Chapter 6: The Vacuum Embrace
The smirk haunted Cross. It floated behind his eyes as he reviewed nutrient reports, a ghost in the sterile data. That defiant, complicit curl of lips had been a key turning in a lock he hadn’t fully known was there. It demanded a response. Not punishment—that was for disobedience. This required ceremony. An acknowledgment.
He found Ezra on the floor of the lavatory, forehead pressed to the cool composite, breathing through a contraction that vibrated through his entire frame. The drugs had worn off, leaving a washed-out, shaky exhaustion in their wake, but the stones and the corset remained, eternal facts.
“Up,” Cross said, his voice devoid of its usual playful malice. It was a simple command.
Ezra looked up, eyes glassy with spent pain. He didn’t ask why. He just tried, pushing with arms that trembled. Cross didn’t help. He watched the struggle, the way the corset turned a simple rise into a grueling logistics problem. When Ezra was finally upright, leaning heavily on the sink, Cross took his arm and led him, not to the main room, but to a door Ezra had always assumed was a closet.
It hissed open to reveal a small, pristine chamber. The air smelled of ozone and clean rubber. In the center, on a raised platform, lay a rectangular frame filled with a sheet of thick, milky-white latex.
Ezra’s breath hitched. “No.”
“Yes,” Cross said, guiding him forward. His touch was firm, inexorable. “You showed me your mind last night. Your spirit. Today, I want to see everything else. Every tremor. Every desperate clench. I want to watch your body’s truth, without the distraction of movement.”
He began undressing him, not with lust, but with a surgeon’s detachment. The trousers, the soft shirt. Finally, the corset. The laces gave way with a soft whisper. As the pressure released, Ezra gasped, his stomach distending further, the outlines of the eggs grotesquely prominent under his thin skin. He looked pillaged. Cross traced a line from his sternum to his navel, feeling the formidable landscape beneath. “On the bed. Face up.”
The latex was cool and strangely tacky. Ezra lay back, the substance clinging to his skin. Cross lifted his legs, positioned his arms at his sides, then pulled the top sheet of latex over him, sealing the edges together with a quiet, sure efficiency. A seam ran around his body, leaving only his head exposed. A separate, smaller tube was fitted near his mouth.
“This is a mouthpiece. For air. You’ll need to remember to breathe through it.” Cross’s fingers brushed his lips, inserting the soft silicone bit. It tasted sterile. “And this,” he said, holding up a longer, thinner tube with a lubricated nozzle, “is for clarity.”
Ezra’s eyes widened above the mouthpiece. He tried to shake his head, a feeble negation.
“An enema. High-proof tequila. To burn away any… ambiguity. To make sure every sensation is crisp.” Cross’s voice was a low, hypnotic murmur as he moved around the table. “You’ll feel it fill you. You’ll feel it burn. And you’ll have nowhere to go, nothing to do, but feel it.”
He pressed a switch. A deep, mechanical hum filled the room. The latex sheets began to tighten. Slowly at first, then with increasing force, the air between them was sucked out. The material molded to Ezra’s body with an intimacy that was more violation than any touch. It pressed in, contouring to every angle: the sharp jut of his hip bones, the concave hollows of his flanks, the shocking, egg-bloated dome of his lower belly. He was rendered in perfect, suffocating detail. He could not move a millimeter. He could barely expand his chest to breathe. The pressure was everywhere, a second, smarter skin that pinned him in perfect, vulnerable display.
Panic, clean and electric, shot through him. He sucked air through the tube in frantic gulps.
“Shhh,” Cross soothed, his hand coming to rest on the latex over Ezra’s chest. He could feel the frantic hammer of his heart. “Breathe normally. The panic is a waste of energy. Save it.”
He picked up the enema tube. Ezra couldn’t see, could only hear the soft snick of a cap being removed, the gurgle of liquid. He felt the cool, lubed nozzle press against his anus, still tender and stretched from the night before. He clenched instinctively, a pathetic, futile reflex against the unyielding latex.
“Relax,” Cross commanded, his voice edged now. “Or I’ll cut off your air until you do.”
The threat was worse than the act. Ezra forced his body to go slack, a surrender of the last vestige of control. The nozzle slid in, cold and intrusive. Then, a click.
The flood was immediate.
A rushing, cold invasion that rapidly warmed to a scalding burn. The tequila, cheap and raw, filled his colon, a searing tide that felt like it was stripping his lining. He cried out around the mouthpiece, the sound muffled and desperate. The liquid kept coming, pressurized, forcing its way deeper, distending his belly further from the inside. The pressure was monumental. The stones in his front were crushed inward by the latex; now his bowels were being inflated from behind. He was a vessel being pumped full from both ends, stretched to a screaming tautness.
Cross watched the latex over his lower abdomen bulge slightly, blending with the larger, egg-shaped protrusions. He placed a hand there, feeling the heat, the internal slosh, the violent tremors running through Ezra’s sealed form. “Feel that burn. That’s truth. No hiding in there.”
The burning intensified, a cleansing, agonizing fire. Ezra’s body tried to spasm, to expel the torment, but the vacuum bed held him in an absolute vise. The contractions from the stones, ever-present, merged with the clenching agony of his scalded. Pain became a geography, and he was mapped across it entirely.
Cross moved to the head of the table. He looked down at Ezra’s face, slick with sweat, eyes wild and streaming. His hand rested lightly on the mouthpiece tube, where it connected to the air supply.
“You have that look again,” Cross observed. “The one that says you see me. Let’s see how well you see when you’re starving for oxygen.”
His fingers pinched the soft tube shut.
Air cut off.
Ezra’s eyes blew wide. He sucked, but nothing came. Pure, animal terror, more primal than the pain, swamped him. His body, already in catastrophic overload, now screamed for the one thing it was being denied. He fought against the latex, a violent, useless thrashing that amounted to nothing more than a ripple across the taut surface. His vision began to tunnel, dark veins creeping in from the edges. The pain of the stones, the burn of the liquor, all of it was suddenly secondary to the simple, violent need to breathe.
Just before the blackout swallowed him, Cross released the tube.
Air, sweet and violent, rushed into his lungs. He choked on it, coughing around the bit, his chest heaving against its latex prison.
“The panic is beautiful,” Cross whispered. “But it’s noise. I want to hear the other things. I want to hear what the pain is saying underneath.” He stroked the sweat-soaked hair from Ezra’s forehead. “Let’s try again.”
He pinched the tube.
This time, Ezra tried to prepare. He tried to find a quiet center, to separate the terror of asphyxiation from the maelstrom in his gut. It was impossible. The darkness swarmed him faster, his body’s dread short-circuiting any attempt at discipline. Just as his thoughts began to dissolve into static, the air returned. He sobbed, the sound wet and broken.
“You’re not listening,” Cross chided. He walked back to the foot of the table. His hand slid over the latex, down the immobilized plane of Ezra’s torso, to where his clit is. Cross rubbed the pad of his thumb over the outline of the head, a rough, persistent friction through the thin layer of rubber. Pleasure, sharp and shocking, jolted up Ezra’s spine.
Then Cross pinched the air tube again.
The effect was catastrophic. The dual sensations—the sweet, insistent grind on his clit and the sudden, suffocating vacuum in his lungs—collided. His brain couldn’t process the dichotomy. The pleasure heightened the terror. The terror made the pleasure feel like a sick, cosmic joke. He was floating, detached, a spectator to his own ruin. The burning in his gut, the grinding in his cunt, the friction on his clit, the screaming of his lungs—it was all one vast, overwhelming symphony conducted by the hand on the tube.
Cross played him. He’d stroke, then cut air. Restore it just as Ezra was about to pass out, then immediately resume the rubbing, now faster, now harder. He’d lean down and whisper, “Come for me. Come while you’re choking. Let me see it.” The commands wired themselves into Ezra’s hypoxia-addled brain.
The orgasm, when it crashed over him, was like nothing he’d ever experienced. It wasn’t pleasure; it was a systemic seizure. It ripped through him as Cross shut off the air completely. His body bowed against the latex as much as it could, a rigid arc. Silent screams ripped his throat. His clit pulsed, his cunt clenching around the eggs and plug. The waves of climax seemed to ignite the tequila burn and the stone-crushing contractions, fusing them into a single, endless detonation of sensation.
Blackness swallowed him whole.
He returned to the hiss of air, to the gentle, almost compassionate stroke of Cross’s hand on his cheek. The latex was loosening, the vacuum releasing with a soft sigh. The nozzle was removed from his ass, the fiery liquid draining away, leaving a hollow, throbbing ache.
Cross unsealed the bed and peeled the latex from his skin. The air felt like needles. Ezra lay naked, spent, covered in the evidence of his own violation and release. He was shaking uncontrollably.
Cross lifted him, cradling him like something precious and shattered, and carried him to the shower. He washed him with a startling tenderness, rinsing away the sweat, the come, the lingering sterility. He wrapped him in a soft robe and sat him on the edge of the bed, then knelt before him with a glass of water.
“Drink.”
Ezra’s hands were too unsteady. Cross held the glass to his lips, tipping it slowly. The water was a benediction.
“What…” Ezra’s voice was a rusted hinge. “What was that?”
“A conversation,” Cross said, setting the glass aside. He cupped Ezra’s face, his thumb wiping away a stray tear. “You showed me your defiance. I showed you my ownership. We spoke in a language of nerves and oxygen. And you understood perfectly.”
He laid Ezra down and climbed in beside him, pulling the blankets over them. He curled around Ezra’s back, his hand settling once more on the mound of his stomach, a permanent claim.
“Sleep,” Cross murmured into his hair. “The stones are still there. The corset goes back on in the morning. But for now, sleep. You spoke so beautifully today.”
And in the humming silence of the bunker, Ezra did. His body, a map of fresh and ancient agonies, finally surrendered to an exhausted, dreamless void, while Cross held him, awake, planning the next word in their relentless, private dialogue.
His body, a map of fresh and ancient agonies, finally surrendered to an exhausted, dreamless void, while Cross held him, awake, planning the next word in their relentless, private dialogue.
The next word was a jolt.
Ezra woke to it hours later, a familiar internal earthquake that was somehow deeper, sharper, more insistent than before. The conversation in the vacuum bed had rewired something. The contractions were no longer just pain; they were a demand. They coiled up from the stones and seized his breath before he even opened his eyes. Cross was a solid, sleeping warmth behind him, an arm slung possessively over his waist. The need was immediate, tactical. He needed an anchor, a distraction made of flesh.
He shifted slowly, wincing as the movement made the stones grind. He turned under Cross’s arm, his back protesting. Cross slept on, his handsome face slack, untroubled. Ezra slid down the bed, the sheets whispering against his sore skin. He nuzzled the front of Cross’s sleeping trousers, smelling sleep and musk. He mouthed the shape of him through the fabric, feeling him stir into semi-hardness. With careful teeth, he pulled down the waistband.
Cross’s cock lay heavy against his thigh. Ezra took it into his mouth without preamble, swallowing down the length, his throat working open. It was warm, soft at first, then rapidly filling. He sucked with a desperate, hungry rhythm, one hand cupping his own tortured stomach, the other stroking what his mouth couldn’t take. He hollowed his cheeks, slurping, using his tongue in rough, flat strokes along the veined underside. He needed Cross to come. He needed to witness that loss of control, to have that power, however fleeting, as a counterweight to the vicious tightening in his own core.
A particularly brutal contraction locked his spine. He groaned around the cock, his jaw clamping down instinctively. His vision whited out at the edges. He didn’t stop. He sucked harder, more frantically, using the sharp spike of pain to fuel his fervor, fucking his own mouth on Cross’s shaft.
Cross woke to the wet, desperate heat and the immediate, undeniable crest of his own orgasm. His hips jerked up off the bed. A guttural, sleep-rough sound tore from his throat as he emptied himself in hot, pulsing streaks down Ezra’s eager throat. Ezra swallowed convulsively, milking him with lips and hand until he was soft.
For a moment, there was only the sound of ragged breathing. Then Cross’s hand fisted in Ezra’s short hair, not gently. He yanked his head back. Ezra’s face was a mess of spit and come, his eyes screwed shut. A tremor—fine and constant as a plucked wire—ran through him.
“You’re hiding it,” Cross’s voice was morning-rough, dangerously quiet. He’d seen the grimace Ezra had tried to bury in his pelvis. “The pain’s changed. It’s sharper. You thought you’d distract us both.”
Cross shoved him onto his back and loomed over him, knees pinning Ezra’s thighs. He reached for the sleek case on the nightstand, the one that held the hyposprays. He didn’t bother selecting; he took the one charged with the yellow-tinged contraction enhancer. The hiss against Ezra’s jugular was the only warning.
The effect was instantaneous and catastrophic.
It was as if the previous days had been a gentle warm-up. The deep, grinding waves were gone, replaced by a continuous, screaming clench. His uterus became a fist of live wires, tightening and tightening with no release, a permanent, spastic seizure around the jagged stones. Ezra arched off the bed, a soundless scream tearing his throat. His hands scrabbled at Cross’s arms, not to push him away, but to hold on.
“There it is,” Cross whispered, his eyes alight with clinical awe. He settled his weight more fully on Ezra, one large hand splaying over the distended, trembling mound of his stomach. He pressed down. Not a gentle touch, but a steady, increasing compression, forcing the clenched muscles to fight an external weight as well.
“Oh, god, fuck,” Ezra sobbed, his body bowing. The pressure was monumental. Inside, the muscles were in endless, violent revolt. Outside, Cross’s hand was a descending vice. He felt like he was being crushed from the inside out. His cock, untouched, was rigid and leaking against his belly, a traitorous response to the overload.
His hands flew to Cross’s wrist, not to remove it, but to cling. With his other hand, he fumbled for Cross’s cock, which was already hardening again, fascinated by the spectacle. He stroked it desperately, his grip slick with his own sweat, his rhythm shattered by the tremors wracking him.
“Please,” Ezra choked, the word barely audible.
“Please what?” Cross asked, his voice a low, intimate rumble. He increased the pressure on Ezra’s stomach, grinding his palm down in a slow circle. “Use your words. I want to hear the shape of your need.”
But words were beyond him for hours. Time became a flat,痛苦 expanse measured only in the unrelenting clenches and the rough, desperate slide of his fist on Cross’s cock. He faded in and out. One moment he was staring at the ceiling light, seeing halos around its edges. The next, he was surfacing from a grey nothingness, his hand still moving on autopilot, Cross’s hand still a crushing weight.
His breaths were shallow, insufficient sips of air. The corset was off, but his diaphragm was paralyzed by the internal siege. Spots danced in his vision. Consciousness was a thin shroud, constantly tearing.
Cross watched him disintegrate. He murmured things, sometimes. “Look at that magnificent struggle.” Or, “Your body is so obedient to the chemistry.” He never let up the pressure.
Finally, after a grey eternity, a sound broke from Ezra’s lips that wasn’t a sob or a moan. It was a slurry, fractured whisper, pushed out on a stolen breath. “…beg.”
Cross leaned close, his lips almost touching Ezra’s. “What was that?”
“I’m… begging.” The admission was a total collapse. A wet track cut through the grime on Ezra’s temple. “Please. Let me push them out. Just… let them out. So you can fuck me. Please, Cross. I need you to fuck me. I need it to be just you. Please.”
He was babbling, his mind unraveling at the seams of the pain. He craned his neck up, seeking Cross’s mouth, kissing him with a messy, blind desperation. His tongue pushed past Cross’s lips, a raw, wordless plea.
Cross kissed him back, deep and slow, a mockery of tenderness. When he broke away, he was smiling. “How could I refuse a request made so beautifully?” His voice was a silken caress. “I’ll even help. Since you asked so well.”
In one brutal, unceremonious motion, he hooked his fingers around the flanged base of the vaginal plug and pulled. It slid free with a wet, obscene pop.
The sensation was a sudden, gaping void, an invitation to a relief so profound it was dizzying. Ezra gasped, his body instinctively bearing down. But before he could push, Cross’s hand was back on his stomach, now flat and relentless.
“No,” Cross said. “Not like that. Let me.”
He repositioned himself, kneeling between Ezra’s splayed legs. He placed both hands on the lower curve of Ezra’s belly, his fingers digging into the soft, stretched flesh. He looked into Ezra’s wide, broken eyes.
Then he leaned his entire weight forward and shoved down.
A hard, merciless, downward push, aiming the stones toward that newly opened exit.
Ezra’s world split open. The agony was transcendent, a slicing, tearing descent that blotted out everything. He heard a scream, raw and endless, and only later realized it was his own.
He heard a scream, raw and endless, and only later realized it was his own. The pain was a geological event, a continental shelf shearing inside him. Cross’s hands were tectonic plates, shifting, pressing down with a brutal, focused torque.
The first egg breached.
It wasn’t a gentle passage. It was a violent, ripping emergence, a jagged stone the size of a fist clawing its way out of a space that had been stretched and stuffed for days. The sensation was less of pushing and more of being turned inside out through a keyhole. A white-hot tear, then a sudden, shocking vacancy.
His body, hijacked by the drugs and the sheer catastrophic relief, convulsed. An orgasm ripped through him, a seismic shockwave with no pleasure, just pure, involuntary neurological wildfire. His back arched off the bed, his cock jerking, spilling untouched over his belly. A soundless, gaping wail locked in his throat.
Cross didn’t pause. He shifted his grip, fingers probing the deformed landscape of Ezra’s belly, finding the next stubborn bulge. He shoved again.
“There,” he grunted, his voice thick with concentration.
The second egg tore free faster, scraping a path through the already ravaged channel. Another vacancy, another brutal, violating emptiness that his nerves misinterpreted as climax. Another wrenching, full-body convulsion seized him, his hips hammering against the mattress, his vision dissolving into static snow. He was sobbing, drooling, completely dismantled.
“One more,” Cross whispered, almost lovingly. His palm ground down on the final, largest stone, guiding it mercilessly toward the exit. “Give it to me.”
The last one was the worst. It caught, its irregular shape snagging on the tender, swollen rim. Cross leaned his full weight into it, a soft, clinical curse escaping his lips as he worked it, a midwife to a monstrosity.
With a final, wet, tearing surrender, it passed.
The relief was so profound it was a new kind of agony. A vast, hollow, bruised ache where there had been relentless pressure. Ezra floated in it, boneless, ruined. He was empty. The thought was a sunburst in his shattered mind.
He didn’t see Cross move, only felt the sudden, blunt pressure replacing the emptiness. No preparation, no spit, just the thick, hard invasion of Cross’s cock plunging into the newly vacated, torn-open space.
“Fuck!” Ezra shrieked, the sound scraping his raw throat.
It was too much, an immediate violation of the raw tissue. The pain was brilliant, sharp, a lightning bolt to the deep, throbbing ache. Cross sheathed himself to the hilt in one relentless thrust, his balls slapping against Ezra’s ass. The stretch was different now—not against the packed stones, but against the inflamed, sensitive walls, touching places that screamed in fresh protest.
“Mine,” Cross growled, pulling out and slamming back in. “Empty, and still mine.”
The friction was incendiary. Ezra’s body, trapped in a feedback loop of trauma and release, betrayed him again. The brutal, pistoning penetration, rubbing against nerves shocked from the eggs’ passage, triggered a third cataclysm. This orgasm was a dark wave, pulling him under, muffling the pain in a dizzying rush of chemical static. He clamped down around Cross’s cock, his own sputtering uselessly between them, his hands flailing weakly before finding Cross’s hips, nails digging in, trying to pull him deeper into the ruin.
“That’s it,” Cross panted, his rhythm becoming ragged, punishing. “Use the hole I made. Squeeze my cock with your wrecked little cunt.”
Ezra tried to obey, his body contracting in weak, spasmodic flutters around the invading length. He was breathless, woozy, his consciousness a faint signal. He turned his head, his lips finding Cross’s wrist where it braced beside his head. He sucked at the skin, a feeble, wet imitation of pleasure, a desperate attempt to participate in his own consumption.
Cross watched him, gray eyes glazed with a feral triumph. The sight of Ezra, utterly broken and still trying to please him, severed his last thread of control.
“Gonna fill you,” he choked out. “Gonna pump this fucking come right back into the emptiness.”
His thrusts lost all rhythm, becoming short, frantic jackhammers. He buried himself deep and held, his body bowing as he emptied in hot, pulsing jets, marking the hollow he’d created as his own. He collapsed forward, his weight pinning Ezra to the soaked sheets, their sweat and spend mingling.
For long minutes, there was only the sound of ragged breathing. Then Cross moved, pulling out slowly. Ezra whimpered at the loss, the cold air a shock to his exposed, swollen flesh.
“Come on,” Cross said, his voice rough but unnervingly gentle. He gathered Ezra up, lifting him as if he weighed nothing. The walk to the shower was a blur of stumbling steps and Cross’s solid support.
The water was a scalding cascade. Cross pinned him against the tiles, washing him with a thorough, impersonal efficiency. The heat seeped into Ezra’s muscles, liquefying what little strength he had left. His legs gave out. Cross held him up, an arm around his chest, letting the water sluice over them both. Ezra’s head lolled back against Cross’s shoulder, his eyes closed. The world was a warm, roaring haze.
He was only vaguely aware of being dried, of being carried to the deep soaking tub in the corner of the lavatory. Cross lowered him into the hot, still water, supporting his head on a rolled towel. “Rest,” Cross said, a simple command.
Ezra submerged into the heat and the nothingness, passing out before Cross’s footsteps had even faded from the room.
He floated in a warm, dark sea for what felt like both an instant and an age. The sharp edges of the world had been sanded down to soft, humming blur. A gentle touch on his shoulder pulled him back. Cross knelt by the tub, a crystal glass in each hand. One was half-full of amber liquid, the other held a vibrant, emerald-green cocktail.
“Time to get up,” Cross said, his voice soft. He handed Ezra the green drink. “This will help.”
Ezra’s hands were weak, but he took the glass. He sipped. The taste was sweet, herbaceous, with a sharp, chemical undertaste that bloomed at the back of his tongue. He didn’t care. He drank greedily, the cool liquid a balm. A pleasant, floating dissociation began to weave through the heavy fatigue in his limbs. The lingering aches in his core softened, becoming distant, interesting sensations.
He smiled up at Cross, a loose, easy expression. “Tastes funny.”
“It’s special,” Cross said, finishing his own drink in one swallow. He stood and began to dress, selecting clothes from his wardrobe with crisp efficiency. “We have a dinner. A week-long retreat, actually. At the Alabaster Mansions. For the upper echelon.”
Ezra listened, sipping his drink. The information drifted through his mind, not landing with any weight. A retreat. A mansion. It sounded nice. The liquid warmth in his stomach spread, making colors seem a bit brighter, the edges of the room pleasantly fuzzy.
“You’ll be on my arm,” Cross continued, smoothing his hair in the mirror. He shot Ezra a glance, assessing. “You’ll behave beautifully. You’ll be charming. You’ll rely on me.”
“Okay,” Ezra sighed, happily. The concept of defiance was a distant memory, a story about someone else. He felt good. Relaxed. The tub water was cool now. He shivered.
Cross tossed him a thick, plush robe. “Out. Let’s get you dressed.”
Dressing Ezra was a simple matter of guiding limp limbs into soft, expensive clothes. Dark trousers, a silken shirt that hid the fading bruises on his arms. Cross laced him into a supportive brace, not the torturous corset, but something firm that eased the profound ache in his abdomen without punishing him. Each touch from Cross felt magnified, a warm point of connection in his hazy world.
When they were both ready, Cross offered his arm. Ezra took it, leaning his weight into the solidity without a second thought. His steps were light, unsteady. The hallucinogenics made the corridor lights stretch into soft stars, the hum of the bunker a melodic drone.
They traveled quickly, through private trams and silent lifts. Ezra leaned on Cross’s arm, his head dipping occasionally, a smile playing on his lips. The world was a gentle, supportive dream, and Cross was the only real thing in it. The journey felt instant, a blur of motion and soft light.
Then the doors opened.
The air changed—colder, tinged with filtered ozone and the faint, sterile scent of wealth. They stood at the threshold of a vast atrium within the Alabaster Mansions. Soaring ceilings vanished into soft gloom, and the distant murmur of polished conversation echoed off marble floors. Ezra blinked, clinging to Cross’s arm, the last solid anchor in a suddenly immense and gleaming world.