9. Henri #3
By the end of the third hour, he’d managed to respond to a dozen emails, draft a memo for the board, and leave comments on the latest financial projections from the integration team.
It wasn’t everything he’d hoped to get done, but it was real work.
Good work. His mind was still sharp, even with the plug shifting inside him, vibrating low and steady like a heartbeat he didn’t quite control.
Every time the intensity ramped up, Henri stilled. Every time it eased again, he forced himself to continue. To breathe. To type.
And every time he caught Michael watching him, just watching, heat and admiration in his gaze—something unknotted inside him.
Henri’s laptop chimed with a meeting request. His finger moved to decline, but at that exact moment, Michael increased the vibrations, making him jerk and accidentally accept Patricia’s call—thankfully, audio only.
“Henri, good morning! I need to discuss EcoSphere’s platform sync issues.”
“Perhaps Gabriel would be better—” Henri started.
“No, no. Gabriel named you the acquisition lead. Didn’t you read his email?”
Michael snorted from the couch. Henri shot him a glare, but Michael just stared pointedly at his laptop, tapping the keys. The toy inside Henri suddenly expanded, making him bite back a gasp.
“Right,” Patricia said. “So, about EcoSphere’s legacy platform. Their HR systems are running version 2.1, while we’ve already upgraded to 3.0...”
Henri gripped the edge of his desk as Michael cycled through different vibration patterns. “And this... affects the integration how?”
“Well, that’s what I wanted to discuss. We have three potential paths forward—”
Another surge of sensation made Henri’s voice crack. “Could you... Send those in an email?”
Michael increased the intensity again. Henri’s knuckles went white.
“Are you alright?” Patricia asked. “You sound strained.”
“Fine,” Henri gasped. “Just fighting a migraine.”
Patricia’s voice filled with concern. “Oh no, should we reschedule? I know how debilitating those can be—”
“No!” Henri cut her off as Michael lowered the intensity to a teasing hum. “I mean, let’s... handle this now. The three options?”
“Well, first we could force an upgrade on their side, but that risks data corruption—”
The toy suddenly pulsed in a new rhythm that made Henri’s toes curl.
He bit his lip hard as the toy vibrated mercilessly against his prostate.
He grabbed his cock and began to stroke furiously when he was hit on the shoulder with a pillow.
He glanced over to Michael, who was wagging his finger.
He mimicked Henri removing his hand from his cock.
Henri glared at him but removed his hand from his cock, fisting them on the desk top.
Michael mouthed: Good boy.
“Henri?” Patricia prompted.
“Sorry, missed that.” He shot Michael a desperate look. Michael just grinned, shaking his head as he tapped his phone again.
“As I was saying,” Patricia continued, “forcing an upgrade risks data corruption. The second option is to downgrade our systems temporarily during the transition—”
Henri tried to focus on her words, but Michael had found a pattern that made thinking nearly impossible. He pressed his forehead against the cool desk surface, his cock throbbing, precum steadily leaking down his shaft.
“Henri? Are you sure you’re alright?”
“Yes,” he managed. “Just... trying to block the light.”
“I really think we should reschedule. You sound terrible.”
Michael mercifully reduced the vibrations, but the toy was still gently pulsing, making it hard to string words together.
“Maybe... you’re right. Could you please send the options via email?
I’ll review them when—” The intensity suddenly spiked again, and Henri’s eyes rolled to the back of his head. “When I’m feeling better.”
“Of course!” Patricia said. “Feel better, Henri. I’ll forward the documentation, and we can reconnect tomorrow.”
Henri barely managed a strangled “Thanks” before disconnecting the call. He turned to glare at Michael, who was openly laughing now.
“You...” Henri started, but his accusation dissolved into a moan as Michael cranked up the vibrations again.
“I what?” Michael asked innocently, standing up from the couch. “Thought you handled that very professionally.”
“I hate you,” Henri groaned, dropping his head back against the chair. The inflation of the toy increased, pressing against his prostate in a way that made him see stars.
“No, you don’t,” Michael said, moving to stand behind him. “And look—your email just chimed. Shouldn’t you check that?”
“You can’t be serious.” Henri gasped out, his whole body trembling, head fuzzy, hips rutting against air.
“Very serious.”
“Please, Michael. Let me cum.” Henri tilted his head back, exposing his throat. He gasped when Michael bit the place where his neck met his shoulder, sucking a bruise into his skin.
“No.” The vibration suddenly cut off, and the inflation returned to its original size.
Henri whined in frustration. He was so close.
“You’re mine today, Henri,” Michael whispered. “Mine to do with as I please. And it pleases me to have you wait. Answer your emails.”
Henri lost track of time as Michael alternated between tormenting him and forcing him to focus on work. The morning passed in a haze of arousal and spreadsheets, occasional whimpers escaping when Michael would increase the toy’s intensity.
By the time his stomach growled, reminding him they’d worked through their usual lunch hour, Henri’s thighs were trembling and his mind felt deliciously fuzzy. He’d managed to be surprisingly productive, even if every number he typed felt like it took herculean effort to focus on.
The doorbell chimed, and Henri stood automatically, his body moving on muscle memory. Michael was beside him in an instant, strong hands gripping his shoulders.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Michael’s voice was gentle but firm. “You’re naked, sweetheart.”
Henri froze. The floor tilts. Sound narrows to a thin high note.
He is on the leather couch.
Now. Then. Both.
Curled. Drifting. Boxes still open from the move back to Porte du C?ur. Marc had fucked him hard that morning and left him there, skin raw, muscles empty. He’d slept. Stupid. He’d slept.
He never heard the doorbell.
The package is still in the hall when Marc returns.
He was yanked off the couch by his hair. Thrown over the armrest, frame cutting into his ribs.
“You sleep when I say. You work when I say. And you answer the fucking door.”
Marc left him there, bent and exposed, while he fetched the cane and the whip.
The cane is first. Quick. Exact. Heat laid in bars across the backs of his thighs. He counts without meaning to. Loses count between screams. Starts again.
Leather doesn’t absorb tears. It just sits there, making your whole face wet…
Cold.
The first delivery comes while Marc is inside him.
Marc pulls out, shoves him toward the door.
No robe. No time. The hallway light is too bright.
The bag smells like cilantro and grease.
The delivery guy quirks an eyebrow. “Rich people,” he mutters.
“Kinky shit.” The paper handles cut into Henri’s fingers.
He shuts the door. The bags hit the floor.
Marc pushes him back over the armrest and finishes in him, breath even, like this is an errand.
The second delivery comes fast.
Whip stripes coil fire over his back. Then the whip handle is inside him, and that is how he goes to the door. The delivery woman’s scream snaps in the air. She throws the designer bags and runs. The handle shifts when he bends, and he bites his tongue. Metal. Blood.
The third stands there and smiles. Looks him up and down like a menu. “Call me if you want a third,” he says, handing over the discreet sex-shop box from the Fourth Cat. Winks. Blows a kiss. Henri shuts the door with shaking hands.
Marc punishes him for that. Hands closing on his throat. Spots behind the eyes. Black.
The fourth delivery is a joke with sugar on it.
A child’s cake. A pink bear. Fondant eyes wide and happy.
Note taped crooked: You’re the sweetest. He opened the door with a whip handle still inside him, cum dried on his thighs, welts raised and angry, blood starting to crust at the edges.
The deliveryman stops. He looks at Henri’s face. His fingers shake as he dials. 9. 1. 1.
Marc is there in three strides. Phone gone. The crack of plastic against the wall. A backhand. A kick. Words like bullets, Henri can’t track. The door stays open. The hall is a mouth.
By the time the paramedics arrive, Marc is dressed in new clothes. Calm. Smiling. Henri is locked in the master bedroom, slumped on the floor, ear to the door, listening to the smooth lie.
Marc was on a low-voiced call to the PDC Chief of Police as he opened the door to the paramedics.
“False report,” Marc says. “Disgruntled driver. My partner’s fragile. Under the weather.”
They leave without seeing Henri.
Later, when Henri asks, Marc only smiles. “The boy’s fired.” A sip of scotch. “Haldeman owed me a favor. He’s someplace less visible now.”
Then the rule. “You open the door. Clothed or not. Bleeding or not. You open the door.”
So he does. For years. The bell rings, and his body moves.
The bell rings now. His body moves.
“Henri.”
Michael’s voice cuts clean through. Not loud. Close. “Henri. Look at me.”
Blink. The couch is gone. The hallway is gone. Michael is in front of him, not looming, not angry. Thumbs stroke the high points of Henri’s cheekbones, bringing the world back into focus.
“Stay with me. It’s just our sushi delivery. I’ll get it, and you’ll meet me in the kitchen. At the breakfast island. Okay?”
Henri nodded slowly, throat too tight, but grateful for the clear direction. His heart was still racing, but Michael’s touch anchored him to the present.
“Good boy.” Michael kissed him softly. “Go on now. I’ll be right there.”