Chapter 4: Alistair dominates Reggie completely, first using his mouth then his transformed body, reveling in how the dancer-turned-machine whimpers with each gear shift, the vibrations of the ride sending electric pulses of pleasure through his steel frame.
The night air outside the studio felt like a slap. It was too clean, too ordinary, carrying the scent of cut grass and distant barbecue, utterly alien after the ozone and sweat and spent lust. Reggie walked, his long dancer’s strides eating up the sidewalk, but he wasn’t heading home. The pull was a physical hook in his sternum, yanking him toward the outskirts of town where the streetlights grew scarce and the old warehouses squatted like sleeping beasts.
He fished the crystal from his pocket. It was warm, throbbing in time with his heartbeat, its inner light a hungry purple. Edward’s horrified face swam behind his eyes—the betrayal, the hunger, the final, shattered command. Don’t come back. There was nowhere else to go. The realization was a relief so profound it felt like sinking. He didn’t have to be the barrier-breaker, the symbol, the good Black boy in tights anymore. He could be something else. Something Alistair saw.
The warehouse door, unmarked and rusted, swung inward before he could knock.
Alistair stood in the doorway to the underground garage, a silhouette carved from shadow and neon. He wore only low-slung black jeans, his bare chest and arms a landscape of dense muscle and old, silvery scars that caught the flickering light. His eyes weren’t just eyes; they were pools of reflected machinery, knowing everything.
“You taste of regret and old man,” Alistair said, his voice a low rumble. “And electricity. You’re about to burst with it.”
Reggie opened his mouth to explain, to apologize, but no words came. He just nodded, a sharp, jerky motion.
Alistair’s smile was a swift, white slash. “Good. I prefer you desperate.”
He grabbed Reggie by the back of the neck, fingers like iron bands, and pulled him inside. The door shut, sealing them in the cathedral of his garage. The air was a brew of gasoline, warm concrete, and something else—wild magic, untamed and metallic. Dozens of motorcycles, some sleek and modern, others grotesque patchworks of flesh and steel, sat in quiet rows.
Alistair didn’t lead him to a bed or a couch. He marched him to a clear space of polished concrete before a massive, quilted steel workbench. With a brutal shove, he forced Reggie to his knees. The impact jarred up his thighs.
“You let him taste what’s mine,” Alistair said, unbuckling his jeans. There was no anger in his tone. It was colder, a statement of fact. “You spilled that power into a vessel too small to hold it. Now you’re going to take it back. And you’re going to take me.”
His cock sprang free, already fully erect, thick and heavy-veined. It wasn’t adorned like Reggie’s was becoming; it was purely, intimidatingly flesh, but it seemed to radiate the same dark energy that suffused the room. He slapped it twice against Reggie’s cheek, the smell of skin and primal musk filling Reggie’s nose.
“Open,” Alistair commanded.
Reggie obeyed. He parted his lips, and Alistair didn’t hesitate. He fed his cock into Reggie’s mouth, not an inch at a time, but in one relentless, deep push that hit the back of his throat instantly. Reggie gagged, eyes watering, his hands flying up to push at Alistair’s hips.
Alistair caught his wrists in one large hand and pinned them behind his back, arching Reggie’s spine painfully. “No. You take it. You wanted to be more than a dancer? This is more. This is swallowing power. This is submission to a stronger current.”
He began to fuck Reggie’s mouth in earnest, short, brutal pistons of his hips. There was no rhythm, no attempt to please, only a relentless reclamation. Spittle dripped from Reggie’s stretched lips, down his chin, onto his chest. He couldn’t breathe through his nose; the air was thick with the scent of oil and man. Each thrust blurred his vision, each withdrawal a gasp of dank, greasy air before he was filled again. His jaw screamed in protest, but a deeper part of him awakened, singing in terrible harmony with the violation. This was a different barre. A different discipline. His throat was being trained.
“That’s it,” Alistair grunted, his other hand tangling in Reggie’s short curls, holding his head in place. “Feel it? That’s the edge of you breaking apart. Your pretty ballet control, shattering. Good. Let it shatter.”
He went deeper, the head of his cock bullying past Reggie’s clenched throat into a space that made Reggie’s whole body convulse. Tears cut clean streaks through the grime on his face. Just as he felt darkness nibble at the edges of his consciousness, Alistair pulled out entirely.
Reggie collapsed forward onto his hands, coughing, sucking in huge, ragged breaths that burned. He felt raw, hollowed out, used. The metallic plates on his body were glowing faintly again, responding to the proximity of Alistair’s will.
“Stand up,” Alistair said, stepping back. He wasn’t even winded.
Reggie swayed to his feet, legs trembling from the ordeal on his knees.
“The machine,” Alistair said, pointing to a motorcycle that stood apart from the others. It was beautiful and terrible. Its frame was obsidian black, its lines suggesting a crouching panther, but parts of its fuel tank and chassis were formed of the same dark, hexagonal plate-work that was growing into Reggie. The handlebars gleamed under the neon, waiting.
“You feel the pressure? The energy he sparked in you? It needs a release. Not a little come in an old man’s mouth. A real release.” Alistair walked to the bike and ran a loving hand over its seat. “Assume the form.”
A jolt of pure terror went through Reggie. He’d only done this once before, under Alistair’s coaxing and a haze of strange incense. It wasn’t natural. It was a magic that rewrote bones and sinew.
“I can’t,” he whispered, his voice a ruined grate.
“You can.” Alistair’s gaze was absolute. “The magic is in you now. It wants out. Let it.”
The pressure was unbearable. It felt like his skin was two sizes too small, the plates burning against the inside of it. A low whine escaped him. He stumbled toward the motorcycle, his movements no longer a dancer’s grace but the jerky gait of something being puppeted. He placed his hands on the handlebars. The metal was cool, then warm, then alive. It seemed to fuse to his palms.
The change wasn’t painless. It was a vast, consuming unfolding. He felt his spine lengthen, his bones hollowing and fusing with a series of pops and cracks that echoed in the garage. His skin rippled, clothing dissolving into motes of light as the dark plates spread, swallowing his flesh, flowing over his limbs, encasing him. His perspective skewed, widened, flattened. The world became a matrix of radar-like sensations and roaring internal combustion. He was the machine. The sleek, black motorcycle sat where he had stood, engine purring with a deep, metallic growl that vibrated in the concrete floor.
Alistair mounted him.
He swung a leg over the seat, settling his weight onto Reggie’s transformed body. The sensation was indescribable—not just being sat upon, but being occupied. Alistair’s presence was in every sensor, every circuit. He gripped the handlebars—which were still, in some essential way, Reggie’s hands—tightly.
“Now,” Alistair breathed, a predator’s thrill in his voice. “We ride.”
He gunned the engine. The roar was Reggie’s own scream given voice through a combustion chamber. Alistair rocked the bike off its stand and aimed it at the garage’s rolling door, which lifted with a thought. The cool midnight air hit them.
Then they were flying.
Alistair took them through the sleeping town at a speed that blurred the streetlights into streaks of jaundiced yellow. The wind was a furious, battering force. But inside the shell of the motorcycle, Reggie was feeling something else. Every vibration of the road traveled up through the frame into his core. Every lean into a turn was a caress along his new metallic flanks. The power between his legs—his power, the engine—thrummed with a building, urgent rhythm.
Alistair leaned low over the handlebars, his chest pressed against the fuel tank. He began to move, not just steering, but grinding against the seat. Against Reggie.
“Feel that, you beautiful thing?” Alistair shouted into the wind