Chapter 8: Teasing
The hum of the ballroom was a physical thing, a vibration that resonated in Ezra’s teeth and in the bloated, liquid-heavy core of him. He walked a tightrope of agony and air, each step a careful negotiation. The corset was a relentless second skin, each shallow sip of breath a victory. The plug was a planet of silicone, its gravity warping his every movement. And the wine… the wine was a low, fermenting sun inside his gut, radiating a dizzying heat that made the glittering room swim.
Cross’s hand was on his lower back, a point of导航. They moved through the clusters of people, Cross’s greetings sharp and efficient. Ezra smiled when he felt the hand press, a signal. He nodded when he heard Cross’s tone shift. He was a marionette, strings pulled by breath and pressure.
And within that fragile, oxygen-starved shell, a spark of his old self flickered. A reckless, stupid spark. He watched Cross’s profile as the Commander exchanged taut pleasantries with a logistics overseer. He saw the subtle tension in Cross’s jaw, the way his thumb tapped a slow rhythm against his own thigh. Bored. Irritated. Needing.
Ezra, his vision softly blurred at the edges, let his hand, which had been hanging limply at his side, drift. His fingertips, light as moth wings, brushed the back of Cross’s hand where it rested on his own hip. A ghost of a touch. Then, as Cross guided him toward a quieter columned alcove, Ezra’s fingers trailed over the taut black wool covering Cross’s stomach. It was a wandering, seemingly accidental touch, up the firm plane, a whisper over the buckle of his belt.
Cross’s breath hitched, just a tiny catch in his exhale. His stride didn’t falter, but the hand on Ezra’s back tightened, fingers digging in briefly. “Careful,” he murmured, the word a low vibration meant only for Ezra.
The warning was fuel. Ezra’s head was light, floating on a haze of alcohol and anoxia. Risks felt abstract. Consequences were for a world where he could breathe. He let his knuckles brush the front of Cross’s thigh as they walked, a slow, dragging touch over the hard muscle. He felt the thick outline of Cross’s cock, already half-hard, trapped in the uniform trousers. A thrill, sharp and electric, cut through his fog. He did it again, a little firmer.
This time, Cross stopped. They were in the shadow of a massive structural pillar, momentarily shielded from the main crowd. He turned Ezra to face him, his gray eyes like chips of flint. “What do you think you’re doing?”
Ezra looked up, his smile blurry but genuine. He had to gasp the words, each one a minor theft of air. “Just… appreciating the architecture, sir.”
Cross’s gaze dropped to Ezra’s lips, parted and struggling. He saw the sheen of sweat on his temple, the desperate rise and fall of his constricted chest. He saw the defiance swimming in the drunken haze. A muscle twitched in his jaw. The slow, idle tap of his thumb against his leg had become a clenched fist.
“You’re playing with a fire you can’t possibly control,” Cross said, his voice dangerously soft.
“Mmm,” Ezra hummed, his hand finding Cross’s again. This time, he laced their fingers together, pulling Cross’s hand to his own corseted waist, pressing the Commander’s palm against the punishing leather. “Feels… controlled. To me.”
It was a masterpiece of provocation. Weak, breathless, utterly dependent, yet still teasing. Still challenging. Cross’s control was a visible mantle around him, but beneath it, Ezra could sense the coiling frustration. He had been on display all day, managing idiots, performing stability, and his fascinating, broken pet was lighting little fires under his skin.
The hour Cross had promised stretched like hot tar. Every public minute was a study in contained fury for Cross, and a deepening, breathless gamble for Ezra. He continued his subtle campaign. A lean of his body that pressed his hip against Cross’s thigh. A sigh that was a little too loud, too pointed, as he shifted his weight from one aching foot to the other. When Cross leaned down to hear a superior’s comment, Ezra turned his head slightly, his breath whispering against Cross’s neck.
By the time Cross finally gave a curt, concluding nod to a pair of architects and steered them definitively toward the exit, the tension between them was a live wire. Cross’s movements were stiff, his charm replaced by a cold, focused intensity. Ezra floated beside him, his world reduced to a tunnel. The black marble floor seemed to undulate. The holographic chandeliers were smeared suns. He couldn’t draw enough air to think, only to feel—the agony in his ribs, the heavy slosh in his belly, and the relentless, thrilling knowledge of the hard line of Cross’s erection pressing against his own hip.
The walk back to their wing was silent but for the echo of their footsteps and Ezra’s ragged, insufficient breathing. In the elevator, Cross slammed the heel of his hand against the control panel. The doors sealed them in.
Alone, in the sterile, moving box, Ezra’s bravado crumbled into pure need. He slumped against the wall, his head swimming, colors bleeding at the edges into gray. He was blacking out in slow motion. Yet, his hand, moving as if by its own dying instinct, reached for Cross. His fingers fumbled with the front of Cross’s trousers, brushing over the formidable bulge.
“Please…” Ezra slurred, the word barely audible.
Cross looked at him—really looked. He saw the vacancy in Ezra’s eyes, the pallor beneath the flush. He saw the absolute, physical ruin. And he saw the hand, still trying to please, even as consciousness flickered. The sight snapped the last of his patience.
The elevator door hissed open. Cross didn’t guide him this time. He grabbed Ezra by the upper arm and hauled him down the corridor, a half-drag, half-carry. Ezra’s feet scrabbled, unable to keep up. He was a doll, a sack of beautiful, broken parts.
Cross kicked the door to their room open. It crashed against the wall. He didn’t take two steps inside before he shoved Ezra forward. Ezra stumbled, his legs gone, and collapsed onto his hands and knees on the cool floor. The impact forced a choked cry from him as the plug drove deep, a final, shocking invasion.
Cross was on him before the sound had faded. He knelt behind Ezra, his hands rough on the laces of the corset. He didn’t untie them with ceremony. He yanked at the knot, then pulled, not with the measured, theatrical tightness of before, but with furious, urgent tugs. The leather loosened in violent increments.
Air. It rushed into Ezra’s lungs in a burning, painful flood. He gasped, coughing, his body bowing under the sudden, shocking expansion. The relief was so profound it was a new kind of agony. He sucked in ragged, whooping breaths, his vision sparking with white stars.
But Cross wasn’t finished. The corset hung loose. He shoved it down Ezra’s arms, trapping them at his elbows. Then his hand went between Ezra’s legs, fingers curling around the base of the silicone plug.
“You wanted my attention,” Cross growled, his voice stripped of all charm, raw and dark. “You spent all evening teasing a hard cock you had no intention of properly servicing. You breathed my air just to taunt me with yours.”
He pulled the plug.
It was a brutal, ungreased extraction. The thick silicone stretched Ezra wide, then popped free with a wet, obscene sound. A torrent of dark red wine followed, gushing out of him in a hot, humiliating flood that soaked his thighs and splashed onto the floor. The release of pressure was catastrophic, leaving him feeling eviscerated, hollowed out and trembling.
Cross didn’t give him a second to comprehend the void. He unfastened his own trousers, freeing his cock, which was fully erect, flushed an angry red, the head beaded with precum. He spat into his palm once, a crude, dismissive gesture, and slicked himself.
“You’re empty now,” he said, positioning the broad head against Ezra’s stretched, dripping entrance. “So I’ll fill you with something you actually need.”
He shoved inside.
It was a single, punishing thrust, no grace, no preparation. He buried himself to the hilt in the wine-slicked, violated channel. Ezra screamed, a raw, torn sound. It was too much, too fast, a brutal occupation of a space that was throbbing and sore. The pain was bright and blinding, a white-hot lance that obliterated the last of the drunken haze.
Cross set a furious, pounding rhythm immediately. He gripped the loose leather of the corset still binding Ezra’s arms, using it as a handle to yank him back onto each thrust. His hips slapped against Ezra’s ass with a wet, meaty sound that echoed in the quiet room.
“Is this what you wanted?” he snarled, driving deep. “All your little touches? Your fucking breathy sighs?” He pistoned into him, each stroke a ruthless claim. “You don’t tease me, Ezra. You don’t play games. You take what I give you. You fucking thank me for it.”
Ezra couldn’t speak. He could only choke on air, his body ravaged by the dual violence of penetration and the desperate, clawing need for oxygen. Tears streamed down his face. The pain was evolving, fraying at the edges into something else—a deep, grinding fullness that spoke directly to his ruined, submissive core. His own cock, trapped against his belly, was painfully hard.
Cross’s thrusts became more erratic, losing their brutal precision for something more primal, more hungry. He leaned over, covering Ezra’s body with his own, his mouth at Ezra’s ear. His breath was hot and ragged. “You’re nothing but a used hole,” he panted, the filthy words a dark caress. “My hole. Drenched in my wine, stretched by my plug, now fucking impaled on my cock. Say it.”
He punctuated the demand with a deep, grinding thrust that made Ezra see stars.
“Yours!” Ezra sobbed, the word ripped from him. “Your hole… only yours…”
“Come,” Cross ordered, his voice guttural. “Come untouched, like the desperate slut you are. Show me how much you need this.”
The command, the ownership in the filth, the relentless, brutal friction—it tipped Ezra over an edge he didn’t know he was clinging to. A wave of sensation, born entirely from pain and abject submission, crashed through him. He came with a shattered cry, his cock pulsing uselessly against the floor, his body seizing around Cross’s driving length.
The intense, rhythmic clenching of Ezra’s orgasm dragged Cross over with him. With a final, deep roar, Cross buried himself and stilled. Ezra felt the hot, sudden jet of come flooding his insides, a stark, claiming heat that mixed with the cooling residue of the wine. Cross thrust shallowly a few more times, spilling into him, marking the hollowed-out space as his own.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing. Cross slumped over him, his weight a heavy, final anchor.
Cross slumped over him, his weight a heavy, final anchor. The heat of his release inside Ezra was a fading echo. For several long minutes, there was only the sound of their breathing, Cross’s slowly steadying, Ezra’s still a wet, shattered thing. Then Cross withdrew, the slide of his spent cock pulling another soft whimper from Ezra’s throat. He stood, looking down at the wreckage he’d made: the puddle of wine, the come dripping from between trembling thighs, the corset hanging loose like a shed skin.
“Get up,” Cross said. His voice was flat, devoid of its earlier fury, which was somehow worse.
Ezra tried. His arms, still pinned by the leather, buckled. He collapsed forward onto his elbows, his forehead touching the cool floor. A full-body tremor took hold of him, uncontrollable, the aftermath of strain and violation. “Can’t.”
“You can,” Cross replied, and he didn’t help. He walked to a sleek cabinet set into the wall, opening it to reveal not clothes, but an array of meticulously arranged tools: coils of black rope, restraints, sinister silicone shapes. “You teased because you had energy to burn. We’ll correct that.”
The finality in his tone cut through Ezra’ exhaustion. He managed to push himself up to his knees. The room tilted. Cross returned with two objects in his hands. They were dildos, but unlike any Ezra had seen. They were massive, carved from a deep, matte black material, their girth daunting, their heads brutally pronounced. They were not instruments of pleasure, but of occupation.
“On the bed,” Cross instructed, nodding toward the pristine platform. “On your back. Legs up and open.”
The command allowed no room for the throbbing pain or the deep emptiness. Ezra crawled onto the bed, each movement sending fresh aches through his core. He fell onto his back, his legs splayed, exposing himself completely—the bruised, used entrance between his legs, the tighter one below, both slick and aching. He was a offered anatomy chart, vulnerable and waiting.
Cross didn’t look at his face. He focused on the mechanics. He took a length of the wide, soft black rope and looped it around Ezra’s right ankle, pulling it up and out before securing it to a post of the bed frame. He repeated the process with the left ankle, spreading Ezra wide. Then he took his wrists, binding them with efficient knots above his head to another post. Ezra was staked out, a starfish of surrendered flesh.
“You wanted my attention all evening,” Cross said softly, almost conversationally, as he picked up the first dildo. He slicked it with a clear gel from a bottle. “Now you have its undivided focus.”
He positioned the thick head against Ezra’s cunt, the one still fluttering from the recent brutal fucking. There was no gentle testing, no gradual acceptance. Cross leaned his weight into it, a relentless, inward pressure that made Ezra cry out, his back arching off the bed. The stretch was immediate and excruciating, a burning, tearing fullness that pushed far past any point of comfort or even previous pain. It kept going, an impossible invasion, until the heavy base sat flush against him, a cold, unyielding seal.
Ezra panted, his vision swimming. He was so full. It felt like his pelvis would crack.
Cross didn’t pause. He took the second dildo, slicked it, and pressed its head against Ezra’s other entrance, still loose and wet from the plug and his cock. This penetration was different, a deep, internal pressure that crowded his senses from another angle. He couldn’t breathe. The two invading objects met inside him, a junction of overwhelming fullness that claimed all the space within. A broken, continuous sob escaped his lips.
“There,” Cross murmured, stepping back to admire his work. Ezra was impossibly open, stretched and speared, held in a grotesque parody of a seating position by the bindings. Every slight, involuntary clench was a battle against the unyielding silicone. Cross pulled a low chair close to the bedside and sat down, his gaze analytical. From his pocket, he produced a small, sleek device, black and humming faintly when his thumb brushed a button.
It was a vibrator, its tip narrow and focused.
“The problem with teasing,” Cross said, his voice a detached, clinical hum that matched the device, “is that it implies a capacity you don’t possess. You implied control. Let’s see how much control you really have.”
He reached out and pressed the buzzing tip directly to Ezra’s exposed, oversensitive clit.
The effect was catastrophic.
It wasn’t pleasure. It was a violent, electrical overhaul of his entire nervous system. A scream, ripped raw from his lungs, tore through the room. His body, already strained to its physical limit, seized. The orgasm that ripped through him was a convulsive, terrifying thing, having nothing to do with want and everything to do with sheer neurological overload. It shook him from his core, muscles locking, back bowing hard against the restraints.
Cross watched, unmoved. He kept the vibrator precisely in place.
The waves of the first orgasm hadn’t even begun to subside before a second, sharper one was building atop it, a cascading failure of his body’s limits. Ezra thrashed against the ropes, a guttural, pleading sound in his throat. “Stop—oh god, stop—”
“That’s one,” Cross said softly.
He didn’t stop. The relentless, high-frequency buzz was a constant, drilling stimulus. His body, with no possible escape, could only react. A third orgasm slammed into him, this one a dry, wrenching heave that felt like it tore something internally. Tears streamed from his screwed-shut eyes. Saliva coated his chin.
“Two.”
The count became a hellish liturgy. Cross recited numbers over Ezra’s shattered cries. Four. Seven. Twelve. The orgasms blurred into a continuous state of seizure. They lost any distinction, becoming a permanent, trembling peak of agony that his mind could not process. He begged, he babbled, he promised anything.
“Fifteen.”
His voice gave out. His struggles weakened. His body was drenched in sweat, every muscle twitching and jumping under the skin. The brutal fullness inside him was a constant, but the vibration was the sun, burning him out from one specific, torturous point.
“Twenty-four.”
A darkness thicker than the room’s shadows began to swallow the edges of his vision. The sensations didn’t lessen; they simply became too vast for his consciousness to hold. The world narrowed to the buzz and the shake. He heard Cross’s voice, distant, saying, “Thirty-one.”
A final, apocalyptic convulsion wracked him, a full-body tremor so violent it seemed his bones would snap. A silent scream froze on his lips.
“Thirty-two.”
Ezra’s head lolled to the side. His eyes, open and unseeing, stared at nothing. Consciousness fled, a ship slipping beneath a black wave.
But his body did not stop.
Cross watched, fascinated, as the unconscious form continued to twitch and jerk. Smaller, echoic orgasms rippled through Ezra’s spent flesh, a series of helpless, rhythmic clenches around the twin intrusions. His hips gave tiny, abortive shudders. A soft, continuous moan breathed from his slack mouth with each tremor. It was pure biological reflex, a machine set to self-destruct with no off switch. Cross leaned forward, his own breath quickening, captivated by this utter reduction of a person to raw, trembling feedback.
He did not remove the vibrator.
Time lost meaning. The only measure was the intermittent, shuddering pulse of Ezra’s broken form. Cross lost count somewhere in the forties, mesmerized by the display. Then, a particularly violent contraction seized Ezra’s entire body, so strong it jerked against the ropes. A ragged, wheezing gasp choked from his throat.
His eyes flew open. They were blind with panic, uncomprehending. Sensation—white-hot, impossible, all-consuming—crashed back into him, and with it, a climax more intense than any before. It was a seizure of pure nerve-ending fury, his body arcing so high only the restraints kept him on the bed, a soundless scream tearing at his vocal cords.
As the wave receded, leaving him gasping like a fish on a slab, a sliver of cognizance returned. He saw Cross. He felt the brutal, buzzing insistence still pressed against him. He felt the terrifying, endless march of climaxes in his recent, blacked-out memory.
“No more,” he pleaded, the words a breathless, shattered scrape of sound. His eyes, pools of pure animal terror, locked on Cross’s. “Please, no more. I can’t… I’ll break. Please.”
He was begging for a mercy he knew, in the depths of his soul, did not exist.