Chapter 28: Pierced Plaything
The water did not cleanse; it anointed. The silent attendants scrubbed him with rough sponges that smelled of thyme and iron, scraping the residues of daemon and master from his skin only to anoint him with new oils that made his nerve endings sing. They pulled him from the pool, patting him dry with towels of unbearable softness, and led him not back to the main chamber but through a narrow archway hidden behind a falling curtain of chain.
The air changed. The occult thrum of the brothel chamber faded, replaced by a bass vibration that came up through the floorboards. The scent shifted from ozone and sex to expensive cigar smoke and bergamot. They ushered him into a smaller, velveteen space—a private booth. A deep leather couch dominated the room. A low table held a bottle of amber liquor and two glasses. The music here was a synthesized drone, just loud enough to mask specific sounds from other booths.
He was left alone. Naked. The silver lines on his belly seemed to glow faintly in the low, crimson light. His cunt still throbbed, a phantom fullness, the potion’s heat a low burn in his veins. He ran a tongue over his teeth, feeling the new, subtle sharpness at the canines. He touched the cold metal of his nipple rings, a habit from his old life that now felt like a parody.
The door clicked open. A man entered, mortal by the look of him, dressed in a suit that cost more than Taichi’s former yearly rent. He had the tired, hungry eyes of someone who owned everything and found nothing satisfying. His gaze locked onto Taichi, who lounged back on the couch, one leg casually draped over the arm.
“You’re the special attraction,” the man stated, his voice a dry rustle. He poured two fingers of liquor, didn’t offer any.
“I’m whatever you need me to be,” Taichi heard himself say, his voice a low purr that wasn’t entirely his own. He felt a foreign cunning, a predatory patience layered over his own desperate hunger. He spread his legs, just a fraction, letting the light catch the glint of the silver ring through his hood. “See something you like?”
The man’s drink halted halfway to his lips. His eyes widened, fixated on that tiny, shining piercing. The casual avarice in his face deepened into something more primal. “They said you were… transformative.”
“They undersold me.” Taichi hooked a finger inside his own cheek, pulling his mouth open to flick his pierced tongue slowly. The motion was obscene, practiced. “Want a taste before the main course? It’s complimentary.”
The businessman set his glass down with a sharp crack. He crossed the room in three strides, dropping to his knees between Taichi’s legs with a desperation that broke his polished facade. His hands, manicured and smooth, gripped Taichi’s thighs, pushing them wider. He stared, breathing heavily, at the revealed slickness, the intricate metal, the still-swollen pink flesh.
Then he buried his face between Taichi’s legs without a word.
His tongue was clumsy, eager, lapping at Taichi’s folds like a starved animal. He sucked roughly on the pierced bud, making Taichi gasp and arch off the leather. The sensation was a bright, sharp shock after the overwhelming brutality of Van and the daemon. It was vulgar. It was human. And the potion inside Taichi, the residue of supernatural seed, made his sensitivity excruciating.
“Yeah, just like that,” Taichi moaned, his fingers tangling in the man’s gelled hair. He pushed the man’s face deeper into his cunt. “Eat it. Eat me out like the greedy fucker you are.”
The man grunted, obeying, his nose pressing against Taichi’s skin. He fucked Taichi with his tongue, plunging it inside, then circling back to abuse the piercing. Taichi rocked against him, his own cock stiffening, a bead of precum welling at the tip. The pleasure built, a coiling tension distinct from the soul-deep filling he’d known before. This was just meat. Delicious, debasing meat.
“Enough,” Taichi panted, pulling the man’s head back by his hair. The man’s chin gleamed with Taichi’s wetness. “Now fuck me. I want to feel your cheap, mortal cock. Pick a hole.”
The man fumbled with his belt, his pants, his urgency making him clumsy. His erection sprang free, thick and veined. He looked from Taichi’s glistening cunt to his tight, untouched asshole with a flicker of indecision.
“There,” Taichi said, rolling onto his stomach and presenting his ass, reaching back to spread his cheeks. “There’s your novelty. Make it wet first.”
A slick finger, coated in Taichi’s own fluids, pushed against his asshole. It breached him, a sudden, familiar intrusion. The man worked it in, crooking it. Then a second joined it, stretching him open with a burn that made Taichi’s toes curl. The man’s other hand snaked underneath, his fingers plunging back into Taichi’s wet, waiting cunt, filling both holes at once.
“Holy fuck,” the businessman breathed, awed by his own depravity.
“Just fuck me already, you pathetic bastard,” Taichi snarled into the leather, pushing back onto the invading fingers.
The man positioned himself, the broad head of his cock nudging against Taichi’s loosened ass. He pushed. The stretch was profound, burning, a delicious violation. Taichi yelled out, a raw, filthy sound lost in the thrumming music. The man sank in to the hilt with a ragged sob of pleasure, his balls slapping against Taichi’s perineum.
He set a hard, frantic pace, his hips pistoning, his fingers still jammed inside Taichi’s cunt, twisting with each thrust. The dual penetration was overwhelming, a crude mapping of Taichi’s internal spaces. The table rattled with their rhythm. The man was muttering, nonsense, prayers, curses.
“Gonna come, gonna come in this perfect fucking ass,” he chanted, his thrusts growing sloppy, wild.
Taichi felt his own orgasm building, a secondary echo to the man’s frantic energy. But beneath that, a colder, deeper hunger awoke. The hollow place Van had refilled yawned open, not for seed, but for essence. The silver lines on Taichi’s belly burned.
As the man’s thrusts became jerky, as he slammed in deep and moaned, “I’m coming!”, Taichi turned his head. He looked back over his shoulder, meeting the man’s glazing eyes.
“So am I,” Taichi whispered, and his smile showed too many teeth.
The man shuddered, pouring his release into Taichi’s bowels. At the same moment, Taichi clenched, a vicious, internal spasm that was more than physical. He felt a pull, a suction not of muscle, but of spirit. A vibrant, hot rush—different from liquid seed—flowed from the man into him, up through his core, a sensation of stealing breath, light, and time.
The businessman’s ecstatic cry cut off into a guttural choke. His eyes, locked on Taichi’s, went dull and empty even as his body continued to weakly jerk through its climax. He slumped forward, a dead weight atop Taichi, his softening cock slipping out.
Taichi breathed in deeply. The fatigue was gone. The sensitivity was gone, replaced by a thrumming, satiated vitality. He pushed the limp body off him. It crumpled to the floor with a soft thud, a husk in a five-thousand-dollar suit.
The booth door opened. Van stood there, leaning against the frame, a look of profound approval on his face. He glanced at the corpse, then back at Taichi, who sat up, vitality humming in his veins, his body glowing with a sick, stolen health.
“You see now,” Van said, his voice a caress. “The hunger you feel? It isn’t for pleasure. It’s for life itself.” He extended a hand. “They will all feed you, my consort. And you will feed me.”
Taichi looked at his own hands, steady and strong. He felt no remorse. Only a ravenous, echoing curiosity for the next meal. He took Van’s hand.