Chapter 10: Chained and Taken
Van watched the line of Taichi’s back, the way the morning light traced each vertebra down to the waistband of his simple cotton pants. The quiet in the room had shifted from tense to taut, a wire thrumming with a current only Van could feel. His own stillness was a lie. Heat pooled low in his gut, a familiar, demanding clench. His cock, half-hard since he’d watched the boy drink, began to thicken against his thigh, trapped by the fine linen of his own sleep pants.
The chain was a cold, solid promise in his hand.
He moved without a sound, rising from the bed like a shadow detaching itself. The polished floor was cool under his feet. He stopped behind Taichi, close enough to feel the radiant warmth of his skin, to smell the clean, impersonal soap from the bathroom now mingling with Taichi’s own scent.
His fingers closed around the chain, just inches from the collar. Then he yanked.
It wasn’t a gentle pull. It was a sharp, authoritative jerk that snapped Taichi’s head back and tore a ragged gasp from his throat. The graceful kneeling posture collapsed. Taichi pitched forward, his palms slapping against the cold window glass to stop his face from smashing into it, his body forced onto all fours. The chain bit into the soft skin under his jaw, pulling his head back at a painful, vulnerable angle.
Van leaned down, his mouth near Taichi’s reddening ear. His voice was a low, gravelly rasp, stripped of all corporate polish. “What do you want?”
Taichi panted, his breath fogging the glass. His eyes were wide, staring at the dizzying drop below. He could feel Van’s hard cock pressing against the cleft of his ass through the thin layers of fabric. The question wasn’t a kindness. It was a trap, a test, a demand for complicity.
He hesitated. Van saw the struggle in the tight line of his shoulders. This was the frontier. To voice it was to claim it.
“I want,” Taichi whispered, the words vibrating against the window, “you to take me from behind, sir.”
Van’s grin was a feral, joyless thing. He tightened his grip. “And?”
Taichi swallowed, the motion constricted by the metal. “Pull the chain tight. So I can’t move.”
A dark thrill shot through Van, sharper than any stim. He’d asked for a want, and the boy had asked for his own restraint. It was perfection.
“Good,” Van breathed, the word a reward that felt like a brand.
He didn’t bother with finesse. Wrapping the chain quickly around his right fist once, twice, he hauled backward until the links were rigid. Taichi’s head was pulled back further, his throat a long, straining arch, every tendon standing in relief. A choked sound escaped him.
With his booted foot—he’d never taken off his shoes from the night before—Van kicked Taichi’s knees apart, a rough, wide stance. The cotton pants were shoved down to mid-thigh in one brutal pull, baring Taichi’s ass. Van spat into his own hand, a crude, wet sound, and slicked himself roughly over his pajamas before shoving the fabric down just enough to free his aching cock. He was thick, fully erect, the head flushed and leaking. He pressed the blunt tip against Taichi’s hole, which clenched tight, unprepared.
“You asked for it,” Van reminded him, his voice guttural.
He didn’t wait. He didn’t push. He shoved.
The invasion was brutal, a single, deep, shearing thrust that buried him to the hilt in one motion. Taichi screamed, a raw, ragged noise that was swallowed by the glass and the vast space of the room. His body bowed, trying to escape the overwhelming fullness, but the chain held his head fast, anchoring him for the taking. Van felt the incredible, punishing tightness, the hot clutch of Taichi’s body around him, and he saw stars.
“Fuck,” he snarled, the word torn from him.
He began to move, setting a relentless, punishing rhythm. He pulled out almost entirely, then slammed back in, each thrust a deep, unforgiving piston stroke. The wet, obscene slap of skin on skin, the jangle of the chain, Taichi’s ragged sobs for air—it was a symphony of possession. Van fucked him with a kind of focused rage, chasing not just pleasure but obliteration. Obliteration of the boardroom’s silence, the shareholders’ expectations, the hollow, yawning quiet of his own penthouse.
He wound the chain tighter in his fist, using it as a rein. “Take it,” he grunted, driving in deep, grinding his hips in a cruel circle. “Your greedy little hole is swallowing me whole. Isn’t that what you wanted? To be used?”
Taichi couldn’t speak. Tears streamed from the corners of his eyes, cutting paths through the light on his cheeks. With each inward thrust, his body was forced forward, his forehead now pressed against the cool glass, staring unseeing at the city. He was immobile, speared, owned. The pain was a bright, white fire, but beneath it, buried deep in the shame, was a terrifying thread of something else. A fulfillment. He had asked, and he was receiving. The chain wasn’t just cutting off his air; it was holding him together as he was being split apart.
Van’s pace became erratic, feverish. He leaned over Taichi’s back, his free hand digging into the boy’s hip, nails breaking skin. His breath was hot and ragged against Taichi’s ear. “Gonna come inside you,” he panted, a filthy, dark promise. “Gonna fill this pretty ass up. Mark it. You’re just a hole. My hole.”
The crude words, the brutal pace, the absolute physical dominion—it tipped Van over the edge. With a final, snarling thrust that pushed Taichi hard into the window, he came. Jet after hot jet spilled deep inside, a pulsing, claiming release that seemed to drain the fury from his bones. He slumped forward, his weight pinning Taichi, his forehead against the boy’s sweating shoulder blade.
For a long minute, there was only the sound of their harsh breathing, the city’ silent witness below.
Slowly, Van’s fist unclenched. The chain loosened, slithering down to pool on the floor beside Taichi’s trembling hand. Van pulled out, a soft, wet sound that made Taichi whimper. He stood, tucking himself away, looking down at the devastated figure before him: pants down, skin marked, back heaving, seed already leaking from his used ass.
Van reached down and hauled Taichi up by the arm. The boy’s legs nearly buckled. Van pulled the cotton pants back up over his hips, a strangely clinical act after the violence. He guided him, stumbling, back to the bed and pushed him down onto the stained sheets.
“Don’t clean up,” Van said, his voice hollowed out, quiet. He touched the red, abraded line around Taichi’s neck. A brand.
He walked to the bathroom, leaving the door open. The shower turned on. Taichi lay where he’d been placed, the ache inside him a deep, throbbing reality. He turned his head and saw their reflection in the dark television screen: a pale, broken thing on a vast, dark bed.
From the bathroom, through the sound of water, Van’s voice came, flat and final. “Tomorrow, you ask for it again.”