Chapter 6: Chapter 6
The overhead lights were still pulsing softly when the chair's straps loosened. Derek's head lolled forward. His vision swam, the popper fog lifting in slow curls. He tasted copper in his mouth. His ass was a raw, gaping memory, the dildo's ghost still spreading him open, still telling him he was empty now.
Two men entered the padded room. They were both Chinese, both in their mid-twenties, both wearing gray cotton work shirts with the sleeves rolled to the elbow. The first was tall and lean, with a long neck and a jaw like a cut stone. His hair was buzzed close to his scalp, dark stubble on a head that seemed too heavy for his frame, and his arms had that wiry, ropy look of someone who worked with his hands all day. Veins ran along his forearms like blue roads. When he bent to release the ankle cuffs, Derek saw the sweat stain darkening his shirt under the arms, the muscles sliding under his brown skin.
The second technician was shorter, maybe five-ten, but built like a freight container. His shoulders were enormous, rounding out the cotton of his shirt until it looked painted on. He had a flat, broad face with small eyes and a mouth that might have been gentle if it ever moved. He didn't smile. He unlatched the chest strap, his thick fingers working the buckle, and Derek caught the smell of him, something clean and industrial, like soap and metal shavings. The man's hands were huge, with square nails and calloused knuckles. Derek imagined those hands wrapping around his own throat, imagined what would happen if they ever decided to.
The two men spoke to each other in Chinese. Their voices were low, casual, like this was just another Tuesday. One of them said something, and the other laughed. It was a warm, easy sound, the laugh of a man who had never once in his life felt fragile. Derek watched them and felt his heart squeeze.
They didn't look at him. Not once.
Strong hands slid under his armpits and lifted him. Derek's legs sagged. His whole body was rubber. The side of his head pressed against the tall one's chest and he felt it, the solid muscle, the steady calm of a man who could carry a body like Derek all day and think nothing of it. He imagined what was under that gray shirt. A hard chest, smooth brown skin over pectoral slabs. Arms thick enough to pin him down. A dick, probably huge, hanging heavy between his legs, the kind of cock that would split a faggot open without even trying.
Derek's cock was still locked in its cage, but he felt a phantom twitch. He felt the heat in his belly anyway. He hated himself for it.
The two men carried him down the hallway like a sack of laundry. They spoke in Chinese over his head. One syllable rhymes, the easy cadence of men who didn't need to include him in anything. Derek's bare feet dragged against the tile floor. He was small in their grip, light, a thing they were moving from one place to another.
They set him down on a wooden bench in the locker room. The tall one pointed at a gray duffel bag without saying anything. Then they both turned and left. The door clicked shut behind them.
Derek sat there for a long moment. His muscles ached. His hole throbbed with a deep, patient ache, the feeling of having been used, stretched, opened. He reached for the bag with trembling fingers and pulled out his day-wear jeans and a plain white t-shirt. The jeans had no opening in the seat this time. They were just pants now. That felt wrong. Everything about this life felt wrong, and yet his body was already learning to lean into it.
He stood and pulled on the jeans, then the t-shirt.
He pulled the t-shirt over his head. The cotton clung to his ribs. He was thin, smaller than he remembered being two weeks ago, the salad diet already chipping away at him. He laced his sneakers and stood. The locker room smelled like soap and old tile. His ass throbbed with each step, a dull, wet memory of being opened wide.
Derek's phone buzzed in the duffel bag. He dug it out. A text from Huo Xiao, short and practical: Take the elevator to the cafeteria. Get lunch. Salad station. Wait for Li Wei after.
No please. No question. Just instructions. Derek swallowed and typed back a single word: Okay.
He walked out of the locker room. The hallway was white and bright, the kind of blank corporate corridor that could be anywhere. He pressed the elevator button and waited. When the doors opened, he stepped in alone. The car smelled faintly of cologne, and he caught himself wondering which of the technicians had worn it.
The cafeteria was on the fourth floor. The doors slid open onto a wide, bright space with high ceilings and long tables. The air was thick with the smell of roasted meat, steamed rice, chili oil. Derek's stomach clenched. His mouth watered, and he felt a sudden, stupid anger at his body for wanting the things it couldn't have.
He walked past the big dining area. Men everywhere. Chinese men, all of them, in suits and shirts, eating with chopsticks, laughing, talking. The noise was a low roar, the sound of men who belonged here. Derek kept his eyes down and went to the salad station.
The door to the salad station was set apart to the right, with no way to walk past it. A short, stern man, maybe thirty-five, stood in the middle of a long counter ladling from steel bowls. He had a shaved head, and he was wearing light blue scrubs, his big arms bare below the short sleeves like the cooks at those chain restaurants, and there were threads of silver in the stubble on his chin.
Derek approached the counter and said, "Hello." The man didn't acknowledge him at first. The man was tonging pale tofu from a steel bowl and dropping it in an off-white plastic container on top of lettuce with carrots shaved in ribbons. He didn't speak, didn't even glance up. When Derek reached the counter, the man slid the container across the metal surface to beside a plastic spork and paper cup of water. Then he turned away to the next person, who did not exist.
"Thank you," Derek said weakly. It didn't help. It just made the silence of the room shrink.
He took the box and walked to a corner table, the kind of small table pushed against the wall beside a window that nobody wanted because it was too near the ice machine. He set the box down and sat. He was alone there. The other tables had clusters of rich men eating rich meals. His was the only table with a plastic container and a cup of water.
Derek peeled back the lid. The salad was nothing. Wet lettuce, shaved carrots, tofu that tasted of nothing at all, and a clear vinaigrette that could have been water with vinegar in it. He picked up the plastic spork and took the first lukewarm bite. It crunched. No dressing to speak of. For a moment he thought about the food at the other tables, the sizzle, the steam, the steam rising off plates of braised beef, the golden skin of fried duck, and his mouth flooded with a want that felt like shame.
He chewed. Swallowed. The salad was pitiful. He could feel his body already thanking him for the less, for the nothing, and at the same time begging for more. The two of them warred in his gut.
Kai's voice echoed in his memory, low and warm. Keep it light. You don't need much to fuel a body like yours. You're a vessel. Vessels don't need heavy meals.
Derek ate another bite. The tofu slid down like a pale stone.
He looked up at the cafeteria. Men everywhere. Big men. He watched them the way a man watches a planet, from a long way off, with terrible gravity pulling him in. He started with the table directly in front of him. Two men in navy suits, both in their early forties, both with thick, tailored shoulders and silk ties. The one on the right had a wide face with a strong jaw and black hair swept back from a high forehead. He laughed at something, mouth open, teeth flashing, and his hand moved across the table to rest on the other man's forearm. The touch was possessive, familiar, the casual ease of a man who owned whatever he touched.
Derek studied the line of the first man's neck, the heaviness of his shoulders under the jacket, the way his broad chest filled out the white shirt. His hands were big, with long fingers and a gold wedding band. Derek imagined those fingers on his own body. He saw them pressing into his belly, sliding under his t-shirt, wrapping around his throat. His cock twitched under the cage, a useless pulse that made him clench his jaw.
He wondered what was under the suit. A chest like a shelf, smooth and brown, arms thick enough to pin him down without effort. The man had the kind of body that could crush Derek without noticing. And his dick, God, Derek pictured it, the heavy weight of it hanging between his legs, thick and dark and powerful. A real man's cock. The kind that would split Derek open and leave him sobbing and grateful.
Derek looked away. His face was hot. He felt a wave of self-loathing so strong his hands shook around the plastic container.
They don't see you, he thought. They've never seen you. You're not even furniture to them. You're less than that. And here you sit, imagining their cocks like some pathetic little pervert.
But the thought didn't stop him. His eyes slid to the next table. A younger man in a charcoal jacket, maybe thirty-five, with black hair cropped into a short fade and a diamond glinting from his ear. He was eating braised pork belly with lip-smacking pleasure, hunched over the plate, completely lost in the food. He looked up at his companion, laughed, and the sound was big and warm. His chest was broad under his shirt, and when he leaned back to drink from a glass of juice, Derek saw the hint of a hard stomach, a presence that filled the chair.
Derek bit his lip. He imagined the man's chest slick with sweat. The hair on it, maybe a thin dusting of black. He imagined the man's hand on the back of Derek's neck, forcing him down, forcing him to take a mouthful of something real. He shut his eyes and took a shallow breath, fighting the heat in his belly.
Kai's voice again. They're alphas. They don't need to prove anything. You've already felt what they can do to you. Remember the fullness.
Derek remembered. The six-inch dildo inside him. The way his ring had opened and swallowed it. He felt a phantom pressure in his ass, that aftermath ache that was more than physical. It was the knowledge that he was a thing made for this. He took another bite of salad and chewed it slowly, thinking about how weak he was getting, how light at the same time. The salad was making him smaller, skinnier, stringier. His body was becoming exactly what they wanted, an easy thing to bend and lift and open.
He looked at another table. Six men, all in their forties or fifties, all in expensive suits. They were eating like kings. One had a plate piled with dumplings, another dark slices of roast beef with something glistening. Derek's mouth watered again. He could almost taste the rich sauce, the warm fat. He could smell it even from across the room. One of the men, tall and silver-haired with a face like a hawk, glanced up from his meal and looked around. His eyes passed over Derek without stopping, the way a man glances at a coat rack and then looks away. No flicker of interest. No recognition that Derek was even alive.
Derek looked down at his salad and felt the shame press into his chest like a fist. He hated himself for wanting them to look at him. He hated that the only thing his body could do was ache in response to their indifference.
But the ache wouldn't go away. His cage was a constant small pressure against his pelvis, a reminder that he had no relief, that he was a locked thing, that all his pleasure was somewhere else now, in someone else's hands.
Across the room, a group of cooks emerged from the kitchen, laughing. Three of them, in white chef coats over athletic builds. The one in front was huge, a giant of a man with a barrel chest and a face like a friendly bull, his black hair cropped short and his cheeks red from the heat of the stove. He was carrying a heavy steel pot, steam rising from it, and his forearms were thick as tree trunks, covered in a fine dark hair that caught the light. He set the pot down on a counter and began to fill plates with braised beef.
Derek watched his hands. Big, calloused, capable hands. Hands that had probably killed animals, carved meat, done real work his whole life. Derek imagined those hands on him. Imagined them pushing his face into the mattress, spreading his legs wide, holding him open.
He forced himself to look away. He was trembling. His face was on fire. He took another bite of salad, letting the cold lettuce cool his throat, trying to think about nothing.
But his body wouldn't stop. It was pushing at him, the cage a tight pressure, his hole still swollen and wet with the memory of being stretched. He could feel it, a slow pulse in his ass, like a heartbeat. He knew what his body was asking for, and he knew he couldn't have it. Not yet. Maybe not ever on his own terms.
He thought about Li Wei. That compact, friendly body, the navy shirt, the watch. Li Wei was the only one who had ever spoken to him kindly, the only one who had treated him like a person for a moment. And even Li Wei was a Chinese man, handsome and built, and Derek was already imagining what was underneath his clothes. A broad chest, smooth skin, a thick cock that would be too much for him to take without training.
Derek swallowed. He was a mess. He was a shameful, pathetic, hopeless mess, and the worst part was he didn't want to stop.
He picked at the salad. The tofu crumbled under the spork. He put a piece in his mouth and chewed, feeling it dissolve into nothing, the way he was slowly dissolving into nothing. He had signed a contract. He had signed his body away. And now all he could do was eat his salad and watch the men he would never be, the men who had all the power over him and never even saw him.
The plate of braised beef at the cooks' counter was piled high. Derek watched the giant cook pick up a fork and take a bite of his own work, closing his eyes with satisfaction. He was handsome in a rough, powerful way. Derek wondered what he looked like naked. That barrel chest in the shower, water sluicing down brown skin.
I have to stop, Derek thought. I have to stop thinking like this.
But Kai's voice came to him again, soft and clear. You're a vessel, Derek. A sleeve. The more you accept it, the happier you'll be.
Derek took a deep breath. He looked down at his salad. It was mostly gone now. He had eaten almost all of it, and he was still hungry. He pushed the empty container aside and sat back, watching the men in the cafeteria from his little corner, thinking about how beautiful they all were, how powerful, how different from him, how he would never be one of them even if he lived a hundred years.
And the worst part was, he didn't want to be. He wanted to stay here, small and hungry and open, a thing to be used. He wanted them to keep ignoring him while he ached for them, because the ached was all he had left. His thoughts drifted back to his training, the deep voice of Kai telling him this was his place, this was what he was made for. He almost believed it. He believed it more with every meal of salad that made him thinner and emptier and more desperate for the fullness that only came when he was being opened up.
The salad was done. He crushed the empty container flat. And on the far side of the cafeteria, just visible through the glass doors, he saw Li Wei appear, walking toward him with a clipboard, carrying the same navy shirt and the same easy, friendly stride, and Derek felt his heart lift and drop at the same time, because even the only man who showed him a sliver of kindness was still a Chinese alpha in his mind, a man whose cock he would dream about, and Derek was still nothing but a white faggot waiting to be told what to do next.
Li Wei reached the table just as Derek finished crumbling the empty salad container. He wore the same navy dress shirt from before, sleeves rolled to the forearm, the expensive watch glinting under the bright cafeteria lights. He was built like a wrestler, thick through the shoulders, his neck wide and strong, his jaw clean-shaven and sharp. His smile was easy, almost friendly, the only smile Derek had seen all day that didn't feel like a performance.
"Ready to go?" he asked.
Derek nodded and stood. His legs were still shaky from the training. His hole throbbed with each step, a deep, swollen pulse that reminded him he had been opened, used, emptied. He followed Li Wei across the cafeteria. Men looked up as they passed. None of them looked at Derek. They glanced at Li Wei, nodded, then went back to their food.
The elevator ride was silent. Li Wei stood with his hands clasped behind his back, his chest broad under the cotton shirt. He smelled like sandalwood and clean sweat. Derek stood behind him and watched the muscles move in his shoulders when he pressed the lobby button. He wondered what Li Wei looked like without the shirt. He was shorter than the executives, more compact, but solid in a way that made Derek feel like a stack of dry sticks. A chest with a light dusting of hair, probably. Strong arms, thick hands. And under the tailored trousers, a cock that would be thick and heavy, the kind that hung low and swung when he walked.
Derek closed his eyes. He hated himself for thinking it. Li Wei had been kind to him. The only one who had ever been kind. And here he was, undressing him in his mind like some ravenous pervert.
He's straight, Derek thought. He has a girlfriend. He has a life. He doesn't think about you at all.
Kai's voice came from nowhere, warm and patient. You're a vessel, Derek. Vessels don't choose what fills them. They just open.
The elevator dinged. The doors slid open on the marble lobby. Li Wei walked toward the street entrance and held the glass door open for Derek. "The car's outside."
The Uber was a black sedan idling at the curb. Li Wei opened the back door and gestured. "Emerald Gardens. It's pre-paid," he said to the driver, then turned back to Derek. "Get some rest. Training tomorrow."
"Thank you," Derek said.
Li Wei smiled, and Derek felt the smile go straight to his groin. Then the door shut and the car pulled away.
Derek leaned his head against the cool glass of the window and watched the office tower recede. The driver was Chinese, in his forties, with a shaved head and a thick neck, his forearms dark and muscled where they gripped the wheel. He didn't glance in the rearview mirror. He didn't speak. Derek was just cargo being moved from point A to point B.
The ride took twenty minutes of silence. Derek pressed his cage against his thigh, feeling the metal bite, the useless pressure. He was starving. The salad had been nothing. His body was eating itself, burning through the small reserves he had, turning his muscles thin and stringy. He ran a hand up his own arm and felt the bone beneath the skin. He was getting smaller. The thought should have scared him. Instead it made something in his chest settle.
They reached Emerald Gardens. Derek got out, mumbled thanks to the driver, and climbed the stairs to his unit. The door was unlocked as always. He shut it behind him and stood in the quiet dark of the little apartment.
On the kitchen counter there was a fresh pouch of weed, sealed in a clear bag, sitting beside a lighter and a glass pipe. No note. No explanation. Just another provision, like the salad, like the cage. Something to keep him soft and stupid and pliant.
Derek's hands shook as he packed the bowl. He opened the sliding balcony door and stepped out onto the small concrete ledge. The night air was cool. The city hummed below, a distant roar of lights and traffic. He lit the bowl and inhaled.
The smoke hit his lungs like a warm hand. His head went light. He coughed once, twice, then settled into the high, his shoulders loosening, the ache in his ass softening to a dull, pleasant warmth. He sat on the plastic chair with the pipe between his fingers and watched the skyline.
His mind drifted, not to the city, but to the faces of the men in the cafeteria. The silver-haired hawk who had looked right through him. The giant cook with the barrel chest and the red cheeks. The two technicians who carried him like a sack of laundry. Li Wei and his easy smile, his broad shoulders under the navy shirt.
They couldn't see him. They would never see him. And yet his body burned for them anyway, like he was made for it, a holder of a hunger that had no other object, a vessel with a hole that could only be filled by men who didn't know he existed.
Kai's voice, soft and close, like he was whispering in Derek's ear. That's it. Let it wash over you. You don't have to think anymore. Just feel. Just be empty.
Derek took another hit, deeper this time. The smoke filled him, spread through his limbs, made him drowsy and loose. He set the pipe down on the railing and stood. His legs felt disconnected from his body. He stumbled back inside, kicked off his sneakers, and collapsed onto the bed.
The sheets were cold. The ceiling was white. He lay on his back with his hands on his stomach, feeling the smallness of himself, the emptiness of his gut, the ache of his opened hole. The cage was a constant small pressure, a reminder of what he couldn't have, of what he was saving himself for.
He closed his eyes. The last thing he saw was Li Wei's smile. The last thing he felt was the phantom press of the dildo, deep inside him, telling him there was more to come, that this was only the beginning. Then the weed dragged him under, and he slept.