Chapter 4: The Champagne Room
The private lounge swallowed them whole.
Velvet drapes the color of dried blood hung from ceiling to floor, parting like the legs of a whore to admit the silver-templed stranger and the creature he thought was just a drunk socialite with a loose dress and looser morals. Morph stumbled over the threshold, one hand braced against the doorframe, the other pressed flat to his lower belly where the egg sat heavy and humming inside him.
The door clicked shut behind them. The sound was final. A lock turning. A seal breaking.
"Careful," the man said, his hand finding the small of Morph's back. "Wouldn't want you to fall."
The touch was warm through the thin sequined fabric. Morph's spine arched involuntarily, pressing his ass back against the stranger's palm before his brain could catch up. The egg shifted with the movement, and a wet gasp tore out of his throat.
The man chuckled. Low, knowing. "Eager little thing, aren't you?"
The lounge was a jewel box of gold leaf and shadow. Plush chaise longues curved along the walls like parentheses enclosing secrets. A chandelier hung low, its crystals throwing fractured light across the ceiling, across the champagne bucket sweating on a side table, across the stranger's face as he guided Morph deeper into the room.
"Sit," he said.
Morph's knees bent before he decided to bend them. The chaise caught him, velvet soft as a tongue against his bare thighs. The dress rode up, exposing more of him than it covered, and he didn't fix it. Couldn't fix it. His hands were shaking, and his cunt was clenching around the egg, and somewhere deep in the fog of his mind, a voice that sounded like his own was screaming a name he couldn't hear.
The man poured champagne. The bottle sweated condensation onto his fingers. He handed Morph a flute, and Morph drank without being told, the bubbles sharp against his tongue, the cold liquid settling in his stomach like a stone.
"Another," the man said, and poured again.
Morph drank again.
The world softened at the edges. The chandelier blurred into a golden smear. The music from the ballroom pulsed through the walls, a heartbeat, a metronome counting down to something Morph couldn't name.
"What's your name?" the man asked. He was sitting now, too, on the chaise opposite, his legs spread wide, his elbows resting on his knees. Watching.
Morph opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
"I don't..." He frowned. The name was there, somewhere, buried under layers of static and warmth and the taste of champagne. "I don't remember."
The man smiled. It was not a kind smile. It was the smile of a man who had found something valuable and intended to keep it. "That's alright. I'll call you whatever I want."
He stood. Crossed the space between them in two long strides. His hand found Morph's knee, bare and trembling, and slid upward, pushing the sequined hem of the dress ahead of it.
"Wait," Morph said. The word came out breathy, unconvincing. "I don't... I'm not..."
"You're not what?" The hand kept moving. Past the knee, up the thigh, fingers brushing the slick evidence of Morph's arousal. "You're not wet? You're not desperate? You're not sitting here with your legs spread like an invitation?"
Morph's breath hitched. The fingers were at the edge of the damp scrap of fabric that passed for underwear, tracing the seam, pressing against the swollen flesh beneath.
"Please," he whispered.
"Please what?"
The man's fingers pushed the fabric aside. Found the slick, hot center of him. Two fingers slid inside without resistance, and Morph's back arched off the chaise, a moan ripping out of his chest that he couldn't have stopped if he'd tried.
"Please what?" the man repeated. His fingers curled upward, pressing against a spot that made Morph's vision white out. "Please stop? Please continue? You need to be specific, sweetheart."
"Don't stop," Morph gasped. "Don't stop, don't stop, please don't stop—"
The man laughed. His thumb found Morph's clit, circling it with rough, insistent pressure while his fingers pumped in and out, in and out, the wet sounds of it filling the room like a dirty secret.
"You're so fucking tight," the man said. "And so fucking wet. You've been like this all night, haven't you? Walking around the party with your cunt dripping down your leg, letting every man in the room undress you with his eyes."
Yes. No. Both. Morph couldn't tell anymore. The egg was buzzing inside him, a constant vibration against his walls, and the man's fingers were stretching him, filling him, and Hypnotica's voice was there, in his skull, purring like a cat.
Good girls do what they're told.
"Say it," the man demanded. "Tell me how wet you are."
"So wet," Morph heard himself say. "I'm so wet. I need—"
"You need what?"
"To come. Please. I need to come."
The man pulled his fingers out. The sudden emptiness made Morph cry out, a high, desperate sound that echoed off the gold-leaf walls.
"Not yet," the man said. He held his fingers up, glistening, and brought them to Morph's mouth. "Lick them clean."
Morph's tongue darted out before he could think. The taste of himself—salty, musky, wrong—flooded his senses, and he moaned around the fingers, sucking them like a cock, swirling his tongue around the knuckles.
"That's it," the man said. "Good girl."
The words hit him like a slap. Good girl. Hypnotica's words, in this stranger's mouth, and it made something twist in Morph's chest—a feeling that was half shame and half pride. He was good. He was being good. He was doing exactly what he was told.
The man unfastened his belt.
The sound of leather sliding through loops was loud in the quiet room. Morph watched, transfixed, as the man unzipped his trousers and pulled out his cock. It was thick, uncut, already hard and leaking at the tip. The sight of it made Morph's mouth water, and the shame of that—the raw, unfiltered desire—sent another gush of wetness between his legs.
"Suck it," the man said.
Morph slid off the chaise. His knees hit the carpet, and the impact made the egg shift inside him, a jolt of pleasure that made his thighs tremble. He crawled forward, still wearing the tiny sequined dress, still the picture of a woman who had spent the night drinking and flirting and letting men touch her, and wrapped his lips around the stranger's cock.
It was thick. Too thick. His jaw ached immediately, and his eyes watered, but the man's hand fisted in his hair and held him in place.
"That's it," the man grunted. "Take it. Take all of it."
Morph choked. Spit ran down his chin, dripped onto the sequins, pooled in the hollow of his throat. The man fucked his face with shallow thrusts, and Morph took it, took all of it, his mind going blank and white and empty.
Good girl.
The man pulled out. A string of saliva connected them, breaking as he stepped back. Morph stayed on his knees, gasping, his lips swollen and slick.
"On the chaise," the man said. "On your back. Legs spread."
Morph scrambled to obey. The velvet was cold against his back, and the chandelier sparkled above him, and his heart was hammering so hard he could feel it in his throat. He pulled his knees up, spreading his legs wide, exposing the wet, puffy lips of his cunt, the egg still nestled inside.
"Look at that," the man said. "Look at that pretty little cunt. You're practically gaping for me."
He knelt between Morph's legs. The head of his cock pressed against Morph's entrance, and Morph whimpered, his hips bucking up involuntarily.
"Please," he said. "Please, I need it, I need your cock, please—"
"Begging already? We just met."
"Please, sir, please—"
The man pushed inside.
The stretch was immediate and overwhelming. The egg was still there, pushed deep against Morph's cervix, and now the man's cock was filling him, splitting him open, the two of them pressed together inside his body until he thought he might tear in half.
"Oh god," Morph sobbed. "Oh god, oh god, oh god—"
The man didn't give him time to adjust. He started thrusting, hard and fast, his balls slapping against Morph's ass with every stroke. The chaise creaked beneath them. The champagne bottle rattled on the side table. And Morph—Morph who had been a hero, who had foiled bank heists and stopped hostage situations and looked evil in the face without flinching—wrapped his legs around this stranger's waist and screamed for more.
"Fuck me," he begged. "Fuck me, fuck me, harder, please —"
"That's it," the man said. "That's my girl. Take it. Take that cock."
The egg vibrated faster. Morph's vision blurred. The chandelier became a thousand points of light, a galaxy collapsing, a supernova of pleasure. He felt his orgasm building, a wave that would drown him, and he chased it, riding it, grinding up against the man's pelvis with every thrust.
"I'm going to come," he said. "I'm going to come, please let me come, please—"
"Not yet."
No. No, no, no—
"Please," he begged. "Please, I can't, I need—"
"You'll come when I tell you to come." The man's voice was hard, unyielding. He grabbed Morph's hips and slammed into him, brutal and deep, and the rhythm changed, became something punishing, something meant to bruise.
Morph cried. He didn't mean to, but the tears came anyway, streaming down his cheeks, mixing with the spit and sweat that already covered his face. He was so close. He was right there, on the edge, and the man wouldn't let him fall.
"Please," he whispered. "Please, I'll do anything—"
"Anything?"
"Yes. Yes, anything, please—"
The man fucked him faster. The egg buzzed louder. And somewhere, in the distance, over the music and the creaking chaise and the obscene wet sounds of their bodies, Morph heard a door open.
"Heels clicked against the floor. Slow. Deliberate. A shadow fell across the chaise."
"I think that's enough," Hypnotica said.
The man froze. His cock was still inside Morph, still thick and hard, and Morph lay there beneath him, exposed and used and shaking.
The man turned his head. "We're a little busy here."
"I can see that." Hypnotica's voice was ice. "And I'm telling you to stop."
The man looked from Morph to Hypnotica, his expression shifting from irritation to something more cautious. He had the look of a man who had stumbled into a game without knowing the rules.
"I paid for the auction," he said. "This one was on the block. I'm just cashing in."
"No," Hypnotica said."You're not. This one belongs to me."
She stepped closer. The chandelier light caught the pendant around her neck—the silver teardrop—and Morph's eyes locked onto it, helpless, hopeless. The man's eyes followed the movement, and for the first time, he seemed to see something dangerous in Hypnotica's face.
"Pull out," she said.
The man pulled out. Morph gasped at the sudden emptiness, at the wet rush of the man's cock leaving him, at the way his cunt clenched around nothing. He lay on the chaise, boneless, ruined, his dress bunched around his waist and his legs still spread.
Hypnotica crouched beside him. Her hand found his cheek, cupping it, tilting his face toward hers.
"You did well," she said. "You took his cock so nicely. I watched you. I watched you suck him and fuck him and beg for him, and I was so proud."
Morph whimpered. The words were warm and terrible, and they settled into his chest like stones.
"But he didn't make you come," Hypnotica continued. "Did he?"
"No," Morph whispered. "He didn't."
"No. Because only I get to make you come. That's the rule."
She looked up at the man, who was standing there with his cock still out, still wet, his face a mask of confusion and dawning anger.
"You can go," she said.
The man opened his mouth. Hypnotica cut him off with a look—a look that held blades and whispered promises and the weight of things Morph couldn't name.
"My security will escort you out. You'll forget this room. Both of them."
The man left. The door clicked shut behind him. And Morph was alone with Hypnotica.
"You did so well," Hypnotica said again. She stroked his cheek, his neck, his collarbone. "Letting him touch you. Letting him fuck you. Fighting it every step of the way but letting him anyway."
Morph's breath hitched. Fighting it. He had been fighting. Somewhere, under all the fog, he had been fighting.
"But now," Hypnotica said, her hand sliding down to rest on his belly, "it's my turn."
She reached into her pocket. The egg inside Morph buzzed harder, faster, and he cried out, his back arching off the chaise.
"You're going to come for me," Hypnotica said. "And then we're going to go home. And I'm going to show you exactly what I made you for."
Her fingers found his clit. Her mouth found his neck. And Morph—Morph who had no name and no memory and no will—screamed as the orgasm ripped through him, violent and total, drowning everything else in the world.
Good girl, her voice whispered in his skull.
And the egg kept buzzing.