled bench with a sharp, prominent ridge along the top. It was designed for one purpose.
Roman unclipped the ankle chains but left the rest. He guided him to the side of the pony. “Mount it.”
Reese stared at the sharp ridge. He understood. A cold sweat broke out over his skin. He swung one leg over, then the other, lowering himself with trembling thighs. The moment his weight settled, the world exploded into sensation.
The sharp, unyielding ridge drove up into his cunt, the flared base of the vaginal plug forcing the sensitive flesh apart around it, a stretching, splitting burn. The angle forced the anal plug deeper, a shocking internal pressure. The ridge ground directly against his clit, a merciless, abrasive contact. He cried out, a raw, shattered sound, his body trying to arch away but held fast by the cruel geometry of the device.
Roman walked around him, admiring. He adjusted the chains, pulling Reese’s wrists back and apart, securing them to lower anchor points so his back was arched, his chest thrust forward. He clipped the neck lead to a ring above, forcing his head up, exposing his throat.
“The parameters are simple,” Roman said, his voice close to Reese’s ear. “You will remain here until I am satisfied. You will come as often as your body is capable. Each orgasm will be a gift to me. Each will be excruciating. If you faint, I will revive you. If you beg me to stop, I will extend the session by one hour. Do you understand the rules?”
Reese could only manage a ragged breath. He nodded, the movement strained against the collar.
“Verbal confirmation.”
“I… understand,” Reese gasped.
Roman’s hand smoothed over his sweat-slick back, then drifted down, over the curve of his ass. He circled the base of the anal plug, then tapped it lightly. The vibration shot through Reese’s core. He jerked in his bonds, a sob catching in his throat.
Then the torture began.
It wasn’t just the relentless, grinding pressure of the pony, though that was a constant, white-hot agony centered in his cunt and clit. Roman became a maestro of sensation. He used a short, flexible cane, delivering stinging lashes to the backs of Reese’s thighs, the curve of his ass, each strike landing with a crack that echoed in the room, the pain blooming hot and sharp. He would then soothe the same skin with a broad, cool palm, or with his mouth, biting and licking, until Reese was moaning, pushing back into the contact.
He attached small, alligator-clip electrodes to Reese’s nipples, his inner thighs, and with a handheld control, sent jolts of sharp, buzzing electricity through him. Reese’s body would seize, his back bowing, a scream ripped from him as pleasure and pain fused into one indivisible, terrifying current.
Through it all, the pony’s ridge worked him. The rough drag against his oversensitized clit was unbearable. It built a climax not with warmth, but with a sharp, crescendoing agony. His first orgasm hit him like a seizure. It was not a release; it was a violation. His body clamped down around the invading plug and ridge, the contractions agonizing, a series of brutal, wrenching spasms that left him sobbing and raw. He screamed, the sound torn and broken.
“One,” Roman counted, his voice calm. He didn’t pause. He increased the intensity of the electrical current.
The second climax came quicker, a white-hot detonation of sensation that felt like his nerves were being flayed. He begged then, a slurry of “please” and “no” and “fuck” that meant nothing and everything.
“Two,” Roman said. “And you’ve earned an additional hour.” He delivered a series of swift, hard cane strokes to Reese’s ass, painting fresh, fiery stripes over the old ones.
Reese lost count of time. The world dissolved into a cycle of searing pain, buzzing overload, and the cruel, inescapable grind against his swollen, abused flesh. He came a third time, a weak, pathetic gush that felt like his insides were turning out. A fourth, a dry, shuddering agony that left him retching over the side of the pony, nothing in his stomach to expel.
Sweat dripped from his chin, tears and snot streaking his face. His muscles quivered uncontrollably. Every inch of him was a live wire of oversensitivity. The smell of his own sweat, fear, and arousal was thick in the air.
“Five,” Roman announced, after a climax that seemed to pull the very consciousness from Reese’s body. His vision was tunneling, dark spots swimming. He hung from his bonds, a broken puppet. A gentle hand cupped his jaw. “Look at me.”
With a Herculean effort, Reese dragged his eyes open. Roman’s face was before his, those blue eyes blazing with a dark, possessive fire. He looked exhilarated. Sated.
“Beautiful,” Roman murmured. He unclipped the leads, the electrodes. He unlocked the wrists, then the collar. Reese had no strength to hold himself up. He slumped forward, but Roman caught him, lifting him with ease off the cruel ridge of the pony. Reese cried out as the plugs shifted, as the terrible pressure was relieved only to be replaced by a throbbing, empty ache. His legs buckled.
Roman held him upright, an arm around his chest. He was a solid, unyielding support. Reese’s head lolled back against his shoulder.
“The session is concluded,” Roman said, his lips against Reese’s damp temple. “You performed adequately.”
He half-carried, half-dragged Reese’s limp form across the room to a different piece of furniture. It was a gynecological chair, upholstered in thick black leather, with heavy, padded stirrups. Roman laid him back into it. The cold leather was a shock. He maneuvered Reese’s legs into the stirrups, spreading them wide, exposing him utterly. He secured straps around his ankles and thighs, ensuring he could not close them.
Reese lay there, utterly spent, completely displayed. He watched through slitted eyes as Roman washed his hands at a small steel sink, the water sound obscenely normal. Roman returned, pulling on a pair of thin black latex gloves. He stood between Reese’s splayed legs, looking down at the swollen, glistening mess of him.
“Now,” Roman said, his gloved fingers prodding gently at the flared base of the vaginal plug. “Let’s see what all that work has done.” His tone was one of detached, clinical curiosity. The final layer of humiliation, cold and methodical after the fire of the pony.
Reese had no voice left to protest.
Roman’s gloved fingers circled the base of the silicone plug, indenting the swollen flesh around it. He applied a subtle, twisting pressure. The movement sent a fresh, jagged bolt of sensation through Reese’s overspent nerves, a grotesque echo of the agony from the pony. Reese’s hips gave a feeble twitch, a trapped animal’s flinch.
“Already responsive,” Roman noted, his voice flat. “Good.” He didn’t remove the plug. Instead, he began to work it. He pushed it fractionally deeper, then pulled it almost out, then thrust it back in with a slow, relentless rhythm. It wasn’t fucking. It was invasive examination. Each drag stretched Reese’s tender, torn inner muscles, a brutal mimicry of penetration that made his empty stomach clench.
Reese’s head rolled against the leather. A thin sound escaped his throat, part whimper, part cough. His fingers scrabbled weakly against the smooth arms of the chair. The straps held firm.
“Look at me.” Roman’s command was a ice chip in the warm, humid air.
Reese forced his eyes open, his vision swimming. Roman’s face was a mask of focused intensity. Seeing that gaze fixed on his most violated parts was a humiliation deeper than any physical pain. Roman increased the pace of the plug’s movements, his wrist steady and efficient. The wet, obscene sound of silicone moving in his sore cunt filled Reese’s ears.
“You’re still tight around it,” Roman said, conversational. “Even after all that. Clinging. Greedy.” He curled his finger, dragging the plug against a specific, ragged inner wall. A spark, hot and unwanted, shot through Reese’s pelvis.
“No,” Reese slurred, his voice a ruined thing.
“No?” Roman paused, his head tilting. “Your body disagrees.” He tapped the plug again, making it vibrate. A full-body shudder racked Reese. A thin line of fluid, a mixture of lube and his own pathetic excitement, leaked out around the intruding base. Roman watched it trace a path downward. “See?”
He then turned his attention to the other plug. His thumb pressed hard against the base seated in Reese’s ass, massaging the clenched ring of muscle around it. The dual stimulation was maddening. It was too much. It was everywhere. Reese’s breath hitched, becoming shallow, rapid pants. The earlier agony was mutating, blurring into a heated, sickening thrum deep in his core.
“Please,” Reese breathed, the word meaning nothing, a reflexive noise of distress.
“Please, what?” Roman’s hands never stopped their awful, expert work. He pushed both plugs in tandem now, in a slow, counter-rhythm that made Reese feel filled to bursting, then empty, then brutally full again. “You need to be specific. Do you want me to stop?” He paused, his blue eyes locked on Reese’s. “Or do you want to come again?”
Reese’s jaw trembled. He couldn’t form the lie. His body, traitorous and slick, was already climbing again. The raw, burning ache of his clit against the pony’s ridge was now a pervasive, throbbing demand. Roman saw the conflict, the shame. A faint, cruel smile touched his lips.
He finally pulled the vaginal plug free with a slick, popping sound. Reese gasped at the sudden emptiness. It lasted a second. Roman dropped the plug on a tray with a dull thud and brought his gloved hand to Reese’s exposed, puffy cunt. Two fingers slid into the soaked, stretched heat without hesitation, delving deep to the knuckle.
“Fuck!” Reese arched, his back straining off the chair. The intrusion was immediate and absolute. Roman’s fingers were unyielding, scissoring slightly, stretching him wider. He curled them, seeking. When he found the spot, he pressed unerringly.
A broken scream tore from Reese. It was too sensitive. It was a live wire. Roman began a ruthless, pounding rhythm with his hand, his palm slamming against Reese’s swollen outer lips with each thrust. The sound was filthy, wet, and brutal.
“This is what you are,” Roman growled, his composure cracking into something hotter, darker. “A fucked-out hole, begging for it even when it breaks you.” He leaned over, his other hand abandoning the anal plug to join the assault. His thumb found Reese’s engorged, throbbing clit. He didn’t rub it. He pressed down on it hard, a grinding, circular torture that shot blinding white sparks behind Reese’s eyelids.
Reese thrashed against the restraints, a weak, pathetic struggle. The leather straps dug into his thighs and ankles. His pleas dissolved into a continuous, raw moan. “Stop, god, stop, it’s too much, I can’t—”
“You can,” Roman corrected, his breath hot on Reese’s ear. His fingers pistoned inside him, his thumb a relentless, crushing wheel on his clit. “You will. Come for me. Now.”
The command was a detonation. Reese’s body seized, convulsing around the invading fingers. An orgasm ripped through him, a cataclysmic wave with no pleasure, only a seizing, electrical pain that felt like his spine was snapping. He cried out, a soundless, gaping scream, his vision whiting out completely.
Before the last tremor subsided, Roman was moving again. He slid his soaked fingers free and immediately replaced them with three. The stretch was unbearable. Reese sobbed, overstimulated and raw, his cunt clenching spastically around the new, thicker intrusion.
“Again,” Roman ordered, his voice thick with a dark hunger. He worked his fingers, fast and deep, his thumb resuming its brutal attention on Reese’s exposed, scarlet clit. He was relentless, a machine of sensation, denying any recovery. The peak came faster this time, a horrifying, shallow pulse that was less a climax and more a neurological short-circuit. Reese’s body bucked, his heels slamming against the stirrups.
“Again.”
Reese was babbling, tears and saliva mixing on his chin. He was a vessel for sensation, nothing more. Roman’s hand was a engine of torment, working his cunt, stroking, pinching, penetrating. Another orgasm was wrung from him, a dry, wrenching heave that left him gagging for air.
Roman finally withdrew his fingers. Reese went limp, a strung-out marionette. He was hollow. He was nothing. Blackness tinged the edges of his sight, promising oblivion.
Then he felt the cool, solid pressure of the vaginal plug pressing back against his ruined entrance. Roman was re-inserting it, seating it deep once more alongside its counterpart. The fullness was a sickening mockery of satisfaction.
“Look at that,” Roman murmured, almost to himself. He smoothed a thumb over Reese’s trembling lower lip. “All used up.”
Reese’s eyes fluttered closed. He couldn’t hold on. The darkness rushed up, a silent, grateful mercy.
The darkness rushed up, a silent, grateful mercy.
It did not last.
Consciousness returned as a single, screaming nerve. A blinding, white-hot jolt of electricity exploded directly into his hypersensitive clit. It wasn’t pain. It was a total systemic override. His back slammed against a hard, cold surface as his entire body arced violently, every muscle seizing. A raw, gagging sound was torn from his throat as an orgasm—instantaneous, brutal, and completely involuntary—racked him. It felt like his pelvis was shattering.
Vision returned in bleary, strobing flashes. He was upright. His arms were wrenched wide, heavy leather cuffs securing his wrists to anchor points on a featureless black wall. His ankles were similarly spread and bound. The position was one of total vulnerability, his body a taut, exposed X. The cold air pebbled his skin.
The two plugs were still inside him, a constant, stretching presence. But now, new elements intruded. Small, cold metal pads were adhered to his skin. One on each nipple, pinched tight. Another nestled in the crease of his thigh, perilously close to his asshole. The worst was the final pad, still humming with residual current, pressed directly onto his swollen, aching clit.
Roman stood before him, a remote control in one hand. His dress shirt was sleeves rolled up, the mask absent. His expression was one of detached, analytical interest. “Awake. Good. Your neurological responses are impressively acute.”
“You fucking—” Reese’s accusation died as Roman’s thumb moved on the remote.
A low, buzzing current, like a hive of wasps, vibrated through the pads on his nipples. Reese gasped, his head thudding back against the wall. It was a sharp, insistent torment that made his teeth ache. Before he could adjust, the current shifted, jumping to the pad near his ass, a deep, intrusive pulse that made the anal plug seem to vibrate inside him. He gritted his teeth, a groan leaking out.
“The body can adapt to simple pain,” Roman mused, watching the readings on the device. “But pleasure, pain, and sheer neurological overload? That breaks patterns.” He twisted a dial.
The shock to his clit was shorter this time, but sharper. A razor’s edge of voltage. It wasn’t enough to trigger a full climax, just a horrific, teetering escalation that pulled a shattered cry from Reese’s chest. His hips jerked against the restraints, a useless stutter.
“Please,” he rasped. “No more shocks. Just… just fuck me. Use your hand. Anything else.”
Roman ignored him, his eyes on Reese’s trembling body. He combined the channels. The pain in his nipples spiked, a searing pinch, while a low, throbbing pulse began to radiate from the plug in his ass. The conflicting sensations twisted in his gut. Reese panted, sweat beading on his lip. A traitorous heat was coiling again, deep beneath the agony.
“See? You’re getting wet. I can smell it.” Roman stepped closer. He ran the back of his knuckles down Reese’s sternum. The casual touch was worse than violence. “Your body is my instrument. I decide when it plays.”
He activated all four electrodes at once.
The world disappeared into a storm of sensation. Pain, vibration, burning, and a terrible, mounting pressure fused into a single, inescapable truth. Reese screamed, the sound echoing in the chamber. His second orgasm of this session was a brutal, full-body convulsion that shook the restraints. It felt less like release and more like his skeleton was trying to escape his skin.
“Two,” Roman counted softly.
He didn’t let up. He manipulated the remote like a virtuoso, playing Reese’s nervous system. A long, grinding pulse to his nipples brought him to the edge of tears. A sudden, sharp zap to his clit would send him crashing over again into a third, fourth, fifth climax. They blurred together, a relentless cycle of suffering and helpless, shaking release. Reese lost count. He lost language. He was a river of sensation, poured into a cracked vessel.
After the sixth—or was it the seventh?—he was sobbing openly, his body glistening with sweat and other fluids. The plugs felt like they were melting into him, permanent fixtures. His cunt was a sore, pulsing void, clenching around nothing. “Stop, stop, I can’t, I’m empty, there’s nothing left,” he babbled.
Roman tilted his head. “There’s always something left.” He increased the intensity, focusing the current directly on his clit and ass in a alternating, rhythmic pattern. It was a crude, mechanical fuck from the inside out. Reese’s body, trained and broken, responded obediently. A seventh orgasm, weak and watery, spasmed through him. It was mostly pain, a final, pathetic gush of submission.
Roman lowered the remote. The humming stopped. The silence was deafening, broken only by Reese’s ragged, wet breaths. He hung in the straps, utterly spent, his mind a blank static.
Then, a low, fevered sound burbled from his lips. He didn’t recognize his own voice. “Let me… let me suck you.” The words were slurred, desperate. “Please, Roman. Let me do something for you. Let me taste you. I need… I need to.” It was a beggar’s plea, the only currency he had left—the offer of his own subservience as a reward for his torment.
A slow smile spread across Roman’s face. It held no warmth, only a dark, profound satisfaction. He stepped close, unbuckling his belt with deliberate slowness. “Such a good, broken thing,” he murmured. “Asking so nicely.”
As he freed his erection, his other hand found the remote. He didn’t look at it. His thumb pressed a button.
A final, devastating shock lit up Reese’s ruined clit. His body bowed, a silent scream etched on his face as an eighth, purely electrical orgasm was ripped from him, his muscles seizing violently. Through the blinding, white noise of it, he felt the blunt, hot head of Roman’s cock press against his lips.
“Open,” Roman commanded, his voice cutting through the storm.