Chapter 11 Caligula
CALIGULA
When I open my eyes again, I’m in a bathroom. A bathroom that’s bigger than the hotel rooms I’ve been staying in lately, and I’m lying on my side on a divan softer and more comforting than any bed I’ve slept in since my crib.
My father raised me. My mother had less than zero interest in me, and went back to Italy soon after my birth. My first word was “Da,” not “Ma.” My earliest memories are of my father throwing me up and catching me, always catching me. I always felt safe with him. Nothing could touch me.
Then he died.
I sit up straight, leaning immediately to favor one buttcheek as the plug inside me pokes hard, and put a hand to my head as things start spinning again.
When the world is finally still, I take a deep breath and look up.
Damiano is standing well back, watching me closely like I’m a wild animal that might bite him.
“Sorry,” I mutter, and then immediately want to punch myself. Why the hell am I apologizing to this asshole? He bought me. So fuck manners; I’m not going to apologize to him for any damn thing.
“Are you—” He breaks off, starts again. “The Obelisk told me you were in good health.”
“I’m fine.”
“I didn’t pay ten million just to watch you faint after walking up a few flights of stairs.” His voice has gone ice cold. “If you’re sick, I’ll have someone examine you. If you’re just weak, I’ll have to adjust my plans.”
“Look, I just haven’t eaten for a while,” I snap. And then: “What plans?”
He regards me with those empty eyes. “Get up,” he says at last.
I stand, keeping my eyes down. Not from submission, but because there are mirrors everywhere and I don’t want to have to see my own humiliation reflected back at me.
Damiano takes me by the arm—again—and pulls me over to the sink set under a mirror. He tilts my chin up, but I resolutely keep my gaze fixed down. “Hey,” he says, a world of warning in one syllable.
I look up. Look at him in the mirror. His pants and his shirt are expensive, but it’s basically cosplay. Something to make him appear civilized, seem like any other man. But he’s not a man. He’s a monster.
He’s taken off his jacket, and the white shirt stretches across his broad shoulders that span significantly wider than mine.
In front of him, a head shorter, I’m completely naked except for the gold cage around my cock.
He’s built from solid muscle and tattoos and scars.
I’m leaner, smoother, ink-free and equally unmarked by life’s cruelties—at least the physical ones.
His hand on my jaw looks huge, capable of snapping my neck with minimal effort.
But I meet his eyes with every ounce of Clemenza disdain I can muster.
“That thing in your ass,” he says. “Is it the first thing that’s been in there?”
In the mirror, I can see the flush starting in my chest and creeping up to my neck. “Not the first thing, no.”
“You played with your hole?”
My cheeks burn now. Even my ears are going red. I hate that I can’t hide when I’m embarrassed, not with my coloring. Hate that I’m getting embarrassed at all. “Yes.”
“With what? Fingers, dildo?”
“Yes.”
His hand slides down to my throat, gripping high under my chin so my head tips back.
If I want to meet his eyes in the mirror, I have to look down my nose at him, which would be more satisfying if he weren’t the one controlling the angle.
His fingers tighten just enough to remind me how easy this would be for him. “Which?”
“Both. I bought a toy online and I tried it out, but…” I squeeze my eyes shut until his fingers dig in, and I open them again. “I didn’t like it. It hurt.”
“And what you’ve got in there now, does it hurt?” His free hand slides down my spine.
I swallow, my throat moving against his palm. “Not at all. It’s delightful.”
He gives a faint huff of laughter. “You Clemenzas. Always lying.” He bends me forward, forcing my upper body down until my forehead nearly touches the cold metal of the mirror. “Look at yourself,” he tells me. “And open your legs. Wider.” He actually kicks my feet open.
I suck in a deep breath and remind myself who I am. Clemenzas don’t cry. And we don’t show when it hurts.
I stare with unfocused eyes so my face is as unfamiliar as everything else in this house. I force my expression to harden, to show nothing, and open my legs even wider.
“Good boy,” he murmurs, and the praise slithers through me, a warm poison of something shameful but enjoyable unfurling low in my belly. I hate that I respond to it—hate that some broken part of me craves approval from a man like this.
His fingers trace down my spine again, slowly, deliberately. I know where he’s headed, so I don’t flinch when he slides between my cheeks and grasps the base of the plug.
“This thing’s been in for hours. So, as much as you might be enjoying it, it’s time for it to come out.” But he doesn’t remove it. He twists it, watching my face. “Tell me how it feels.”
“Like I’ve been fucked over by life,” I say coolly, even as my cock strains painfully in its cage, the metal biting into sensitive flesh as I harden against my will. What the hell is wrong with me? It has to be physiological. Just a physical reaction to stimulation.
Right?
His smile is dark. “You’re real funny. You know that?” He gives the plug a slow, deliberate twist that makes my knees quake, then carefully begins to withdraw it.
The sensation is intense. I hold my breath to keep from making any sound as he pulls it free, stretching me almost unbearably before it pops out entirely. The sudden emptiness leaves me feeling strangely hollow.
He sets the plug aside on a towel, then his hands return to me.
“I need to check you’re not damaged,” he says matter-of-factly, like he’s a doctor conducting an examination.
One finger traces around my asshole, checking the rim, and I shiver at the intimate touch.
“Last goddamn thing I need is to deal with injuries on day one.”
His finger doesn’t stop. It presses forward, sliding into me with ease, and I swallow hard at the intrusion. It’s different from the plug—warmer, more flexible, more…
Human.
But this is no human. This is a beast in disguise.
“Relax,” he says when I tense up. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
The finger moves deeper, methodical, exploring. His hand stills—just a minute pause, a hesitation so brief I might have imagined it.
And then he touches something inside me that makes my entire body jolt. “Fuck!”
“There we are,” he says, and touches that spot again, just a gentle press—but I nearly collapse.
I’ve never felt anything like this. The toy I bought never got anywhere near this deep. All those times Jesse held court in clubs about how incredibly sensitive his P-spot was, I assumed he was performing.
He was not performing.
And this thick-fingered thug massages me without hurry, watching my face in the mirror like he’s reading a manual. I can’t stop shaking.
“What—what are you—” I can barely form words.
“I’m learning you, Caligula,” he says. “Just like you’ve been trying to learn me.”
Damn it. He’s not as stupid as I hoped he was.
“What does it feel like?” he asks.
I just shake my head, no words coming to me. My brain is starting to short out.
His other hand squeezes the back of my neck. “You answer me when I ask you a question.”
“Overwhelming,” I gasp out.
But overwhelming doesn’t touch it. My legs are trembling, my breathing ragged, and something is building inside me that I have no framework for. This isn’t like getting myself off. This originates somewhere deeper, somewhere I didn’t know existed, and it’s climbing with a momentum I can’t control.
“Please.” I don’t know what I’m asking for. Stop? Don’t stop? I can’t think straight.
He adds a second finger, and it feels good, both digits working that same, devastating place inside me. His other hand leaves my neck and flicks at the cage hanging between my wide-open legs, the metal ringing softly as it vibrates against my trapped erection. “You like it, golden boy. Don’t you?”
The combination of sensations is too much.
The pressure crests. I come, but not like anything I recognize.
No release, no relief. Just wave after wave of obliterating pleasure radiating from somewhere so deep inside it feels tectonic.
I spasm around his fingers, making sounds I will never forgive myself for, as clear fluid spills through the filigree cage and drips onto marble.
He works me through every second of it until the pleasure flips to agony and I’m begging him to stop, every nerve ending shrieking—
And finally he withdraws his fingers.
I’m panting hard, head lowered almost into the sink. The intensity was unlike anything I’ve ever experienced—terrifying and incredible at the same time. But the way he did it, so detached and methodical, like I’m a specimen to be studied rather than a person…
“Up,” he says.
I stand upright and Damiano moves to the sink. He washes his hands like he’s just performed surgery. That dispassionate attitude of his makes something hard settle in my belly, even as aftershocks of pleasure still ripple through me.
He dampens a washcloth with warm water and holds it out. “Clean yourself up.”
I take the cloth with trembling hands, acutely aware of the clear fluid still leaking from me, pooling on the marble floor between my feet. “What was that?” I ask quietly.
“That’s the button that turns off your brain, little prince.”
I wipe myself clean awkwardly, embarrassed to have him watching me. I’m still trying to process what I just felt. “But why did you…”
“I bought your body. Did you think I wouldn’t use it?”
I force myself to meet his eyes. “But you didn’t use it. Not for your own pleasure. So try again.”
He leans in, but I refuse to shrink back. “You know what?” he asks in a low, intimate tone. “By the time I’m done with you, you’ll be begging for my cock.”
“That’s still not an answer,” I point out. “So I’ll ask again. Why did you do that to me?”
I half expect a backhand from him, but he just gives an unwilling smirk.
“What’s that thing they say? Knowledge is power.
” He takes the cloth from me, tossing it over the golden butt plug dismissively.
“Come on,” he says, taking my arm almost gently this time.
“You need to eat. I’ve got plans for you, Clemenza, and they depend on you being strong and healthy. ”
He steers me back toward the dining room, and I go, because I have no choice, and because my legs are barely operational.
But my brain is already coming back online. And what it’s telling me is this: my new owner just demonstrated that he can dismantle me with two fingers and a few minutes of patience. He found the override switch.
I have a year in this house. Three hundred and sixty-five days with a man who now knows exactly how to take me apart.
I need to find the thing that takes him apart.
And I need to find it fast.