Chapter 3: The Desk of Torment
The house felt too quiet after Lucas left. The silence had a weight to it, pressing down on the sunlit dust motes in the living room. Marcum sat on the arm of the sofa until the last echo of the car engine was swallowed by the neighborhood. The syrup on the bottle cap had hardened into an amber jewel.
He didn’t mope. Moping was for people with less imagination.
Instead, he climbed down, a quick, practiced descent using the weave of the upholstery as handholds, and hit the floor running. Well, walking with purpose. The plan had been forming since last night, a delicious, wicked counterpoint to the sterile image of Lucas in a boardroom making plastic things dance. He would make Lucas dance. A private performance.
He spent the morning gathering supplies. From the junk drawer in the kitchen: a spool of strong red thread, a tiny but powerful rare-earth magnet salvaged from a broken cabinet catch. From the bedroom: the small, discreet silicone vibrator Lucas kept in his nightstand—a toy they used sometimes, a novelty that made Marcum laugh with its comparative size. He wrestled the device, which was nearly as long as he was, into the main living area with considerable effort. The remote control was a sleek black pill. He tucked it into his supply sack hanging on his shoulder.
The real work began in Lucas’s home office.
Marcum knew this territory intimately. The vast, polished surface of the desk was his stage. The high-backed executive chair was his throne. Today, it would be his instrument.
He started with the chair. Using a corner of the magnet, he managed to affix the vibrator to the very center of the seat, the smooth silicone a stark contrast to the gray mesh. He positioned it carefully. Then, he began to tie. The red thread was strong, almost wire-like. He looped it around the base of the chair’s left armrest, threading it through the mechanism, tying it off with a series of intricate, brutal knots he’d learned from a book on sailing knots for his dollhouse. He repeated the process on the right side, leaving two long, taut lines of red thread dangling like sinister puppet strings.He tested them. They held.
Next, the tools of torment. The small, cold toy car—a sleek, vintage die-cast model Lucas kept on his desk as a paperweight—was perfect. Marcum pushed it to the edge of the blotter, a silent promise.
He surveyed his kingdom. The desk was clean, orderly. Lucas’s laptop sat closed. A pen holder. The toy car. And the two threads, leading to the chair like tripwires. The vibrator sat in the chair’s seat, a hidden landmine. Everything was ready.
He waited.
The key in the front door turn came just after 3:30. Marcum, perched on the pen holder, felt a jolt of anticipation so sharp it tasted like copper. He heard the clunk of the prototype case being set down, the sigh, the weary shuffle of shoes being kicked off.
Lucas appeared in the office doorway, leaning against the frame. He looked drained. His tie was loose, his hair slightly messed from running a hand through it. The professional mask was cracked, showing the tired man underneath. He offered a faint smile when he saw Marcum.“Hey, you. Been holding down the fort?”
“Something like that,” Marcum said, his voice light. “How was the circus?”
Lucas grimaced, walking into the room. “The plastic people performed adequately. The backers were impressed.Derek is happy. I feel like I need a three-hour shower.” He moved toward his chair, his focus inward, on the memory of the day.
“Sit,” Marcum said, a gentle command.
Lucas didn’t question it. He was tired, he was home, and Marcum’s voice was a welcome anchor. He turned and lowered himself into the chair.The effect was instantaneous.
The moment his weight settled, the hidden vibrator pressed firmly against him. Lucas yelped, a shocked, undignified sound, and shot back up to a standing position, his face a comic mask of confusion and dawning realization. He turned to look at the seat, saw the silicone device, and then his eyes tracked the red threads tied to the arms.
“Marcum,” he said, a laugh bubbling under his name.
“Sit,” Marcum repeated, grinning. He held up the small black remote. “You left your throne. The king should be seated.”
Understanding flooded Lucas’s green eyes, followed by a dark, eager warmth. The weariness seemed to slough off him. This was a language he understood, a game that erased the boardroom. “You’re unbelievable.”
“And you’re stalling.”
Slowly, deliberately, Lucas sat back down. He let his wrists fall to the armrests. The red threads were just long enough. Marcum hopped down from the pen holder, threaded each end of the thread quickly around Lucas’s wrists, and tied them off with swift, efficient tugs. They weren’t real restraints. Lucas could snap them with a sharp tug. That wasn’t the point. The point was the agreement.The submission.
“Comfy?” Marcum asked, stepping back to admire his work. Lucas sat in his executive chair, wrists loosely bound by red thread, a blush spreading down his neck.
“You tell me.” Lucas’s voice was already a bit rough.
Marcum climbed onto the desk. He walked over to the toy car, placing both hands on its cold metal rear.He pushed. It rolled smoothly across the polished wood, stopping just before it tipped over the edge into Lucas’s lap. “Since you had so much fun with little toys today,” Marcum said, his tone conversational. “I thought we’d play with one of ours.”
He pushed the car again. This time, it slid off the desk and landed in Lucas’s lap with a soft thud. Lucas flinched as the cold metal made contact with his thighs through his dress slacks.
Marcum used the car as a stepping stone, jumping down onto Lucas’s leg. He strode up the slope of Lucas’s thigh, took hold of the car’s front grille, and began to guide it. He pushed it in slow, deliberate lines across Lucas’s torso, from one hip to the other, then up the center of his chest. The cold was a shock, a sharp contrast to the warmth of Lucas’s body. Lucas breathed in sharply, his muscles jumping under the fabric.
“You’re very tense,” Marcum murmured, leaning his weight into pushing the car in a slow circle over Lucas’s sternum. “Big day of important meetings?”
“Marcum…” It was half a warning, half a plea.
Marcum abandoned the car. He climbed up Lucas’s tie, hand over hand, until he could kneel on the knot, level with the first button of his shirt. He undid it. Then the next. He worked his way down, his tiny fingers surprisingly deft, until Lucas’s chest and abdomen were exposed. The skin was warm, slightly damp, and dotted with goosebumps.
He jumped down, landing on Lucas’s stomach. Lucas gasped at the impact, the air leaving him in a whoosh. Marcum walked, his bare feet leaving faint, tickling prints. He stopped just above the waistband of Lucas’s pants. He looked up, meeting Lucas’s hooded gaze.
“You belong to them for eight hours,” Marcum whispered, his voice carrying in the quiet room. “You belong to me now.”
He reached down and tapped the remote in his waistband. He didn’t turn it on. Not yet.
Instead, he traced a path with his finger down Lucas’s stomach, following the thin line of hair. Lucas’s breath hitched. His wrists pulled unconsciously against the red threads; they held.
Marcum reached the waistband. He hooked his fingers under it. He looked up, a question in his eyes. A beat. Lucas gave a single, sharp nod. Marcum tugged. He worked the button open, the slide of the ziper a deafening roar in the silence. He didn’t remove anything, just opened the path. Then he climbed inside.
The world narrowed to heat, the scent of clean cotton and Lucas’s skin, the thunderous sound of his heartbeat. Marcum moved through the dark, intimate space, his hands on familiar terrain. He found what he was looking for, already straining against soft fabric. He didn’t use his hands. He pressed his face against it, the cotton barrier between them. He breathed in deeply. Then he nipped, gently, through the material.
Above him, Lucas cried out, his body arching against the restraints.The chair creaked.
Marcum retreated, climbing back out into the cool office air. Lucas was wrecked already, his head thrown back, his chest heaving. Marcum walked back up his body, settling on his chest. He leaned close to Lucas’s ear.
“Tell me,” Marcum whispered, his breath hot against the shell. “Tell me who you belong to when you’re in that boardroom. When you’re making the little things move.”
Lucas’s jaw was tight. He swallowed. “You,” he forced out, the word ragged. “Always you.”
“Good.” Marcum plucked the remote from his waistband. He held it up, letting Lucas see it. “Now, let’s see if we can make you dance.”
He pressed the button.
A low, deep hum emanated from the chair, vibrating up through the seat. It wasn't a buzz; it was a profound, resonant thrum that went straight to Lucas’s core. He jerked against the threads, a full-body spasm, a choked sound trapped in his throat. Marcum watched, fascinated. He adjusted the setting. The vibration jumped to a rapid, insistent pulse.
Lucas’s hips lifted off the chair, helplessly seeking more pressure, more friction. The threads cut into his wrists. His knuckles were white where he gripped the armrests. “God… Marcum… please…”
“Please what?” Marcum switched the pattern to a slow, escalating wave. He saw the moment it crested, Lucas’s back bowing, his mouth open in a silent scream. He turned it off.
The sudden absence of sensation was its own torture. Lucas slumped, breathing in ragged, desperate gulps. Sweat beaded on his temples.
Marcum stroked his cheek. “The plastic people can’t do this to you, can they?”
Lucas could only shake his head, his eyes glassy.
Marcum turned the vibrator back on, this time on a random, erratic setting. It was chaos. Lucas bucked, his control shattering. The sounds he made were raw, unfiltered, pathetic and beautiful. He was completely at the mercy of the tiny device and the smaller man orchestrating it.
Marcum felt a power so immense it was dizzying. This giant, beautiful man, reduced to a trembling, pleading creature by his hand. By his whims. It washed away the residue of jealousy, of feeling like a parody. Here, in this struggle, there was nothing but truth.
He saw Lucas nearing the edge again, teetering. With a flick of his thumb, Marcum switched it off.
“No!” Lucas begged, the word torn from him. “Don’t stop, please, I’m so close, please…”
Marcum climbed onto his neck, nuzzling under his jaw. “Ask me properly.”
Lucas was trembling violently, lost in the need. “Marcum… my god… let me come. Please. I belong to you. I’m yours. Please.”
The surrender was complete. Absolute.
Marcum kissed his throat. He pressed the button, holding it on the highest, most relentless setting.
It was over in seconds. Lucas shattered with a broken cry, his body seizing, held upright only by the threads around his wrists. The waves seemed to go on and on, wracking through him, until he finally collapsed, spent, against the chair back, his chest slick with sweat.
The only sound was the hum of the desktop fan and Lucas’s struggling breaths.
Marcum turned off the vibrator for the moment, staring up at his loving husband. "how was that, big guy?"
Marcum’s whispered question hung in the air, absorbed by Lucas’s panting breaths. Lucas’s head lolled against the headrest, his eyes closed, a thin sheen of sweat making his skin glow in the low office light. He looked utterly wrecked, beautifully undone. A slow, dazed smile spread across his face.
“Unfair,” he breathed, the word barely audible.
“All’s fair,” Marcum corrected, walking down the damp plane of his chest. He stopped just above Lucas’s sternum, feeling the frantic drum of his heart beneath his feet. “You’re just getting warmed up.”
Lucas’s eyes fluttered open. They were dark, pupils blown wide. “There’s more?”
“You don’t think a single little buzz is enough, do you?” Marcum traced a circle on his skin with one foot. “That was just clearing the palette. Getting rid of that boardroom taste.”
He hopped down onto the desk with a soft thump. Lucas watched him, his bound wrists flexing weakly against the red threads. Marcum walked to the far edge, near the bookshelf, where a small, hand-stitched leather pouch sat. He’d prepared it earlier. Dragging it back toward Lucas, he unzipped it with a precise pull.
From inside, he produced two more vibrators. These were different: slim, bullet-shaped, no bigger than his own forearm. He held them up, their metallic ends catching the light. Then he produced a tiny roll of clear adhesive medical tape, stolen from the bathroom cabinet.
Lucas groaned, a deep, wanting sound. “Jesus, Marcum.”
“He’s not here,” Marcum said lightly, turning the bullets on. They emitted a high, sharp whine, a counterpoint to the deeper thrum of the device still pressed beneath him. He turned them off. The sudden silence felt heavier.
He climbed back onto Lucas, who shuddered at the renewed contact. Marcum went straight to his chest, to the peaked, sensitive nipples he knew could drive Lucas wild. He placed the first bullet against the left one, holding it firm. Lucas hissed, his back arching off the chair.
“Stay still,” Marcum murmured, though the command was unnecessary. Lucas was frozen, every nerve focused on that tiny point of promised sensation. Marcum unspooled a length of tape with his teeth. He wrapped it around Lucas’s chest, securing the vibrator in place with a brutal, efficient cross-hatch pattern. He repeated the process on the right side.
The cold metal against the hyper-sensitive flesh made Lucas jerk. The tape pulled at his skin with every hurried breath. He was tethered now, not just by the threads on his wrists, but by these two tiny, dormant engines stuck to his body.
Marcum sat back on Lucas’s stomach, admiring his work. Lucas looked like some wired, willing machine, crisscrossed with red thread and clear tape, vulnerable and completely his. “Beautiful.”
“Please,” Lucas whispered, the word stripped down to pure need.
“Please what?”
“Turn them on. Please.”
Marcum considered him. The raw submission was a drug. He crawled forward, until he was straddling Lucas’s sternum, his face inches from Lucas’s. He could see every fleck of gold in the green of his eyes, every rapid beat of his pulse in his throat. “You did good today. Making the plastic people dance. But this is the real show.”
He leaned down and kissed him. It was a deep, claiming kiss, Marcum’s whole body pressed into it. Lucas moaned into his mouth, straining against his bonds to get closer. Marcum pulled back, breathless. He picked up the two remotes from his pouch.
He pressed both buttons at once.
The effect was instantaneous and catastrophic. The high, insistent buzz attacked Lucas’s nerves directly, a sharp, unrelenting stimulation that had none of the deep, rolling waves of the first device. It was pure, pinpoint torture. Lucas screamed, a short, sharp sound that choked into a gasp. His body bowed violently, the chair creaking in protest.
Marcum watched, mesmerized. The vibrations made Lucas’s pectoral muscles jump and flutter under the tape. He was panting, his head thrashing side to side, completely at the mercy of the twin sensations: the deep, pervasive thrum below and the sharp, electric torture above.
“Too much?” Marcum asked, knowing the answer.
Lucas couldn’t form words. He nodded wildly, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes.
Marcum switched one of the bullets off. The relief was only partial. Lucas slumped, sobbing for air. His skin was flushed a deep, fevered red. Before he could recover, Marcum reached out. He didn’t use the vibrators. He used his hands.
His fingers, small and precise, found the edges of the tape. He pinched the swollen, erect nipple underneath, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger. The touch was fire on a fresh burn. Lucas cried out, his hips pumping uselessly in the chair.
Marcum alternated, one hand tormenting the taped nipple, his other hand plucking and pulling at the free, over-sensitized one. He leaned close, his breath hot on Lucas’s ear. “This is what you are. Not their manager. Not the ringmaster.” He pinched harder, twisting slightly. Lucas whimpered. “You’re mine. A universe right here. And I know every single star.”
He turned the second bullet back on.
The dual assault of the relentless vibration and Marcum’s cruel, clever fingers shattered the last of Lucas’s control. He was past begging, past words. He was a raw nerve, a live wire, strung between pleasure and pain so exquisite he couldn’t tell them apart. His world narrowed to the buzzing, the pinching, the deep hum beneath him, and Marcum’s dark, intent eyes watching him break.
Marcum saw the moment coherence left him. He saw the absolute surrender. He switched the bullets to a different, asynchronous pattern. One pulsed. The other whined continuously. His fingers never stopped their devilish work.
He knew Lucas was hurtling toward the edge again, faster and harder than before. The tension coiled in him was a visible, trembling thing. Marcum slowed his fingers. He leaned down and bit, gently, the skin just below Lucas’s collarbone.
“Come for me,” he whispered, a soft command against the sweat-salted skin.
That was all it took. Lucas came with a sound like something breaking, his whole body seizing in a violent, unending convulsion. The threads bit deep into his wrists. The chair shuddered. He rode the waves, amplified by the relentless devices still strapped to him, until he was limp, hollowed out, floating in a haze of shattered sensation.
Marcum slowly turned off each vibrator. First the bullets, their shrill whine dying abruptly. Then the one beneath. The silence that followed was absolute, profound, broken only by Lucas’s ragged, sobbing breaths.
Marcum climbed up to his shoulder, nestling into the hollow of his neck. He placed a soft, lingering kiss on his jaw. He loved this power --not controlling perse-- he loved that this massive man was willingly letting him do this, tickle and tormenting him until his mind was mush.
He sat on Lucas' shoulder for a while, placing small, flickering kisses along his neck and jaw. Marcum wasn't done yet, though. He walked back down to the massive, still leaking, cock. he surveyed it for a few minutes; building Lucas' anxiety back up as he caught his breath.
he surveyed it for a few minutes, building Lucas’s anxiety back up as he caught his breath. Lucas’s chest still rose and fell in erratic hitches, his body a map of sweat and tremors. The red threads were slack now, but he hadn’t moved to break them. His gaze, heavy-lidded and glazed, tracked Marcum’s every tiny movement.
“You’re still here,” Lucas rasped, a statement of wonder.
“Where else would I be?” Marcum’s voice was soft, but his eyes were alight with a new idea. He walked back to the leather pouch, his movements deliberate. He pulled out the three remotes: the black pill for the chair, and the two smaller ones for the taped bullets. He also retrieved the last of the clear medical tape.
Lucas watched, a fresh tremor running through him. “No more,” he whispered, but it was a reflex, devoid of conviction. His body told a different story, a faint, involuntary twitch of anticipation.
“You say that,” Marcum said, climbing back onto the damp terrain of Lucas’s abdomen. “But you haven’t snapped the threads. You haven’t told me to stop.” He reached the thatch of hair below Lucas’s navel, the skin there hypersensitive and quivering. “Your body is still mine. It’s asking for the last word.”
He unspooled the tape with a sharp zzzt. Lucas flinched at the sound. With meticulous care, Marcum taped the black pill remote just to the left of Lucas’s erection, its smooth surface adhering to the sweat-slick skin. He taped the second remote beside it. Then the third, creating a tiny, lethal control panel on Lucas’s lower abdomen.
THE LAST ROUND OF TORTURE IS ALWAYS THE WORSE. MARCUM TAPES EACH OF THE REMOTES DOWN BELOW LUCAS'S LEAKING HEAD ON HIS LOWER ABDOMEN. THEN, WITH A WICKED GRIN UP AT THE PLEADING EYES, HE STEPS UP AND STARTS LICKING THE SLIT. EVERY SHIFT OF HIS FEET OR WEIGHT WOULD CAUSE ONE OR MORE OF THE VIBRATORS TO TURN ON OR OFF, UP OR DOWN. IT WAS CHAOTIC.
Lucas cried out, a shattered sound, as Marcum’s tongue found him. The sensation was a lightning bolt of wet, focused heat on the most vulnerable part of him. Then his foot slipped, pressing down on the edge of the taped remotes.
A sharp, high buzz erupted from his chest—the left bullet vibrator roaring to life. Lucas jolted, a full-body seizure. Marcum laughed against his skin, the vibration of it mingling with the others. He shifted his weight, intentionally this time, rocking his heel onto a different remote.
The deep thrum of the chair vibrator kicked on, a sudden, profound bass note that made Lucas’s vision blur. He shouted, a raw, ragged noise that wasn’t a word. Marcum licked again, a slow, flat stroke, and then stepped onto the third remote, turning the right bullet on. The three devices created a dissonant, overwhelming symphony of sensation.
Chaos. It was pure, ungovernable chaos. Marcum moved, a tiny dancer on a platform of remotes and fevered skin. A shift left: the chair turned off, but both bullets surged to their highest setting. A step right: the chair came back with a slow pulse, one bullet died. He was a conductor of an insane orchestra, his feet on the controls, his mouth a relentless, distracting pleasure.
Lucas was beyond anything now. He was a vessel of sensation, overflowing. He sobbed, his hips stuttering, trying to thrust into the wet heat of Marcum’s mouth but unable to control the movement. Every nerve was firing, confused, overwhelmed. Pleasure wasn’t a wave; it was a storm surge, and he was drowning in it.
“Marcum—I can’t—I’m gonna—” The words were splintered, meaningless.
Marcum lifted his head, his own breathing quick. He saw the absolute ruin in Lucas’s eyes, the beautiful, total surrender. He ground his foot down, holding all three remotes at once.
The combined vibration was apocalyptic. Lucas came with a soundless, breathless intensity, his body arching so violently it seemed to lift off the chair entirely. The orgasm wasn’t a release; it was an annihilation, tearing through him on and on, fueled by the relentless, chaotic devices. He shook, seized, utterly broken by the sensation.
Marcum stepped off. He peeled the remotes from Lucas’s skin, one by one, turning the world off. The silence that followed was thick, ringing. Lucas lay completely still, his eyes open but unseeing, tears carving tracks through the sweat on his temples. The only movement was the frantic flutter of his pulse in his throat.
Slowly, gently, Marcum used his teeth to gnaw through the red threads at Lucas’s wrists. He climbed up to his chest, carefully peeling the tape and removing the spent bullets, dropping them to the floor with soft clicks. He then lay down, spreading himself over Lucas’s pounding heart, a small, warm weight on the ravaged landscape of his husband’s body.
Minutes passed. The sun shifted outside the window.
A shaky hand, freed and trembling, rose slowly. It hovered, then settled over Marcum, not gripping, just covering. A sigh, deep and shuddering, escaped Lucas’s lips.
“Welcome home,” Marcum whispered into the quiet.