Chapter 4: The Post-Training Interview
The poppers tube slid out of his nose first. The familiar hiss stopped, and the chemical warmth in his lungs began to thin, leaving a cold vacancy behind. Then the headset lifted away, and the amber light, the gym, Kai's smile, all of it dissolved into the white glare of the training room ceiling.
Derek blinked. His eyes felt glued shut, gummed with sleep and tears. The fog was clearing in patches, leaving holes he could see through, and what he saw made his stomach drop.
He was still strapped into the chair. His thighs were spread wide, the bar holding them apart. His jeans and briefs hung open at the back. And the dildo was still inside him, buried to the hilt, an immense, unignorable fullness that he'd apparently stopped noticing somewhere in the haze.
It wasn't moving. It was just there. Deep.
"Derek."
The voice was calm, matter-of-fact. Derek's head snapped toward it, and his brain took a moment to process the man standing beside the chair. Tall. Thin, almost lanky. Chinese, in his early thirties, wearing square-framed glasses and a checked button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up. A clipboard rested in one hand, a pen in the other. He looked like someone who supervised lab experiments, which, Derek realized with a jolt of horror, was probably close to the truth.
"I'm Zhang Ming ," the man said. "I'll be administering your post-session surveys and charting your progress. You fell into trance about 90 minutes in, but you still completed the module without any problems. That's fine. It happens."
Derek's face went hot. “You mean like, I passed out?"
"Not quite. You were in a semi-conscious, or subconscious state. You were breathing the whole time. Vital signs stayed stable." Zhang Ming glanced at his clipboard, made a note. "You did lose consciousness during the final conditioning playback, but your body continued responding. That's the important part."
The word important part sat in Derek's stomach like a stone. He looked down at himself. The dildo swelled the skin of his belly if he looked hard enough. Numb. The ache was gone, replaced by that strange, almost normal fullness. Like he'd been hollowed out and something was just... living there now.
"Now," Zhang Ming said, settling onto a stool beside the chair. "The survey. It covers four sections. Self-identity, sensations during the session, your feelings about your role, and your feelings about Chinese men. I'll read each question, then the answer choices. You answer by saying the letter and repeating the full option out loud. Clear?"
Derek swallowed. His mouth was dry, his lips cracked. "Do I have to?"
"Yes," Zhang Ming said simply, without looking up.
He flipped a page on the clipboard and read, his voice flat and clinical. "Question one. How would you describe your role in this firm?"
The question hung in the sterile air. Derek felt the dildo shift slightly with his breathing, a constant, heavy reminder.
"A: A stress-relief asset whose purpose is to serve the needs of Chinese alphas. B: A worthless faggot whose hole exists to be used. C: A submissive punching bag for men who are my natural superiors."
Derek's mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. He felt like he was back in Chen's office, signing a contract he couldn't read, his body moving before his brain caught up.
"C," he said. His voice came out small. "A... a submissive punching bag for men who are my natural superiors."
Zhang Ming wrote it down. No reaction, no flicker of amusement. Just the scratch of pen across paper. "Good. Question two. During today's session, what sensation stood out most?"
A beat of silence. Derek tried to remember. The warmth. The fog. The way Kai's voice had wrapped around his brain like silk.
"A: A deep sense of peace and belonging. B: Pleasure at being used as a tool for a superior man's pleasure. C: A natural openness that felt right for the first time in my life."
He chose A. He didn't know why. Maybe because the peace was the only thing that didn't hurt to remember.
"A deep sense of... peace and belonging."
Zhang Ming wrote. "Okay. Question three. How do you feel about your body now?"
The question landed different. Derek tried to look away from the dildo buried in him, but his eyes kept sliding back to it. That impossible fullness. The numb, open stretch of himself.
"A: My body is a vessel, built small and smooth so I can serve men who are bigger and stronger than me. B: My body is a hole, and its purpose is to be open for my betters. C: I feel ashamed of my body, but I'm learning to accept that it belongs to my masters."
Derek stared at the ceiling. The fluorescent light burned his eyes. He felt the dildo pulse with his heartbeat, deep and patient.
"A," he said at last. "My body is a... a vessel. Built small and smooth so I can serve men who are bigger and stronger than me."
Zhang Ming’s pen scratched. "Question four. When you watched Instructor Kai during the training module, how did you feel?"
The name hit Derek like a wave. The amber gym. The sweat on Kai's chest. The way his muscles moved under the skin, the way his voice dropped into Derek's chest and lived there.
"A: Devotion. I want to serve him and make him proud. B: Arousal. His size and strength made me feel small, and I wanted him to use me. C: I felt admiration, knowing he represents the kind of man I will never be, but who I exist to please."
Years of touch, untouched. The cage pressing against his crowning. He thought of Kai's hands. Kai's chest. Kai's dark, amused smile.
"B," Derek whispered. "Arousal. His size and strength made me feel small, and I wanted him to... use me."
Zhang Ming wrote it without comment. "Question five. How do you feel about Chinese alpha men?"
Derek's throat tightened. He knew the answer he would choose before the options were even read.
"A: They are naturally superior to me, and I feel honored to serve them. B: I respect and admire their power, and I know my place is beneath them. C: I find them intimidating, and I want to submit to them completely."
The dildo shifted as he shifted. A dull reminder of what his body was becoming. He thought of Mr. Chen's deep voice at the coffee shop, the way it had made his pulse race. He thought of the older man who had locked the cage around his cock without a word.
"A," he said. "They are naturally superior to me, and I feel... honored to serve them."
Zhang Ming made a note. The clipboard was getting full. He turned the page. "Question six. What do you want most from your future sessions?"
Derek's body tensed before his mind caught up, the dildo grinding against something that made his eyes go wide.
"A: I want to be opened more deeply, so I can take each alpha completely. B: I want to serve as many alphas as possible and learn my place. C: I want to become a better, more obedient asset, so my masters are satisfied with me."
A pause. The room was so quiet Derek could hear his own heartbeat.
"C," he said, and the words came out steadier than he felt. "I want to become a better, more obedient asset, so my masters are satisfied with me."
Zhang Ming nodded, wrote a final line, and set the clipboard down on his knee. He looked at Derek for the first time, dark eyes behind the glasses, expression unchanged. "That's the end of the survey. Your baseline is recorded. We'll track how your answers shift over time as your training progresses."
Derek stared at him. "Shift?"
"You answered honestly today. Mostly." Zhang Ming picked up the clipboard again, tapped the page with his pen. "Most assets start out choosing the least degrading option. The one that sounds most like they still have a choice. Over time, as the conditioning takes, their answers get more... accurate."
The word accurate lodged in Derek's chest like a splinter. He wanted to argue, to say he'd meant every word, but the lie stuck in his throat because he wasn't sure anymore if it was a lie.
The dildo was still buried in him. The fullness felt normal. That was the scariest part.
Zhang Ming set the clipboard down. "Session's done. Let's get you out of this thing."
He moved around the chair with practiced ease, unlocking the restraints one by one. The bar pulled away from Derek's thighs, and the numbness in his legs woke into a pins-and-needles fire as blood rushed back into them. Zhang Ming took him by the arm, firm and unhurried, and guided him forward. The dildo slid out with a wet, obscene sound that made Derek flinch. It left him feeling hollow, empty in a way that was almost worse than the fullness.
"Easy," Zhang Ming said. "You're going to be sore for a bit. That's normal."
Derek's legs buckled on the second step. Zhang Ming caught him, strong for a man so thin, and steadied him until the feeling came back.
"The locker room is down the hall."
The corridor was the same white as the training room. Derek shuffled along in his hanging-open jeans, bare ass exposed to the cool air, the cage swinging against his thigh. He felt every step like a confession. A few men passed them, Chinese, in suits, and none of them looked at him. Not even a glance. He was furniture being moved from one room to another.
The locker room was small and clean, gray lockers lining two walls, a bench down the middle. Zhang Ming gestured to an open locker. On the shelf sat a neatly folded pair of jeans and briefs. The jeans in the locker looked exactly like the ones Derek was wearing, right down to the faded wash.
"Change into these," Zhang Ming said. "The ones you're wearing are for training only. These are for day wear. They don't have the opening in the seat."
Derek stared at the folded fabric. The realization felt delayed, like it had to travel through the fog still clinging to his brain. The jeans he was wearing had been cut open. For the sessions. For the stretching. For the dildo.
"Your other clothes are in here," Zhang Ming added, pointing to the next locker. "You'll keep your day wear here while you train. From now on, change into your training gear when you arrive, then change back before you leave. It keeps things clean."
Derek nodded, not trusting his voice. He shucked off the tailored, hemmed-hole-in-back jeans, the briefs, and set them in his designated locker. The new briefs were soft cotton, white, snug against his hips. The new jeans were cool against his skin, as tight as the other pair. No opening. No parting. He was dressed again, and the completeness felt strange.
Zhang Ming waited by the door, clipboard tucked under his arm. "Hungry?"
Derek's stomach did a strange, hollow turn. He couldn't tell if it was hunger or fear. "I guess so."
"Good. Follow me."
The cafeteria was on the fifth floor. The doors opened onto a wide, bright room with floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over the city. The smell hit Derek first. Rich, savory, layered. Roasted meat. Garlic and ginger. Butter and soy. His stomach clenched and ached.
The room was full. The line at the serving stations was two dozen deep, and every single person in it was a Chinese man in a suit or office clothes. They stood in clusters, talking in low voices, laughing, balancing plates of food that looked like it belonged in a restaurant.
Derek saw a plate of whole steamed fish with scallions. A ribeye, thick and charred, bleeding pink juice into a puddle of mashed potatoes. A bowl of braised pork belly, dark and glossy, with bok choy. Bowls of soup. Piles of dumplings. The steam rose off every tray and curled toward the ceiling, and Derek's mouth watered with a desperation he couldn't name.
Zhang Ming walked past the line, past the grill, past the steamer counter, and stopped at the far end. A salad station. Glass bowls of lettuce, cucumber, tomato, bell pepper, shredded cabbage. Tofu cubes. A few dressings in squeeze bottles. Bean sprouts and shredded carrots.
"This is you," Zhang Ming said. He picked up one of the glass bowls and handed it to Derek. "Everything you eat while you work here comes from this station. It's good for you. The fiber keeps your gut clean, which matters for your job. You don't need rich food or heavy protein. You're not building anything. You're staying soft."
Derek looked at the salad. It did look good, in a plain, honest way. Crisp and green. The tofu was firm, white, cut into neat cubes. He could live on this. He'd lived on worse.
"The cooks all know your role," Zhang Ming said. "They've been here a long time. If you ask them for something else, they'll smile and tell you no. It's not worth the trouble. This is what you eat."
Derek's eyes drifted back to the steak in the hands of a passing man, broad-shouldered, gray-haired, laughing at something a colleague said. The smell of seared beef hit him again and his stomach turned.
"One meal a day," Zhang Ming said. "Lunch, right after your session. It's important that you stay small. Stay light. Stay easy to handle."
Easy to handle. Derek heard the words and felt them in his bones.
Zhang Ming set a plastic glass of water on Derek's tray. "You're done for today. That uniform is yours. The trainer will see you tomorrow at nine." He checked his watch. "I have a debrief with senior management. Enjoy your lunch."
He walked away without a backward glance, his polished shoes clicking on the tile. Derek stood at the salad station holding his bowl, the glass of water sweating against the tray, the cafeteria humming around him, all these large, well-fed men in their sharp suits with their large, well-fed laughter.
He filled his bowl. Lettuce, cucumber, tomato, some of the tofu, a drizzle of a vinaigrette that smelled faintly of sesame. He took his tray to an empty table in the corner, beside a window that looked out over the city, and he sat down.
The first bite was crisp and cold. The vinaigrette had a tang to it. He chewed slowly, watching the room. The men ate in pairs and groups, dining on their braised pork and their ribeyes, their broiled whole fish. They talked in Mandarin and English, laughed, clinked glasses.
One of them, a younger man with slicked-back hair, caught Derek's eye for just a second. He raised an eyebrow, smiled without warmth, and went back to his food. A long, slow cut of steak. A bite. A nod to his companion.
Derek looked down at his salad. Tofu. Cucumber. Lettuce. The empty glass bowl of what he was allowed to eat.
He took another bite. It didn't taste like much. He could hear the clink of a knife against a plate, the wet sound of a man chewing meat, the low, satisfied murmur of a good meal being shared. The salad felt cold and small in his mouth, and he kept his eyes fixed on his fork, on the lettuce, on the glass of water, because every time he looked up he saw a man with a plate of something real, and his stomach ached with a need he couldn't name. Not just for food. For something else he didn't have words for yet.
The salad went down anyway. Bite after small, obedient bite.
The salad gone. He set his tray aside, stared at the window. The men were starting to clear out, pushing chairs back, heading for elevators in small clusters. Derek watched them go, the way they moved with an easy confidence he'd never known.
"Ready?"
The voice came from his left. Derek looked up. A young man, mid-twenties, Chinese, built solid and compact, with a friendly face that seemed out of place in this building of hard, expensive men. He wore a navy dress shirt that hugged the muscles on his compact frame, sleeves rolled up showing strong smooth forearms, and what appeared to be an expensive watch. Though he looked casual and maybe a bit short at this office, he was nonetheless far better dressed, taller, and much stronger than Derek.
"Hi, I’m Wei Li," the man said. "The car’s here. I’ll show you out."
Derek blinked. "I thought I was done?"
"You are," Wei said. "Come on. You look like you need to lie down."
Derek stood, the glass bowl still in his hand. Wei took it from him, set it on the tray, and gestured toward the doors. Derek followed, his legs still unsteady from the session, the tiny cage pressed tight against the strong fabric of the new jeans. The lobby of the fifth floor gave way to a marble corridor, then an elevator, and then they were descending toward the ground level in silence.
The elevator doors opened onto the same lobby Derek had crossed that morning. The same polished marble. The same abstract sculpture hanging overhead. But it looked different now. It looked like a place he belonged to.
Wei led him past the reception desk, out through the glass doors into the gray afternoon. The rain had stopped. The air was wet and cold, and an Uber idled at the curb, a dark sedan with its flashers on.
"Get in the back," Wei said. He opened the door for Derek, then leaned in and handed the driver something. A key card, maybe. An address. "Emerald Gardens, the guest entrance."
The driver nodded.
Wei straightened and looked down at Derek with that same easy smile. "Tomorrow might be more rigorous," he said. "More intense module. Get a good night's rest. Drink water."
Derek opened his mouth, closed it. "More intense than today?"
"Different," Wei said. "You'll do fine." The smile softened, almost kind.
Then he shut the door, and the sedan pulled away from the curb.
Derek watched the tower recede through the back window. Twenty-three floors of men who knew his new name. The cage pressed against his thigh with every bump in the road.
He didn't know what to do with his hands. He folded them in his lap. He unfolded them. He pressed them against his knees. The driver's eyes were on the road, and the car smelled of pine air freshener, and the city slid past through tinted glass.
Emerald Gardens turned out to be a mid-rise apartment building on the north side, twenty minutes from the office. The driver pulled into a covered entrance, pointed at the fourth door down, and said "Guest unit is open. Card's in your bag." Derek stepped out, and the sedan was gone before he'd found the door.
He stood in the concrete entryway, alone, the cold air biting through his light jacket. The building was new and clean, with potted plants in the corners and a sign reading Unit 4B in brushed steel letters. He pushed the door, and it swung open.
The apartment was small but furnished. A bed in the corner, neatly made. A small kitchenette with a kettle and a bowl of fake fruit. A couch facing a wall-mounted TV. A window and a small black that looked out over a parking lot and a strip of trees. In the bathroom, a plastic bag sat on the counter containing a toothbrush, toothpaste, deodorant, and a small bottle of lube, unopened. Also, unexpectedly, on a small table , a small green grinder, a pipe, a lighter, and a vacuum-sealed pouch of marijuana.
Derek stared at the grinder for a long moment. Then he laughed, a short, broken sound that died in the empty room. They gave him pot with the lube. That was funny. That was grimly, terribly funny.
He didn't smoke right away. He paced the length of the kitchenette, then the bed, then back. He thought about the survey. He thought about Kai's voice in his head. He thought about the way the dildo had felt when it slid out, the hollowness that followed. The salad. The water. The men laughing over steak.
His phone buzzed. A bank notification. The weekly allowance had hit. He looked at the number and felt nothing.
He picked up the pipe, packed it, and walked out to the balcony to light it and have a smoke. The first hit burned his lungs and sent warmth crawling through his limbs. The second eased the edges off the day. The third made the row of trees feel distant. He stepped back inside and sat on the edge of the bed, which felt like a raft.
He lay back, staring at the ceiling. The cage was a warm, metallic presence against his skin. He could feel it with every shift of his hips, and he hated it, and he loved it, and he didn't know which feeling was real.
He closed his eyes.
Kai's face faded in from darkness behind his lids. The gym. The sweat. The slow, deliberate curl of his arm, the way his muscles moved under the skin. The voice, layered and warm, wrapped around his brain like silk. "Breathe with me, asset." The dildo pumping. The stretch. The fog.
"Open."
Derek's breath caught. His body remembered the rhythm before his mind could, the way his hole had clenched and released in time with Kai's curls, the weight of the drone filling the room, the certainty that he was right where he belonged.
"Good boy."
The words echoed. His chest rose, fell. The warmth from the pot spread down his legs, up his spine. The ceiling was soft, and the bed was a boat, and Kai was still there, smirking, dripping, straining over iron with sweat beading on his chest.
"Perfect. Beautiful. Empty."
Derek let out a long, slow breath. The cage was snug against his swelling cock, a pressure that bordered on pain. He let it press. He let it ache. He let it stay.
His last coherent thought was that he should be scared of how normal this felt. Then the weed did its work, and he drifted under.
The dream came in pieces. White walls. A machine that hummed. Kai, closer than he'd ever been, his broad chest bending down, his mouth brushing Derek's ear. "You're doing it, asset. You're getting stronger at the only thing that matters."
Derek's body arched in the bed, and his hole clenched around nothing, and the emptiness ached in a way that felt almost like longing.
He slept.
When he woke, the window was gray with early light. The smoke was gone from his lungs. The cage was still warm against his thigh. He checked his phone. Six-thirty. The office opened at nine.
He showered. He dressed in the clean day-wear jeans and a fresh T-shirt from the dresser. He packed the pipe and the now empty pouch back into the drawer, tucked them away like a secret. And he stood at the window for a long time, looking out at the parking lot, the trees, the wet gray city.
His phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number.
"Car arrives at eight-fifteen. Be ready. See you soon."
No name. No greeting. Just the instruction.
Derek typed back. "Who is this?"
A reply arrived almost instantly.
"Huo Xiao. I will be preparing you for your training from now on. You will see me in the office. The driver will take you there. Be ready.”
Derek took a deep breath and shrugged, and headed for the door.