Chapter 4: Breaking Point
Tommy’s sat on one of the chairs on the game-set, the hard plastic seat doing him no favors as he tried to shift his weight without being obvious. The plug, a constant, intimate pressure, seemed to swell inside him with every minute that ticked by on the oversized filming clock. He focused on the Monopoly board, seeing hotels and railroads through a haze of desperate concentration.
“Your turn, big guy,” Trevor said, nudging his arm.
“Right. Yeah.” Tommy’s voice came out strained. He reached for the dice, his movement causing a subtle, internal shift that made his breath catch. He rattled the cubes in his fist, the silver bracelets on his wrist clinking softly. Across the table, Chanse watched him over the top of his cards, those hazel eyes glittering under the ring lights. He was leaned back, cap pulled low, the picture of relaxed amusement.
Tommy rolled, moving his token with a stiff arm.
“Marvin Gardens. Pay up, Tommy,” Angela chirped, holding out a hand for fake money.
He fumbled with the bills, his knuckles brushing the board. A sudden, sharper pressure made him freeze, his thighs tensing against the chair. He bit the inside of his cheek, hard. Chanse cleared his throat, a low, deliberate sound. Tommy’s eyes flicked to him. Chanse didn’t smile, just gave a slow, almost imperceptible shake of his head. Don’t you dare. The unspoken command was a live wire down Tommy’s spine. He forced a laugh, tossing the money to Angela. “Bankrupting me here, Ang.”
“It’s just business, sweetie,” she said, not looking up from counting her cash.
Courtney launched into a story about her last turn, her voice loud and performative for the mic. Tommy nodded along, the words just noise. All he could feel was the relentless, rounded shape of the so-called punishment Chanse had sealed inside him that morning, after pinning him to the bed. Every slight lean forward, every adjustment in his seat, was a calculated risk. Sweat dampened the back of his t-shirt under the hot lights.
Chanse’s foot found his under the table, pressing down on Tommy’s boot. Not hard. Just enough. A point of contact. A reminder. Tommy’s gaze dropped to the table, his vision swimming for a second. He dragged in a slow breath, the air tasting of static and plastic. Chanse’s voice cut through Courtney’s story, smooth and easy. “You gonna make it, Tommy? You look a little… tense.” The question hung there, loaded with a private, cruel concern that only Tommy could decode.
Tommy forced a grin, tight at the edges. “Just planning my revenge, don’t you worry.” He picked up the dice again, his grip too tight. The movement sent a fresh, electric awareness straight through his core, and his thighs trembled against the chair.
He rolled, the clatter of dice absurdly loud in his ears.
“Boardwalk!” Courtney crowed, slapping a red hotel on the space.
A genuine, helpless sound nearly escaped him as he leaned forward to move his token; he covered it with a cough. “You okay, man?” Trevor asked, his brow furrowed with real concern this time.
“Fine,” Tommy managed, the word gritted out between his teeth. “Just choked on my own destiny.” He pushed the token to Boardwalk with a shaky finger.
The plug shifted, a deep, insistent nudge that made his vision blur for a second. He felt brutally full. Chanse’s gaze was a physical weight, a hot brand across his skin. The sensation was a sudden, deep vibration that traveled through his entire nervous system. He stiffened, his hand freezing over Boardwalk as a shocking warmth pooled low in his belly. It felt good.
A ragged inhale hitched in his throat, transforming into a shaky, breathless laugh that almost sounded real. "Just remembered I hate this game," he muttered, pulling his hand back to grip the edge of the table, the wood grain solid under his fingertips. The others laughed, a distracted chorus, already moving on.
Chanse’s eyes narrowed, his head tilting just slightly as he studied Tommy’s face. He saw the dilated pupils, the faint tremor in the strong jaw. A slow, knowing smile spread beneath the brim of his cap.
"Your problem, Tommy," Chanse drawled, rolling the dice with a casual flick of his wrist, "is you don't know how to sit still and take your losses." The double meaning was a bolt of lightning just for him.
The challenge in Chanse’s voice was unmistakable. Tommy held his gaze, the air between them crackling. Then, deliberately, he let his shoulders slump a fraction, a facade of defeat.
He shifted in the plastic chair, a slow, deliberate roll of his hips that looked like simple discomfort. The plug moved with him, a deep, internal glide that made his breath shudder. He saw Chanse’s knuckles whiten where they rested on the table.
“My problem,” Tommy said, his voice a low thrum just for the microphones, “is I prefer winning.” He stretched his long legs out under the table, letting his knees fall open wider than necessary, a display of forced nonchalance. The strain in his groin was a sharp, sweet ache.
Chanse’s eyes dropped to Tommy’s throat, watching his adam’s apple bob as he swallowed. Tommy brought a hand to his own neck, rubbing it as if working out a kink, his head tipping back to expose the line of his throat. He sighed, the sound deliberately ragged at the edges.
He arched his back subtly against the chair, a silent mimicry of another, more private motion. A faint, sheening sweat was now visible on his temples under the blazing lights. Courtney was arguing about a rule, but the world had narrowed to the silent exchange across the cheap game board.
Tommy bit his lower lip, holding it for a beat before releasing it, reddened. He then dragged a hand through his bleached hair, mussing it, his biceps flexing with the movement. Every gesture was a casual, amplified version of himself, a private show broadcast on a frequency only Chanse could receive.
He adjusted himself subtly, his palm pressing against his fly for a fleeting second, his eyes locked on Chanse’s the entire time. A real, soft groan escaped him as he settled back, disguising it with a muttered, “Stupid chair.” Chanse’s lips parted slightly, his own casual pose now rigid with focused intensity.
The game was forgotten. The promise from this morning—of being filled all day—was now a ruthless, shared reality. Tommy, pinned in plain sight, was playing his part perfectly.