Chapter 12: Wallbound Rewards
The adrenaline that had carried Travis home from the corporate tower bled out of him in the elevator ride up to his apartment, leaving behind a twitchy, hollow static. He’d done it. He’d actually done it. He’d held the edge Mavis had given him, placed the evidence on the table, and walked away. Now, in the silent hallway outside his door, the reality of it pooled in his gut like cold cement.
He fumbled with the keys, the metal clicking loudly in the quiet. When the door swung open, the familiar scent of stale coffee and lavender wrapped around him, a physical relief. He stepped inside, shut the world out, and leaned against the door with a long, shuddering exhale.
The room was dim, lit only by the perpetually glowing neon stars. His eyes went immediately to the wall. Not to the hole, but to the new additions flanking it: two heavy-duty steel hooks, screwed deep into the studs. They were austere, industrial, a stark contrast to the worn domesticity of the rest of the room. Beside them, on the floor, was a folded black nylon belt with sturdy D-rings.
He’d installed them last night, after Mavis had fallen asleep on his chest. A sudden, compulsive act. A way to make the feeling of being anchored, of being held in place and owned by the moment, into something concrete. Something he could lock into.
“Took you long enough.”
Mavis’s voice came from the darkness near the bed. Travis saw him then, perched on the headboard, a small silhouette against the green glow. He was already undressed, his tiny form taut with a predatory patience.
“It’s done,” Travis said, his voice rough. He sounded more exhausted than victorious.
“I know,” Mavis said, hopping down onto the mattress. “I can smell it on you. The fight’s gone. Now you’re just… buzzing. Like a phone left on vibrate.” He padded across the sheets until he stood at the edge, looking up. “Get it off. All of it.”
Travis obeyed, his movements automatic. Jacket, shoes, socks, the stiff work shirt, the chinos. Each piece of clothing felt like a layer of the day he was shedding. He stood naked in the cool room, the events of the afternoon circling in his head—Cynthia’s frozen smile, the weight of the USB drive, the finality of the elevator doors closing.
“Stop thinking,” Mavis commanded softly. He pointed a tiny finger toward the wall. “Go.”
Travis walked to the hooks. He picked up the belt. It was heavier than it looked. He held it against his ass, the taut nylon cold against his skin, and attached the one ends to the steel hook to his left with a sturdy carabiner. It clicked shut with a final, satisfying snap. He would be restrained against the wall, enough room that he could wiggle side to side, but not retreat.
Only then did he approach the hole itself. It wasn’t just the silicone sleeve anymore. Mavis must have been busy. The opening was now framed by a sleek, matte-black disc, a perfect circle embedded in the drywall. Its surface was smooth but textured with a subtle pattern of ridges. It looked purpose-built, alien in the shabby room.
Travis pressed himself forward. The new silicone was cooler, firmer. And as he slid inside, he felt the difference immediately. The interior was lined with soft, nubbed spikes, a gentle but inescapable topography that mapped every inch of him. He gasped, his head falling forward against the wall with a soft thud. Reaching his right hand to clip the other carabiner to its hook.
“Better, right?” Mavis’s voice was right beside his ear, coming from the other side of the wall. “Holds you more… thoroughly.”
Travis could only grunt in agreement. He was encased, held fast not just by Mavis’s will tonight, but by the hardware they’d conspired to install. The restraint belt pulled snug at his hips, a constant reminder of his consent. He was utterly presented, utterly vulnerable.
He felt Mavis move on the other side. Not the swift, sure touches from the night before. This was different. Slower. More precise.
A single, feather-light stroke traced the length of his shaft, starting at the base and moving with agonizing slowness to the tip. It wasn’t Mavis’s hand. It was softer, more erratic. The tip of a tiny brush, maybe. Or a feather. It was a whisper of sensation against the hypersensitive skin, amplified a thousandfold by the textured sleeve gripping him.
Travis jerked against his restraints, a sharp breath hissing through his teeth. The carabiners held firm.
“Shhh,” Mavis soothed from the darkness. “Just feel it.”
The feather-touch came again. And again. It danced over him, tracing veins, circling the head, skittering underneath. It was a maddening, gentle torture. It built no rhythm, offered no relief. It just was. A constant, teasing whisper that kept every nerve ending on a razor’s edge.
The victory from the afternoon, the cold fear, the buzzing anxiety—they all dissolved under this singular, exquisite focus. His mind, which had been a chaotic swarm, went quiet and white. There was only the now. Only the teasing, the restraint, the cool wall against his forehead.
“You were so brave today,” Mavis murmured, his voice low and intimate through the wall. The feather didn’t stop. “Walking into that clean, white room. Putting your little bomb on the table.” A delicate stroke swirled around the tip. Travis groaned, his hips straining forward into nothing but the unyielding sleeve. “My brave, messy man.”
Then, without warning, the feathering stopped. Travis whimpered at the loss.
It was replaced by the sudden, firm pressure of Mavis’s small hands. Not to move him, but to squeeze. A tight, claiming ring of pressure around the base. It wasn’t painful. It was definitive. A cork in a bottle.
Travis cried out, the sound muffled by the drywall. His whole body trembled.
“You see?” Mavis whispered, his grip unwavering. “This is where you live now. Not in that office. Not in your worried head. Here. On this edge.” He gave another slow, pulsing squeeze. “I own this edge. And I own you on it.”
He held the pressure for a long, breathless minute. Travis panted, sweat beading on his back, his fingers scrabbling against the painted plaster. Then, Mavis released him, only to start the feather-light tracing all over again.
The cycle repeated. The soft, torturous teasing that wound him tighter and tighter. Then the sudden, claiming squeeze that stopped everything, that held him suspended in a gasp. Over and over. It was a lesson in surrender, in being played like the most sensitive instrument.
Time lost meaning. The neon stars blurred in Travis’s vision. He was a vessel of pure sensation, poured full by Mavis’s merciless, loving attention. The pleading noises that fell from his lips weren’t words, just raw, needy sounds.
Finally, after a squeeze that made his knees buckle, Mavis spoke again. His voice had changed. The teasing was gone, replaced by a deep, warm certainty. “Good,” he said. “You’re empty now. All the noise is gone.”
Travis felt Mavis’s hands leave him. He heard soft movements. Then, a different sensation. The warm, wet, perfect pressure of Mavis’s mouth. Not teasing. Not torture. A deep, taking suction that was a promise and a reward all at once.
It was too much. The sharp, coiling tension that had been wound and rewound all night finally snapped. Travis shouted, a ragged, broken sound as he came, his body shuddering violently against the restraints. The world disintegrated into pulsing, blinding release.
When he came back to himself, he was hanging limp in the belt, his forehead damp against the wall. He felt drained, purified. Hollowed out and peaceful.
He felt Mavis gently disengage. Small hands, impossibly tender now, wiped him clean. Then the soft clicks of the carabiners being released. The belt fell away. Travis stumbled back a step, his legs like water.
Mavis was there, leaping from the hole to the bed, then holding up a corner of the sheet. “Here,” he said, his voice soft. “You’re done.”
Travis crawled onto the bed, collapsing face-first into the pillows. The blanket was dragged over him. A moment later, he felt the familiar, slight weight of Mavis settling on the pillow beside his head.
“They’re going to come for me,” Travis whispered into the cotton, his voice hoarse. “Don. Maybe lawyers.”
A tiny hand stroked his sweat-damp hair. “Let them come,” Mavis said, utterly unconcerned. “You gave the mess to the people who get paid to clean it up. Your job is over.” His voice was close, a soft rustle in the dark. “Now sleep. You’re home. You’re safe. You’re mine.”
Travis believed him. The hooks in the wall, the belt on the floor, the sleek black disc—they were all testaments to a different kind of truth, one that existed outside of offices and threats and evidence. He closed his eyes, and for the first time in weeks, he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep without a single thought of what tomorrow might bring.
He closed his eyes, and for the first time in weeks, he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep without a single thought of what tomorrow might bring.
Consciousness returned not with a jolt, but as a slow, warm tide. Travis swam up through layers of heavy sleep, aware first of a gentle, rhythmic pressure. A soft, wet heat was focused on the very tip of him. He stirred, a low groan vibrating in his throat. The sensation persisted, delicate and insistent.
Mavis was lightly sucking his cock slit, his tiny mouth forming a perfect seal. Every few seconds, he would flick his tongue, probing just inside with a feathery precision that drew a sharp gasp from Travis’s sleep-slack lips. Travis’s hips gave an involuntary twitch, seeking more of that acute, building feeling.
“Mmm,” he mumbled, his hand drifting down to card through the air above Mavis’s head.
As soon as the sound left his mouth, as soon as he shifted, Mavis stopped. The warm, wet pressure vanished, replaced by the cool air of the room. Travis blinked his eyes open to see Mavis already retreating, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as he stood on Travis’s stomach.
“Morning,” Mavis said, his voice cheerful and clear. He showed no sign of the possessive intensity from the night before. Now, he was all crisp, knowing energy.
“Why’d you stop?” Travis croaked, his body thrumming with unfinished need.
“You’re awake.” Mavis shrugged one tiny shoulder as if the answer was obvious. He jumped down onto the rumpled sheet. “The fun part’s over. Up you get. The sun’s been up for hours.”
Travis groaned, throwing an arm over his face. The thick, urgent arousal was a stark contrast to the calm emptiness he’d fallen asleep with. It was a demand with nowhere to go. He was painfully hard, the memory of the textured sleeve and the restraining belt a fresh echo in his nerves.
“You’re a bastard,” Travis said, the words lacking any real heat.
“Your bastard,” Mavis corrected from the floor. “Now move. I’m hungry. You have toast, I assume.”
Travis pushed himself up onto his elbows. The light slicing through the blinds was indeed bright, suggesting late morning. The events of yesterday—the meeting, the USB drive, the hooks in the wall—all rushed back, but they felt distant, blurry behind the immediate, physical want Mavis had casually ignited and abandoned. He swung his legs out of bed, the cold floorboards shocking his feet.
He padded to the kitchen, his body humming with frustrated awareness. He put bread in the toaster, the mundane action feeling absurd. He could feel Mavis watching him from the kitchen table, a speculator on a high stool of stacked coasters.
“They’ll call today,” Travis said, more to himself than to Mavis.
“Probably,” Mavis agreed, stealing a crumb that hadn’t even fallen yet. “Let them. You don’t answer on the first ring. Makes you seem busy. Important.”
“I’m unemployed.”
“You’re between strategic engagements,” Mavis countered, waving a dismissive hand. “Now, butter. A lot of it. For both of us.”
The toast popped. Travis buttered two slices, placing one on a saucer for Mavis and taking a large bite of the other. The simple, greasy flavor was grounding. He was chewing when his phone, charging on the counter, lit up. The screen showed a number he didn’t recognize, but with a familiar area code. Corporate.
His chewing slowed. He stared at it, the bread turning to paste in his mouth.
The phone buzzed, skittering slightly on the granite. It buzzed again. And again.
“Fourth ring,” Mavis said around a mouthful of his own toast. “That’s your cue.”
Travis swallowed, wiped his hands on his sweatpants, and picked up the phone on the fifth buzz. He didn’t say hello. He just put it to his ear and waited, his eyes locked on Mavis’s expectant face.
“Travis? It’s Cynthia.” Her voice was different. Stripped of its professional syrup, it was all business now. “We need to talk. In person.”
“Okay,” Travis said, his voice flat.
“Not at the office. Somewhere neutral. The Paragon Cafe on 12th. One hour.” It wasn’t a request.
Travis looked at the clock. “I’ll be there.”
He ended the call and placed the phone back on the counter. The quiet of the apartment rushed back in, now charged with a new, jagged energy.
“See?” Mavis said, licking butter from his fingers. “Strategic engagement.”
Travis didn’t feel strategic. He felt like a man walking a plank he’d built himself. The calm from the night before was gone, burned away by Mavis’s morning tease and this cold call. He showered quickly, the hot water doing nothing to soften the hard knot of anxiety in his stomach. He dressed in jeans and a plain t-shirt, the grey one Mavis had liked. He avoided looking at the hooks in the wall as he left the bedroom.
“Don’t agree to anything,” Mavis advised from the doorway as Travis put on his shoes. “Just listen. Your face gives too much away, so wear these.” He pointed a tiny finger at a pair of dark sunglasses folded on the entryway table.
Travis picked them up, a faint smile touching his lips. He put them on. “How do I look?”
“Like someone who might have a lawyer,” Mavis said, approvingly. “Now go. And Travis?” Travis paused, his hand on the doorknob. “Remember the edge. You know where it is.”
The Paragon Cafe was all exposed brick and the hiss of expensive espresso machines. Cynthia sat at a corner table, two ceramic mugs already steaming in front of her. She looked up as he approached, her gaze sharp, assessing. He slid into the chair opposite her, the sunglasses tucked into his collar.
“No lawyer?” she asked by way of greeting.
“Didn’t know I needed one,” Travis replied, keeping his voice even. He took a sip of the coffee. It was bitter.
“It’s moving fast,” Cynthia said, cutting to the core. She kept her voice low. “External audit team is already being assembled. Legal is reviewing your files. Don was put on administrative leave this morning.”
Travis felt the news land in his gut, a heavy, cold stone. He’d wanted this. He’d asked for it. Hearing it aloud made it real in a way that was terrifying.
“He won’t go quietly,” Cynthia continued, watching his face. “He’s connected. He’s furious. And he knows it was you.”
“I figured,” Travis said.
“I’m telling you this as a courtesy,” she said, her eyes locked on his. “The process is in motion. It’s out of my hands now. But the personal side… that’s not my department. You should watch your back.”
“Is that a threat?” Travis asked, the coffee’s bitterness on his tongue.
“It’s an observation,” Cynthia corrected, standing up. She left a twenty on the table. “The company will handle its side. You handle yours.” She gave him one last, unreadable look, then walked out, her heels clicking decisively on the concrete floor.
Travis sat alone, finishing the cold coffee. Watch your back. The words looped in his head. He thought of his apartment, of the thin door, of the neon stars and the hole in the wall. It didn’t feel like a fortress. It felt like a glass box.
He walked home slowly, the city noise a dull roar around him. His phone buzzed again—an unknown number. He silenced it and kept walking. When he unlocked his apartment door, the silence felt thicker, waiting.
Mavis was on the back of the armchair, a sentinel. “Well?”
“Don’s on leave. Audit’s coming.” Travis tossed his keys into a bowl. “She told me to watch my back.”
Mavis was silent for a long moment. He hopped down, traversing the bookshelf with quick, precise movements. “Okay,” he said finally, his tone shifting from playful to practical. “Then we watch it for you.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means we use the advantages we have.” Mavis stopped near the hole in the wall, his small frame silhouetted against the dark silicone. “They expect a scared man alone in an apartment. They don’t expect me.” He turned, his eyes gleaming in the low light. “And they definitely don’t expect this.”
Travis followed his gaze to the hooks, to the belt coiled on the floor. A different kind of shiver went through him, one that had nothing to do with fear.
“You need to not be here tonight,” Mavis said, his voice decisive. “Go to a movie. A long one. Get a big, greasy dinner. Be seen.”
“And what are you going to do?” Travis asked, the knot in his stomach tightening, but with a new, electric current underneath.
Mavis smiled, a flash of tiny, sharp teeth. “I’m going to clean the house. And if anyone tries to visit while you’re out…” He patted the textured rim of the hole. “I’ll make them wish they hadn’t.”
The offer was insane. It was also the most fiercely protective thing anyone had ever suggested. Travis looked from Mavis’s determined face to the stark, waiting hardware on the wall. The edge was still there, but it had shifted. It wasn’t about surrender anymore.
It was about setting a trap.
“Okay,” Travis breathed, the word feeling like a pact.
“Okay,” Mavis echoed. He pointed to the door. “Now go. Be conspicuously elsewhere. Come back late.” His expression softened, just for a second. “And don’t worry. This is what I’m for.”
Travis grabbed his jacket, a strange, defiant energy replacing the dread. He had given them the mess. Now, he had something, someone, guarding the door. As he stepped back out into the hallway, he didn’t feel like a target.
He felt like the one holding the reins of a very sharp, very hidden blade. The momentum was his. He just had to walk into the dark and trust what he’d left behind in the light.