Chapter Three #2
Then the other attachment, the tube, slid over Sero's cock, encasing him in soft, ribbed warmth.
The fit was snug, the interior slick, and the first pulse of suction drew a sound out of Sero that he'd deny later.
He was acutely aware of every surface touching him: the cuffs on his wrists, the pole against his back, the toy filling his ass, the sleeve working his cock. He was surrounded. Held. Taken.
Trevor stood and picked up the flogger again.
"Here's how this works," he said. "The machine does what it does. The flogger does what it does. Between them, your body is going to give me everything it has. All you need to do is breathe and let it happen."
He clicked something on the controller.
The dildo began to vibrate.
The sleeve began to pulse.
And Trevor brought the flogger down across his chest.
Everything after that dissolved. Pain and pleasure weren't separate things anymore.
They were the same current running through the same wire, and each strike of the flogger sent a jolt through his entire body that the machine amplified and redirected.
The dildo buzzed against his prostate in rhythmic waves that made his legs shake.
The sleeve worked his cock with a suction that was relentless and obscene, pulling at him with a wet, tight rhythm that had his hips bucking helplessly into it.
And Trevor kept hitting him, measured, accurate, each strike landing in a different place than the last, building a web of pain across his chest and stomach and thighs that set every nerve ending on fire.
Sero came the first time without warning.
His orgasm slammed through him, sudden, total, a full-body convulsion that ripped a sound from his throat he'd never made before.
His cock pulsed hard inside the sleeve, and he could feel it, the machine pulling every drop out of him, milking him through it, drawing out the orgasm until it became oversensitive, until the pleasure crossed back into pain, and then the pain became pleasure again because Trevor was still hitting him and his body couldn't tell the difference anymore.
"One," Trevor said. His voice was calm. Professional. As if he was counting reps at a gym.
The second orgasm came four minutes later.
Sero felt it building, a tightening low in his belly, the dildo grinding against his prostate with every vibration, the sleeve sucking him back to full hardness before the sensitivity had even faded.
When it hit, he cried out and his whole body jerked against the cuffs, cock spilling into the sleeve again while the toy inside him buzzed him through it.
The third, three minutes after that. By the fourth, Sero was shaking, his thighs trembling, his arms pulling against the cuffs, his entire body caught in a loop of sensation that had no beginning and no end.
He could hear himself, moans, gasps, something that might have been Trevor's name, but he couldn't control any of it.
He was beyond control. He was in a place he'd never been, a floating, formless space where his body was doing things his mind had no authority over and every orgasm bled into the next like waves crashing on the same shore.
The fifth orgasm was dry. His body convulsed, his cock throbbed hard inside the sleeve, but nothing came out. The sensation was more intense without the release, a cresting wave that never broke, just kept rising, and Sero sobbed with it, his whole body shuddering against the pole.
"Five," Trevor said. His breathing was heavier. The flogger strikes had slowed, not weaker, but more deliberate, each one chosen rather than automatic. He was watching Sero with an expression that was no longer clinical. It was reverent.
"Color?" Trevor asked.
"Green," Sero gasped. Or tried to. The word came out as a breath, barely audible. But with his sensitive cat ears, Trevor heard it.
Six. Seven. The orgasms blurred together, each one wringing Sero's body until there was nothing left to wring.
The dry orgasms were devastating, his cock jerking uselessly inside the sleeve, his prostate pulsing against the dildo, his body clenching and releasing in waves that left him gasping and wrecked.
The pain from the flogger was constant, a bright net laid over his skin, and inside that net his body was doing things he hadn't known it could do.
He was crying, when had he started crying?
, and it wasn't from pain or sadness, it was from the sheer overwhelming everything of it, the totality of being used and filled and struck and held all at once.
On the eighth orgasm, Sero screamed. It was a raw, shattered sound that he felt in his bones, and as it tore out of him, he heard Trevor make a sound too, a sharp, stunned gasp, almost wounded.
Through the haze, Sero registered that Trevor was gripping the edge of the table, knuckles white, his body rigid, his hips jerking once against nothing.
A dark stain spreading across the front of those low-slung black jeans.
Trevor had cum. Without touching himself. Just from watching Sero fall apart.
They stared at each other. Sero was wracked, trembling, hanging from the cuffs with his knees barely holding him up. Trevor was flushed and breathing hard, one hand braced on the table, the other still holding the flogger. Between them, the machine hummed.
Trevor clicked it off.
The silence was deafening. Sero's body kept shaking for long seconds after the vibrations stopped, aftershocks rolling through him like tremors.
Trevor set the flogger down and came to him, quickly, efficiently, undoing the cuffs first, then easing the sleeve off his cock with careful hands.
Sero hissed, his cock was swollen and hypersensitive, and even the gentle slide of the sleeve pulling free made his hips jerk.
Then slowly, gently, Trevor worked the dildo out.
Sero whimpered at the loss of it, his body clenching around nothing, feeling suddenly and achingly empty.
"Easy," Trevor murmured. "Easy. I've got you."
Trevor lowered him to the floor. The wood was cool against Sero's overheated skin.
He lay on his side, knees drawn up, shaking.
Trevor sat beside him and pulled Sero's head onto his thigh.
For a long time, neither of them spoke. Trevor's fingers threaded through Sero's hair, slow, rhythmic, grounding.
Sero pressed his face against the denim and breathed in cedar and sweat and the faint musk of Trevor's orgasm. He felt hollowed out. Remade.
"Eight times," Trevor said eventually. His voice was quiet. "In case you lost track. And fifty-three lashes." A pause. "I'm a bit worried about you, honestly. You should've been screaming well before the end. Most people would have been done at four."
Sero gave a weak laugh against Trevor's thigh.
"I do feel it. But that..." He didn't have a word for it.
Nothing in his vocabulary covered what had just happened to him, the place he'd gone, the way his body had kept giving long after he thought it was empty.
"I've never been anywhere like that. I didn't know I could go there. "
"Yeah." Trevor's voice was rough, almost unsteady. "Neither did I. And I've done this a lot."
Sero felt Trevor's hand move from his hair to his neck.
A light touch, fingertips tracing the line of his throat.
Then a small, sharp sting, brief, precise, over in a second.
It barely registered through the fog. Everything was soft and far away and warm, and Sero was floating in that vast space behind the door that had opened, and the sting was just another sensation in a body that had already been given everything it could hold.
"I just marked you with my claws," Trevor said. He didn't look apologetic. He looked like a man who'd done something he couldn't stop himself from doing. "It's a possessive habit of mine, even if this is the only time we'll ever be together. Like I've branded you as being mine."
Sero registered the words from very far away.
He knew, distantly, that he'd said something about marks.
About permanent. But the thought couldn't find purchase, it slid through his mind like water through open fingers, and all that was left was the warmth of Trevor's thigh under his cheek and the fading sting on his throat and the deep, bone-level satisfaction of a body that had been completely and thoroughly used.
"Rest," Trevor said. "I'll be here when you wake up."
Sero sank into the dark and let it take him.
***
He slept for twenty minutes, maybe thirty. When he came back, the room was the same: low light, warm wood, the faint hum of the ventilation. Trevor was sitting cross-legged on the floor beside him, eating grapes from Sero's bag and watching the door.
Sero sat up slowly. Everything ached, but it was a good ache, the kind that followed extraordinary effort, like the soreness after a long flight in bat form.
His back stung where the flogger had landed.
His thighs were tender. His cock was sore in a way he'd never experienced, a deep, used-up throb that pulsed when he shifted his weight.
And beneath all of it, like a bassline under a melody, there was a profound sense of having been reached.
A part of him that had always been locked behind his pain tolerance, a room he'd never found the door to, had been opened.
He could still feel the space inside it. Warm and vast and entirely new.
"Welcome back." Trevor handed Sero a grape.
Sero ate it. It was sweet and cold and perfect. "How long was I out?"
"About twenty-five minutes. You needed it. How do you feel?"
"Like I got hit by a truck that was also giving me the best sex of my life." Sero accepted another grape. "Eight times over."
Trevor laughed. It was a real laugh, surprised and pleased, without the calculated edges Sero was used to hearing from him. He liked the sound of it.