Chapter 1: The Bet Comes Due
The peach hit the ground with a soft, wet thud, splitting open in the dirt. Then another. And another. A cascade of them, actually, rolling under people's feet, bouncing off the legs of the vendor's table, one coming to rest against the toe of Marcus's boot.
"Shit," the vendor muttered, already scrambling.
Marcus couldn't move. Couldn't bend down to help, couldn't do anything but stand there with his jaw clenched so tight his molars ached, while inside him, buried deep, the plug pulsed again—a low, rolling vibration that started at the base of his spine and radiated outward like heat through metal.
He made a sound. Something between a grunt and a exhale, swallowed down before it could become anything more embarrassing.
"Sorry about that," the vendor said, not looking at him, too busy scooping peaches back into the crate with thick, calloused fingers. "Here's your change."
Marcus stared at the man's outstretched hand. Three singles and some coins. The paper felt damp when he took it. Or maybe that was his palm.
"You all right, buddy?" The vendor squinted at him. "You look a little..."
"Fine." The word came out strangled. Marcus cleared his throat, tried again. "I'm fine. Just—hot. The sun."
It was October. The sun was barely doing its job, hidden behind a thin layer of clouds that turned the sky the color of old dishwater.
The vendor shrugged and turned back to his ruined display.
Marcus pivoted on his heel, the movement sending another tremor through him because of course it did, because the plug was still going, a steady, insistent buzz that made his thighs tense and his breath catch. He'd been clenching for the last twenty minutes, ever since they'd walked through the market gates, ever since Dom had reached into his pocket with that casual, innocent little gesture and—
Another pulse. Harder this time. Marcus's hips jerked forward involuntarily, a tiny, aborted thrust that would've been unnoticeable if he hadn't been standing still. His cock strained against the front of his jeans, thick and obvious, and he thanked every god he didn't believe in that he'd worn his loosest pair. Still. Still visible if you looked. Still impossible to ignore.
He needed to find Dom. Needed to tell him to cut it the fuck out before someone noticed, before Marcus lost what little composure he had left and did something truly unforgivable, like moan in the middle of a farmers market, in front of the elderly woman buying honey, in front of the kid selling handmade candles, in front of—
"There you are."
Dom's voice came from behind him, warm and easy, like they were two friends meeting for coffee and not two men engaged in a very public, very one-sided game of psychological warfare. Marcus turned, and there he was, leaning against a produce stand with his arms crossed and that smile on his face. That fucking smile. The one that said he knew exactly what he was doing and was enjoying every second of it.
"Peaches," Dom said, nodding toward the mess. "Good choice. They're in season."
Marcus's jaw worked. "You're a dead man."
"Am I?" Dom pushed off the stand and fell into step beside him, hands in his pockets. The remote was in his left one. Marcus could see the outline of it through the fabric, a small, unassuming rectangle that had become the center of his universe. "Because from where I'm standing, you seem very much alive. Flushed, even. Vibrant."
"I hate you."
"You love me. You've said so. Multiple times. Once on my birthday, which I have video evidence of, so don't even try to deny it."
Marcus stopped walking. The crowd flowed around them, a river of people with tote bags and reusable coffee cups, oblivious to the fact that a man was coming undone in their midst. He grabbed Dom's arm, pulled him close, his voice a low hiss.
"Turn it off. Right now. I mean it."
Dom's eyebrows rose. That innocent expression again. The one that had convinced a hundred clients to sign contracts and a hundred more to forgive him for late payments. "Turn what off?"
"You know exactly what."
"I really don't." Dom tilted his head, studying Marcus's face with an interest that bordered on academic. "You look tense. You should relax. It's a beautiful day. Farmers markets are supposed to be relaxing."
The pulse came again, stronger now, a sudden spike that made Marcus's knees buckle. He caught himself on the edge of a display table, sending a pyramid of citrus fruits wobbling dangerously. His cock jumped, a visible twitch through the denim, and he watched Dom's gaze drop. Watched it linger. Watched that smile widen.
"Careful," Dom said. "Wouldn't want to cause a scene."
Marcus straightened, released the table, and grabbed Dom's wrist through his pocket instead. His fingers found the remote, small and warm and shaped like a key fob, and he squeezed. Nothing happened. Of course nothing did. Because Dom had rigged it, or locked it, or—
"Wrong button."
Marcus looked up. Dom was grinning now, genuinely grinning, the kind of grin that reminded Marcus of college, of keg stands and bad decisions and that one time they'd stolen a traffic cone and put it on the dean's car. The kind of grin that meant Dom was about to do something terrible and Marcus was about to be dragged along for the ride.
"Let go," Dom said softly, "before people start thinking we're having a moment."
Marcus released his wrist. Stepped back. Ran a hand through his hair, which was falling into his eyes, which were probably wild, which probably matched the flush creeping up his neck.
"I'm going home," he said.
"No, you're not." Dom reached past him, grabbed an apple from the display, and tossed it from hand to hand. "We still have half the market to walk. There's a honey stand with those samples you like. The ones with the little wooden dippers."
"I don't care about honey."
"You love honey. You told me it was the only reason you come to these things."
"I come to these things because you make me."
Dom laughed, sharp and bright, and the sound cut through the noise of the crowd like a blade. He took a bite of the apple, chewed thoughtfully, and then shrugged. "Same thing."
Marcus stood there, breathing hard, not moving. The plug was still buzzing, a constant, low hum that he was starting to feel in his teeth. His jeans were uncomfortably tight. A woman walked past with a stroller, and he had to angle his body away, had to pretend he was interested in the citrus display he'd almost knocked over.
"You're hard," Dom observed, entirely too casually.
"I'm aware."
"Like, really hard. That's got to be uncomfortable."
"Dom."
"Just making an observation." He took another bite. "Look, I'll make you a deal. We do the full loop—every vendor, every sample, no shortcuts—and I'll turn it down. Not off. Down. A compromise."
Marcus stared at him. "You're insane."
"Probably." Dom shrugged. "But you haven't walked away yet. So. What's that say about you?"
The question hung there, ugly and honest. Marcus could walk away. He could leave right now, call an Uber, deal with the plug himself—it had a base, he could pull it out, he could end this. But he didn't.
He didn't, and Dom knew it. Dom knew, and he was going to exploit that knowledge for every drop of entertainment it could provide.
"The honey," Marcus said finally.
"What about it?"
"It better be good."
Dom's grin softened, just slightly, into something that might've been affection if it hadn't been so damn smug. "It's the best. You know that." He clapped Marcus on the shoulder—the touch sending a fresh shiver through his already oversensitive nerves—and nodded toward the crowd ahead. "Come on. The candle guy's got a new scent. Something with sandalwood. You'll hate it."
Marcus fell into step beside him because there was nothing else to do, because his legs remembered how to walk and his brain had stopped offering alternatives. The plug was still going, still humming, but Dom's hand was in his pocket again, fingers resting on the remote like a promise.
Not off. Down.
It was something.
They walked past the honey stand without stopping. The samples were there, the little wooden dippers arranged in neat rows, the old man behind the counter nodding at them as they passed. Marcus didn't ask why they weren't stopping. He didn't want to know. He didn't want to give Dom any more ammunition than he already had.
"Your hair's a mess," Dom said.
"It's fine."
"When we get to the candles, the woman running the booth is going to flirt with you. She always flirts with you. You need to look less like you've been...what's the word?"
"Tortured?"
"Affectionately tortured. Let's go with that." Dom reached up and smoothed Marcus's hair back from his forehead, his fingers cool and steady. "There. Now you just look mildly disheveled. Like you've been caught in a stiff breeze."
"Or like my best friend is a sadist with a remote control."
"That too." Dom's hand fell away. "But I prefer the breeze story. It's more romantic."
Marcus laughed. He didn't mean to, but it bubbled up from somewhere unexpected, somewhere under the tension and the embarrassment and the arousal, and for a second—just a second—he felt almost normal. Almost in control.
Then the plug pulsed again, a slow, deliberate throb that made his legs shake.
And Dom, the bastard, didn't even break stride.
The candle booth was at the far end of the market, tucked between a stall selling organic jam and one hawking homemade dog treats. The woman there—mid-forties, silver hair, glasses perched on her nose—did indeed light up when she saw them approaching. Marcus watched her do it, watched the way her smile widened and her spine straightened.
"Back again," she said, her voice a warm alto. "And you brought him. The famous Marcus."
"He's not famous," Dom said. "He just looks like someone you'd remember."
"He does, doesn't he." She leaned forward, elbows on the table, and the look she gave Marcus was appraising. "You look flushed. Are you feeling all right?"
"He's fine," Dom answered before Marcus could speak. "Just a little hot. The sun."
"It's October."
"That's what I said." Marcus's voice came out tighter than he intended. He cleared his throat, forced a smile. "I'm fine. Really. Long week."
The woman didn't look convinced, but she let it go, launching into a description of her new sandalwood candle and how it was going to be her bestseller and how she'd spent three weeks getting the scent just right. Marcus nodded in all the right places. He even picked up a candle and smelled it, which was a mistake, because bending forward shifted the plug inside him, and the vibration hit a new angle, and his vision went briefly white.
"Marcus?"
He straightened. Put the candle down. Blinked. "It's good. Really good. You were right."
Dom was watching him, eyes glittering. His hand was in his pocket again, fingers moving—not pressing, not yet, just moving. A warning. A suggestion.
"I'll take two," Marcus said.
The woman beamed. "Wonderful! Let me wrap them for you."
As she disappeared behind the table, Marcus turned to Dom, his whisper fierce and desperate. "I swear to God, if you do that again."
"I didn't."
"You were about to."
"Was I?" Dom pulled his hand from his pocket, held it up, empty and innocent. "Just adjusting my wallet. You're paranoid."
"You're impossible."
"Both things can be true." Dom stepped closer, close enough that Marcus could smell his cologne, woodsy and warm and terribly familiar. "You're doing great, by the way. Most people would've cracked by now."
"I'm not most people."
"No," Dom agreed. "You're not. That's why this is so fun."
The woman returned with a paper bag, the candles wrapped in tissue paper and tied with twine. Marcus took it, thanked her, and didn't look back as they walked away. His hand was shaking. He hoped she didn't notice.
The market stretched ahead of them, a maze of white tents and colorful signs and the constant, overwhelming noise of people living their lives. Marcus felt each step as a small victory. Each breath as a gift. Each moment without vibration was a moment he could pretend he was a normal person, walking through a normal market, on a normal Saturday afternoon.
"You okay?" Dom asked, and his voice was softer now, the teasing edge gone.
Marcus looked at him. Really looked. Dom's dark eyes were steady, watching him with something that might've been concern if it hadn't been mixed with so much satisfaction. He was enjoying this. Of course he was. But there was something else there too. Something careful.
"Yeah," Marcus said. "I'm okay."
"We can stop. If you want. Go somewhere private, maybe."
The offer was genuine. Marcus knew it was genuine. Dom pushed, but he never pushed past the line. Never had, not once in the twelve years they'd known each other.
"No," Marcus said. "Keep going. Let's finish the loop."
Dom's eyebrows rose. "You sure?"
"I'm sure."
The smile that spread across Dom's face was different this time. Surprised, a little. Pleased in a way that had nothing to do with the remote. "Okay then. The jam stand's next. They've got that blackberry thing you like."
Marcus started walking. The plug was still buzzing, a constant, low hum, but he was settling into it now. Finding a rhythm. The sun was breaking through the clouds, just a little, and the air smelled like apples and old wood and something faintly sweet. He was hard, and he was uncomfortable, and his best friend was a sadist with a remote control who was probably going to spend the rest of the afternoon finding new ways to make him suffer.
"You're smiling," Dom said.
"Am I?"
"You are. It's terrifying."
Marcus didn't reply. He didn't need to. Because Dom was right—he was smiling. The day stretched ahead, full of terrible possibilities, and Marcus was smiling.
The jam stand was coming up ahead. Blackberry. He could already taste it.
He could already taste it. The blackberry jam, tart and sweet, spread thick on a piece of crusty bread, the kind that crumbled when you bit into it and left crumbs on your shirt. His stomach growled. Breakfast had been hours ago, a rushed piece of toast eaten standing at his kitchen counter while Dom texted him increasingly absurd suggestions for the day.
"Three booths down," Dom said, steering him with a hand on his lower back. "The one with the blue awning."
Marcus knew better than to argue. He'd learned that lesson somewhere around the second hour, somewhere between the candle booth and the soap vendor who'd asked him three times if he was feeling okay. The answer was always no. The answer was always a lie.
They'd done the full loop. Every vendor, every sample, no shortcuts—just like Dom promised. And true to his word, Dom had turned it down. Not off. Down. A steady, low hum that Marcus could almost ignore if he didn't think about it. If he didn't move. If he didn't breathe.
But now, standing in front of the jam booth, his cock still half-hard and aching, his thighs still trembling from the effort of holding himself together, Marcus was starting to think that maybe the real torture had been the anticipation. The waiting. The not-knowing when Dom would press that little button again.
"Two jars of the blackberry," Dom said to the woman behind the table. "And one of the strawberry. The one with the seeds."
"You got it, honey." She bagged them up, her hands quick and efficient. "Anything else?"
"That's it."
Marcus paid because his hands weren't shaking too badly and because it was easier than looking at Dom. The bag was heavier than he expected, and he clutched it like a lifeline, like something that could anchor him to the ground while his entire body threatened to float away.
"Lunch," Dom said as they walked away. "Proper lunch. There's this place around the corner, little Italian spot. They do a good carbonara."
Marcus stopped. "You want to go to a restaurant. Now. Like this."
"Like what?" Dom's expression was mild. Innocent. The same one he wore in meetings with clients who didn't know they were being manipulated. "You look fine. Better than fine. You've got that whole flushed, windswept thing going on. Very romantic."
"I hate you."
"You keep saying that." Dom's hand found his shoulder, squeezed once, then dropped. "Come on. You need to eat. You've been surviving on samples and lust for hours."
The walk to the restaurant was short—three blocks, maybe four—but every step sent fresh waves of sensation through Marcus's body. The plug had settled into something almost tolerable, a background buzz that his brain had learned to file under "ignore." Almost. Mostly. Not really.
The restaurant was a cramped little place with checkered tablecloths and a bar that ran along one wall. The smell of garlic and simmering tomatoes hit them the moment they walked in, thick and warm and incredibly comforting. Marcus hadn't realized how hungry he was until his stomach growled again, loud enough that the hostess—a girl in her early twenties with a nose ring and a bored expression—glanced up.
"Two?" she asked.
"Two," Dom confirmed.
She led them to a table near the window, small and intimate, with a view of the street and the people passing by. Marcus slid into his chair, the movement sending the plug deeper, and he had to grip the edge of the table to keep from making a sound. It was still going. Of course it was still going. When had it stopped? When had Dom ever given him more than thirty seconds of relief?
"Your server will be with you in a minute," the hostess said, dropping menus on the table before disappearing.
Marcus stared at his menu without seeing it. The words blurred together, meaningless. His attention was entirely focused on the sensation between his legs, the pressure inside him, the way every tiny shift in his seat pushed the plug against something that made his vision swim.
"You okay?"
He looked up. Dom was watching him, menu abandoned, chin resting on his hand. His dark eyes were gleaming in the soft light, and his mouth was curved into something that wasn't quite a smile.
"What do you think?"
"I think you're doing great," Dom said. "Better than I expected, honestly. I figured you would've cracked by the soap booth."
"Close."
"You held on."
"I had no choice."
Dom's smile widened. He leaned forward, lowering his voice. "You always have a choice. You could have said no at any point today. You could have walked away. You could have pulled the plug out in a bathroom somewhere and called an Uber home."
"Would you have let me?"
The question hung between them. Dom's expression flickered, something passing through his eyes that Marcus couldn't quite read.
"No," Dom said finally. "Probably not. But you didn't try."
"I didn't."
"So what does that mean?"
Marcus opened his mouth to answer—he didn't know what he was going to say, something honest maybe, something about how he trusted Dom even when Dom was being a sadistic bastard, something about how the whole day had been a strange, awful, incredible kind of torture that he'd never admit to enjoying—when the server appeared at their table, notepad in hand.
"Hi, folks. Can I get you started with something to drink?"
"Water," Marcus said. His voice cracked on the word. He cleared his throat. "Please. A lot of it."
The server nodded, unbothered, and turned to Dom. "And for you?"
"House red. And the carbonara for both of us."
"The spaghetti and meatballs is better," the server said.
"Then we'll have that."
She wrote it down and disappeared, and Marcus let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. The restaurant was filling up, couples and families and groups of friends crammed into the small space, their chatter creating a wall of noise that Marcus found oddly soothing. It was anonymous. Safe. No one here knew him, no one here cared about what he was doing or how he looked or whether he was about to fall apart.
"How are you feeling?" Dom asked.
"Don't ask me that."
"Why not?"
Marcus shot him a look. "Because you know exactly how I'm feeling. You've been watching me squirm all day. You're enjoying this."
"I am." No hesitation. No apology. "But I'm also asking because I want to know. There's a difference."
"Is there?"
"Yes." Dom leaned back in his chair, his posture relaxed, like they were discussing something mundane and not the fact that Marcus had been vibrating on and off for hours. "I can enjoy something and still care about how you're doing. Those things aren't mutually exclusive."
Marcus opened his mouth to respond, but before he could get a word out, the plug pulsed again. Hard. A sudden, violent spike that made his entire body jolt. A sound escaped his throat—something between a grunt and a gasp—and he gripped the edge of the table so hard his knuckles went white.
"Marcus?" The server had returned with their drinks. She set them down, frowning at him. "You all right, honey? You look pale."
"Fine," he managed. "Just—hot. The walk. I'm fine."
The server glanced at Dom, who smiled and shrugged, the picture of innocence. "He gets like this. Low blood sugar. The food will help."
"Right. Well, I'll get those orders in." She hurried away, and Marcus closed his eyes, breathing deep through his nose, trying to get himself under control.
That had been bad. That had been very, very bad. If she'd noticed, if someone else noticed, if they figured out what was happening, what Marcus was doing, what he was letting Dom do to him in public—he would die. He would literally, actually die. His body couldn't handle the embarrassment. It would just shut down. He'd expire on the floor of an Italian restaurant, and the headline would be something about heart failure, and everyone would know the truth, everyone would know—
The plug was still going. Stronger now, a constant, relentless vibration that radiated through his entire pelvic region. His cock was rock hard, straining against the zipper of his jeans, and he could feel the fabric of his boxers getting damp with pre-cum. He shifted in his seat, trying to find a position that didn't put pressure on that one spot, that sweet, terrible spot that made his legs shake and his breath come short.
But every movement made it worse. Every tiny adjustment, every tiny slide of the plug inside him, sent fresh waves of pleasure crashing through him. He could feel it in his balls, in his cock, in the base of his spine and the tips of his fingers. He was drowning in it, drowning in sensation, and Dom was just sitting there, watching him, that wicked smile on his face.
"How's the water?" Dom asked innocently.
Marcus grabbed his glass and drank, the cold liquid a small mercy against the heat building inside him. "Turn it off."
"Why would I do that?"
"Because I'm asking you to."
"What's the magic word?"
A growl escaped Marcus's throat, low and dangerous. "Dom."
"Marcus."
"I'm going to kill you."
"You're really not." Dom took a sip of his wine, completely at ease. "You're going to sit there and endure this because you're too proud to cause a scene and too stubborn to walk away. That's what you're going to do."
"You don't know me."
"I've known you for twelve years." Dom's voice was soft now, almost tender. "I know everything about you. I know what you're feeling right now. I know you're close. I know you're fighting it with everything you have. And I know it's not going to work. Because I'm not going to stop."
The words hit Marcus like a physical blow. He stared at Dom across the table, his heart pounding, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps. The plug was still pulsing, a steady, relentless rhythm that was building into something bigger, something beyond his control.
"You wouldn't do this," he said, but his voice lacked conviction. Because Dom would. Dom absolutely would.
"You're right. I would." Dom's hand moved to his pocket. "Watch."
And then the vibration changed. Intensified. Marcus felt it in his balls now, a sensation that shouldn't have been possible, a pleasure so intense it bordered on pain. He didn't know what Dom had done—maybe he'd pressed something else, maybe he'd increased the intensity, maybe he'd just decided to stop playing games—but whatever it was, it was too much. It was too fucking much.
He gasped. A loud, undeniable sound, and a couple at the next table glanced over. Marcus bit down on his lip, hard, trying to suppress the moan that was building in his throat. His hips bucked involuntarily, a tiny, aborted thrust that he couldn't control, and his cock throbbed with a need that was going to destroy him.
"Please," he whispered. "Please. Dom. Stop. Stop."
"Stop?" Dom's voice was smooth as silk. "That's all you have to say? Stop?"
"Please stop. I can't. I'm going to—"
"Going to what?"
Marcus was going to die. He was going to die right here, in this restaurant, in front of all these people, with his best friend watching. He was going to die, and it was going to be the most humiliating moment of his life, and it was all Dom's fault, and he would never forgive him, never, never, never—
His orgasm hit him like a train.
It started somewhere deep in his core, a pressure that built and built and then suddenly released, washing over him in waves. His cock spasmed, thick and heavy, and he felt the hot rush of cum flooding his boxers. He couldn't stop it. He couldn't even try. His body was doing exactly what it wanted to do, and there was nothing he could do to prevent it.
The pleasure was overwhelming. It felt like it was never going to end, like he was going to keep coming and coming and coming, his balls pumping out every last drop of everything he had. His hips were bucking, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his hands gripping the edge of the table so hard he thought he might break it.
He made a sound. Something low and guttural, something he couldn't have stopped if his life depended on it. And Dom just sat there, watching him with that smile, that awful, beautiful smile, and let it happen.
The orgasm seemed to last forever.
When it finally ended, Marcus slumped back in his chair, boneless, wrecked, his whole body buzzing with aftershocks. His jeans were wet. He could feel it, the sticky heat of his own cum, soaked through his boxers and seeping onto his thighs. His chest heaved. His eyes were closed. He couldn't look at anyone, couldn't face the world, couldn't do anything but breathe and wait for his heart to stop pounding in his ears.
"Wow," Dom said quietly.
Marcus opened his eyes. The restaurant was still crowded. No one was looking at him. No one seemed to have noticed a thing. The couple at the next table was talking about their daughter's soccer game. The server was taking someone else's order. The world had moved on, unchanged, as if Marcus hadn't just come in his pants in the middle of a crowded Italian restaurant.
"I hate you," Marcus said again, but his voice had no heat. He was too tired, too spent, too wrung out for anger. "I really, really hate you."
"I know."
"You're a monster."
"Probably." Dom reached across the table and took Marcus's hand, the one that was still gripping the edge, and pried it loose. He held it gently, thumb rubbing circles over Marcus's knuckles. "But you did it."
"You made me."
"You let me." Dom's grip tightened for a moment. "There's a difference."
The plug had finally stopped. The relief was almost as overwhelming as the orgasm had been, a sudden, blessed nothing where before there had been everything. Marcus closed his eyes again, letting himself feel the absence, letting it wash over him like cool water.
"The food's coming," Dom said.
Marcus opened his eyes. The server was indeed approaching, carrying two plates. She set them down, oblivious, and asked if they needed anything else. Marcus shook his head. Dom smiled and said they were fine.
When she was gone, Marcus looked at his plate. Spaghetti and meatballs. His favorite. His stomach growled again, a reminder that he hadn't eaten anything substantial in hours, and despite everything—despite the shame and the exhaustion and the fact that his pants were ruined—he found that he was hungry. Ravenously, desperately hungry.
"You need to eat," Dom said, echoing his own thoughts.
"I know."
"And then we're going to the car. And then I'm going to take you home. And then I'm going to take care of you."
Marcus looked at him. Dom was smiling, but it was a different smile now. Softer. The smile he wore when they were alone, when the world was quiet, when it was just the two of them and nothing else mattered.
"Okay," Marcus said.
"Okay."
He picked up his fork and took a bite. The spaghetti was good. The wine was better. And Dom was still holding his other hand, his thumb still moving in slow, steady circles, a reminder that even after all of it—after all the teasing and the torture and the public humiliation—he was here. He was staying.
Marcus took another bite.
The day wasn't over yet. But for now, this was enough. For now, this was everything.