Chapter 9: The Corset's Grip
Consciousness returned in a slow, viscous tide. Ezra became aware of himself in pieces: the ache in his shoulders from being bound, a deep, throbbing soreness in his hips, a raw, scraped-clean feeling between his legs. He was on his side on the bed, the restraints gone. The massive dildos were gone. The space they had occupied felt cavernous and tender, a hollowed-out echo of last night’s violation.
Sunlight, artificial and too-bright from the simulated window, cut across the floor. The room was silent.
He heard the rustle of fabric and turned his head. Cross stood by the wardrobe, already dressed in a fresh, impeccable black uniform, adjusting his cufflinks. He looked rested, composed, his salt-and-pepper hair perfectly in place. He looked like a man who had enjoyed a full night’s sleep, not a man who had orchestrated a neurological meltdown.
Their eyes met in the reflection of the dark glass panel.
“Awake,” Cross stated, not a question. He turned. His gaze was analytical, assessing Ezra’s twitching limbs, the shadow of terror still etched around his eyes. “Can you stand?”
Ezra tried to speak. His throat was shredded. He managed a cough, then a nod. He pushed himself up, the movement sending flares of pain through his core. He was naked, covered in dried sweat and other, older residues. He felt utterly defiled.
“Good,” Cross said. He walked to the bed, a simple leather case in his hand. He placed it on the sheets beside Ezra. “Clean yourself up. There are wipes. Then you will put these on.”
Ezra opened the case. Inside, neatly arranged, were familiar items: the restrictive leather corset. The two black silicone dildos, gleaming dully. And something new—a slender, intricate belt of articulated steel plates, lined with soft black leather, with a complex locking mechanism at the front. A chastity belt. Designed to be worn under clothing. Designed to lock the dildos in place.
A fresh wave of nausea rolled through him. “No,” he whispered, the word a sandpaper scratch.
Cross’s hand shot out, fingers tangling in his short hair, forcing his head back. The grip was not violently painful, but it was absolute. “Last night was a lesson in capacity. Today is a lesson in presentation. You belong to me. That is not a private fact. It is a public statement. You will wear my claim. You will walk with it. You will sit with it. And you will smile.” He released him. “Now, clean up. We have a leadership breakfast in forty minutes.”
The process was a slow-motion horror. Ezra used the cold, antiseptic wipes, wiping away the physical evidence of his breaking as best he could. His hands shook. Then came the corset. Lacing it himself, under Cross’s impassive watch, was a new kind of submission. He pulled it tight, each tug stealing his breath, compressing his tender insides.
“Tighter,” Cross said from behind him.
Ezra pulled. The leather creaked.
“More.”
Tears of frustration and pain welled in his eyes. He gave another wrench on the laces, his vision spotting. He could barely draw a sip of air.
“That will do,” Cross said, his voice close. His hands replaced Ezra’s, taking the ends of the laces. With a sharp, professional tug, he cinched them another impossible inch, knotting them with finality. Ezra’s breath caught in a desperate gasp, his body locking under the pressure.
“Now,” Cross murmured, his lips near Ezra’s ear. “The plugs.”
The first dildo, slicked with cold gel, was a familiar invasion. His body, sore and unwilling, still yielded, a memory written into his muscles. The stretch was a burning ache. The second one, pressing into his other entrance, forced a low whine from him. It was too much, too soon, the fullness an immediate and brutal reminder.
Before he could adjust, Cross brought forward the chastity belt. The steel was cold against his skin. He fitted it around Ezra’s hips, the front plate pressing directly over the bases of the two dildos, holding them snugly, mercilessly in place. The back plate sat against his tailbone. Cross guided Ezra’s hands to hold it, then produced a small, brass key. He inserted it into the front lock with a soft click. The mechanism engaged with a final, metallic sound. He pulled the key free, slipping it into his own pocket.
Ezra was sealed. The dildos were now permanent, unmoving fixtures inside him. Every clench, every shift of his weight, pushed against their unyielding presence. The corset prevented him from taking a deep breath to steady himself. He was a live wire of discomfort, trussed up and locked.
“Attire,” Cross said, pointing to a simple, elegant outfit laid out—dark trousers, a high-collared tunic in a deep gray. Clothing that covered everything, revealing nothing.
Dressing was an arduous, humiliating ballet. Each step into the trousers made the dildos shift. Pulling the tunic over his head strained his corseted ribs. When he was finally dressed, he looked… presentable. Normal, even. A sharp-featured, androgynous companion for the Commander. No one would guess the machinery of torment hidden beneath the fabric.
Cross approached him. He adjusted Ezra’s collar with a proprietor’s touch, then ran a hand down his arm. “Walk with me.”
The journey from their rooms to the atrium was a slow, excruciating parade. Every step sent a jolt through Ezra. The dildos ground deep, their fixed presence an constant, obscene friction. The pressure was relentless, a twin violation with each footfall. He focused on his breathing, on the tiny, insufficient sips of air the corset allowed. His vision hazed at the edges with pain and oxygen deprivation.
The atrium was a monument to cold order. Sunlight streamed through the vast glass ceiling, illuminating long tables where the bunker’s leadership took their morning meal. The clatter of cutlery and the low murmur of serious conversation filled the space. Eyes glanced up as Cross entered, followed by curious, assessing looks at Ezra.
Cross’s hand settled on the small of Ezra’s back, a possessive guide. He led him toward the central, elevated head table where the other two senior leaders, a stern woman and a bald, heavy-set man, were already seated. The walk across the open floor felt miles long. Ezra could feel the internal drag of the silicone, the bite of the corset. He kept his head up, his expression neutral, a performance as demanding as any physical task.
Cross pulled out a heavy chrome chair for him, right beside his own at the center of the table. “Sit,” he said, his voice casual, audible to those nearby.
Ezra lowered himself. The action drove the dildos deeper, a sudden, shocking intrusion that made his legs tremble. He bit the inside of his cheek, hard, to stop a sound. He settled into the seat, the unyielding pressure now a constant, grinding presence. He was impaled on Cross’s will, in full view of the bunker’s most powerful people.
A steward appeared instantly. Cross waved a hand. “Two mimosas. The vintage champagne, please.”
He sat down beside Ezra, turning slightly to engage the bald commander on his other side in a conversation about hydroponic yields. His right hand, however, remained on the tablecloth, then drifted down. It came to rest on Ezra’s thigh, under the cover of the table. The weight was casual, almost affectionate.
Then Cross pressed down.
It wasn’t a shove. It was a firm, increasing pressure on Ezra’s leg, which subtly shifted his pelvis in the seat. The movement made the locked dildos inside him turn, just a fraction, grinding against oversensitive, bruised inner walls.
A gasp lodged in Ezra’s throat. His fingers curled around the edge of the table. The steward returned, placing two tall, elegant flutes before them, the champagne and orange juice bubbling brightly.
Cross’s hand remained, a warm, heavy brand. He leaned away from the hydroponics discussion and toward Ezra, his profile handsome and calm. He picked up one of the flutes, his left hand bringing it to Ezra’s lips. The citrus and alcohol scent was sharp.
“Drink,” Cross said softly, his gray eyes holding Ezra’s. The pressure on his thigh increased another degree.
Ezra parted his lips. The cool liquid touched his tongue. As he swallowed, Cross’s hand pressed down more insistently, and the dildos shifted again inside him, a deep, rolling disruption that bordered on nauseating. A low, choked moan vibrated in Ezra’s chest, escaping as a strained exhale. He captured it behind another hurried sip of the mimosa, his eyes watering.
Cross smiled, a charming, public smile. He set the glass down, his free hand still anchoring Ezra’s thigh in that tormenting position. He leaned in closer, his lips brushing the shell of Ezra’s ear, his breath a warm contrast to the chilled champagne. His whisper was a velvet-coated threat, perfectly audible only to the man trembling beside him.
“Smile, pet. Everyone is watching how well you take me.”
The whisper sealed itself into his ear, a parasite of humiliation. Ezra’s smile felt like a fracture in his face, brittle and artificial. He took another obedient sip from the flute Cross lifted to his lips, the champagne doing nothing to dilute the searing awareness of the locked intrusions inside him.
Cross’s hand remained on his thigh, a casual claim. Each minor adjustment of his fingers, every brush of his thumb through the fabric of the trousers, sent a jolt through Ezra’s system. His body, traitorously conditioned, would flinch and then clench tight around the dual fullness, a helpless, internal spasm that ricocheted through his gut. He drank to drown the sensation.
It became a silent, vicious cycle. Cross would lean to make a pointed comment about thermal regulation to the stern woman, his hand flexing. Ezra’s cunt would tighten violently around the hard silicone. He’d grab his own flute, gulping the mimosa to stifle a whimper. The alcohol flooded his empty stomach, its warmth merging with the deeper, unwanted heat building low in his belly.
“You’re quiet,” Cross observed to him, his voice a neutral public volume. His fingers traced a small, idle circle. Ezra’s hips jerked minutely.
“Enjoying the… hospitality, sir,” Ezra managed, his words slightly slurred. The room was beginning to tilt, the sharp lines of the atrium blurring. The relentless, grinding pressure and the steady flow of champagne fused into a single, drowning wave.
Breakfast was a parade of tiny tortures. A platter of eggs was placed before him. As he picked up his fork, Cross’s palm slid higher, pressing inward. The sudden internal clench made his hand shake, the tines scraping loudly against the plate. He abandoned the food, reaching instead for the champagne flute, now magically full again.
By the time the other commanders stood, signaling the meal’s end, Ezra was adrift. His head buzzed. His vision swam. Every nerve ending was lit raw, hyper-aware of the man beside him. When Cross finally removed his hand to stand, the sudden absence was a shock. Then Cross’s fingers wrapped around his bicep, pulling him upright.
The change in posture was an earthquake. The dildos drove deeper, shifting into new, blinding territory. Ezra swayed, his knees buckling. Cross held him fast, his grip like iron.
“A bit too much champagne, I fear,” Cross announced to the table with a chuckle, the picture of amused concern. “Forgive us. I’ll see he rests before the afternoon assessments.”
He guided Ezra away from the table, his pace deliberate. Each step was a fresh agony, the locked devices punching the air from Ezra’s corset-restricted lungs in soft, ragged hits. They moved down a side corridor, away from the public eye, the sounds of the atrium fading into a muted hum.
A heavy, brushed-steel door slid open at Cross’s touch. He pulled Ezra inside an office—cold, minimalist, dominated by a vast obsidian desk. The door sealed shut, muting the world.
Here, the performance fell away. Cross released him, and Ezra stumbled, catching himself on the edge of the hard desk. The room spun. His entire being was a raw, screaming need centered on the brutal fullness inside him. He was drunk, overstimulated, his pride dissolved in champagne and subjugation.
Cross stood before him, loosening his uniform trousers. He freed his cock, already thick and heavy, the head dark and gleaming. He said nothing, just looked at Ezra, his gaze a silent, impossible command.
Ezra sank to his knees. The impact on the hard floor sent another brutal shock through the dildos, making him cry out. He didn’t care. He was animal now, reduced to a single purpose. He needed to please, to obey, to maybe, just maybe, find some relief in the only act left to him.
He lunged forward, his mouth desperate. He took Cross deep, gagging immediately, the thick length hitting the back of his throat. He didn’t pull back. He sucked furiously, sloppily, his tongue lapping at the salty skin, his lips stretched tight. He bobbed his head, a frantic rhythm, his hands clawing at Cross’s thighs for balance. Tears streamed from his screwed-shut eyes, mixing with spit and precum.
“That’s it,” Cross murmured, his voice a dark hum above him. One hand tangled in Ezra’s short hair, not guiding, just owning. “Use that pretty mouth. It’s the only thing you’re good for right now.”
Ezra redoubled his efforts, hollowing his cheeks, sucking with a desperation that was its own kind of sob. He could taste him, bitter and masculine. He could feel the cock hardening further, throbbing on his tongue. He was close. Cross was close. His hips began a shallow, involuntary thrust.
Then Cross’s free hand moved. From his pocket, he drew a small, sleek remote. He didn’t look at it. His thumb found a button.
Inside Ezra, a mechanism engaged with a soft, pneumatic hiss.
The twin dildos, locked in his most intimate channels, began to expand.
It was a slow, relentless inflation. The silicone, unnervingly malleable, pressed outward against his already-stretched limits. The deep, dull ache transformed into a sharp, spreading pressure. Ezra’s scream was muffled around the cock in his mouth, a vibration Cross seemed to enjoy.
“Ah, ah,” Cross tutted, his hips stilling. “Don’t stop.”
Ezra tried to keep sucking, but his body was betraying him. The inflation continued. He felt obscenely full, stretched wider than he had been even during the worst of the night before. It wasn’t pleasure. It was a visceral, terrifying occupation, a feeling of being packed to the point of structural failure. A guttural, panicked noise ripped from his chest.
Cross pressed the button again, holding it.
The dildos inflated to an extreme degree, swelling into brutal, unyielding orbs that crushed his internal spaces. The pain was immediate and blinding, a white-hot sheet that erased thought. Ezra’s body convulsed. He tore his mouth away from Cross’s cock with a ragged, screaming gasp, collapsing backward onto the floor.
He lay on the cold surface, panting and sobbing, his legs splayed. He could feel them inside him, monstrous and expansive. He was split open, ruined. He tried to move, to push himself up, to complete his task, but his muscles were useless, shaking strings.
Through a veil of tears, he saw Cross standing over him, his cock still glistening and hard. A final, ragged sob wracked Ezra’s frame. He tried. He planted a trembling hand on the floor, his arm buckling instantly. He tried to crawl, to get his mouth back on that cock, but he only managed a pathetic, shuddering inch before collapsing again, his forehead pressed to the cool obsidian tile, his body anchored by the brutal, inflated weight inside him.
The inflation halted, leaving him catastrophically full. The remote clicked again, a dry, final sound. Cross looked down at the weeping form on his office floor, his expression one of mild disappointment. "Useless," he sighed, as if observing a malfunctioning tool. He tucked his still-hard cock away with detached efficiency.
"Get up." The command held no heat, only certainty. "We are not done."
Ezra couldn't. His body was a foreign landscape of pain, dominated by the twin swollen pressures locked inside him. He shook his head, a tiny, desperate motion against the tile.
"You can," Cross said. He crouched, the black fabric of his trousers straining. He didn't offer a hand. Instead, he gripped the steel-plated chastity belt at Ezra's hips, his fingers digging into the locking mechanism. He used it as a handle, hauling Ezra up onto his knees with a brutal, straight-armed pull. The motion dragged the inflated dildos through his core, a seismic shift that tore a guttural shriek from Ezra's raw throat.
Ezra swayed on his knees, vision swimming with black spots. Cross’s face was a blur of sharp angles and cold assessment. "Under the desk. Now."
He pushed Ezra forward, not toward the open space of the room, but toward the massive obsidian fortress of his workstation. The space beneath it was a cavern of shadows. Cross guided him into it, a hand on the back of his neck, applying pressure until Ezra's forehead brushed the smooth, cold underside of the desk. The position was constricting, submissive, hidden from the view of anyone who might enter.
Cross took his seat in the high-backed leather chair. He rolled it forward, the legs framing Ezra's hunched shoulders. The ambient light from the room was cut off, leaving Ezra in near-darkness, smelling only of dust, polished metal, and the salt of his own sweat. The world shrank to this secret space, the press of the desk above him, and the man whose thighs now bracketed his head.
Above him, Cross’s hands moved. The sound of his zipper was deafening. Then his cock, thick and heavy, brushed against Ezra’s cheek. It was already slick with precum and the spit from Ezra’s earlier, failed attempt.
"Suck." The order came from above, muffled slightly by the desk. "Clean up the mess you made."
Ezra turned his head, his lips parting. The first touch of the head against his tongue was electric, a focal point in the cacophony of his suffering. He took him in, his mouth stretching, his throat relaxing on a muscle-deep memory of want. He sucked, hollowing his cheeks, a slow, concentrating pull. He heard Cross’s breath hitch, a soft, sharp inhalation.
Then the pain from the inflated plugs surged, a deep, nauseating throb that tightened his diaphragm. His breath caught. He paused, his mouth still full, to simply breathe through the corset’s stricture. He rested his forehead against Cross’s thigh, the wool of the uniform rough on his skin, and gasped shallow, open-mouthed pants around the cock resting on his tongue.
"Did I say stop?" Cross’s voice was a low rumble.
Ezra flinched. He resumed, bobbing his head with more determination, using his tongue to press along the thick vein underneath. He worked him for a minute, maybe two, building a wet, rhythmic sound. Then another wave of overwhelming fullness crested inside him, a feeling of being stuffed beyond capacity. Dizziness washed over him. He broke away again, pressing his face into Cross’s leg, his body trembling with the effort of simply managing the internal pressure.
"Pathetic," Cross breathed, but his tone was strained. His fingers tangled in Ezra’s hair, not pulling, just holding. "You can't even do this right."
The cycle repeated. Ezra would work him with a frantic, dedicated energy, his mouth a slick, hot slide. He’d bring Cross to the edge, feeling the cock jump and pulse against his palate, hearing the sharp, choked curses from above. Then his own body would rebel, the dual fullness short-circuiting his focus, forcing him to stop, to gasp, to rest like a spent engine. Each time he paused, Cross would let out a frustrated, animal growl. He was being edged by his victim’s agony, his own pleasure inextricably tied to Ezra’s breakdown.
After the fourth abrupt stop, with Cross’s cock throbbing angrily against Ezra’s bruised lips, Cross snapped.
"Enough." The word was tight. He pushed his chair back slightly. A drawer opened above. Ezra heard the clatter of metal on metal.
Cross’s hand appeared in the shadows, holding a long, slender rod of polished surgical steel. It caught a sliver of light, gleaming. A urethral sound. Its tip was a smooth, gradual taper.
"You wanted to play a game of control at breakfast," Cross said. His breathing was uneven. "Let's play."
He guided his cock toward Ezra’s mouth again, but not for penetration. He laid the cold, steel tip of the sound against Ezra’s lower lip. "Do it. Slowly."
A new, terrifying current cut through Ezra’s pain-drunkenness. He took the instrument, the metal cold and heavy in his fingers. His hands shook. He angled the tapered end toward the slit of Cross’s cock, glistening with wetness. The intimacy of the act was profound, a violation in reverse. He pressed the tip gently, finding the tight, closed opening.
Cross hissed, his thighs tensing. "Go on."
Ezra pushed, applying meticulous, gradual pressure. The steel resisted, then breached. He watched, mesmerized, as an inch of the polished rod disappeared into Cross’s urethra. Cross’s whole body went rigid, a sharp, pained gasp escaping him. It was a sound of exquisite torment, a mix of searing discomfort and deep, forbidden pleasure.
Ezra kept going, millimeter by deliberate millimeter, feeding the sound into him. He could feel the internal resistance, the tight, clenching passage of the sensitive channel. Cross was panting now, his hands gripping the arms of his chair, knuckles white. "Fuck. Fuck. Yes."
When only the flanged base remained, Ezra stopped. He held it there, looking up through the gloom. Cross’s face was a mask of strained ecstasy, his jaw clenched, eyes screwed shut.
"Now," Cross gritted out, his voice shattered. "Finish it."
Ezra wrapped his hand around Cross’s cock, the steel stem protruding from the tip a strange, cold intrusion under his palm. He began to jerk him off, his fist sliding over the heated flesh, twisting roughly over the head. The motion jostled the sound inside, a constant, intrusive presence.
Cross’s orgasm built instantly, a tsunami held back by a steel wall. His hips bucked. "Don't stop. Don't you fucking stop."
Ezra didn't. He worked him brutally, his own pain forgotten in the power of administering this. Cross cried out, his body seizing, a pulsing rhythm starting in his core—the beginning of his climax. But as the first burst of come tried to escape, it met the solid obstruction of the sound. It was blocked, forced back. The orgasm slammed into a dam, spreading through Cross's groin as a wave of agonizing, unresolved pressure. He shouted, a raw, confused sound of pleasure that curdled instantly into pain.
Ezra kept stroking, fast and ruthless. "Come on, sir," he whispered, his voice hoarse. "You wanted me to make you come."
Another crest hit, and another. Each time, the searing release was trapped, reverberating back through Cross's sensitized nerves. It wasn't pleasure anymore. It was a neurological storm, a brutal feedback loop of climax without release. Cross was shaking, tears of frustration cutting tracks down his cheeks, his cock a hardened, pained instrument in Ezra’s relentless hand. He was sobbing, begging, his commands dissolving into fragmented, helpless pleas.
Ezra finally stilled his hand, leaving Cross shuddering on the precipice of a relief that would not come. In the sudden quiet, under the desk, the only sounds were Cross’s shattered breaths and the wet, soft click of the steel sound shifting inside him with every frantic pulse of his trapped, tortured flesh.