Chapter Twenty-Two
Deogal
The current doesn’t leave me cleanly. It threads itself under the skin, fine and persistent, like something alive that refuses to die.
Sharpness drags into a dull ache, every point of contact still burning in slow, circular pulses that never quite fade.
My muscles hold the memory of it, threatening to tighten again without warning.
I stay where I am. Head lowered, breathing steadying by degrees, though the air still feels slightly wrong in my lungs.
There’s no need to move yet.
My shadow leans before I do.
It stretches across the floor, lengthening toward the glass as if already drawn there.
She’s watching.
She thinks she’s careful about it. Clinical in the way she holds herself, like she can stand there and observe without ever becoming part of what she’s observing.
It doesn’t work like that.
No one moves immediately.
“Alright.” Peter’s voice cuts through the room, thick with impatience. He moves behind the glass first, rolling his sleeves back with deliberate ease, as if this is routine, as if I am something predictable enough to be worked through step by step.
The others follow him in. Helmets down. Faces gone.
It’s almost amusing that they hide behind them as though it creates safety. People are loud in other ways. Sean favours his left side when he walks. Mike taps his fingers against his thigh whenever Peter enters the room. Their bodies introduce them long before names do.
Peter moves toward me until the toes of his boots stop inches from mine.
“Look at me.”
I don’t, and a long silence follows.
He crouches slightly, close enough now that I can smell stale coffee beneath the sharp scent of antiseptic clinging to his clothes.
“You’ve had your performance.” His voice stays level. “Now we’re going to try this properly.”
My shadow shifts lazily across the floor beside his boots.
“You know what we want.”
Nothing leaves me except slow breath.
Behind the glass, her pulse keeps stumbling every few seconds.
Peter studies me for another moment before his hand suddenly closes around my jaw. His fingers dig deep enough to force my head upward.
“I said look at me.”
I keep my eyes low, distant.
His grip tightens sharply before finally releasing altogether. He steps back once, jaw flexing, recalibrating something internally. Trying to regain the shape of the room before it slips away from him.
“You think silence is power?” he asks. “You think sitting there acting like an animal makes you untouchable?”
My breathing stays steady. The fluorescent lights hum overhead.
Peter waits again.
“One name,” he says quietly. “That’s all it takes.”
His control breaks almost beautifully. The first strike lands so hard my head snaps sideways into my shoulder.
It lands cleanly against what he’s already done to my face, a bright, sharp collision that blooms outward through bone and nerve.
The second follows before the first has settled.
Then another. The force builds, repetitive, insistent, designed to overwhelm.
She moves. It’s subtle, almost nothing, but I feel it more clearly than the strikes themselves. Her heartbeat stumbles out of rhythm, too fast, too uneven to belong to someone who thinks they are in control of what they’re feeling.
That reaches further than anything they’re doing to me.
“Speak.” Peter’s hisses.
My shadow shifts along the floor, brushing the outline of his presence, tasting his mind without breaking it open.
It would be easy.
He’s already cracked in places he doesn’t realise.
I could pull at it, split it wider, let everything inside him spill out where she can see it, watch the structure he’s built for himself collapse in seconds.
But that wouldn’t give me what I want.
Another strike snaps my head back, and this time something deeper answers beneath the pain. It rises slowly, heavy, coiling through the body in a way that has nothing to do with what they’re doing to me. My breathing shifts with it and when I exhale, the sound isn’t what they expect.
A moan.
It carries.
It reaches.
She hears it.
I feel the way it lands in her, and the shift is immediate. Something in her body responds before she has the chance to decide what she wants to do with it.
Good.
My cock strains against the table, and I can no longer help myself. I move my chained hands slightly, the whispering of shackles almost giving my position away, but the detective moves at the same time.
His arm locks around my neck. Pressure builds instantly, precise, efficient, cutting into the airway in a way that would panic most men within seconds.
He knows what he’s doing. The placement is exact.
“Talk.” His voice sits close to my ear, breath warm against skin that still burns from the current.
I let my weight settle into him slightly.
“Say one name.” The grip tightens. “Tell me where the others are.”
He drags my head higher, something to provoke a response.
My cock is rock solid.
He doesn’t understand the position he’s put himself in. None of them do.
My fingers splay over my erection. I squeeze hard and my body rears to life. The pleasure swarms around my mind, blackening my thoughts.
I lift my gaze slowly, finding her through the glass.
It narrows there completely, everything else losing relevance until it barely registers as more than background noise.
She sees me looking at her. I grip my bulge and thrust once, then again, until she catches movement. Her eyes drop for a second, then stop.
And there it is.
The fracture.
It blooms through her alarmingly fast. Her honey-coloured eyes widen in disbelief, her face flushing hot in an instant.
She freezes like something inside of her has locked her in place. Her chest stutters, a shallow, uneven pull of air that doesn’t quite fill her lungs.
My hand clamps around myself violently. I move fast, holding her attention hostage.
The pleasure chokes my cock.
I can hear her thoughts scrambling in her pretty little mind. She should turn away, she should yell into the microphone, she should tell someone what’s happening, but she doesn’t.
The detective is still speaking, the grip at my throat is still tightening. The body is still reacting where it needs to.
But none of it matters because she hasn’t looked away.
The pressure builds, inside and out, air thinning, blood thickening at the back of my mouth. The body edging toward the kind of response they’ve been waiting for.
“Are you ready to talk yet?” He barks, though his tone is short and breathless.
I stay quiet.
My hand moves faster.
My orgasm is close. So, fucking close.
Behind the glass, my vitals are screaming, the lines are racing erratically on the machines that fill the room. My pretty doctor rises to her feet now, staggering until her hands are spread against the glass in horror. Alarms start to shriek.
I’m dangerously close to passing out.
But I’m closer to cumming.
A noise tears through her. “Stop.”
I don’t know who she’s speaking to, and it doesn’t matter.
I thrust two more times until that familiar tightening in my balls strangles me. The pain becomes something from a wet dream. It hurts so fucking good.
The chains start screaming as my whole arm starts joining in. I make no effort to hide what I’m doing. My eyes roll back in my head, and I soak up the pleasure.
“Detective!” A guard realises what’s happening. “Fuck! He’s touching himself!”
But it’s too late.
I explode. Everywhere.
Pleasure chokes me, as spurts of cum shoot out of my cock. Pleasure devours every nerve that once hummed with pain.
I groan, head falling back as the release intensifies.
I don’t know when the detective released me but suddenly, I can breathe again. My face burns as the chill replaces the heat.
“You dirty bastard!” His voice is distant. It’s something like an echo pounding through the depths of some distant dream.
My head lulls forward, and then the room snaps back in all at once. Sound. Movement. Air rushing hard into lungs as the grip releases without warning, the sudden absence of pressure almost violent.
Hands grab my jaw, forcing my head up.
“You think this is control?” The detective leans in close, breath sour, voice low. “I haven’t even started taking things from you yet.”
He has no idea.
My head dips forward again as the moment settles, the body dragging itself back into alignment piece by piece. Pain returns where it belongs. Air evens out. The room reforms around me.
But my focus remains on her pulse that ticks too fast; her lips which are still parted.
And now she understands the worst part of it.
I don’t need to cross the room.
I don’t need to touch her.
I only need her to keep looking.