Page 43 of Bottoms Up (Mythic Beast #4)

Julian

She was trembling, panting, eyes wide with pain and desperation. Her skin was flushed, lips parted in a soundless scream, like she’d forgotten how to breathe.

I unstrapped her slowly. Gently. Lifted her in my arms, and her whole body clenched around the nozzle.

She buried her face in my chest.

“I’ve got you,” I whispered.

I carried her to the narrow bench — the one designed for oral service.

Her back landed gently on the padding, but she gasped as if knives shredded her insides.

I bent her knees and connected her ankles so the position wouldn’t put undue stress on her spine.

Strapped the rest of her down — hips, wrists so her arms were straight down her sides, and then a side strap under her breasts to secure body and arms.

She couldn’t move much of anything.

Her eyes met mine — wide, glazed, frantic . The cramps were hitting her in waves. Deep. Rolling. Endless.

I threw one leg over her, straddling her chest, and used the remote to lift the platform she was on, then tilt her upper body just enough I could easily fuck her mouth.

My cock was granite — the kind of aching hardness only a sadist gets, carved out of cries and tension and trembling obedience.

I fed it into her mouth.

She gagged when I hit the soft palate, but I didn’t stop. Her body bucked as much as the restraints allowed, every scream swallowed into the heat of her throat.

The vibrations were exquisite .

Her throat spasmed around me in pulses of pain and sound — the cramping turning her into a living vibrator, massaging my cock from the inside with desperate, helpless whimpers.

Her agony made her tighter. Hotter. Nothing else on Earth feels like this, the way her body turns pain into devotion.

I gripped her hair. Fucked slow. Deep.

I watched the clock. Another eighteen minutes for her to hold this enema. I took my time, enjoying her mouth.

With three minutes to go, I went faster. Harder.

And executed a personal challenge to perfection, coming hard with a grunt when it flipped over to zero, hips driving as deep as her throat would take me, holding her there until I felt her swallowing. One, two, three pulses.

“Good girl,” I said, wiping her tears with my thumbs.

Then I released her.

She bolted for the toilet.

I followed slower, and took my time releasing the balloons.

When the noises slowed, I washed my hands and stood in front of her. I touched her chopsticks. Stroked the tip of her tongue, pitifully jutting out of her mouth. Dry, but still warm. Plenty of blood flow. I could leave them on longer, but…

“No words unless asked a question. No whining. No begging. They can easily go back on.”

She nodded, and I removed them. Her tongue escaped back into her mouth, and she swallowed, over and over.

It took her a while to manage the treadmill — back and forth from running to shitting.

I had more fun with Atlas while she made sure she was empty. I flicked his balls. Swung the weights on them. Found a rubber band and popped them with it. Put hot pepper oil on the penis plug and stuck it back in his peehole, and his reaction was quite satisfactory.

It took a minute to fiddle with the mechanism on the cock cage so it would hold the plug in. He wasn’t at the best angle, but I managed.

I helped Silver shower when she was ready, helped dry her off. She was all soft and clean, cock cage still held in place by the harness, cunt still aching, eyes glassy but steady.

I handed her a pair of black nitrile gloves.

“Suit up.”

She pulled them on without asking.

I moved behind Atlas and unlocked the cage on his cock. I had to take the weights on his balls off, but that was okay. They’d be fun to put back on.

His cock sagged out — purple, swollen. The spikes hadn’t done it any favors. If we didn’t allow a change , he was going to feel this for days .

And I was of a mind to take him off the schedule so we could do exactly that.

His cock was pathetic. Beautiful. Ruined.

I showed Silver the bottle of hot pepper oil, and she held her gloved hand out for me to put some into it.

Once her gloved palms were coated in it, shiny and pretty, she gripped him.

Atlas let out a wail. His hips jerked once, but the bindings held. His head low, cheek pressed to the floor. It was impossible for him to rise with his chest strapped to the floor.

I sat cross-legged on the floor in front of his face and watched him. Observed. Analyzed.

Tears fell fast and furious now while Silver stroked him with slow, cruel care — squeezing, twisting, working the oil into every inch. His cock jerked like it wanted to come and die at the same time.

She said nothing.

Just worked.

Until I handed her the plug.

A different one.

It was thick. Wider than anything he could take without tearing.

She lubed it without comment, held his cock steady, and began to press.

Atlas screamed — a raw, wet-throated sound that echoed against the tile.

Tears streamed down his face, but he didn’t beg. Didn’t move.

Silver forced it deeper. Atlas fought his bonds. His screams rebounding panic and all-encompassing pain.

Deeper.

And then, finally, all the way.

When it seated, I nodded and handed the cock cage back to her. She put it on, trapping the plug — ignoring his screams.

The clock had passed the two-hour mark.

Four quarts of blistering fluid churned in Atlas’s gut — ginger, cayenne, cinnamon oil, residual soap and glycerin.

His body shook and trembled. He wasn’t sobbing anymore.

He was past it. Silent, save for the occasional low grunt or twitching moan when a fresh cramp seized him.

Screams when we tortured him above and beyond.

But he hadn’t begged for relief a single time.

His body did, however. Every muscle quivered with the effort of endurance.

Another stroke across his face, gentle. He met my gaze, and I said, “Welcome to Homewood, Muscles.”

I moved behind him, put the weights back on his balls, and decided he could handle another half-pound. I watched them sway, his balls hanging lower now. Purple, swollen, abused. The stretch was beautiful.

My cock was granite again.

I let the ache linger, then walked to Silver.

She whimpered at the sound of my boots on the floor.

She’d been watching from a few feet away, sitting on the floor where I’d pointed her when she’d finished the treadmill. Pale, her breathing shallow.

“You want a reason to scream?” I asked.

Her eyes met mine — wide, glassy, scared. Good.

She was exhausted. Fucked out.

She’d thought I was done with her. She was wrong.

I bent her over the bondage table and fucked her ass — hard, fast, unforgiving. No prep. Just minimal lube and a hand on her neck.

She wailed into the padding, fingernails clawing at the leather. I wanted it to burn. To bruise. To leave her aching for days .

No orgasm. No relief.

Just pain and pressure and obedience.

When I finished, I pulled out and crammed a plug in her ass. She was freshly showered — we didn’t want the mess of my jizz running down her legs.

I didn’t bother telling her to stay put. She wouldn’t move without permission.

I walked back to Atlas.

He flinched when I touched him.

Good .

I lifted my phone. Showed him the timer.

Twelve and a half minutes showed on it. Slowly, inexorably counting down.

“See that?” I asked. “You don’t get the full time. You spoke when you weren’t asked a question. That word cost you ten minutes of agony. Pain you’ll never feel. Lost for good. The water comes out in two minutes.”

His gaze flicked to the timer. A flash of something unhappy, but he nodded.

I let him watch the time, and I looked up to Silver, still bent over the bondage table. Legs wide apart.

“You may sit on the floor again, stellina .”

I focused on Atlas again. When the countdown hit ten minutes, I released the balloons.

The fluid surged out of him in a rush, splattering his legs, the concrete, everything within six feet. He groaned — not from shame, but the pure release of pressure. More tears fell to the floor.

When I thought the majority of the water was out, I released his chest first, then the bar spreading his thighs, down near his knees. I loosened the chains at his ankles, but didn’t release them. He could move his feet eighteen inches in any direction, and the chains would make music when he did.

I lifted him slowly, helping him stand. He staggered. I held him around his waist.

Then I bound his arms above his head, supporting him, and showed him the horse whip before I walked behind him and made him dance .

Random strikes, from hard to harder to brutal, placement designed to make him move. He didn’t, at first, but I knew he would. Everyone does.

It took seven minutes before he danced for me, the chains creating a sadistic music, his feet tapping out their own beat. To the left, to the right. Constant movement. Just as the treadmill had shaken the last bits of water out of Silver, this movement did for Atlas.

And the thing about hot pepper powder is that it burns something fierce coming out, so there were shouts and tears, sobs all over again, every time more water released.

The whip landed again.

And again.

And again.

He twitched, stumbled, cried out, incoherent with pain.

But he danced for the whip. Never stopped.

Even when nothing else leaked from him, the movement wrung more from his gut.

An hour passed.

Still, occasional water.

Only when nothing had fallen for twenty minutes did I end the session and guide him to the shower. He collapsed under the spray, sobbing silently.

When he was clean, I led him to the platform we needed him on. The cock cage had gone back on in the shower. The weights on his balls, too.

Silver was waiting — cock hard and aching, flesh pulsing through the cruel bars. Time for her adorable little cock to be freed. I touched the lock holding the harness on, my thumb the key to free her.

“Put it in the sink and return.”

I turned to Atlas, signed climb and then knees in ASL, and he climbed onto the platform and dropped to his knees.