Chapter 3: Sunlit Stretching
The taste lingered. It followed him through the sterile, air-conditioned appointments—a posture coach who adjusted his spine with impersonal hands, a vocal therapist who made him repeat phrases until his enunciation was crisp and subdued. It was there as a silent film nutritionist described, in graphic detail, the planned dietary shifts and their effects on his bodily secretions. The clean, professional settings of those rooms felt like a bizarre dream. The real world was the phantom salt on his tongue, the constant, subtle ache of the plug, the whisper-soft rub of expensive lingerie against hairless skin.
He was returned to the suite around noon, instructed to hydrate and use the bathroom. As he stood draining his caged cock over the toilet, a chime sounded from the main room. Davenport’s voice followed, cool and direct through a hidden speaker. "The rooftop. Now. You will wear what is provided."
Laid across the bed was not lingerie, but a single garment: a short, silken kimono robe of deep burgundy. It was blatant. It would cover little.
Logan slipped it on. The fabric was shockingly smooth against his sensitized skin, brushing his thighs as he walked. It tied loosely at the waist. He felt a current of air along his groin, the cage an obvious steel bulge beneath the thin silk. He was barefoot as he left the suite for the first time, padding down a silent, carpeted hallway to a private elevator. The doors opened onto a blast of humid, city-scented air and dazzling light.
The rooftop garden was a shock of verdant luxury. Tiered planters overflowed with lavender and jasmine, their perfumes mingling with the distant smell of asphalt and exhaust. A mosaic patio of cobalt and gold tiles gleamed, leading to a central, shaded area beneath a wrought-iron trellis heavy with wisteria. Beneath it was a long, ornate bench, its metalwork patterned like curling vines. Davenport stood there, his suit jacket gone, sleeves rolled up. On the bench lay an array of objects: soft leather cuffs, chains, a towel, and a line of silicone shapes in progressively darker shades, each thicker than the last.
"Come here." Davenport's voice was almost casual. "Stand and look out."
Logan went to him. From this height, the city was a breathtaking geometric carpet, silent and immense. The sun was a hot weight on his shoulders.
"It's peaceful up here, isn't it?" Davenport said, coming to stand behind him. His hands settled on Logan's shoulders, then slid down, pushing the robe off. It puddled at Logan's feet. He was utterly exposed to the sky, to the millions of unseen windows in the towers around them. A hot tremor of shame went through him, his skin prickling.
"Yet you're entirely mine. No one can see, but we know. That's the point." Davenport’s hands roamed over his shaved chest, pinching a nipple until Logan gasped. He turned him around to face the bench. "On your back. Legs over the arms."
The iron was warm from the sun. Logan lay back, the intricate metalwork pressing into his skin. Davenport took his right wrist, fastened a leather cuff around it, and clipped a chain to a ring hidden in the bench's design. He did the same with the left, then each ankle. Logan was spread-eagled under the dappled light, completely vulnerable, the cage a stark, ridiculous centerpiece. The plug inside him felt suddenly small, a mere prelude.
Davenport picked up the first silicone piece, a modest taper. He squirted clear lubricant onto it, letting it drip onto Logan’s stretched hole. The cold glob made him flinch. "You've been acclimating all morning. Now we measure progress."
He pressed the tip against him. It slipped in easily, a smooth, unchallenging fullness. Logan watched, his breath quickening, as Davenport worked it in and out a few times before discarding it.
"Good. Minimal resistance."
The next piece was thicker, with a pronounced curve. This one required a slow, steady pressure. Logan felt the stretch, a burning ring that bloomed and then subsided as the toy seated fully inside him. Davenport moved it with clinical precision, watching his face.
"Breathe out as it goes in. You're fighting it."
Logan exhaled, and the silicone slid deeper, the curve nudging a spot that made his caged cock jump and leak a fresh, clear bead onto his stomach. A pathetic, quiet moan escaped him.
"See? Your body knows what it needs, even if your mind still whispers nonsense." Davenport removed it, picking up the third. This one was significantly wider, a deep purple, the head a blunt, challenging bulb. The lube this time was copious, a slick rush over his exposed hole.
This stretch was not easy. It burned. Logan’s thighs tensed against the chains. A sharp cry was torn from him as the widest part threatened to breach him.
"Stop clenching," Davenport commanded, his voice flat. "You will accept it. This is nothing compared to what you'll ultimately take."
The words were a cold shock. Logan forced himself to go limp, to breathe through the searing pressure. With a slow, inexorable push, the bulbous head popped past the tight ring of muscle. The pleasure-pain was blinding. He threw his head back, the chains rattling as he shuddered. Davenport pushed it deeper, then began a slow, brutal rhythm, fucking him open with the synthetic girth. Each stroke dragged against his raw, overstimulated prostate. Logan was babbling, a stream of "oh god, oh fuck," his back arching off the warm iron.
"That's it. Gape for it. Let the city see what you're becoming."
Davenport discarded the purple toy. The emptiness was a strange, aching void. Logan’s hole felt loose, fluttering open in the humid air. He was panting, delirious, his mind stripped to primal need. Davenport picked up the last one. It was black, monstrously thick, veined. The sight alone made Logan whimper.
"Please… I can't…"
"You can. You will." Davenport lubed it, the sheer volume dripping down Logan's cleft onto the towel below. He positioned the terrifying head. "This is what you were made for. To be reshaped. To be used."
The pressure was astronomical. It wasn't just a stretch; it was a splitting, a fundamental reorganization of his limits. Logan screamed, a raw sound lost in the vast sky. Tears blurred the wisteria blossoms above. He thought he might tear apart. Davenport leaned his weight into it, a relentless engineer, until with a final, wet, obscene pop, the entire head was engulfed. Logan sobbed, his body accepting the impossible inch by agonizing inch until the full, brutal length was buried inside him. He felt stuffed, animal, his belly distended. Davenport left it there, letting him feel the sheer volume, the crushing fullness.
"Look at you. Ruined. Perfect." Davenport trailed a finger around the stretched, glossy rim where the black silicone met his body. The touch was electric, degrading. Logan's caged dick was a weeping, ignored ache.
Then Davenport undid his trousers. His own cock, thick and rigid, sprang free. He removed the monstrous black toy, dropping it with a heavy thud on the towel. Logan’s hole gaped openly, a slack, wet circle, desperately empty after being so brutally filled.
Davenport positioned himself, the head of his cock nudging the devastated entrance. "Now, you'll take the real thing. And you'll thank me for it."
He pushed in. There was no resistance. None. Only a shocking, smooth, deep slide as he sheathed himself entirely in the slack, well-trained channel. The feeling was unbelievable for both of them—for Logan, a profound, hollow fullness, a direct connection utterly devoid of protective tension; for Davenport, a hot, velvet vice, perfectly molded.
"Fuck," Davenport growled, his composure shattering. "Look at that. Fucking look at it." He pulled almost all the way out, making Logan moan at the loss, then slammed back in to the hilt. The bench rattled.
The rhythm was immediate and punishing. Deep, hard strokes that buried him in Logan's ruined hole with a wet, slapping sound that mixed with the drone of the city. Logan was unraveling. The clinical patience of the morning, the forced ingestion, the posturing—all of it was stripped away by this raw, brutal claiming.
"Thank you," Logan choked out, the words ripped from him. "Thank you, sir. Please… please fuck me. Use my hole. It's yours, it's so yours…"
"Beg louder."
"Please! Fuck me! Fuck this slutty hole, it's all yours, I need it, I need you to wreck me!" His voice was a broken shout. He was nothing but a wanton, open thing, chained under the sun, begging for more of the violation that was defining him.
Davenport’s thrusts became erratic, animalistic. He fisted a hand in Logan’s hair, yanking his head back. "You’re nothing but a used cunt now. My cunt. You'll take this whenever, wherever I choose."
"Yes! God, yes!" Logan was sobbing, his body convulsing around the pounding cock. An orgasm was building from that deep, brutal friction, a dry, wordless detonation with no release for his trapped erection. It crested and broke—a silent, inner quaking that left him breathless and empty.
Davenport followed with a final, grinding thrust, spilling deep inside with a guttural groan. He stayed there, buried, as the heat pulsed into Logan's utterly claimable depths. The feeling of being filled, truly filled, triggered another weaker, trembling aftershock in Logan.
Slowly, Davenport pulled out. The absence was profound. Logan felt spent, gaping, cool air swirling into the wet, used space. Davenport fastened his trousers. He looked down at Logan, a sheen of sweat on his own brow, an expression of savage satisfaction on his face.
He uncuffed one wrist, then the other, handling Logan’s limp limbs. Finally, he freed his ankles. "Clean yourself up. There are wipes in the box. Then put your robe on."
Logan tried to sit up. His body felt liquid, uncoordinated. He used the wipes mechanically, cleaning the lube and come from his thighs, his spent hole. The silk robe felt alien against his skin as he tied it.
Davenport was gathering the toys, wrapping them in the towel. "Tomorrow, we begin depth training," he said, as if commenting on the weather. "And you'll wear a smaller cage."
He walked toward the elevator, not looking back.
Logan stood on shaky legs, the mosaic tiles hot beneath his feet. The city panorama sprawled, indifferent. He touched his own stomach, as if he could feel the ghost of the stretching, the lingering heat of the seed inside him. The hunger wasn't shocking anymore. It was just there—a deep, hollow truth. He followed, his steps quiet on the sun-baked stone, the robe fluttering around his thighs like a flag of surrender.
He followed, his steps quiet on the sun-baked stone, the robe fluttering around his thighs like a flag of surrender.
The next two weeks folded into a brutal, illuminating rhythm. Dawn began with the silent offering of the glass, its contents now consumed with a grim, efficient focus that had long since eclipsed gagging. His shaving routine became meditative, the smoothness of his skin a point of numb pride. The smaller cage, a curved tube of polished steel that presented his genitals as a neat, useless package, was a permanent chastisement he’d stopped reflexively tugging against.
His body adapted. The daily stretching sessions, sometimes with toys, sometimes with Davenport’s skilled, impatient fingers, transformed a threshold of pain into a gateway of aching expectation. The sharp burn of lube, the initial press of intrusion—these no longer signaled dread, but a precursor to the deep, full-body shudder of a prostate ruthlessly targeted. Pleasure, once centered in his ignored cock, had migrated entirely to that internal nexus of nerve endings. An orgasm was now a silent, concentric convulsion around whatever filled him, a dry heave of the soul that left his cage damp and his mind blissfully blank.
Submission became transactional, then habitual, then metabolic. "Please" and "thank you, sir" were no longer forced courtesies but the necessary syntax to unlock sensation. He found himself cataloging Davenport’s moods in the set of his shoulders, the tone of a sigh, learning to anticipate needs before they were verbalized. The fear never left, but it was now alloyed with a craving that felt heavier, more substantial.
One humid afternoon, the ritual pivoted. Logan knelt on the suite’s rug, his mouth still thick with the aftertaste of his daily supplement. Davenport stood before him, absently stroking his cock to full hardness. "Up. On the bed. On your hands and knees."
Logan moved quickly, the new cage a cool, familiar weight. He presented himself, head down, back arched in a way he now knew pleased his master. He heard the tear of a foil packet, the snap of latex. A thrill, sharp and unmistakable, cut through him.
"Wider," Davenport said, a hand spreading his cheeks apart. The air touched his perpetually sensitized hole. He complied, pushing his knees further apart on the duvet, a low sigh escaping him.
There was no preamble, no slow stretching. Davenport’s cock, sheathed in rubber, pressed against him and pushed in with a single, smooth, commanding thrust. The fullness was immediate, profound, a perfect anchor. Logan groaned, the sound long and ragged.
"Fucking hell," Davenport breathed, his hands gripping Logan’s hips. "You take it like you're starving."
"I am," Logan gasped into the bedding, the truth of it shocking him even as he said it. "Please. Fuck me. Please."
Davenport obliged. He set a relentless, deep pace, each pounding drive hitting the mark with unerring accuracy. The slap of skin, the wet, rhythmic noise of penetration, filled the room. Logan’s arms gave out; he slumped onto his elbows, face pressed into the cool linen, ass high, utterly pliant.
"Yes, yes, god, right there," he chanted, his voice muffled. His world narrowed to the pistoning thickness splitting him open, to the electric fire spreading from his core. He was drooling on the bedspread, mindless, pushing back against each thrust to take him deeper.
"You’re just a hole now, aren’t you?" Davenport’s voice was gritted, strained. "A warm, greedy hole that doesn't need anything else."
"Nothing else," Logan sobbed in agreement, the words true down to his marrow. His caged dick was a distant ornament, a trivial ache. All meaning was here, in this brutal connection. The coil in his gut tightened, a pressure seeking madness without release. "I'm gonna come. Just from this. Sir, I'm gonna—"
"Come," Davenport ordered, drilling into him with ferocious speed.
It crashed through Logan like a silent detonation. His body seized, his back bowing, his used hole clamping rhythmically around the pounding cock inside him. It was a devastating, internal explosion that left him blind and breathless, shaking through wave after wave of sensation with a pathetic, choked whimper.
Feeling him convulse, Davenport let out a sharp groan. He buried himself to the hilt, hips grinding forward as he emptied into the condom deep inside Logan’s body. They stayed locked together for a long moment, both panting, dripping with sweat.
Davenport pulled out slowly. He disposed of the condom, then ran a contemplative hand over Logan’s trembling flank, over the curve of his ass. "You see?" he said, his voice returning to its measured calm. "This is what you are. This is all you need to be."
Logan, facedown in the sweat-damp linen, could only manage a weak, agreeing sound. The emptiness inside him yawned, vast and familiar. He knew, with a certainty that was neither happy nor sad, that he would do anything to feel filled again.
He was learning.