Chapter 8: Chapter 8
The door clicked open and the two technicians came in. The taller one moved first, his buzzed scalp gleaming under the fluorescent light, his lean frame unfolding as he crossed the room. He wore the same navy work shirt as this morning, sleeves rolled to the elbow, exposing forearms corded with veins that stood out against the pale of his skin. Dark stubble traced his jaw like a shadow. He didn't look at Derek's face. He went straight for the straps.
The shorter one followed. Thick neck, broad shoulders, a boyish bowl cut that framed a face carved from stone. His hands were enormous, fingers thick as sausages, and he worked the buckle at Derek's right wrist with the same bored efficiency a mechanic might use on a bolt.
Neither of them spoke.
The taller technician reached under the chair and released the harness that held the dildo's base. Derek felt the pressure shift, and then the machine whirred once, twice, and the great rubber shaft began to slide out of him. It came slow, inches at a time, and Derek felt every inch of it moving through his stretched ring. His hole clung to the shaft, tried to keep it, and when the last of the crown popped free he let out a wet gasp and his whole body went slack.
The shorter technician's hand landed on his shoulder. It was a cue, not a kindness. Derek unbuckled himself with shaking fingers and stood on legs that didn't want to hold him. The air on his exposed hole felt strange, loose, like a door that no longer knew how to close.
They walked him to the locker room without a word. The taller one went ahead and pulled his jeans and t-shirt from the locker, laid them on the bench, and then both men stood against the wall, watching. Waiting. Their eyes went to the wall, to their phones, anywhere but at him, and Derek understood that they weren't interested in watching him dress. They were just waiting for him to be done.
He pulled the jeans up over his hips. The seam pressed against his hole and he felt it, the looseness, the gaping. Like his body had learned a new shape and couldn't unlearn it. He tucked the training clothes into the locker and shoved it shut.
The taller technician had his phone out. He was reading something, his thumb scrolling slowly, his jaw set in a patient line. His left arm hung at his side, and Derek watched the veins in his forearm, the way they ran like rivers under the skin, and he thought about what those arms would look like without the shirt. Thick biceps, defined deltoids, a chest with a light dusting of dark hair. His cock, long and heavy, hanging against his thigh. Derek swallowed.
Neither man looked at him.
He left the locker room and walked the corridor to the elevator. The cafeteria was the same as yesterday. The smells hit him first: rich broth, seared meat, garlic and ginger. His stomach made a hollow sound. He crossed the floor through the tables, aware of his own smallness, the way his jeans hung loose on his hips, the way his t-shirt barely filled out at the shoulders.
The salad station was in the far corner, tucked away from the main serving line. The same attendant stood behind it, a Chinese man in his mid-thirties with a shaved head that caught the light. He wore light blue scrubs that did nothing to hide the size of him. His forearms were thick, crossed over his chest, and silver threads caught in the dark stubble along his chin like tiny wires. He did not smile. He picked up a bowl and assembled the salad with the same motion each time, a lettuce base, a handful of cherry tomatoes, a slice of cucumber chopped into pieces, a drizzle of vinaigrette. He slid it across the counter and turned away.
Derek took it. He found the same table as yesterday, against the wall, away from the big group tables where the men in suits sat with plates of noodles and braised pork and bowls of rice mountain-high. He unwrapped the plastic fork and poked at the lettuce.
The salad was two hundred calories, maybe. He could feel the math in his head, the smallness of it against his empty stomach. He picked up a tomato and ate it. The juice was cold and bright. He ate a leaf of lettuce and it crunched between his teeth with a sound too loud in the quiet of his own head.
In the center of the room, a group of tall businessmen sat at a long table. They wore tailored suits, dark navy and charcoal, with silk ties knotted sharp at their throats. One of them, the one with the broadest shoulders, was laughing at something, his head thrown back, his teeth white against his tan skin. He had a full head of black hair, thick and styled back from his forehead, and his hands were huge, wrapped around a glass of water. Derek watched those hands and imagined them on his hips, imagined them gripping his ass, and a pulse of heat went through his gut.
He looked back at his salad. He took another bite.
The loosened hole made itself known with every small movement. When he shifted in his chair he felt the air move against it, the cool draft, the sense of an opening that wouldn't close. His body kept trying to clench, to pull tight, and every time it failed he felt the shame of it roll through him like a hot tide. He was sitting in a cafeteria full of men who could fuck him with their eyes closed, and he was the one with the gaping hole.
His hand was on his fork. His other hand rested on the table. He looked at his fingers, pale and thin, the knuckles small, and he thought about how they'd look wrapped around the thick shaft of the taller technician's cock. He imagined the weight of it, the heat, the taste of salt and skin. How hard it would be to get his mouth around.
The shame was a physical thing. It sat in his chest like a stone.
But underneath the shame, a remembered voice rose up, low and warm, the voice from the VR. "That's right, buddy. You were made for this. Your only job is to be open." Kai's face swam in his mind, the curve of his smile, the dark stubble along his jaw. "When you're loose and empty, that's when you're the most beautiful. That's when a man like me looks at you and knows exactly what you're for."
He took another bite of lettuce and chewed slowly.
Across the room, the cooks worked behind the main serving line. One of them was tall and lean, with a shaved head and a black apron over a white t-shirt that had gone translucent with sweat at the small of his back. He was stirring a pot, his arm moving in a wide circle, and Derek could see the muscles shifting under his skin, the long curves of his triceps, the way the t-shirt clung to his shoulders. His jaw was sharp, clean-shaven, and he had a tattoo of a dragon that curled up the side of his neck and disappeared into his collar.
Derek imagined the dragon continuing down his chest, the coils of it wrapping around a powerful pec, the tail disappearing into the waistband of his pants. He imagined the cook's cock, thick and dark, and how it would feel pushing into his loose hole, sliding in without resistance, filling him right back up.
He ate another tomato.
The men in suits were laughing again. A different one this time, a stocky man with silver at his temples and a watch that caught the light. He was telling a story, gesturing with his hands, and every gesture was confident, easy, the movement of a man who owned the room. Derek watched him and thought about how that confidence would translate to the bedroom, the way he'd press a man down and just take what he wanted, no negotiation, no hesitation. His cock would be thick, Derek decided. Heavy. They all probably had big cocks. Every one of these men, every single one, had probably fucked someone who was smaller and weaker, and none of them would ever look at Derek and think of him as anything more than a thing in the basement.
The thought made his hole flutter. The stale air moved against the open ring and he clamped his thighs together.
He ate the rest of the salad mechanically, leaf by leaf, tomato by tomato. The vinaigrette was sour on his tongue. When the bowl was empty he sat with it in his hands, the plastic cool against his palms, and he thought about how this was his third day of eating like this. He was losing weight, he could feel it. His jeans were looser than they'd been a week ago. The canteen belt he wore was at its last notch.
His body was shrinking. His shoulders getting bonier. His ass probably too, he thought, the curve of it flattening out. He was becoming smaller, weaker, easier to hold down. And the thought, instead of terrifying him, sent a low pulse of pleasure through his gut, because Kai's voice said, "Good. The less there is of you, the more room there is for what we’re going to put in you."
He stood up and carried his empty bowl to the bin.
Li Wei found him at the elevator. He wore the same navy dress shirt as yesterday, the sleeves rolled to his forearms, which were compact and solid, a few dark hairs peeking out from under the fabric. His watch was heavy, expensive, and his face was open and friendly, a hint of a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.
"Ready to go?" Li Wei said.
Derek nodded. His voice didn't seem to want to work.
They walked through the lobby together. Li Wei's stride was easy, unhurried, and Derek had to stretch his legs to keep pace. He smelled like clean soap and something citrus, and his jaw had that strong, squared look that Derek had started to see everywhere in this building. He imagined Li Wei without the shirt, his chest broad and smooth, his abdominals defined, his waist narrow where his hips flared out. He imagined the bulk of him between his legs, the weight of a soft cock that would stiffen against his thigh, and how much he would love to be pressed down under that weight.
Li Wei held the glass door open and gestured him through. "Uber's right there. Black one."
Derek got in. Li Wei said something to the driver in Chinese and then leaned in through the open door. "Get some rest," he said. "Big day tomorrow."
His hand landed on Derek's shoulder for just a moment. The palm was warm, the fingers strong, and Derek felt his whole body lean into the touch before Li Wei pulled it away and shut the door.
The ride back to Emerald Gardens was quiet. The driver didn't speak. Derek watched the city slide past the window, the glass towers, the trees, the heat shimmer rising from the street. His hole kept making itself known, a loose and pulsing presence, and every bump in the road sent a small shudder through him.
The apartment was the same as he'd left it. He locked the door and stood in the silence. On the kitchen counter there was a fresh pouch of weed and a pack of rolling papers. He stared at them for a long moment, then picked up the pouch and went out the sliding door onto the balcony.
The night air was warm and damp. He rolled a joint with clumsy fingers, his hands still a little shaky from the poppers and the dildo and the long session. He lit it and pulled deep. The smoke hit his lungs and he held it, then let it out in a slow stream.
The city glittered below him. The traffic hummed. He took another pull and the world softened at the edges, the lights smearing into a watercolor glow.
His mind drifted. He saw Zhang Ming's face, the gray eyes behind the square lenses, the pen tapping against the clipboard. "You are being monitored through the straps; we will know if you're lying." Then the question, the words forming in his head: "What do you think you'll be dreaming about tonight?" And his voice answering, C, the feeling of being so full that I forget my own name.
Kai's face replaced Zhang Ming's. The warm smile, the dark curl of hair at the top of his open shorts. "Good. You're getting it. You're a hole, buddy, and that's the best thing you could possibly be." The voice was low, intimate, filling his head with its steady heat. He felt the weight of the dildo again, phantom pressure, the memory of being full to the brim and the wonderful terrible ease of letting go.
He smoked until the joint was a burning stub, then stubbed it out on the railing and went back inside.
The bed was soft. He lay on his back and stared at the ceiling, his body humming with the weed and the memory of stretch. His hand drifted to his cage. It was the new one, smaller, the steel seamless against his skin. He traced the edge of it with one finger, felt the humiliating pressure, the denial of everything his body wanted.
He heard Kai's voice again, patient and low. "You don't need to touch yourself anymore. Your cock is finished. You're going to be a hole now, open and full, and that's going to be more than you ever got from your little dick."
The words settled into him like sediment in water. He curled onto his side, his knees pulled up, and the emptiness in his body was a thing he could feel, the hole waiting to be filled again.
He closed his eyes. The ceiling swam with the shapes of men. The taller technician's forearms. Li Wei's friendly smile. The cook's dragon tattoo. The stocky businessman's silver temples. They turned over in his mind like cards in a deck, and behind them all, Kai's voice kept talking, warm and low, telling him what a good hole he was, how he was made for this, how everything would make sense once he let go.
He let go. The world went soft and dark, and the last thing he felt before sleep took him was the pulse of his own hole, loose and waiting, and the knowledge that tomorrow he would be stretched again.