Chapter 2: Caught Red-Handed
The door clicked shut and the sound reverberated through Ender's chest like a gavel falling. His fingers were still tangled in the fabric of his shirt, still frozen mid-fumble, still utterly useless.
Gene stood at the foot of the desk. Zenix had circled around to the side, and Ender heard the soft creak of his desk chair as Zenix lowered himself into it, settling in like a man about to watch his favorite show.
"Stand up," Gene said.
Ender's legs obeyed before his brain caught up. He pushed out of the chair, and the shirt hung open, exposing the full length of his torso, the jut of his hips above the waistband of his underwear. The room felt smaller than it had a minute ago. The sunlight that had seemed warm and lazy now felt like a spotlight.
Gene's eyes traveled down Ender's body, slow and clinical, cataloging every exposed inch. When his gaze reached Ender's feet and started its way back up, Ender had to fight the urge to cross his arms over his chest.
"You wanted attention," Gene said.
"I—"
"Take off the shirt."
Ender's hands moved to the remaining buttons. There was only one left, the one Gene had undone, but his fingers still fumbled. He shrugged the fabric off his shoulders and let it fall to the floor behind him. The air hit his skin, and he shivered.
"Everything else."
Ender hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his underwear and pushed them down. He stepped out of them, kicking them aside. Naked now, in the middle of his own office, with three monitors humming and a half-finished chair model rotating on the left screen and his phone still sitting on the desk with that last photo glowing on the lock screen.
Zenix let out a low whistle. "Damn. You really were committed to the bit, weren't you?"
"Shut up," Ender muttered, but there was no heat in it.
"I'm just saying. You sent us a whole gallery. Very thorough. Very artistic. The lighting in the third one was actually pretty good."
"Zenix," Gene said, without looking away from Ender.
"Yeah?"
"Describe it."
Zenix leaned back in the chair, and Ender heard the leather creak again. "Which one?"
"The last one."
Ender's stomach dropped. The last one was the worst. The last one was the one he'd taken with the timer, the one where he'd arranged himself like a centerfold, the one where he'd bitten his lip and looked up through his lashes and shown absolutely everything.
Zenix pulled out his phone. He tapped the screen, and Ender watched his own face appear, small and incriminating.
"Okay, so," Zenix said, "you're in the chair. Legs spread. One hand—"
"I know what I did."
"I'm just narrating. You wanted us to think about you, right? This is me thinking about you." Zenix tilted his head, studying the photo like it was a piece of art. "The shirt's off both shoulders. Your chest is bare. There's a flush here—" he pointed at the screen, "—right across your collarbones, and it's going all the way down. Your nipples are hard."
"Because it's cold."
"It's not cold. You're turned on. You're turned on because you thought you were being naughty, and you wanted us to see how naughty you were being."
Ender's face burned. His hands hung at his sides, and he didn't know what to do with them. Cover himself? Stand at attention? Gene hadn't told him to do either, so he stayed still.
"The best part," Zenix continued, "is right here." He turned the phone toward Gene, then back to himself. "Your thighs are spread, and you can see exactly how hard you are. You're not even trying to hide it. You're just—" he gestured vaguely, "—presenting yourself. Like a gift."
"A gift," Gene repeated. His voice was flat, but there was something underneath it, something coiled and waiting.
"A really slutty gift."
Ender's cock twitched. He couldn't help it. The word landed somewhere low in his gut, and his body responded before his brain could intervene. Zenix noticed. Of course he noticed. His grin widened.
"Oh, he liked that."
Gene took a step closer. Then another. He stopped when he was close enough that Ender could smell his cologne—something woody and warm, something that smelled like safety and danger at the same time. Gene reached out and hooked a finger under Ender's chin, tilting his face up.
"On your knees," Gene said.
The words were quiet. Almost gentle. But they hit Ender like a physical force, and his knees buckled before he'd made the conscious decision to move. He sank down, the hardwood floor cold against his bare skin, and looked up at Gene from below.
Gene's hand moved to his belt. The leather whispered through the loops, and Ender's mouth went dry as he watched it come free. Gene folded it in half, tested the weight against his palm, and then let it hang at his side.
"Turn around."
Ender shifted on his knees, facing the desk. Zenix was right there, sprawled in the chair like a king, and Ender could see himself reflected in Zenix's dark eyes. He could also see the monitors behind Zenix—the meme collage, the half-finished chair, the frozen screenshot from earlier. The room was a museum of his own bad decisions.
The first strike came without warning.
The leather cracked against his ass, a sharp, bright line of pain that made him gasp. His hands flew forward, catching himself on the edge of the desk before he could face-plant into the keyboard.
"Count," Gene said.
"One."
The second strike landed on the other cheek. Ender's fingers curled around the edge of the desk. "Two."
The third was harder. Lower. The meat of his thigh, right where he'd be sitting for the rest of the day. "Three."
The fourth landed on the same spot, and Ender's vision went white for a second. "Four."
"You sent those photos," Gene said, "because you wanted us to come home."
"I—" The fifth strike cut him off. "Five."
"You wanted us to see you."
Six. "Six."
"You wanted to be punished."
Seven. Ender's eyes were watering. His ass was on fire, a constellation of stinging lines that throbbed in time with his heartbeat. "Seven."
"Did you think about what would happen after?"
Eight. "N-no."
"Did you think about what we'd do to you when we got here?"
Nine. "I—I hoped—"
Ten. "You hoped."
Gene's voice was right behind him now. Ender hadn't heard him move, but suddenly there was heat at his back, the solid weight of Gene's body close enough to feel but not touching. The belt hung loose in Gene's hand, and Ender could see it in his peripheral vision, a thin leather promise.
"You hoped we'd come home and find you like this. Half-naked. Desperate. Waiting." Gene's breath ghosted over Ender's ear. "You hoped we'd put our hands on you. Use you. Remind you who you belong to."
"Yes," Ender whispered.
"Then turn around."
Ender turned. His knees scraped against the floor, and the motion pulled at the tender skin of his ass, sending fresh sparks of pain up his spine. When he was facing Gene again, he found Gene already unfastening his slacks.
"Open your mouth."
Ender's lips parted. His heart was hammering, a wild rhythm that made his hands shake where they rested on his thighs. Gene pulled himself out—thick and hard and already leaking—and Ender's mouth watered at the sight.
"Zenix," Gene said, without looking away. "Keep talking."
"Gladly." Zenix's voice came from behind Ender, casual and bright. "So after the photo, I'm assuming you just sat there. Waiting for us to respond. Getting more and more worked up because we weren't giving you what you wanted."
Gene's hand fisted in Ender's hair, guiding him forward. Ender's lips stretched around him, and the taste hit his tongue—salt and skin and something uniquely Gene. He moaned, and the vibration made Gene's fingers tighten.
"You were probably touching yourself," Zenix continued. "Just a little. Just enough to take the edge off. Except it never does, does it? It just makes it worse. Makes you want more."
Gene thrust deeper, and Ender's eyes fluttered shut. His jaw ached. His throat worked around the intrusion, and he had to focus on breathing through his nose, on relaxing, on taking Gene as far as he could.
"He's good at this," Zenix said. "Look at him. Look at how eager he is. You'd never know he was just crying a minute ago."
Ender's ass throbbed. The welts were still fresh, still singing with every shift of his weight. He could feel the heat radiating from his own skin, and the pain was mixing with something else, something electric that crackled along his nerves and made his cock ache between his legs.
Gene pulled back. Let Ender gasp for air. Then pushed in again, deeper this time, until Ender's nose was pressed against the fabric of Gene's slacks.
"When we're done with you," Gene said, his voice low and rough, "you're going to thank us. You're going to apologize for being a brat. And then you're going to spend the rest of the day with your ass plugged and your hands tied behind your back while you try to finish your work."
Ender moaned around him, a desperate, muffled sound.
"And tonight," Zenix added, "we're going to use you until you can't walk. Until you forget your own name. Until the only thing you remember is how to say 'thank you, sir.'"
Gene pulled out again. Ender whimpered at the loss, his lips slick and swollen, his breath coming in uneven gasps.
"Stand up," Gene said.
Ender's legs wobbled as he rose. The welts on his ass pulled with every movement, and he had to brace a hand on the desk to keep from falling. Zenix reached out and grabbed his hip, steadying him.
"There you go," Zenix said, his thumb tracing small circles on Ender's skin. "See? You can follow instructions when you want to."
"Fuck you," Ender managed.
Zenix laughed. "Later. It's Gene's turn right now."
Gene stepped back and looked at Ender—really looked at him. The tear tracks on his cheeks. The flush that spread from his chest to his face. The red, raised lines across his thighs and ass that would bruise by tomorrow. The way he was trembling, not from cold, but from want.
"You're beautiful like this," Gene said.
Ender's breath caught. That was the thing about Gene—he could go from commanding to tender in a single sentence, and both versions of him made Ender's chest ache in different ways.
"Now," Gene said, stepping toward him, "turn around and bend over the desk."
Ender obeyed. His cheek pressed against the cool wood, and he could feel his own heartbeat echoing through the surface. The monitors glowed in front of him, and he stared at his own abandoned 3D model, the blob of a chair that would never be finished, because he was too busy being a shameless little brat who couldn't keep his pants on for a single afternoon.
Behind him, Gene's belt clinked. Zenix's hands settled on his hips.
"You're going to stay like this," Gene said, "until I'm finished with you. And you're not going to come. You're not going to even think about coming."
"How am I supposed to—"
"You're not going to think about it," Gene repeated, and this time his voice was steel. "If you do, I'll know. And I'll start over."
Ender swallowed. "Yes, sir."
"Good boy."
And then Gene's hands were on him, and Ender couldn't think about anything at all.