Chapter 10: Chapter 10
The elevator ride up to the fourth floor was quiet. Derek's neck still ached from keeping his head down, and there was a deep looseness in his body that made every step feel like he was walking on the deck of a boat. He unlocked 4B and stepped inside. The apartment smelled like dust and old wood. It was the same as always, the same gray light, the same bed in the corner. On the kitchen counter sat a fresh pouch of green and a single joint already rolled, a little card underneath that read, in neat printing, something he couldn't read.
He ignored the card. He picked up the joint and went to the balcony.
The city hummed below him. The end of the day had turned the sky a bruised purple, and the towers were beginning to light up in squares of gold and white. Derek lit the joint and pulled. The smoke tasted the same as the other nights, green and a little sweet. He pulled again, held it, let it out.
Then, a few minutes later, the world tilted.
It wasn't like the other nights. There was no gentle haze, no slow softening at the edges. Instead the lights across the city sharpened and swelled, like everything was breathing. He took another pull and his hands on the railing seemed to move in slow trails, leaving afterimages in the air. The smoke from the joint curled and twisted into shapes that looked almost like letters before dissolving.
Laced, Derek thought. This was laced with something.
The thought didn't scare him as much as it should have. The night air felt thick and alive, and the hum of the city sounded like a low voice almost at the edge of hearing, patient and warm. He put out the joint on the railing, went back inside, and lay on the bed.
The ceiling opened into a dark space. The last thing he saw was the brief, golden afterimage of a smile, and then he was gone.
The stone was cold under his hands and knees. Derek was on all fours, naked, his head bowed, his palm and knee touching rough rock that was worn smooth in places like the floor of an old church. The air smelled of damp and mineral, and his breath fogged out in front of him. The tiny steel chastity cage pressed against his groin, a cold, familiar weight.
He was in the douching room, but it was wrong. The whole room had been hollowed out of stone, walls of rough-cut blocks that rose into an arched ceiling high above him. Torches burned in iron brackets, casting orange light that made the shadows leap. Water dripped somewhere, a slow pulse against rock.
The two technicians stood at the far end of the room. The taller one, the one with the buzzed scalp and the veined forearms, wore the same navy work shirt, sleeves rolled up, his jaw a dark line of stubble against the torchlight. The shorter one, broad-shouldered with the boyish bowl cut and thick neck, carried a bottle in one hand. He crossed the stone floor toward Derek, and his boots made heavy sounds that echoed.
No one spoke.
The shorter technician knelt beside Derek and uncapped the bottle. The smell hit Derek in a wave, sharp and chemical. Poppers. The man pressed the mouth of the bottle against Derek's nostril and held it there. Derek breathed in deep, a full hit, and the heat flooded his skull. His limbs went loose, and the torchlight became brighter, the shadows deeper.
Behind him, the taller technician moved. Derek heard the click of a latch, the scrape of metal on metal. He twisted his head to look, the loose, heavy sockets of his neck shifting oddly, and saw him holding a nozzle. It was huge, wider than his wrist, a thick chrome pipe flaring at its tip into a head larger than the training dildo Derek had taken that day. The honed metal gleamed in the torchlight.
Keep your posture, the voice of Kai said in his head, clear and warm. Arched back. Ass up. Don't look. Don't speak.
Derek turned his face back to the floor and pressed his forehead down until his brow touched the stone. He pushed his knees further apart and dropped his spine, tipping his pelvis up. The arch was deep, his ass raised and open, his hole exposed to the air. The position made his back ache, but Kai's voice hummed approval.
The taller technician stepped behind him. Derek felt the cold head of the nozzle touch his hole, broad and unrelenting. It pressed, pushed, and then the ring of his ass parted around it. The head forced its way in, and Derek let out a small gasp. The sensation was stretching and wrong and somehow exactly right. The nozzle slid past his outer ring and kept going, sinking deeper into him with a slow, inexorable pressure.
He felt it reach his inner ring. There was a moment of resistance, a tightness. Then the head pushed through it, past the bend, and Derek felt a flood of something, not pain, not pleasure, just a total expansion of his own inside. He was suddenly full, fuller than the dildo had ever made him, and the fullness pushed at him from all directions.
Without warning, the water came.
It spilled into him, warm and heavy, filling him from deep within. His belly began to swell, slow and round, and Derek's breath hitched as he felt the pressure building. The water kept coming, a steady stream, and he had to keep his head down and his back arched and take all of it.
The shorter technician held the air under his nose. Another hit. The ceiling swam.
The taller one worked the nozzle, easing it in and out, and each time he pushed it in deeper, past the inner ring again, and the water surged. Derek felt himself swell, felt the weight of the water in his gut, and everything turned liquid and vague. He was a container. A soft vessel. The room tilted around him.
When he was full, so full the pressure hummed in his ears, the taller technician pulled the nozzle free. The stream of water came out of him, gushing onto the stone floor, warm and continuous. Derek's body expelled it without his trying, the ring of his hole too open, too slack, and it drained out of him in a thick flood until he was empty again, and the echo of that emptiness was complete.
The room, Derek noticed, had changed. The stone walls were no longer the same color. What had been gray blocks now had a faint amber sheen, like the stone had caught the torchlight in a different way. He blinked, and the walls were closer. Then the arched ceiling was higher. The torch brackets moved, their iron black twisting into a new shape, and the stones themselves appeared to be a different kind of rock, darker and veined, like marble.
The shorter technician came forward again with the bottle. Another hit. Derek's world dissolved into bright liquid noise. The taller technician pushed the nozzle back into his hole, past the inner ring without any resistance at all, and the water filled him again. His belly swelled. The room spun.
When he looked down at the stone between his hands, it had changed color under his fingers. It was shot through with threads of green and silver, a rough, unpolished stone like jade or malachite. The walls shimmered like sheets of hammered metal, bronze and then copper, the torchlight running along them in rivers.
All the while, the technicians said nothing. The taller one filled him and emptied him. The shorter one pressed the bottle to his nose and watched his eyes go loose and blank. Derek held his arched posture, his knees wide, his head pressed to the stone, and he thought he could feel Hur Hue's presence in the doorway.
Huo Xiao walked into the room.
He wore the dark suit, the crisp white shirt, the tie knotted hard. His step was unhurried across the stone floor, and his face was unreadable. He carried a small, foldable clothes rack, which he set down near the doubled stone arch of the wall. Then he began to take off his jacket. He hung it on the rack, smooth and careful. He loosened his tie and pulled it over his head, hung it by its knot. He unbuttoned his shirt, cuff by cuff, and Derek watched the skin appear between the panels of white fabric, a line of smooth, tan muscle, a suggestion of a hard, smooth chest. He shrugged the shirt off and hung it.
Huo Xiao was beautiful. His face was a perfect square, strong jawline framing full lips that were set in a professional line. His dark eyes were heavy-lidded as he watched Derek, and Derek could see the faint crows' feet at their corners. The technician pressed the poppers bottle to his nostril again, and Derek inhaled deeply, the chemical burning his throat as the room swam and tilted. Huo Xiao unbuckled his belt, the leather sliding through the loops with a soft whisper. As the technician reinserted the nozzle, Derek felt the familiar pressure as water began to fill him again, his belly swelling slowly under the torchlight. Huo Xiao unzipped his trousers and stepped out of them, revealing powerful thighs dusted with dark hair, his calves sharp and defined. The water surged deeper into Derek's gut, and he moaned as the technician forced the nozzle past his inner ring once more, his body expanding to accommodate the flood.
He stood in his boxer briefs, and the bulge was already prominent, long and substantial against the dark fabric. Derek's hole fluttered emptily, the water sloshing within him, his shame mixing with an undeniable excitement that made his caged cock ache. Huo Xiao hooked his thumbs under the waistband and drew them down. His cock sprang free, thick and hard, the head dark and heavy, his balls full and low. Derek imagined that weight on his tongue, and shame burned through him like clear liquid, coating him from the inside. The technician pulled the nozzle free, and the water gushed out of Derek in a warm flood, his body shaking as he was emptied once more, leaving him hollow and wanting.
Your cock is finished, Kai's voice whispered. That one is a real man. Real men fuck holes like you.
Huo Xiao walked toward him, and the shorter technician stepped aside, leaving the poppers bottle uncapped on the edge of a stone table. Huo Xiao's cock bobbed with each step, and his face had the same professional calm Derek had seen a hundred times that week, the look of a man who was about to do a job.
"Crawl forward," Huo Xiao said. "Ass up."
Derek crawled. His belly sloshed. His hole, loose and empty, ached with a dull, pulse. He positioned himself on the low stone table where the technicians guided him, on all fours, his ass offering to the room. The shorter technician held the poppers bottle to his nose and made him breathe deep. The room dissolved into a roar of amber light.
Huo Xiao stepped behind him. Derek felt the heavy pressure of his cock against his hole, the broad blunt head of it seeking and finding. He felt one of Huo Xiao's hands on the small of his back, firm and strong, and then the thrust came.
It was casual. Brutal. Huo Xiao drove his full length into Derek's loose hole, and there was no resistance at all. His inner ring parted like water, and Derek felt the thick shaft slide deep into his belly, filling the space where the nozzle had been. The fullness was there, but it was hot, alive, pulsing. The sheer girth stretched Derek's insides in ways that made him whimper with a mixture of pain and overwhelming pleasure, his hole clenching helplessly around the massive invader as Huo Xiao claimed him completely.
Huo Xiao began to move. His strokes were even and hard, his hips working against Derek's ass with a measured rhythm. The heel of his groin slapped against Derek's skin with each thrust, and Derek felt his own caged cock, the tiny steel nub, jiggle against the cool air. He was being fucked. Being fucked deep. The shame burned through Derek, hot and acidic, knowing how he must look—kneeling on the stone table, offering his body to this superior Chinese man who saw him as nothing but a warm hole to use, yet the arousal was undeniable, a slick heat gathering deep in his gut where Huo Xiao's cock pounded relentlessly into him.
The technicians watched. The taller one stood with his arms folded, his veined forearms crossed over his chest, his face unreadable. The shorter one said something in Chinese, a low remark, and the taller one laughed. The sound bounced off the stone walls. Derek could feel their eyes on him, judging his performance, his ability to take such a dominant alpha's cock, and it only heightened his humiliation and excitement, making his hole even wetter, more ready to be used like the worthless faggot he was.
Huo Xiao drove into him, deeper, faster. His breaths came out in controlled puffs. The room burned and shifted. The walls ran like poured gold, then jagged with purple gems that glittered like rough amethyst. Derek's eyes rolled back in his head. "You fucking love this, don't you?" Huo Xiao grunted, his voice rough with exertion as he pounded into Derek's yielding body, each thrust sending shockwaves of pleasure through Derek's entire being, making him grateful for the poppers that dulled his mind and left his body nothing but a vessel for Huo Xiao's pleasure.
"Take it," Huo Xiao grunted. "Take it." Derek took it. His hole was so open, so slack that he could feel the thick ridge of Huo Xiao's cock head passing back and forth past his inner ring, each pass a wave of empty filler. The pressure built in his belly, his prostate, his whole body tightening as Huo Xiao fucked him. The tiny cage around Derek's cock strained uselessly, the pathetic little nub leaking a thin stream of pre-cum that betrayed the intense pleasure his body was experiencing despite his shame, his Asian master's cock bringing him closer to an edge he couldn't reach alone.
Huo Xiao's rhythm turned brutal. He slammed into Derek's slack hole, each thrust harder than the last, his balls slapping against Derek's skin with a wet clap. Derek's body jolted forward with each impact, his cage cock bouncing uselessly. The technician pressed the poppers harder against his nostril, forcing him to breathe deep, and Derek's mind dissolved into a fog of pure sensation, his hole opening wider, taking more of the alpha's massive cock.
"Cum for me, little faggot," Huo Xiao grunted, his voice rough. "Show me how much you love being fucked by a real man." Derek whimpered, his body trembling, his hole clenching around the thick invader, aching for the release that would never come through his pathetic locked cock. The Chinese master's thrusts grew wilder, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his body tightening as he approached his climax.
The pressure built in Huo Xiao's body, his hips slamming, his breath ragged, and Derek felt the fat head of his cock grinding against the deepest part of him. The sensation rolled through Derek in waves, each thrust sending a spike of raw, helpless pleasure through his gut, his prostate, his whole body singing with it. His locked cock stayed soft, the little steel nub just bouncing, leaking a thin smear of clear fluid that ran down the curve of his balls. He was so hard for it inside, so desperate, and yet his prick just hung there, useless and caged.
The mirror appeared without warning.
It materialized in front of him, a huge sheet of polished obsidian that caught the torchlight in a black gleam. At first Derek saw only the vague shape of his own body reflected in its depths, and then the surface cleared, and he saw everything.
He was on all fours on the low stone table, his back arched deep, his hips tilted up, his ass spread and open. His spine was a pale curve, the ribs showing through the skin, the shoulder blades jutting out like wings. His head hung low, his hair a mess of sweat. Between his legs, the tiny steel cage glinted, the nub of his soft cock barely visible within it, a pathetic little button that had been locked away for so long it had forgotten how to stand.
Behind him, Huo Xiao stood in the full mirror. His body was a study in masculine perfection, the broad shoulders, the smooth tan chest with its light dusting of dark hair, the strong arms braced on Derek's hips. His abs tightened with every thrust, a ladder of hard muscle that flexed and released. His cock, thick and dark, disappeared into Derek's stretched hole at the root, and Derek could see the way his ass clung to it, the way the skin pulled and puckered around the invading shaft. Huo Xiao's face was set in a mask of concentration, his jaw tight, his eyes half-lidded with pleasure, watching his own cock slide in and out of the little white faggot beneath him.
Derek stared at himself in the glass. He saw the slack expression, the open mouth, the eyes that had gone wide and dim. He saw the way his body offered itself, the deep arch, the spread knees, the hole that simply accepted the thick cock pounding into it without resistance. He was a thing on a table. A warm hole for a real man to use. The shame of it closed around his throat like a hand, and at the same time his body rippled with a pleasure so deep it felt like his bones were dissolving.
With each thrust from behind, he felt himself being driven toward a peak he couldn't reach. His hole clenched around the thick cock, and Huo Xiao grunted with satisfaction, speeding up, his balls slapping wetly against Derek's skin, their rhythm becoming a frantic, ragged drumbeat. The mirror showed it all, and in the glass Derek saw his own soft cock leak a thicker stream, a watery fluid that dripped from the tip of the cage and ran down his balls.
No one is looking at you, Kai's voice said, gentle and cruel at once. You're nothing to them. Just a place to put it.
"Fuck," Huo Xiao breathed, his voice tight.
Derek's whole world narrowed to the cock splitting him open, the hands gripping his hips with bruising force, the pressure building in his gut. The walls of the room rippled and dissolved in his vision, the torchlight melting and flowing, and when his eyes cleared the mirror was gone too. The stone floor had become packed earth under his hands. The torchlight was gone, replaced by a vast open sky of impossible blue, and wind blew across him carrying a scent of dust and dry grass.
The Great Wall rose before him, a massive serpent of gray stone that climbed the ridgeline of green hills, its watchtowers humped and silent under the sun. Derek was kneeling in the dirt. The table was gone. Huo Xiao was gone. The technicians were gone. He was alone, naked, in the middle of the Chinese countryside, with his soft caged cock pressed into the cool earth and his stretched hole still pulsing with the phantom memory of fullness.
A horse whinnied. Hooves thudded on packed earth.
Derek looked up, his head swimming, and saw Kai approaching on a chestnut stallion. He wore a sleeveless gray gym shirt and black running shorts, his arms bare and tanned, the muscles of his shoulders and biceps moving under the skin as he reined the horse to a stop. He swung down off the saddle with an easy athletic grace that made Derek's heart clench.
Kai walked toward him. His face was the same as it was in the VR, the strong square jaw, the dark eyes, the black hair pushed back from his forehead. He stood above Derek and looked down at him. Derek noticed that behind Kai, Huo Xiao and the two technicians stood with their arms folded, their faces blank and smug, watching. They had been there all along.
"You really are a total loser faggot," Kai said. His voice was warm, almost friendly. "Dreaming about all this. All alone in your little apartment, jerking your little locked dick, wishing someone would come fuck you."
Derek's mouth opened. No sound came out.
"No one's ever going to fuck you, Derek." Kai crouched down, bringing his face close. The dark stubble along his jaw caught the sunlight. "No one's ever going to love you. That's the truth. You know that, don't you?"
Tears welled in Derek's eyes. He nodded.
"Say it," Kai said. "Say it out loud."
"I'm a loser," Derek whispered. His voice cracked. "No one will ever fuck me. No one will ever love me."
Kai's smile was almost kind. His hand came up and rested on the top of Derek's head, a warm, heavy weight. The touch was the closest thing to tenderness Derek had ever felt, and he began to cry, fat tears spilling down his cheeks.
"That's right," Kai said. "That's your place. A total loser faggot. Just a hole."
The voice was soft, intimate, and Derek felt something in him crack open. The tears came harder. The emptiness in his body, the ache of his stretched hole, the weight of his locked cock all blurred together into a single unbearable pulse of shame and need. He wanted to be held. He wanted to be told he was good. He wanted to be filled.
Kai's hand ruffled his hair. Then it was gone.
Derek woke with a gasp.
The ceiling of his apartment swam above him, gray and ordinary. He lay on his back, his chest heaving, his body drenched in sweat. The sheets were twisted around his legs. Between his thighs, his soft cock leaked a thin stream of watery pre-cum that soaked the front of his underwear, the tiny steel cage a cold weight against his groin. His hole ached, empty and throbbing, a deep pulse that would not stop. His eyes were wet. His breath came in a hitched, uneven rhythm, tears still fresh on his face.
He curled onto his side, his knees drawn up, and lay there in the half-dark while the city hummed outside his window. His hand went to the cage, tracing the familiar steel edge. The ache in his hole was a voice that kept repeating what Kai had said, and he knew it was true, and knowing it was true made the tears come again, silent and hot, until his pillow was soaked and his throat was raw.
He stayed like that for a long time. Then his hand moved from the cage to his soft cock, pressed against the cold steel, and he held himself there without stroking, just feeling the size of it, the smallness, the uselessness. The weight of the cage was the only pressure his cock would ever feel again, the only hand that would ever touch it.
He closed his eyes. The dark behind his lids was full of faces. Huo Xiao's heavy-lidded gaze. Kai's warm smile. The technicians' blank amusement. They turned and turned, like cards, like stars, and he fell asleep holding himself, his hole still throbbing, waiting to be filled again tomorrow.
Sleep came back slow, like water rising. Derek's body sank through the mattress and the dark took him again, and this time there was no stone, no countryside. There was light.
He was standing in the cafeteria.
It was brighter than he'd ever seen it, the fluorescents humming white above the long tables, and the smell hit him the way it always did: seared pork, garlic, ginger, the rich steam of broth rising off the serving line. His stomach made a hollow sound. He looked down and saw his tray in his hands, empty except for the wilted lettuce, the three cherry tomatoes, the cucumber pieces glistening under their drizzle of vinaigrette. His salad. Two hundred calories, maybe less.
Across the room the businessmen sat at their long tables. Suits of charcoal and navy, silk ties knotted sharp at their throats, plates heaped with braised pork belly and mountains of white rice and glistening noodles. The stocky one with silver at his temples was laughing, his big hand wrapped around a glass of tea. Another man, tall and narrow-waisted, reached across the table for the chili oil, and his suit jacket pulled tight across his shoulders, and Derek watched the fabric strain and thought about what was under it, the heavy slabs of his lats, the thick chest, the cock that must hang heavy and dark between his thighs when he undressed at night. A real man's cock. A cock that had never once been denied anything.
Derek's stomach cramped. The lettuce in the tray looked like wet paper.
He was so hungry.
He walked toward the serving line. The cook stood behind the main counter, the tall one with the dragon tattoo curling up the side of his neck. His white t-shirt was translucent with sweat at the small of his back, clinging to the long muscles there, and his shaved head caught the light. His arm moved in the wide circle of stirring a pot, triceps flexing, and Derek watched the roll of it and hated himself for watching. The other cook worked the wok station, younger, compact, his forearms thick and ropy, the veins standing out as he tossed the pan, the flames leaping up around his wrists. He had a square face and a small scar over one eyebrow and he didn't look up once.
"Excuse me," Derek said. His voice came out thin. The cook kept stirring.
"Excuse me. I was wondering if I could. If I could have some of the rice. Or the pork. Please."
Nothing. The ladle turned. The steam rose. The cook's jaw worked slowly, gum in his cheek maybe, or nothing at all, and his eyes never came down to Derek's level. Derek stood there with his tray and his thin arms and his tight skinny jeans and he felt himself shrinking, felt the words die in the air between them, and Kai's voice drifted up from somewhere deep, warm and patient: They don't see you, buddy. That's not cruelty. That's just physics. Small things don't cast shadows.
Derek set his tray down on the edge of the counter. He walked around the end of the serving line, through the plastic strip curtain, into the kitchen.
The heat hit him first. Wok burners roaring, oil spitting, the whole room a wet roar of steam and smell. The deliciousness of it made his knees weak. The younger cook was plating a dish, sliced beef glossed dark with sauce, and Derek's mouth flooded.
"Please," Derek said. "I just. Could I have some of the food? The real food? I've been eating salad for days and I'm so hungry, please, just a little, I can pay, I have money now, please."
The younger cook turned his head. His eyes were flat black and they fixed on Derek with something that had no warmth in it at all. He said something in Chinese, short and hard, a bark of syllables that spat out of him.
"I don't understand," Derek said.
The ladle hit the counter. The older cook, the tall one with the dragon, turned around from the pot, and now he was looking at Derek, and Derek wished with everything in him that he wasn't. The look was anger, pure and simple, and the size of the man delivering it made the anger feel like weather. He shouted, the syllables cracking off the tiled walls, and the younger cook shouted too, and Derek's back hit the steel shelf behind him and cans of sauce rattled above his head.
He was still in his training clothes. He saw that now. The tight, threadbare ligh blur t-shirt, the skinny jeans with the gaping hole I'm the seat, the ones they dressed him in for the chair. The tight white briefs with the same hole. He could feel the air moving against his exposed hole, the loose, open ring that never quite closed anymore, and he crossed his hands in front of his crotch like that could hide the cage, the shame, any of it.
The tall cook crossed the kitchen in three strides. His hand closed on Derek's arm, and it went all the way around, fingers meeting on the far side of Derek's bicep, and Derek cried out, a small stupid sound. The cook spun him, twisted his arm up behind his back, and reached for the coil of rope hanging by the prep sink with the other hand. He worked fast. Rope around Derek's wrists, crossed and cinched, the fibers biting into the thin skin, knots set with a few economical pulls. Derek's arms were pinned behind him, shoulders wrenched back, chest pushed forward.
The cook kicked his feet apart and bent him over the low steel counter. Derek's cheek came down against the cold metal. The cook took his belt off in one long hiss of leather through loops. It was black, thick, heavy with a steel buckle, and Derek watched it double over in the cook's fist and understood one full second before it landed.
The first stroke cracked across both cheeks at once and the sound came before the pain, a flat gunshot of leather on flesh. Then the pain arrived, a burning bar across his ass, and Derek screamed into the steel counter and the scream came back to him off the metal. The second stroke fell lower. The third caught the top of his thighs. He was sobbing already, his whole body jerking with each blow, the rope holding his arms useless behind him, and through the tears he realized the hole in the seat of his tiny, tight skinny jeans was stretched wide open, and his bare ass was up in the air, whipped and burning, and his hole was right there, exposed, loose, gaping slightly open in the kitchen light.
They could all see it. Every cook in the kitchen could see his hole.
That's right, Kai's voice said, warm as ever. Show them what you are. A hole to be abused. A hole to be filled.
The belt kept falling. Derek's ass was on fire, welts rising in ridges he could feel like cords under the skin, and somewhere in the roar of it he heard the cooks talking over him in Chinese, quick, dismissive, the tones rising and falling like they were discussing inventory. Laughing once. His misery was a thing happening next to the wok burners, no more important than a spilled sauce.
Then the belt stopped. Hands on his hips instead, calloused and huge, repositioning him. And in front of his face, blocking the fluorescent light, a man had appeared.
It was the younger cook. The compact one with the scar. He stood over Derek's bowed head and unzipped his chef's pants, and the smell of the kitchen and the smell of him came together, sweat and starch and musk, and then his cock was out. It was heavy even half hard, thick and dark, foreskin bunched behind a broad head, hanging off a patch of coarse black hair, and it swelled as Derek watched, filling, thickening, until it stood out from his fly like something carved, veined along the shaft, the head dark and glossy.
Derek had imagined a hundred cocks this week. This was the first one he'd ever seen. It was bigger than anything he'd imagined.
"Open," the cook said. One word, in English, flat.
Derek opened his mouth. He didn't decide to. His jaw just came down.
The cook gripped his jaw with one rough hand and fed his cock in. The head slid over Derek's tongue, heavy and hot, salt and skin and the faint bitter taste of sweat, and then it kept going, pushing deeper, and Derek's eyes went wide as it hit the back of his throat and kept pressing. He gagged, hard, his whole body convulsing over the counter, and the cook didn't stop. He pulled back an inch and drove in again, deeper, and the second gag was worse, drool spilling out the corners of Derek's stretched mouth and down his chin.
Behind him the belt cracked down again, right across his raised, whipped cheeks, and the pain and the cock hit him at the same moment and Derek made a sound around the cock in his throat, a muffled animal noise that made the younger cook say something to the tall one and both of them laugh.
Then the cook set his rhythm. He held Derek's head in both hands now, fingers laced through his hair, and he fucked his face. Long strokes, dragging over the tongue, pushing into the throat, the fat head flattening against the tight ring of muscle there until it gave and let him through, and Derek learned in a few minutes what his throat could do when a real man decided it would. Drool ran down the counter. His eyes streamed. His whipped ass burned with every jerk of his body. And through it all, his caged little nub hung soft and useless between his thighs, swinging with the rhythm of the face fuck, leaking its thin watery dribble onto the kitchen floor.
He's not even looking at you, Kai said. Look up. Look at his face.
Derek looked up, eyes flooding, and saw it: the younger cook looking past him, over his head, at nothing, his face slack with the simple comfort of getting off, jaw working his gum, eyes drifting to the timers on the wall. Derek was a sleeve. A warm wet thing at waist height. The cook's hips sped up, the slap of his groin against Derek's face loud and wet, his heavy balls swinging forward to tap Derek's chin on every stroke, and Derek moaned around the cock because he couldn't help it, because some deep part of him was singing.
They switched.
Hands pulled Derek's head back, the cock sliding out of his throat with a long strand of drool still connecting them. The tall cook came around the counter. He was already unzipped, his cock out, and Derek's bleary eyes took it in: longer than the younger one's, curved slightly, thick as a wrist, the dragon's tail of his tattoo disappearing below his hip bone exactly where Derek had always imagined it would. He slapped it against Derek's cheek twice, the weight of it heavy and hot, and then pushed it into the slobbering mess of Derek's mouth.
And behind him, the younger cook moved to his ass.
Hands spread his whipped cheeks. Derek felt the air on his open hole, the coolness, the gaping. Then the hot blunt press of a cock head against it, fat and insistent. It went in with no resistance at all. His hole had been trained too well for resistance. The shaft slid through his slack ring and past his inner ring in one long push, thick and burning over the welted cheeks, bottoming out deep in his gut, and Derek screamed around the tall cook's cock, the sound swallowed, and the younger cook grunted behind him and started to move.
He fucked hard. No build up, no gentleness, his hips cracking against Derek's whipped ass with every stroke, and each impact lit the welts up again, fire on fire, pain and fullness grinding together into something Derek couldn't separate anymore. His body rocked forward onto the tall cook's cock, throat fucked deep from the front, hole pounded from behind, trapped between the two of them like a thing being passed back and forth, and the cooks talked over his body in Chinese, unhurried, the younger one's voice easy, reporting something, and the tall one answering around his own steady pace.
Derek drooled and wept and took it. His arms ached in the ropes. His ass was a slab of burning. His hole, stuffed and stroked, pulsed around the cock with a pleasure so shameless it felt like dying. The caged nub leaked and leaked, a thin clear thread swinging under him, and Kai's voice rode above it all, soft and constant, a hand on the back of his neck that wasn't there: This is the whole point of you. This is everything you're for. There's no hunger they can't fix and no hunger they won't ignore, and both of those are gifts. Say thank you.
Derek tried to say it. It came out as a gurgle around the cock in his throat, and the tall cook felt it, felt the throat working, and pressed deeper and held there, and Derek's vision sparkled at the edges.
The younger cook's grip tightened on his hips. The strokes turned ragged, faster, the slap of skin rising to a frantic beat, and then a long groan in Chinese and the heat of it, cum flooding him deep in pulses, spurt after spurt coating his insides, and the cock ground in against his prostate through every pulse and Derek's whole body shook, his hole clenching uselessly around the spurting shaft, the caged nub jerking, a last watery dribble of fluid seeping from it onto the floor.
The cook pulled out. A hand spanked his raw ass once, almost friendly, and the cum began to slide down his perineum, warm, dripping.
Then the tall cook gripped his hair with both hands and drove in. He fucked Derek's throat in short hard jabs now, chasing it, the swollen head battering the tight depth of him, his breath coming out in grunts, and Derek hung there over the counter with his whipped ass raised and his arms roped and his mouth stretched around the thickest cock he'd ever seen, and when the tall cook came he held Derek's face mashed against his groin, pubic hair coarse against his nose, cum pumping straight down his throat in heavy swallows, one after another, and Derek swallowed because there was nothing else in the world to do.
The cock slid out of his mouth. He sagged over the counter, cheek on the cold steel, drool and tears and cum on his chin, his ass up and used and burning. The kitchen roared on around him. The wok burners, the steam, the timers. Someone untied his wrists, and the blood came back into his hands like needles. Nobody spoke to him. The younger cook went back to his station and picked up his ladle. The tall one threaded his belt back through his loops, buckle clicking.
Through the pass-through window Derek could see the cafeteria. The businessmen at their long tables, still eating, still laughing, silver spoons and heaped rice, and not one of them looking toward the kitchen. They didn't know. They wouldn't have cared. His whipped ass and his flooded hole were nothing happening anywhere at all.
Derek woke with his face in the pillow.
The apartment was gray with early light. His hips were rocking, tiny slow movements he hadn't decided on, and his hole ached and throbbed around nothing, empty, clenching on air. The front of the cage was damp. He reached down and his fingers came back wet, a thin, watery fluid, milky-pale, leaking steadily from the little nub through the steel. He stared at it in the half dark. He hadn't cum. He couldn't cum. His body had just wept out the only thing it had left.
His ass stung. He reached back and pressed his fingertips to his cheeks and felt the ghost of the welts, hot ridges that weren't there, and his breath hitched once, hard, and stopped. He lay still. The city hummed. Somewhere below, a garbage truck groaned through its gears.
He was hungry. That was the first thought. Not the dream, not the shame, just the plain animal fact of it, his stomach hollow and cramping, and the salad in the fridge waiting for him, the lettuce and the three tomatoes, his two hundred calories. His mouth watered anyway, for the pork, the rice, the broth, and he hated his own mouth for it.
Kai's voice was quiet this morning, almost fond. Good. You even dream in your place now.
Derek got up on shaky legs and went to the bathroom, sat to pee, eyes lowered the way the lessons taught, and while he sat he turned the dream over in his aching head, the belt, the rope, the cocks, the heat of the cum, and he knew the worst part, the part he couldn't say out loud even alone in this bathroom. He hadn't wanted to wake up.