Page 18 of Bottoms Up (Mythic Beast #4)

If the boy I sucked stayed soft, I was punished harder, beaten by a second person in a different location for being so inexperienced at oral pleasure. Often, the bottoms of our feet were caned on top of whatever else was being done to us, so it hurt to walk for days .

If I couldn’t get hard in his mouth, he suffered extra punishments while I was helpless to save him — unless I could manage to get the blood to flow where they wanted it. And if neither of us could respond? Heaven help us.

It didn’t matter what I wanted. My body was never mine. Failure in either direction just meant either emotional degradation when we succeeded, or physical agony along with humiliation when our bodies wouldn’t respond.

So no, it wasn’t surprising that I was both aroused and ashamed now — that my cock betrayed me even as my heart curled in on itself.

I’d been trained to confuse obedience with desire, pain with eagerness and lust. The lessons had fully taken hold as a human and then been reinforced — hardened into reflex — over the centuries.

Silver was relentless with the giant, unforgiving, monstrous thing he fucked me with. Stretch, friction, heat. Even with my height, it went too deep — distending me until the pain turned sharp.

I was sweating, shaking, and biting down on the screams in my throat when he finally yanked it from me, and a shriek ripped from my chest.

He tossed it aside, and I heard the clatter as it hit the floor.

“Onto the table, slave. Sit on the cushion and lean against the wedge.”

My body stuttered with relief, even knowing what came next would be worse. I turned to climb onto the table, and caught a glimpse of what he’d used on me.

A troll-sized dildo. Mounted to a handle like a medieval battering ram.

No wonder it’d reminded me of being fucked by a damned troll.

Once I was leaned back against the wedge, Silver wrapped more straps around me, the wedge, and the bondage table, securing me so I couldn’t sit up. Couldn’t escape.

He lifted my legs, bent them wide, and guided each one into a stirrup hanging from the ceiling.

The stirrups wrapped around my legs from knees to ankles, padded but unyielding.

I wasn’t going anywhere. More straps ran from the stirrups to the table, anchoring them at an angle — ankles over the outer edges, knees drawn tight to my upper arms, near my shoulders.

Not exactly painful, but not comfortable, either.

And I knew exactly what this position was meant to offer: full, unrestricted access to my balls.

It wasn’t lost on me how much this mirrored… before .

When this had been done to me as a child, I’d been seated upright, legs bound wide and lifted. A man had sat behind me, arms wrapped tight around my torso and thighs, locking me in place while someone else stood ready with a bowl — for when I vomited.

Because when the pain gets that bad, you puke your guts up.

Knowing what I do now, it makes sense I wasn’t flat on my back. I imagine they probably lost boys who died when they choked on their vomit.

I hadn’t been allowed food for a full day before they did the procedure , but there’s still bile in your stomach, whether there’s food or not.

Silver sat in front of me, lifted my balls, and slid a slab of cold marble under them. I’d wondered how this was going to work with the large cushion he’d sat me on. I guess this explained it.

When the stone was in place, my balls resting heavy and exposed, the cock cage keeping my dick out of the way, Silver looked me straight in the eye and said, “You got into position of your own free will, and that was important. Now that you’re here and bound, it’s important you continue to use your free will to consent to what’s about to happen.

If you wish for me to stop, you must tell me you don’t consent to being my slave.

This will stop all activity, and then your true Master will come in and…

” he shrugged. “I honestly don’t know what he’ll do, if that’s your choice. ”

He kissed his finger and touched it to one of my balls, then the other.

“I’ll love you, no matter what. If this doesn’t work for you, nothing will change.

I’ll still be here. However, if you haven’t changed your mind when we’re finished here in about two hours, then you’ll be mine for the next nine to eighteen months, and there won’t be anything you can say or do to change that. ”

There it was. My out.

Except it wasn’t. Not really.

Because saying no didn’t mean I got to leave. It meant Marco took back control. It meant decades of limbo, maybe longer, and the window to real freedom might never open again. Saying no would break Silver’s heart. Saying yes would break my body.

I swallowed hard.

“I’m yours, Master.”

It wasn’t official, not until the scene was done, but for me, the transfer happened when he walked me into the house on all fours. The leash, the commanding presence, the way he stopped and talked to Cora as if it were completely normal to have someone at his feet, tethered and silent. Waiting.

“Marco’s rules are that you can’t ask me to stop, and that you have a safeword. I gave you a safe phrase, but just to be sure we follow the change-in-ownership rules to the letter, your safeword is withdraw . Say it once right now, so I know you understand what you have to say.”

“I don’t intend to say withdraw again for the next two hours, Master, but I understand that’s my safeword.”

“For the record, the word stop will also end the scene.”

I nodded, and he opened a fancy box he’d set on the table before he climbed on.

I sucked in air when I saw what was inside, because it was the exact tool that’d been used on me originally — a smooth fluorite roller held between Y-shaped brackets, mounted on a thick handle.

Beautiful. Exquisitely made.

The kind of beauty that makes your stomach turn, because you know what it’s for.

Memories inundated my brain, and a wave of nausea rolled through me.

My balls were to be rolled flat between fluorite and marble.

“It isn’t fair,” Silver said, his voice quiet. “It wasn’t fair then, and it isn’t fair now. But it’s going to happen now, just as it did then.”

And that was the truth of it. This wasn’t just a scene. This was a reenactment . A ritual of pain carved into my body once already. And now done again, on purpose.

I was older now. Stronger.

But some part of me was still that little boy, legs bound, chest heaving, puking bile into a bowl held by someone who didn’t care if I lived through it.

Silver cared.

That was important. It made it different.

But it didn’t change what was about to happen.

Not the pain. Not the terror. Not the way my body was already beginning to tremble — and not from arousal. Just fear. Just memory.

Without further ado, Silver rested the device at the top of my left ball, where it attached to my body, and pressed down, leaning his weight into it, rolling it slowly from top to bottom.

He stopped just short of the end, resituated the roller, and pushed it the other way.

Over and over. A dozen times. He shifted his whole body to get better leverage, bracing himself so he could drive the pressure sideways, rolling the testicle from edge to edge with brutal precision.

Dozens of trips back and forth now. Without end.

I screamed. Gagged. Tried to puke.

There was nothing left in me. As before, I hadn’t been given sustenance today, but my body kept trying to empty my stomach anyway. I gagged and retched, tears flowing down my face, hot and endless. I choked on my tears and my spit, trying to breathe between the screams, the bellowing, the yelping.

I thrashed as much as the restraints would allow, and still, the roller kept moving. Back and forth, front to back, back to front, left to right, right to left. Slow and deliberate.

I roared in pain, fought my restraints, but Silver kept at it. Merciless. Ruthless.

Sobs tore from my body between the shouts.

He paused mere seconds, long enough to caress the top of my thigh, and went right back to it.

“I know, slaveboy. It’s terrible. Too much. No one should have to endure this even once, and here you are, having to live through it again. I know it hurts, but we have to get through it if we want to get out the other side.” Another caress. “There’s no way around. Only through.”

“Together,” I gasped the word, more breath than sound. “Out the other side together .”

“That’s right, dear slave. Together.”

And then he started again, relentless. Top to bottom. Side to side. Diagonal. Slow. Hard. Flattening the soft flesh until it felt like there was nothing left to flatten — then pressing harder still.

When he’d utterly ruined that testicle, rolled and ground it to pulp between marble and stone, he started afresh on the other.