Chapter 4: A Reminder Before the Party
The closet smelled like smoked cinnamon and sex.
Ender's cheek pressed against the velvet ottoman, the fabric rough against his skin, still gritty with glitter from the party clothes they'd discarded there two weeks ago. His jeans were bunched around his thighs, boxers dragged down just past the curve of his ass, and Gene's hand was a hot brand on his lower back, holding him in place.
"Stay still."
"I'm staying still."
"You're squirming."
"I'm not—"
Gene's palm cracked against his exposed cheek. Not hard. Just enough to make a point. Ender hissed through his teeth, fingers twisting into the velvet.
"I said stay still."
The vibrator was small. Slim. Silver and smooth and absolutely fucking diabolical. Ender had seen it before—had felt it before, on nights when Gene and Zenix decided to take their time, to draw things out until he was a sobbing mess begging for relief. But this was different. This wasn't the bedroom. This wasn't behind locked doors with nowhere to be and nothing to do but fall apart.
This was the closet.
And they had a party to go to.
"Gene." Ender's voice came out higher than he intended. "Gene, come on. We're already late."
"We're not late. We're fashionably delayed." Gene's fingers pressed the vibrator against his entrance, circling slowly, deliberately. "And you're not in a position to negotiate."
"I wasn't—"
"You were." Zenix's voice drifted from somewhere to Ender's left. He was standing in front of the floor-length mirror, adjusting his cufflinks with the kind of unhurried calm that made Ender want to scream. "You've been testing boundaries all week. The little comments. The lingering looks. The way you touched that waiter's arm at dinner on Tuesday."
Ender's stomach dropped. "That was nothing. I was just—"
"Being a brat."
"I was being friendly."
Gene pushed the vibrator inside him.
Ender's breath left his body in a rush. The stretch was slight—the thing was slender, designed for exactly this kind of torment—but the pressure was immediate, intimate, pressing against places that made his thighs tremble.
"Fuck," he whispered.
"Language." Gene's hand smoothed over his hip, almost soothing. "You know better."
"I—"
"Don't you?"
Ender swallowed hard. His reflection stared back at him from a dozen mirrored walls, fractured and multiplied, each version of himself flushed and trembling and utterly debauched. His purplish-white curls were a mess, already escaping the careful styling Zenix had done twenty minutes ago. His freckled cheeks were pink. His lips were parted, wet from where he'd been biting them.
He looked like exactly what he was: a brat who'd pushed too far and was about to pay for it.
"I know better," he admitted.
"Good." Gene pressed a kiss to the small of his back, just above the waistband of his jeans. "Then you'll understand what happens next."
Zenix turned from the mirror. He looked immaculate—black suit, crisp white shirt, silver tie pin glinting in the recessed lighting. His dark hair was swept back from his face, and his eyes were calm and calculating as they swept over Ender's prone form.
"The remote," he said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a small black device, "is in my possession."
Ender's heart stuttered. "Zenix—"
"You're going to behave tonight." Zenix crossed the closet, steps measured, unhurried. He stopped beside Gene, looking down at Ender with an expression that was almost fond. "You're going to smile. You're going to make pleasant conversation. You're going to keep your hands to yourself and your eyes on us."
"I always—"
"You're going to do all of that," Zenix continued, as if Ender hadn't spoken, "because if you don't—if you so much as look at another man the way you looked at that waiter—I'm going to press this button."
He held up the remote. Ender's gaze locked onto it, a tiny black rectangle that might as well have been a loaded gun.
"And you'll be in the middle of a crowded room," Zenix said softly. "Surrounded by people. With no way to explain why you're suddenly gasping. No way to hide what's happening to you. No way to escape."
Ender's mouth went dry.
"You wouldn't."
"Wouldn't I?"
The thing was—he would. Zenix absolutely would. Ender had seen that look in his eyes before, that particular glint that meant he was already imagining the scene, already calculating exactly how far he could push before Ender broke.
"You're evil," Ender whispered.
Zenix smiled. "I know."
Gene pulled Ender's boxers back up, then his jeans, fingers brushing against the vibrator still nestled inside him. The pressure shifted, and Ender couldn't quite suppress a shiver.
"Can you walk?" Gene asked.
"I—yes. I think so."
"Good." He helped Ender to his feet, steadying him when his knees wobbled. "Because we're leaving in five minutes, and you're going to be perfect tonight. Aren't you?"
Ender looked at him. At Zenix. At the remote still gleaming in Zenix's hand.
"Yes," he said. "I'll be perfect."
---
The party was in a penthouse three blocks away, all glass and chrome and people who looked like they'd been sculpted specifically to stand in corners and look beautiful. Ender had been to dozens of these events—Gene and Zenix moved in circles that dripped money and influence, and Ender had long since learned to navigate the conversations, the false smiles, the endless parade of hands that wanted to touch without permission.
Tonight, though, was different.
Tonight, he had a vibrator inside him.
And Zenix had the remote in his pocket.
Ender took a glass of champagne from a passing tray, more for something to do with his hands than any real desire to drink. The bubbles tickled his nose. He took a small sip, letting the cold settle in his stomach.
"Ender."
He turned. Gene was at his elbow, looking devastating in a charcoal suit that matched his eyes. His hand found Ender's lower back, possessive and warm.
"You're doing well."
"It's been ten minutes."
"It's been twenty." Gene's thumb traced small circles against his spine. "And you haven't caused any problems yet."
Ender bit back a retort. He wanted to point out that he wasn't a child, that he didn't need praise for basic social skills, that he'd been attending these events for years and knew perfectly well how to behave. But the vibrator shifted inside him as he moved, a subtle reminder of what was at stake, and he swallowed the words.
"I'm always well-behaved," he said instead, with just the faintest edge of sarcasm.
Gene's eyes narrowed. "Careful."
"I'm being careful."
"Hmm."
They moved through the crowd together, Gene's hand never leaving Ender's back. Ender smiled at the people they passed, nodded at the ones whose names he remembered, and kept his eyes firmly away from the corners of the room where attractive men lingered.
It was fine. Manageable. The vibrator was a quiet presence, a secret only the three of them shared, and as long as he didn't think about it too hard, he could almost pretend it wasn't there at all.
Then Zenix appeared at his other side, a glass of whiskey in his hand, and leaned in close enough that his breath brushed Ender's ear.
"You're being very good."
"I can be good."
"I know you can." Zenix's free hand settled on Ender's hip, fingers pressing into the bone. "The question is how long it'll last."
Ender's jaw tightened. "I'm not going to do anything."
"I didn't say you were." Zenix pulled back, taking a sip of his whiskey, his expression unreadable. "I'm just saying that I know you. And I know that look."
"What look?"
"The one you get when you're bored." Zenix's eyes flicked over Ender's shoulder, toward a cluster of people near the bar. "The one you get when you're about to do something stupid just to see what happens."
Ender followed his gaze. There was a man at the bar—tall, dark-haired, laughing at something someone had said. He was handsome in a conventional way, the kind of face that belonged on magazine covers, and he was looking in Ender's direction with an interest that was unmistakable.
Ender's pulse quickened.
Not because he was attracted to the man. He wasn't. He was attracted to the reaction it would provoke—the flash of heat in Gene's eyes, the tightening of Zenix's jaw, the knowledge that he could still make them jealous, still make them desperate, still make them remember exactly why they'd claimed him in the first place.
He looked away.
"No," he said. "I'm not doing anything."
Zenix hummed. "Good."
But his hand stayed on Ender's hip, fingers pressing just a little too hard, and Ender knew he'd been seen. Knew that Zenix had caught that flicker of interest, that brief moment of calculation, and was already preparing for the worst.
The fear should have been enough to keep him in line.
It wasn't.
---
Ender made it another hour.
An hour of smiling and nodding and making pleasant conversation. An hour of Gene's hand on his back and Zenix's eyes tracking his every move. An hour of the vibrator pressing against his prostate every time he shifted his weight, a constant, maddening reminder of what would happen if he slipped.
He was good.
He was so good.
And he was bored out of his mind.
The man from the bar had drifted closer over the course of the evening. Not obviously—just a few steps here, a casual repositioning there—but Ender noticed. Of course he noticed. He'd been trained by the best, and Gene and Zenix had made an art form of subtle positioning.
His name was Marcus. Ender knew that because he'd heard someone introduce him earlier—Marcus something-or-other, a friend of a friend, someone with money and connections and an easy smile that suggested he wasn't used to being told no.
Marcus was looking at him again.
Ender looked back.
Just for a second. Just long enough to let Marcus know he'd been seen, that the interest was mutual, that the door was open even if Ender had no intention of walking through it.
It was a mistake.
He knew it the moment Zenix's fingers tightened on his hip. Knew it the moment he saw the expression on Zenix's face—that particular blend of disappointment and anticipation that meant Ender had just crossed a line.
"Ender."
Zenix's voice was quiet. Calm. The kind of calm that preceded a storm.
"I didn't do anything."
"You looked."
"I—"
"You looked at him the way you looked at the waiter." Zenix's lips brushed Ender's ear, soft and deliberate. "The way you looked at that bartender last month. The way you're always looking at someone, Ender, as if we're not enough. As if you need to prove that you can still make us jealous."
Ender's throat constricted. "That's not—"
"I'm going to count to three."
"Zenix, please—"
"One."
Ender's heart hammered against his ribs. He could feel the remote in Zenix's pocket, the weight of it, the threat of it. He could imagine the vibration humming to life, the sudden, overwhelming pleasure-pain, the way his body would betray him in front of all these people.
"Two."
"Please," Ender whispered. "I'll be good. I'll be so good. I won't look at anyone else. I won't—"
"Three."
The vibrator hummed to life.
Ender's knees buckled.
A sharp wave of pleasure crashed through him, the vibration pulsing deep, and he had to grab Gene's arm to keep from collapsing. His vision tunneled. His breath caught somewhere between his chest and his throat.
The man—Marcus—was still looking at him. Frowning now, confused, probably wondering why Ender had suddenly gone pale and unsteady.
"Are you okay?" Gene asked, loud enough for anyone nearby to hear. His hand gripped Ender's elbow, steadying him. "You look a little faint. Maybe you need some air."
"I—yes. Air. I need—I need air."
The vibration continued, relentless, and Ender's legs moved on autopilot as Gene steered him through the crowd. Zenix followed close behind, and Ender could feel his satisfaction radiating from him, cold and smug.
They reached the balcony—a small, enclosed space overlooking the street below. It was empty. Gene closed the door behind them, muffling the sound of the party.
And then Ender was pushed against the wall.
"That," Zenix said, stepping close, "was exactly what I told you would happen."
Ender's hands clenched against the stone. His whole body was shaking. The vibrator was still going, still buzzing, and he couldn't think, couldn't speak, couldn't do anything but stand there and take it.
"You were good," Zenix continued, voice low and dangerous. "For a while. And then you got bored. And then you decided to test us." His fingers caught Ender's chin, tilting his face up. "Did you think we wouldn't notice?"
"I—"
"You looked at him."
"It was just—"
"You looked at him."
Ender's eyes burned. The vibration was building now, the pressure sharpening, and he was so close to the edge he could feel it in his teeth.
"Please," he whispered. "Please turn it off. Please. I'm sorry."
"Are you?"
"Yes. Yes, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have—I didn't mean—"
"You always say that." Gene's voice came from somewhere behind Zenix. "You always say you're sorry. And then you do it again."
"I won't. I won't do it again. I swear."
"You've sworn before."
Ender's body convulsed as the vibration intensified, a spike of pleasure that bordered on pain. His mouth opened on a silent gasp, and he grabbed at Zenix's jacket, desperate for something to hold onto.
"Please," he sobbed. "Please, I can't—I'm going to—"
"Are you going to come?"
"N-no, I'm trying not to, I'm trying to be good, please—"
"Maybe you should." Zenix's thumb brushed Ender's lower lip. "Maybe you should come right here, where anyone could walk out and see you. Maybe that would teach you."
"No—"
"Or maybe we should leave it on for the rest of the night. Let you squirm through every conversation, every handshake, every moment of polite society."
"No, please—"
"You have a choice, Ender." Zenix's voice was soft, almost gentle. "You can either come now—here, on this balcony, with Gene and me—and then spend the rest of the evening being perfect. Or you can wait until we get home, and let us decide exactly how to handle you."
Ender's mind raced. Both options were terrible. Both options ended with him falling apart.
But one of them meant the vibration would stop.
"Now," he gasped. "Please, now, I want—"
"Say it."
"I want to come. Please let me come."
Zenix smiled. And pressed the button again.
The vibration kicked up another notch—faster, harder, deep enough that Ender could feel it in his bones. His hips jerked. His eyes rolled back. Where was Gene? Gene was behind him, Gene's hands were on his shoulders, holding him steady.
"Go on," Gene murmured against his ear. "Show us how sorry you are."
And Ender did.
He came with a broken sob, spilling into his boxers, hands fisting in Zenix's lapels like a drowning man clinging to a lifeline. His knees gave out completely, and Gene caught him, eased him down, held him through the aftershocks as the vibrator finally stopped.
"Good boy," Zenix murmured above him. "That's my good boy."
Ender's chest heaved. Tears streaked his cheeks. He was a mess—sweaty, shaking, absolutely ruined—and there was a party still happening just beyond the glass, people drinking and laughing and none of them knowing that Ender had just come untouched on a balcony with his boyfriends watching.
"We should go back inside," Gene said, gentle. "We're expected."
"In a minute." Zenix crouched down, cupping Ender's face in both hands. "First, I want to make sure he understands."
Ender looked at him. His vision was blurry. His body felt like it had been taken apart and put back together wrong.
"Do you understand, Ender?"
"Yes."
"Do you understand that you're ours?"
"Yes."
"Do you understand that no matter how many parties we go to, how many people we meet, you belong to us? That there is nothing you can say or do or look at that will ever change that?"
Ender's throat closed. He nodded, because he couldn't speak, because there were no words for the feeling swelling in his chest—something that was shame and relief and love all tangled together, so heavy he could barely breathe.
"Good." Zenix pressed a kiss to his forehead, soft and surprisingly tender. "Because we love you. And we're never letting you go."
He stood. Gene helped Ender to his feet, steadying him with a hand on each shoulder.
"Can you walk?"
"...Yes."
"Good. Because we still have three hours left of this party. And you're going to be perfect for every single minute."
Ender laughed—a wet, shaky sound that bordered on hysterical. "I thought I was already perfect."
"You are." Gene's lips brushed his temple. "Perfectly ours. And that's exactly why we can't let you out of our sight."
They went back inside. No one noticed anything. Ender smiled, made conversation, kept his hands to himself. He was good. He was so, so good.
But the vibrator was still inside him. The remote was still in Zenix's pocket. And the knowledge that they could turn it on again at any moment, that they had that power, that they could take him apart in the middle of a crowded room and no one would ever know...
It was terrible.
It was exactly what he wanted.