Archive of Our Own

Knees weak, Yuu approaches the punishment stand. 

It’s made of narrow composite poles and loops—dainty and translucent, but strong enough to hold an elephant. They’re arranged into a shape that’s supposed to keep a person in an uncomfortable, half-bent stress position. The main, thickest pole grows straight from the ground, then bends slightly at his hips. Its upper part, together with two short perpendicular poles—first of which promises to dig painfully just above Yuu’s nipples, the second under his belly button—will support his torso. Under the bend, a wide loop is prepared to spring up between Yuu’s legs, widen, then encircle and immobilize his ass. Under the loop and parallel to the main pole, a thinner bar is connected, a small loop at each end. After Yuu steps into the thing and envelops the main pole within his knees, it’ll turn perpendicular, then dig into the backs of his thighs and force his knees to bend, causing stress to build in his buttocks and legs, thus making it harder to keep his hole relaxed. Then, the two loops at its ends will bind Yuu’s wrists, robbing his upper body of its primary source of balance. He’ll have to use all the muscles in his stomach, flanks, and lower back to keep his torso level—mainly because the last loop, springing from the end of the main pole, will wrap around his neck.

Alas, the very point of a punishment is to be unpleasant and difficult.

Yuu is supposed to go on the stand naked. There’s a small box nearby for his clothes, but there’s no lid on it; he can only hope no one thinks it funny to steal them at some point. It’s not common, stealing the convict’s personal possessions, but it happens, sometimes. If it does, he’s supposed to go to the transit station’s administrative office—which is on the other side of the building, separated from his current location by twenty-seven platforms teaming with passengers—where he’ll receive a pair of plastic sandals, a plug for his overused anus, and a pair of skimpy red rubber shorts; all of it, he’ll have to return in pristine condition within the next three days.

He undresses.

The transit station is busy at this early hour—at all hours; Yuu has checked—and people stop by to stare.

His sentence is twenty-one punishment services, at least one hundred cumulative hours, and not shorter than four hours each. He may take them at his leisure, but the interval between two consecutive ones must not exceed one standard week, or the countdown resets. To encourage him to complete it faster, the judge, in his infinite wisdom, decided Yuu should have his pleasure restricted for the duration.

Yuu looks down at the transparent, gelatin-like cage molded to his cock and swallows. Not only does it constrict, but it goes deep into his tubes, and blocks him completely. He’s had it on since the first day of the trial, two and a half weeks ago. Caging is a standard procedure for the accused—makes them more docile, according to research—but the restriction is usually removed after the verdict. That is, except for young, virile males who are court-ordered to perform some sort of communal sexual service—then it stays on as an additional incentive.

Communal sexual service is a sentence given to people who committed a sex-related crime of high societal impact, which was either victimless or where the victim was hard to determine, making direct reparations impossible.

For example, possession of a high quantity of banned aphrodisiac drugs with intent to distribute.

Yuu was caught on campus. He hadn’t known what was in the bag, but he also couldn’t rat out the roommate who had forgotten it and asked Yuu to bring it to class—turned out, the bastard was dangerous. This not only got him a caged cock and as many rounds on a punishment stand as was the full doses of the drug in that cursed bag, but also a private caning—administered by a certified punishment officer of his choosing—after every service, which, to be completely honest, he is dreading the most.

Their dorm manager is one such certified punishment officer—in cahoots with his bastard of a roommate, Yuu suspects—and he threatened he’d inform Yuu’s parents if Yuu doesn’t “choose” him.

Yuu’s parents pay Yuu’s tuition. If they ever find out Yuu has gotten himself tangled in something drug-related…

The caning is supposed to commence within three hours of the communal service and is to consist of no less than twenty-one hits, with the state of Yuu’s buttocks documented before and after, as a proof that it reached the minimum required severity.

There is no maximum severity set.

Yuu’s buttocks tighten at the very thought.

He is expected to endure all that—first public fucking in a stress position, then a hardcore caning—at least once a week!

For no less than twenty-one weeks.

Almost half a year of humiliation, pain, and hardcore sexual usage—with no relief for him.

He closes his eyes, exhales, then opens them and steps into the stand.

The mechanism detects his presence and adjusts to his height. The big loop narrows and presses between his legs, then reshapes itself back and snaps around his hips and buttocks—it stings—then tightens. Molds to him. Its ends, where it connects to the main pole, spread and dig into the soft places where Yuu’s thighs and crotch meet. It keeps his joints immobilized and open, and exposes his perineum and pre-lubed hole to the chilling air and the curious gazes of passers-by.

He swallows, then leans his chest on the thing—the loop around his ass slides up and grips, causing his ass to bulge out. There’s a dull ache where the bend of the pole digs into his bladder. As he expected, his balance is peculiar. He’s safe, but he can’t help but tense all his muscles. There’s a support for his head at the end of the pole—not unlike the ones in massage beds, just transparent and narrow—and, as soon as he places his face in it, a wide, malleable band loops around his neck with a shlick.

His heart pounds.

He’s trapped.

Hesitantly, he touches his throat with tingling fingertips. Swallows. Tenses. It is restrictive but not entirely uncomfortable. Doesn’t feel dangerous, which is a relief. Yuu traces the cold bars of translucent composite—narrow and impossibly thin—on his chest and lower, and tries to calm down.

In a minute, he’s going to get fucked.

His hands reach his naked, immobilized hips, and he feels the last bar shift between his legs. He has no choice but to let it; he bends his knees—his muscles ache; his ligaments burn—and the bar turns behind him. Digs. Yuu closes his eyes, fighting not to hyperventilate, and reaches for it with his hands—two loops catch his wrists.

His balance is better now. While all the perpendicular bars have a certain give at the joints, making movement possible—and tensing inevitable—they aren’t all that slack. They keep him in position, safely, with no possibility of falling off. By design, this will soon become very painful, but he’ll survive.

One hundred and twenty-one times.

Fucking gods.

People pass him. He’s facing the floor at an angle, so the most of them he can see are their legs. Any time anyone steps closer, he tenses and counts his breaths not to panic. He’s over-conscious of his hole, slick from lube and already aching a bit from the inexpert preparations he’s submitted it to—he had to buy all the supplies, and then follow a video guide.

He’s never done this before.

He’s a virgin.

His lawyer had said he’s lucky. That his lack of prior offenses, his high grades, and his up to this point spotless reputation had saved him from a stint in a real prison, where his ass would’ve really been busy; that, in comparison, this is nothing.

This is nothing—Yuu repeats in his own head when he feels hands spread him. This is… this is…—he tries as he’s breached. It’s wet and warm, and not all that painful, physically; just so damn invasive. His thighs spasm, and he can’t help but try to expel it.

It results in the cock reaching deeper.

And okay, he’s gay. Fine. It’s not like this is unimaginable, or like he’s never wanted this to happen. Not this cold, though. This impersonal. Not in the middle of a faceless crowd.

People walk by, and he’s getting fucked.

Whoever is behind him finishes and slides out, and Yuu clenches on nothing. His hole feels pleasantly numb, which first surprises him, and then heats his face.

He’s just lost his virginity, and it was so simple. So uneventful. No fanfares, no big emotions, just a stranger’s cock moving through his ass. So fucking disappointing.

He’s relieved.

He can do this.

Another man thrusts in.

This one is bigger—so much bigger—and Yuu whimpers. He trashes in his bonds, but they hold. His new client has no problem getting in—Yuu’s ass is immobilized and opened in a way that lets its users apply as much pressure as they need. Yuu is defenseless. Those men can fuck him as wide and as deep as they bloody want, no matter how much he tenses and screams.

He shouldn’t scream.

If he makes himself a public nuisance, a security person will come, gag him, and write a breach of contract into his files.

Each breach of contract means another day serving.

The monster goes so deep Yuu’s belly aches. Then he thrusts sharply, so far in that Yuu could swear he can feel those thrusts bumping through his belly and against the vertical pole.

Will he bruise there?

He starts crying.

The man behind him doesn’t care. He’s silent. Just fucking into Yuu’s involuntarily clenched butt.

Yuu’s thighs are trembling.

He’s so hot inside.

It’s so violating, mainly because it isn’t all bad. That cock is too massive, and Yuu hurts, but there’s pleasure, too; Yuu’s honest enough with himself to acknowledge that. Unlike the first, unremarkable one, he feels it, this fuck. It stirs the curiosity inside him and transforms it into pointless arousal.

If it wasn’t for the cage, Yuu would’ve been hard.

It’s still difficult, taking it. The whole design means he can’t relax his core muscles, which makes the violation more forceful, more acute. His entrance burns and there’s a deep, unnerving ache inside whenever that cock bottoms out. His body is tense and not ready; because of the stress position, it’s going to offer passive, hopeless resistance no matter how much he wills it to relax. Yuu’s eyes fill up with more tears. He tries to swallow all his sounds, but a few soft, unhappy grunts still escape him. He feels subdued. Pathetic.

Used.

The well-endowed man finishes and leaves Yuu’s hole open and sore. It’s uncanny—the feeling, numb yet tingling—and, despite his best efforts, Yuu blushes. He can’t see his own face, but it’s hot and his cheeks prickle; he knows the type of vivid, blotchy red it must be—wonders how far it reaches down his chest.

He’s an ugly blusher, his skin pale and freckled. It stains easily and remains discolored for long. Even something as ephemeral and innocent as a blush brands him for minutes; no way in hell the bruises left by careless hands and the plump swelling caused by fucking will fade in a mere week. And then there’s the caning—by the end of it, his ass will become but a canvas, painted every seven days, welt-over-welt.

Another man uses him, then another, then one more. It’s wet and slick inside him and between his buttocks. The cum dribbles over his balls and down his thighs. Down the pole. Some people wipe him with a tissue before they start, which stings his delicate, inflamed skin. He’d rather they go in all messy.

Next time, he’s going to bring with himself wet wipes.

His body burns. Especially his thighs—they’re on fire. The bondage lets him shift minutely, but that only serves to ensure that all his muscles are equally exhausted. The pain in his legs and sides is immediate and focus-stealing, and it takes him a while to fully appreciate the insidious ache creeping into the tense flesh inside and around his hole. He can’t relax, yet cock after cock forces him open. His muscles clench and stay clenched against his will. It doesn’t do shit to protect him—his ass is helpless, defenseless—it just adds to his mounting discomfort. These men thrust inside him—fast, sharp, enthusiastic—pleasured by his struggle. His aching ass is tight on them. For them.

The pleasant, tingling numbness which he so appreciated at the beginning slowly dissipates, leaving only swollen discomfort in its wake. With each consecutive cock, the sensation mounts—until Yuu cannot focus on anything else. The burn in the rest of his muscles becomes a distant echo at the back of his brain; he doesn’t know how that’s possible. Up till now, it was so overwhelming, so acute. It still is, on some level, only it has taken a backseat to a different pain, more unfamiliar and urgent, a pain that moves—back and forth, back and forth. Under it lurks another alien sensation, and maybe it’s that which is stealing Yuu’s attention and rewiring his brain. The fucking aches terribly, but a part of him likes it, likes what’s under that ache, what’s mixed in.

Yuu knows it’s his prostate, getting stimulated. Until now, he only knew about it theoretically. He’s tried once or twice to reach it with his fingers but achieved nothing interesting, and he was too embarrassed to buy toys. Now, his ass is angled perfectly for every cock to reach it, and every single one does. Some poke it, some strike it, some slide over and past, but Yuu’s prostate is under constant assault. He can’t cum from it, but his caged cock throbs, and his balls are hot and tight and sore. That’s what lets him dismiss the burn in his muscles and even—to some extent—helps him accept the swollen, overwhelming ache inside. He can’t cum from this, but maybe, maybe—

There’s no maybe, as it turns out. The fucks are self-serving, and the speed is random. Each cock just a smidge not enough. His body wants something, needs something, but Yuu, himself, can do nothing to reach it, and the men fucking him won’t. He’s convenient. He’s a wet hole to use between the from and the to. A casual relief of stress, some guilt-free fun, a pleasant but unremarkable moment of their day. Yuu certainly isn’t the first they’ve seen in this position, and he won’t be the last. It’s a court-ordered punishment, so he must deserve it—the pain in all his muscles, and his overused, ruined ass.

Four hours, Yuu thinks desperately. Four hours of this. The problem is, he has no way to judge the time. He brought nothing with him that could be stolen—it would’ve landed in the box anyway—and his bent position ensures he can’t see the large infoboards mounted near the ceiling. Just cocks—one, two, ten, twenty. How much time does it take them to use him? Five minutes, fifteen? It feels like ages; sometimes, he counts each thrust. 

Still, there’s no way to tell for sure. He’s calculated earlier that, assuming the average of fifteen minutes per fuck, he’d need to endure twenty-four to fill his quota. But he’s not sure, he can’t be sure, and if he speaks the release command too early, all of this will be for nothing. It won’t count. Some of these men use his hole long and hard, but some cum really fast.

Damn, this must count.

He reaches his calculated number, then grits his teeth and stays past. Endures.

It’s so much more difficult now. 

You can stop, his treacherous mind whispers. You’ve taken enough.

Had he, though? There’s no way to be certain. His body screams at him. Cum drips out of his ass. Not yet. Another cock, a big one. Aggressive. Oh fuck, oh fuck. Almost, almost—

Another.

He’s open. He doesn’t know when it happened, but despite all the tensing, the tiny muscles inside him no longer cooperate. He becomes aware of it suddenly, when yet another thick penis withdraws.

His hole must look obscene.

That’s what undoes him. As it turns out, there is shame in him still left. He starts crying, in deep, wretched sobs. Soundless—swallowing the sounds. He can’t close his hole anymore. No matter how much he tries, between cocks it stays open on cool air. Loose, it throbs. Men just slide in, fuck it, slide out, and their cum is dribbling out. Yuu’s ass has been unlocked. Turned into a welcoming door. Now, any man can explore it however he wants.

Yuu loses count of the cocks, but he’s afraid to stop. Is it still too early? There were so many already, a few more shouldn’t matter. He’d better take them.

He’d better be sure.

Blood buzzes in his ears.

His knees weaken.

Strange men thrust into his exhausted, sloppy hole; they thrust and thrust.

Finally, after another big one, one of his knees gives in; he slumps down and swallows hard. In his dry, clenched throat, words refuse to form, and before he can produce anything coherent, another client starts fucking. Yuu waits until the man is done—sloppy noises, squishy slaps—until he grunts and there’s another pulse of warmth. Only then does he swallow again, clears his throat, and says, “Stop. Please, no more. That’s enough.”

The bindings slowly release him—first his neck, then hands, then ass—until he slides down the pole onto the cold, cum-splashed tiles. His hole pulses, and he feels another glob bubble out, but he can’t do anything about it because his legs are made of throbbing cotton balls. Most passers-by pretend not to see him, for which he’s grateful. He’s naked, his gaping ass planted in the middle of a slimy puddle.

There’s a ban on taking photos of convicts, but someone does.

Yuu can’t force himself to look up.

Slowly, enough feeling returns to his limbs that he can stand upright. He staggers to the box which contains his clothes—it’s all still there, thank fuck—then, carefully, he wipes his thighs and ass with his t-shirt.

Next week—next week, oh gods—next week he’s definitely bringing wipes.

He bundles up the soiled t-shirt and throws it into the trash. With shaking hands, he puts on his underwear and pants, then shoes, then pulls his hoodie on naked skin. He limps away towards the busses, each step painful and throbbing inside. He’s swollen and open and numb. Sometimes, with a violent pulse, warm cum leaks into his underpants.

He pretends not to notice.

On the bus, despite his knees trembling, he doesn’t sit.

He has three hours to report for his caning. It takes less than half to return to the dorms, and he’d like some time to rest and gather himself before enduring another painful indignity, but he’s afraid that, once he lays down, he won’t be able to stand up, so he goes straight to the dorm manager’s office, and knocks.

The man opens and measures Yuu up and down. “Look who the cat’s dragged in.” He smirks.

He’s not especially tall, but he’s wide. Compact, all muscles—Yuu has heard rumors he compulsively exercises. In his early thirties, but with the dirty blond, receding hair, he looks older. One of his teeth is crooked, and his lips are thin.

He’s always made Yuu uneasy.

“Um.”

The manager opens his door wider and steps aside. “Come in.”

Yuu swallows and enters the room.

The door shuts with a dull thud that pounds inside Yuu’s skin.

“I expected you earlier. Next time, come straight here.”

Yuu bristles. “I did!”

“Oh?” The man—is his name Felix? Phenix?—turns towards Yuu and looks at him again. “How many hours did you do?”

Yuu feels his face catch fire. “Almost s-six.”

Phenix—yeah, Yuu’s almost sure the man’s name is Phenix—chuckles. “On your first time? You sure have endurance, kid.”

Yuu doesn’t look at him.

“Come here.” The man gestures towards the heavy armchair standing in front of the window. “Drop your pants and bend over the backrest.”

Yuu loses his step.

The room is small and cluttered—a sleek metal desk, a few mismatched, antique-looking chairs, cabinets by the dozen, and that armchair, plumage soft but heavy, all stuffed in a tiny space—but the space is bright. A floor-to-ceiling window takes the entire wall—the armchair stands back to that.

The blinds are lifted.

If Yuu bends over the armchair’s backrest like the dorm manager wants him, Yuu’s ass will be perfectly visible from the outside.

Yuu has taken six hours of public fucking with no complaints, but somehow this feels different.

These will be his friends and professors walking by. People he meets every day, people who he wants to be able to look in the eye without dying from shame.

Fuck.

The bastard grins at him knowingly, and his pale eyes narrow and sparkle. “Come on,” he says, drawing the syllables, “pants down.”

Yuu closes his eyes, takes a breath, and opens his fly. As he steps out of his jeans, he stumbles over one pant leg and almost falls, but catches himself at the last moment. Then he pulls down his cum-soiled briefs without looking up.

“Great,” says the manager. “Now come here and show me what I’m working with.”

Yuu falters forward, his knees weak, his hole suddenly tense and throbbing. His hoodie reaches just past his hips, and he kneads its edge between clammy fingers, hoping it’s not too obvious how much he wants to tug it down. In a way, it’s inappropriate, this hot embarrassment he’s feeling—hasn’t he just lost his virginity dozens of times over in the middle of a crowd?

But that was an indifferent, faceless crowd, and this man is not. He follows Yuu’s every twitch; his eyes burn Yuu’s skin. His gaze is a material thing, like curious, insistent fingers, trying to slip under the last piece of clothing on Yuu’s body.

Yuu is breathing hard when he reaches the armchair—it takes so long a time; those few steps feel endless. He avoids the man’s face, takes another shaky breath, then squeezes his eyes shut and bends over.

His hoodie rides up.

“Hey, do it properly,” the manager orders. “All the way down. Forearms on the seat.”

Heart hammering in his chest, Yuu obeys, and gravity pulls his hoodie down to his shoulders.

He’s completely uncovered.

“Well, damn,” says the man.

Yuu’s thighs are shaking. He squeezes them tightly closed, but his back is arched enough that the mess between his buttocks is still visible. Exposed. The air, warm on the rest of his skin, seems chilly on the wet, ruined flesh.

He feels himself open and whimpers. Shivers.

“Nice.”

There’s a digital click.

“What—”

“Calm down, I have to take some photos. Documentation purposes.”

Right.

“Stand wider.”

Yuu does.

Another click.

He flinches.

The man could’ve turned off the artificial shutter sound.

Warm, dry hands spread Yuu open. “I’m fucking this when we’re done,” the manager states.

Yuu bites his lip.

That’s not part of a punishment officer’s shtick, but Yuu can’t protest. The threat of exposing Yuu to his parents still hangs over him; besides, what would one more cock matter?

It shouldn’t matter.

There were so many cocks already.

There’ll be so many more.

Yuu’s eyes water, but he stays silent.

The manager spanks him—Yuu whimpers—then says, “Now, to the main event.”

Yuu doesn’t watch him retrieve the cane. He knows what it’s like; he doesn’t have to see it. Yesterday, he researched punishment canings, and he sort of wishes he hasn’t. The half an inch thick regulation cane is purposefully designed to be hell to endure. It’ll leave red, raised welts which—most likely—still will be there in a week’s time, before fresh ones are layered on top. That cane is thick enough to bruise muscles, too; Yuu will be reminded of his ongoing punishment every time he sits.

Walks.

Twenty-one strokes, gods.

Something cold and oblong touches Yuu’s buttocks, and his heart picks up its rhythm. The cane isn’t wood, unlike those from the ancient past also used for this purpose, but the same type of heavy, durable composite the punishment stand is made of, easy to clean between convicts and pretty much indestructible. Yuu has read yesterday that each punishment officer is issued just one, and its handle will sting any other hand. The cane will register the strength and placement of every stroke, how much of Yuu’s flesh it touches, how often, and how deep—the judge may review this information later, if there’s any doubt about Yuu fulfilling his punishment’s parameters, or in the future, if Yuu has trouble with the law again.

The cold thing slides over his skin. Back and forth, low, just above the crease where thighs meet ass. Yuu’s breath shortens, and he swallows, and is about to speak when—wham!—a stinging line lands on him.

It sears in immediately, and a whimper transforms inside Yuu’s throat into a long, pained moan. His knees buckle, his thighs shake.

The manager touches the blinding line on Yuu’s skin. “Yeah,” he says, voice deep, “goes riiight in, doesn’t it?” He palpates the pain with two of his fingers, and Yuu bucks like a nervous young horse. “Arch up,” the man says. “Forearms back on the seat.”

Yuu hasn’t realized he’s straightened up. He bends over again and falls face-first into the plush upholstery. Breathes in deep, then exhales in a long, deliberate whiz. He has a moment to contemplate how the straight line of pain pulses heat into his flesh, then the cane lands again—touching it.

The pain burns sharp, then spreads, the two lines merging into one, growing, becoming a part of him. Yuu is whining now, quietly—until he catches himself and swallows every last bit of the sound.

“Nice color,” Yuu hears the manager comment. “Really vivid.”

Third line connects to the rest, and Yuu realizes that this man is purposefully aiming for that—strike over strike over strike—that he’s good at what he does. He’ll adorn Yuu’s buttocks with an even ladder of raised welts. Yuu’s skin will be striped blue-red, grooved—like an obscene, ass-shaped, mathematically correct artwork.

Another strike.

This time, Yuu wails.

“There, there.” His tormentor touches him again, and Yuu tries unsuccessfully to escape from under his thick, inquisitive fingers. “I haven’t even drawn blood yet,” the man says. “No need to be so dramatic.” Under his voice, a grin hides.

A “fuck you” itches on the tip of Yuu’s tongue, but he refrains.

Two more lines in quick succession.

A scream catches in Yuu’s throat and a silent, tormented gasp escapes.

“No need to be so shy.” Another. “No reason to be so stingy with your voice.” One more, on the meatiest part. “Let it aaall out.”

Having been given permission, throat open, Yuu wails.

“Thaaats it.” Hit. “Good boy.” Hit. “You’re a bit uptight, but we’ll deal with that in time.”

“Please, please, please, a break.”

Yuu’s bottom is aflame.

“Sorry, dear.” Another strike. “This isn’t play but a court-ordered punishment.” Searing heat. The blasted man sounds cheerful. “No breaks till we’re done with it.”

“Please!”

An abrasive palm strokes Yuu’s uneven, inflamed skin. “We’re already halfway there. Ten done. You’re doing great.”

“I thought—” Hit. “Oh, fuck! I thought that was twelve!”

“Ten.”

Top of the thighs.

“Oh f—”

“Eleven.”

Yuu’s muscles burn. He’s head swims.

The manager keeps counting. From time to time, he orders Yuu back down, or to lower his feet. Yuu complies half-consciously—sometimes after repeated prompting—because it fucking hurts.

“This one is going to be the last,” finally, the manager says.

With the no-longer-cold cane, he’s touching about halfway down Yuu’s thighs.

The welts up to that point are tightly packed, line-touching-line, and Yuu is bone-deep certain there’s been more than the allotted twenty one.

Yuu is sobbing wild, violent sobs. His skin—his bones—are trembling. His ass and the backs of his thighs have gained a consciousness of their own.

“Last… one?” through snot and tears, he whimpers.

“Yes.” The manager touches his ruined buttocks again, and it’s almost worse than the strikes. “Get ready.” 

Yuu—knowing that he shouldn’t—tenses.

The blow lands.

He growls. Slumps down.

Everything is so bright.

“See? You’ve done it.” The manager strokes Yuu’s back all the way down and under Yuu’s stuffy, damp with sweat hoodie. There’s a shutter sound, then a few more, cold air winding around Yuu’s pulsing skin. Yuu swims in a heavy haze—it’s over—and spreads his legs unthinkingly when a knee nudges them apart.

Oh, right.

The manager wants to fuck him.

Yuu no longer gives a damn.

It’s a painful affair. Yuu’s hole is wet and slick from all the cum, but it’s sore beyond measure; the flesh the manager’s hips slap against…

Well.

Yuu half-grunts, half-whines on every impact.

The manager fucks him fast. The caning must’ve gotten him excited. He pummels Yuu’s loose ass. Heats him, burns him inside out. Yuu’s groin is tight and hot in its cage. Something vague yet overwhelming throbs there. Reality is secondary. Pain is here. It connects Yuu to the thick cock like glue; it sticks the manager to Yuu’s skin. Unlike all those men earlier, this one cares about what Yuu is feeling, cares about how he’s hurting—pleasuring—him. Yuu feels the familiar throb gather inside, too-much-too-little-please, and, though he can’t concentrate on it—can’t concentrate on anything—it builds. Yuu flinches and tenses minutely each time the core of the sensation is struck, and his unwanted lover pays attention. The man aims there, every time, until, until—

Yuu falls apart.

After, he can’t even tell what has happened. Something shook open—burst free—under his spine, in his brain.

He might’ve blacked out.

When he comes to, the manager is already done.

A fresh portion of cum warms Yuu’s guts. He’s still bent over the back of the armchair, thighs splayed apart, and his hole is wet and open on nothing.

Right now, that doesn’t bother him much.

“What a pretty view,” the manager praises with some genuine warmth, and Yuu flushes. “Don’t try to stand up yet,” the man continues, “not until I’ve gotten something on those welts. I’m not allowed to put any real healing stuff on them, and, in your current situation, no one will sell you anything like that, but there’s some herbal shit that’s not explicitly forbidden, made, you know”—starting from the top of Yuu’s ass, the man smears some sort of cool gel on Yuu’s burning skin—"from a houseplant of all things."

Yuu closes his eyes and breathes deeply.

His entire body feels limp and floppy.

There's a low buzz in his blood.

“I’m not a monster, you know.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Yuu wants to say but doesn’t—not because of restraint, like before, but because it’s not worth the effort.

From where he’s currently standing—hanging?—suddenly, his predicament doesn’t seem all that terrible.

Yuu wants to soak in that feeling as long as it lasts.

He knows it won’t last forever. Soon, the shame of what’s happened today will hit him full-force, and the pain in his backside will turn blinding. His rational brain will wake, and it’ll remember that the repeat of the same—fucking and caning, then fucking again—is not something he should look forward to with a tightening hole and batted breath.

Soon, though; not yet.

Now, his blood is buzzing, and the manager—Phenix?—is taking care of him while mumbling weak excuses, almost as if he cares. Deep inside, Yuu’s hole is still pulsing with an aching echo of an orgasm that shouldn’t have been possible, and it dulls the throb in Yuu’s skin. 

It’s almost nice, this flowy feeling, and Yuu is going to enjoy it.

Tomorrow will bring what tomorrow brings.