Chapter 2: Counting Each Strike, Begging for More
The first strike had barely faded before the second one landed.
Crack.
Ender's scream fractured into something else—a broken, ragged sound that was half sob and half moan. The pain bloomed across his ass in a searing stripe, heat radiating outward like ripples in still water. His fingers twisted harder into the velvet, nails scraping against the fabric as his body jerked forward, hips pressing into the chaise's curved edge.
"Count."
Gene's voice cut through the ringing in his ears. Calm. Controlled. The voice of a man who could do this all night and never break a sweat.
Ender's mouth opened, but nothing came out. His throat had closed up, seized by the intensity of it, and for a long moment he just lay there, trembling, trying to remember how words worked.
"I said count."
The belt tapped against his thigh. A warning. A promise.
"Two," Ender gasped. The word came out strangled, barely recognizable.
"Louder."
"Two." He forced it out, louder this time, and hated how his voice cracked on the single syllable. Hated how his body was already reacting—cock hard and aching against the velvet, thighs slick with something that wasn't just sweat. Hated how much he wanted this even as he wanted to crawl away.
Zenix's hand found his hair, fingers threading through the tangled curls with deceptive gentleness. He'd moved from his crouch to sit on the floor beside the chaise, back against the wall, legs stretched out like he was watching a particularly interesting film. His dark eyes traveled over Ender's exposed body with unhurried appreciation.
"You're doing so well," Zenix murmured. "Taking it so pretty. But we both know you can do better than that."
"Fuck you," Ender managed, the words muffled against the cushion.
Zenix laughed. Low. Genuine. The sound of a man who found genuine amusement in Ender's defiance.
"There he is. There's our brat." He leaned closer, lips brushing the shell of Ender's ear. "But that mouth isn't going to save you tonight. By the time Gene's done with you, you'll be hoarse from begging. You'll be so far gone you won't remember your own name, let alone whatever smartass comment you were about to make."
The belt whistled again.
Crack.
This one landed lower, catching the tender crease where ass met thigh. Ender's vision went white. His hips bucked involuntarily, grinding against the chaise, and the friction sent a jolt of pleasure-pain straight through him.
"Three," he choked out before Gene could demand it.
"Louder."
"Three!"
The word echoed off the high ceilings, bouncing back at him like an accusation. His face burned. His eyes stung. But beneath the shame, beneath the pain, something else was unfurling in his chest. Something warm and dark and hungry.
Gene circled around to Ender's other side, the belt swinging lazily at his hip. His expression hadn't changed—still that same cold, controlled mask—but there was a flush creeping up his pale throat now, and his free hand was clenched into a tight fist at his side.
"You think I don't know what you were doing?" he asked quietly. "You think I don't know you were trying to get a rise out of me? Out of us?"
Ender swallowed hard. His throat clicked.
"I know you, Ender. I know every inch of you." Gene's hand came down on Ender's lower back, palm flat and warm against the sweat-slicked skin. "I know how your mind works. I know you push because you want to be caught. I know you run because you want to be chased."
"That's not—"
"Isn't it?"
The belt landed again before Ender could finish his protest.
Crack.
This time the sound was wetter. Ender's skin was starting to break, tiny welts rising along the curve of his ass, and the pain was sharp and bright and absolutely devastating. He sobbed, actually sobbed, and the sound of it was so pathetic he would have been embarrassed if he'd had any room left in his head for embarrassment.
"Four," he whispered.
"What was that?"
"Four." His voice broke. "Four, four, four—"
"Good boy."
Zenix reached up and wiped a tear from Ender's cheek. His thumb was rough, calloused, scraping against the soft skin beneath Ender's eye. He brought the digit to his mouth and licked it clean, eyes never leaving Ender's face.
"Delicious," he said. "You always taste so good when you're crying."
Ender's breath hitched. His hips twitched. The movement was involuntary, a desperate little grind against the velvet, and he felt the wet smear of precum against his stomach as his cock dragged against the cushion.
"Getting needy?" Zenix asked. "Already?"
"No—"
"You're leaking all over the furniture, sweetheart. I can see it from here." Zenix's smile was sharp and knowing. "Poor thing. All worked up and we haven't even started yet."
He wasn't lying.
Ender could feel it—the way his body was spiraling, the way every strike of the belt sent heat pooling in his gut, the way his thoughts were starting to scatter like startled birds. He was trembling. Not from fear, not exactly. From anticipation. From need. From the terrible, wonderful knowledge that they weren't anywhere close to done with him.
Gene stepped back. The belt hung at his side, the leather dark with something that might have been sweat or might have been those tiny pinpricks of blood.
"You're going to count to ten," he said. "And you're going to thank me for every single one. Understood?"
Ender's stomach dropped. "Gene—"
"Understood?"
A long pause. Then, barely audible: "Yes."
"Yes what?"
"Yes, I understand."
Zenix's hand found his hair again, gathering the purple-white curls into a loose fist and pulling just hard enough to lift Ender's head from the cushion. His neck arched. His throat was exposed, vulnerable, and Zenix licked a stripe up the side of it like a cat tasting cream.
"Ten more," Zenix breathed against his skin. "And after that, we're going to turn you over and see how pretty you cry when Gene works on your front."
Ender's whole body clenched.
"Please—"
"Please what?"
"I don't—I can't—"
"You can." Zenix pressed a kiss to his pulse point. "You will. Because you're ours, Ender. You've always been ours. And we take care of what belongs to us."
The belt rose.
Crack.
"Five!" Ender shrieked.
"Thank you," Gene corrected.
"Thank you—five—thank you—"
"Better."
The next strike came before he could brace for it.
Crack.
He lost count. He lost words. He lost everything except the burning line of fire across his skin and the low, steady rhythm of Gene's breathing and Zenix's quiet praise, murmuring in his ear like a prayer.
"Six, thank you, six—"
"Eight, oh god, eight—I'm sorry, I'm sorry—"
"Nine—"
The tenth strike landed like a hammer blow. Ender's mind went white and then blank, consciousness narrowing to a single point of light—the release he was desperately, frantically holding back.
"Thank you," he sobbed. "Thank you, thank you, thank you—"
His thighs clenched. His nails dug into the velvet hard enough to leave marks. He was right there, right on the edge, body arched and trembling and so close—
And then Gene's hand closed around the back of his neck and squeezed.
"Don't you dare," he said softly. "You don't get to come until I say so."
Ender whimpered. Actually whimpered.
"But I—"
"That's the rule." Gene's thumb pressed into the nape of his neck, a firm, grounding pressure. "You break it, and we start over from one."
"I can't," Ender whispered. His voice was wrecked, hoarse, exactly as Zenix had promised. "I can't hold it, please, I've been good, I've been so good—"
Zenix kissed the corner of his jaw. "You've been perfect," he agreed. "But we're not done with you yet."
He rose to his feet, unfolding himself with a languid grace that seemed almost obscene. His cock was hard beneath his trousers, a thick line pressing against the dark fabric, and Ender couldn't stop staring at it. Couldn't stop thinking about what came next.
"On your back," Zenix said. "Now."
Gene's hand released Ender's neck. The belt clinked as he set it on the marble floor, discarded or perhaps just waiting.
Ender's legs shook as he turned over, jeans and boxers still tangled around his knees. His ass throbbed with every movement, the ruined skin dragging against the velvet in a way that made him hiss through his teeth. But he did it. He obeyed. Because that was the game. Because that was what they all wanted.
Because beneath the brat, beneath the defiance, he needed this. Needed them.
He lay back on the chaise, hair fanning out beneath him in a wild halo, and stared up at the two men who owned every piece of him. His chest heaved. His cock lay hard and leaking against his stomach, flushed an angry red.
Gene and Zenix moved together with the easy coordination of long practice. Gene settled at Ender's head, his fingers carding through the damp curls, while Zenix knelt between his spread thighs.
"Look at you," Zenix said softly. "So pretty. So wrecked. And we haven't even touched your front yet."
He ran his palm up the inside of Ender's thigh, fingers smearing through the slick mess of sweat and tears and need. His touch was light, teasing, and Ender's body jerked like he'd been electrocuted.
"Please," he gasped. "Please, Zenix, I'll do anything—"
"Anything?" Zenix's eyebrow arched. "Careful making promises you can't keep."
"Zenix—"
"Shh."
He leaned down and pressed his lips to the inside of Ender's thigh, right where a thin scar cut through the freckled skin. His tongue traced it, slow and deliberate, and Ender's vision flickered at the edges.
"We haven't even started," Zenix murmured against his skin. "This is just the beginning."
Gene's hands tightened in his hair. The belt lay cold on the floor, waiting to be picked up again.
And Ender—trembling, aching, so desperately hard it hurt—closed his eyes and surrendered.