Chapter 1: Dinner and Discipline
The storm had been raging for hours, and Ender was losing his mind.
Rain hammered against the floor-to-ceiling windows in relentless sheets, each gust of wind rattling the glass like it wanted inside. The penthouse dining room stretched around them in sleek, modern shadows—black marble floors polished to a mirror shine, frosted glass panels dividing the space into geometric pockets of intimacy, the whole place designed to feel like the inside of some billionaire's fever dream.
Ender hated it. Loved it. Couldn't decide which, and right now he couldn't think straight enough to try.
His fork scraped against the porcelain plate, gathering up the last bit of bloody juices from his steak. The meat was perfect—Gene always made sure of that—but Ender could barely taste it. Could barely taste anything except the copper tang of his own bitten tongue and the bitter edge of overstimulation creeping up his spine.
He shifted in his chair. The movement was small, careful, but it did nothing to ease the pressure.
Nothing ever did.
Across the table, Gene cut into his steak with the methodical precision of a surgeon. His black hair caught the candlelight, gleaming like oil slick, and his pale hands moved with that unhurried grace that made Ender want to scream. Gene never rushed. Never. He would take an hour to eat if it meant watching Ender squirm for every second of it.
"The potatoes are getting cold," Gene observed, not looking up.
Ender's jaw tightened. "I'm eating."
"Are you?"
The vibrator pulsed inside him—a slow, deep throb that made his thighs clench around nothing. It had been at the same setting for the past twenty minutes, that low, teasing hum that wasn't nearly enough to get him off but was absolutely enough to keep him hard and leaking against the inside of his silk boxers.
Ender had already ruined one pair tonight. He'd changed before dinner. That had been a mistake, because now he could feel every drag of wet fabric against his oversensitive skin, and the friction was driving him insane.
"Leave him alone," Zenix said from Ender's left, his voice a lazy drawl. "He's doing so well."
Ender's head snapped toward him. Zenix was lounging in his chair like he owned it—which, technically, he did. One leg was crossed over the other, his dark hair pushed back from his forehead, and his pale lips were curved into that particular smile that meant trouble.
That smile had gotten Ender into so much trouble over the years.
"Don't," Ender warned, but his voice came out breathless, and they all heard it.
Zenix's smile widened.
Gene set down his knife and fork with a soft clink. "Ender. Finish your vegetables."
Ender looked down at his plate. The roasted carrots stared back at him, orange and glistening and absolutely unappealing. His stomach rolled at the thought.
"I'm full."
"You haven't touched them."
"I said I'm full."
The temperature in the room shifted. It was subtle—just the way Gene's eyes narrowed, just the way Zenix's posture straightened—but Ender felt it like a hand around his throat.
Gene picked up his wine glass, swirled the dark liquid once, twice. "We discussed this, sweetheart. You need to eat. You skipped lunch again."
"Because I wasn't hungry."
"Because you were too busy touching yourself in the shower until you came all over the tiles."
Ender's face burned. "That was—"
"And then you took a nap instead of eating the lunch I specifically prepared for you."
The vibrator pulsed again, a little harder than before. Ender's breath hitched, his fingers curling around the edge of the table.
Zenix leaned forward, elbows on the marble, chin in his hands. His eyes gleamed in the candlelight, hungry and amused. "He's blushing, Gene. Look at him."
"I see him."
"I'm not blushing," Ender snapped. His cheeks were absolutely on fire.
"You're adorable when you lie," Zenix said.
Ender grabbed a carrot with his fork and shoved it into his mouth, chewing aggressively while maintaining eye contact with Zenix. The carrot was actually good—Gene had roasted them with honey and thyme, because Gene was a monster who made perfect food while torturing his boyfriend with a vibrator.
Zenix laughed, low and delighted. "There he is. There's our brat."
Ender swallowed, then opened his mouth to say something sharp, something cutting, something that would wipe that smug look off Zenix's face.
The vibrator jumped.
Not a pulse this time. Not a gentle increase. Just—full. Maximum. That brutal, battery-draining intensity that pressed right up against his prostate and held, merciless and unrelenting.
Ender's fork clattered onto his plate. His whole body seized, back arching, hands slamming down flat on the marble as a broken sound tore out of his throat. It was too much—it was always too much—and he could feel his orgasm building already, bright and sharp and terrifying, because he wasn't supposed to come, they hadn't said he could come, and—
The vibration stopped.
Just like that. Off. Nothing.
Ender sagged forward, gasping, his forehead nearly hitting the table. His cock throbbed painfully against his thigh, untouched and desperate, and the emptiness inside him was so acute it felt like grief.
"Shh," Gene murmured. A hand smoothed over Ender's hair, gentle and proprietary. "You're all right. Breathe."
"I hate you," Ender choked out, but it came out wet and wobbly, and they all knew he didn't mean it.
"I know, baby." Gene's fingers traced the shell of Ender's ear. "But you're going to finish your dinner, and then we'll talk about what happens next."
Ender lifted his head. His purple-white curls were sticking to his forehead, damp with sweat, and his freckled face was blotchy with tears he hadn't noticed falling. He looked at Gene—calm, composed, still holding that wine glass like they hadn't just edged him within an inch of his life.
Then he looked at Zenix—and that was worse. Zenix wasn't smiling anymore. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, and he was gripping his own knee so hard his knuckles had gone white.
"He's being so good," Zenix said quietly, almost to himself.
"He is," Gene agreed. "Finish your carrots, Ender."
Ender wanted to fight. Wanted to throw the plate across the room, tell them both to go to hell, storm off to his bedroom and lock the door and—and what? Cry? Jerk off until his hand cramped? That was the problem. They'd ruined him. After years of this, after Gene's patient torture and Zenix's eager cruelty, Ender couldn't even function without them anymore.
He ate the carrots.
Each bite was mechanical, slow, his jaw working while his mind stayed blank and floaty. The vibrator remained off, dormant, but he could still feel it inside him—a foreign weight that was somehow also familiar, like it belonged there.
Zenix refilled his water glass. Gene watched him with those pale, calculating eyes.
When the plate was finally, mercifully empty, Ender set his fork down and sat back. His thighs were shaking. His boxers were ruined. He was so hard it hurt to exist.
Zenix reached across the table and took Ender's hand. His palm was warm, rough from the gym, and he brought Ender's fingers to his lips.
His tongue flicked out, licked the taste of honey off Ender's knuckles.
"Good boy," Zenix said.
The vibrator slammed to life.
Ender screamed. There was no other word for it—a raw, cracking wail that ripped out of his chest as his entire body jolted, nearly upending the chair. Zenix held him in place, fingers wrapped tight around his wrist, and Gene was there too, somehow, standing behind him and pressing him back down into the seat.
"Don't expel it," Gene murmured in his ear. "You know what happens if you do."
Ender did know. He knew, and he sobbed, and he tried to ride it out, but it was impossible. The vibrations were relentless, pulsing at maximum, and his cock was leaking so much he could feel the wet spot spreading through his pants. His hips jerked helplessly, grinding down into the chair, into the plug that was filling him so completely, and he was going to come—he was going to come right here at the dinner table like a desperate mess—
"That's it," Zenix said. He was leaning close now, his breath hot against Ender's tear-streaked cheek. "Come for us, baby. Show us how good you are."
Ender shattered.
His orgasm hit him like a freight train—white-hot and consuming, ripping through his body with enough force to make him see stars. He clenched around the vibrator, riding it out, pleasure and pain blurring together until he couldn't tell where one ended and the other began.
But the vibrator didn't stop.
It kept going. Kept pulsing. Kept pressing against his prostate, which was now so oversensitive that every throb made Ender's vision white out. He thrashed in their grip, but Gene held his shoulders, and Zenix held his wrist, and neither of them were going to let him escape this.
"You can take it," Gene said. "We have all night."
"Please—" Ender gasped, but he didn't know what he was begging for. More? Less? He couldn't think. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't do anything except feel.
Zenix kissed his knuckles again, softer this time. "We're going to keep you like this until you forget your own name, sweetheart."
The vibrator ratcheted up, impossibly, to a setting Ender didn't know existed. The storm rattled the windows, the candles flickered, and Ender's mind went white and empty and utterly, perfectly theirs.