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“Your new bodyguard?”
Zorin laughed, the glimmering of his perfect teeth in the low light almost a threat.
“New? No, not really, but he doesn’t get out much.”
He glanced over with a wink.
“Do you?”
Shadowing him, Emile Locque did not openly react, though a close observation might have been enough to catch the way his eyes flashed behind their frames. This was not the first time the question had been asked over the course of the evening; Zorin had done his best to ensure his arm candy would be noticed. It was not simply his height and imposing scowl that drew eyes, but the long, clinging white gown he was adorned in, bunched low beneath the decolletage and even more so in the back. He both matched and juxtaposed May Day, who was free roaming the party as was her wont, black velvet versus white silk, the both of them rippling with lean muscle clearly visible where permitted. Locque, however, had none of her easy grace and had done nothing to attempt to hide it, stiff and closed off, his thick lips tightly set together in a scowl.
More so, he was clearly aestheticised to Zorin’s own tastes, something unsurprising to anyone familiar with his more private gatherings. The fabric left little to be imagined, and several observers had already noted with meaningful smiles the visible piercings affixed to his nipples prominently projecting through it. When he walked, upright and proper, there was also a slight protrusion of his lower belly that lead to some speculation amongst the ladies present. None of this was missed my Zorin, who smiled and sipped at his scotch, nor Locque, who only continued to glower.
This recently line of questioning seemed to have been particularly effecting, or perhaps it was simply the hour – the evening had begun at around five with a trip to a stable upstate for a stud auction, followed by a garden party, a dinner, and several venue changes until they had arrived in the high rise penthouse they currently found themselves in, and the hands on Zorin’s Rolex indicated that it was well after three in the morning. Regardless, Zorin noted Locque’s visible agitation beginning to tread the line between acceptable moodiness and attempted homicide and decided it was the appropriate moment to bow out for a brief break to freshen up. His silken specter in tow, made his way down the winding halls of gilding and glass to one of the several bathrooms on the property. In and of itself it was a washroom the size of a loft apartment, marble and post-modern mixing in a manner almost acceptable. The space was so ambitious that the general amenities of a bathroom could not fill it, and so to achieve a sense of balance a rolling cart containing various bottles of spirits and topped with a mirrored tray, already lightly dusted with leftover cocaine, had become the unofficial centerpiece.
“Alright,” said Zorin, peeling off his gloves, “let’s see it.”
He turned back to see Locque had not moved beyond the entryway, surveying the room and his boss with distinct unease. Scoffing a bit, Zorin made a gesture of comical disbelief.
“Oh, don’t tell me you aren’t gagging for it.”
In truth, Locque never told him anything. He had not spoken a single word to Zorin their entire relationship. Nothing was preventing him from doing so; when Zorin had been scouting him he had listened to quite a few recorded calls between Locque and the late Aris Kristatos in which he was, while not highly eloquent, certainly capable. He had a nice voice, too, deep and sonorous and heavily accented. It gave Zorin great pleasure to force it out of him, even in the slightest of non-verbal hums and hisses. As it was he seemed determined to refuse Zorin the right to his conversation, communicating only with expressions, written missives, and, when permitted, actions. This is what he did now, lowering his brow and stepping towards him sharply, his long legs covering the distance in a stride almost uncanny. Did he not know better, Zorin would have taken it as an imminent threat.
“That’s what I thought.”
Stopping close enough that Zorin could hear his strained breaths, Locque stood straight, arms at his sides, looking as though he were barely resisting strangling him. In a way, he was, but Zorin would not consider the restraints put upon him at all ‘bare’. The amount of technology he had invested in both the resuscitating and modifying of Locque’s body after finding him on that rocky coastline made him more property of Zorin Industries than human. As Zorin reached up and boldly pulled the already loose collar of Locque’s dress down, one of the several tattoos marking him as such was revealed, resting adjacent to a his left breast where a small, pale scar looped under his pectoral. Zorin’s surgeons were good, and the signs that this man had once been clinically dead were minimal. His broken bones and ruptured internal organs had been re-knit with the greatest of care, only showing in little flecks of raised tissue here and there that could have just as easily been the results of a knife fight and not a lethal car accident. They were certainly not enough to draw attention away from his other assets.
Locque’s breasts were very small, hardly more than a raised bump of fat stretched across his muscular chest that, were it not for his demonstrative nipples, might have been ignored. Zorin had not cared to change this, outside of the large bars that pierced his teats, heavy enough to pull down on his small tits enticingly.
“I’ve got a lot of hot hands out there willing to burn some cash on just a taste of these, you know?”
Pinching both of his nipples, Zorin shook his head and chuckled.
“You can get the classiest hooker in LA for a fraction of the price, but they want the notoriety, the name brand product.”
Locque stood stock still and did his best not to react as Zorin pulled at the flesh like it was play-doh, digging in his thumbs until the meat of his nipples was blood red. Only when he began to shake did Zorin release him, watching with smug satisfaction as the flesh remained peaked and swollen.
“I suppose I have to give them some credit for good taste.”
He stepped back. Locque had his hands balled into fists so tight his nails dug bloody wells into his palms.
“Alright, let’s see how you’re doing.”
This time Locque did respond, albeit with clear resentment. At first he began to bend, and then, grimacing, simply grasped at the fabric of his dress and bunched it upwards until it revealed his legs, sinewy and sleek within a semi-sheer wrapping of stockings, then the straps of his garter belt, and then, finally, what lay between them.
His cunt was dripping wet. Traces of it had made it as far down as the lace hems of his stockings, shiny and slick on his bare skin, embossing the black ink of two more bar-codes on each inner portion of the leg. The underwear he had on were designed to somewhat match his outfit, but there was a much more obviously clinical look to them, materially and in the small Zorin Industries logo emblazoned with sincere capitalist pride on the hip line. Functionally they were less underwear than chastity belt; the material was tight and tough, military grade tear and cut resistant and, somewhat comically, mildly bulletproof. Shaped like a high-cut thong, the hem reached the smallest point of his waist and locked there, so that no amount of pulling, fussing, or fighting could remove it and keeping whatever Zorin desired firmly trapped inside. That was a particularly attractive feature at the moment, because the dildos Locque was fitted with were so large that it would have been impossible for him to wear them like this otherwise. Only his thin thighs and taut self control kept him from following Zorin completely bow-legged.
Reaching into his jacket pocket, Zorin retrieved the electronic key. Locque started, but Zorin held up a finger in warning.
“Behave yourself.”
It could not have been more infuriatingly said. Sneering abhorrently, Locque jut his hips out in a sort of primal offering, as good as begging. Smiling at his success, Zorin reached forward and tapped the key against Locque’s inner thigh.
“Spread your legs a little wider. There we go, feet apart.”
It was an immensely awkward look, holding up his dress, breasts bared, standing so that he was nearly in position to begin attempting a splits maneuver, but that was the point. Once Zorin was satisfied with this, and with the confidence that Locque was going to remain this way, he lifted his hand, placed the key by the lock, and pushed the pad of his thumb against the bio-scanner. There was a soft click and Locque immediately felt the tightness around his waist recede, as if the snapping of a rubber band, grunting slightly in the back of his throat. Zorin slipped the two ends of the waistband apart and let the sopping garment drop to the floor.
Locque’s cock sprang forward from confinement with an eagerness bordering on anger. When Zorin had found him, it had been hardly worth noting, an average little clitoris atop an average little pussy, but that was one of the first and most important things Zorin had seen to. Hormonal and chemical injections, manual manipulation, and continuous pumping treatments had grown him a wonderful little pecker at nearly three inches and thick as a thumb, the sensitivity of which was also massively increased. In part, it was pure experimentation, using this body he had come across for whatever he wanted without needing to worry about the consequences. The results having been so significant and successful was a pleasant surprise and made Locque useful as more than just a warm body or hired muscle – he was a perfect floor model for showcasing what Zorin Industries could do for its more discerning client base.
The other reason to keep him so constantly laced with body-altering substances was control. Emile Leopold Locque was a vicious killer. That was why Zorin had wanted him. He was also only loyal to money and interest, which posed a problem when his employer wanted to use him for other projects, particularly those which humiliated and dehumanized him. The barrier of this was significantly lessened, however, when his once-crippled body was held together by only the work of Zorin’s medical staff and the massive quantities of chemical interference that kept him addicted and desperate, despite retaining his completely uncompromised mental faculties. Locque remained a killer, and Zorin got a pet.
Just staring at his little cock had it visibly throbbing. Cooing with mock pity, Zorin ran his finger over the shaft, smirking at the racing heartbeat that met him. Then his hand turned lower and smoothed between his legs at the round bases of the twin dildos plugging him.
“Push them out.”
If he weren’t so desperate, Locque probably would have fought him on it, pulling one of his little power-plays he was so fond of and refusing. However, he had been stuffed since they left Zorin’s facilities, and the stretch had turned to a burn and then to an all encompassing ache that would have been unbearable were he not so viciously trained. Face shifting from pure hatred to part concentration, Locque bore down.
Like all bespoke garments, these showed in their design a personal flare unique to he who had ordered them. The dildo in his cunt was immense, curved so that it lodged itself perfectly within the cradle of his pelvis, ridged in the right way to grind against his pleasure points with every step. The one in his ass was far longer, if not as thick, segmented and winding past the entrance to the sigmoid colon and consistently stimulating the brain with confused signals of fullness and need. After so long inside him, and without the use of his hands, neither was easy to remove, but his determination was strong. Slowly, painfully, the bases of each pushed down between his legs.
“You heard what they were saying out there?”
Locque twitched as Zorin put a hand on his stomach, pressing down so that he could feel the bulge of the dildos inside him and the straining of his abdominal muscles.
“People are spreading rumors I knocked you up. Wouldn’t that be something?”
He laughed as Locque turned his face away in annoyance, trying to focus on his efforts.
“As if I’d waste good material so quickly.”
As he forced out the girths, the roundness of his stomach lessened an inch at a time. There was a significant flare in the middle of the shaft in his cunt, however, the already obscene girth widening even more to test him beyond normal human limitations. The effort of it had him red and sweating, his cock jutting forward, strings of cyprine descending between his thighs.
“Come on,” said Zorin, pressing down harder and squeezing a gritted moan from Locque, “you want it out or not? We’re going to be missed.”
When the dildo had reached nearly its widest point his strength momentarily failed him. It had been an impressive effort to push this long and hard without much pause, particularly when dividing his focus between two holes. Locque was puffing his breaths like a racehorse, jaw creaking, and then he lurched a bit, gasping as his muscles lost their grip and the dildos seemed to slip slightly back inside him. Zorin raised his eyebrows. Redoubling his efforts, Locque bore down again, growling and groaning, managed another half inch, and then lost himself again. His veins stood out red and blue in his pale chest, snaking about his erect nipples, which Zorin had again begun to idly knead.
The third time he focused everything he had, strained, gutted, pushing. Even Zorin’s renewed interest in his chest did not distract him. With a deep, throaty moan, he forced out another few centimeters, paused, twitching, and then the widest part passed through the mouth of his cunt and with a strained yell Locque pushed it free. The effect was immediate; without the pressure of its companion, and under the wild strain of Locque’s efforts, the dildo in his ass shot loose across the bathroom tile. His bladder, which had been forcefully compressed for hours now, gave, squirting a powerful blast of piss and ejaculatory fluid as an orgasm hit him like a shot in the gut. His holes gaping, Locque swayed, nearly collapsing, hips pumping into nothing, wave after wave of hard vile pleasure wracking him like electrical jolts.
Zorin's reaction to this was little more than to step out of the splash radius and check his watch, timing the length of his spasms until they had halted to little more than a trickle.
“Impressive,” he quipped lightly. Locque, who had somehow managed to remain standing through the ordeal, looked at him from under sweat soaked bangs, glasses slight askew.
“I probably would have profited from having an audience for that.”
He shrugged and began to undo his slacks.
“Que sera.”
Zorin pulled out his cock.
Before Zorin Industries, there was Max Zorin; before his billions, he had brains. He had not needed his company to effect upon himself the changes he so desired. Zorin’s cock was like Locque’s, in some ways, born from a body designated female at birth but now joyously grown into something of his own design. He bore none of the marks of hardship nor the bar-codes and product protection labels ensuring his home brewed concoctions stayed within trademark specifications. His cock was fat, pink, and proud, easily long enough to penetrate and hard enough to do so with gusto. Locque’s eyes tracked to it immediately, and Zorin could see, even hunched over, how his blown out holes throbbed at the sight.
“I think you’ve earned yourself a little treat. Get on the ground.”
Locque did it immediately, squatting in his high-heels with his dress bunched around his waist, a pool of his own fluids reflecting on the dark tile floor. Forking his fingers around his erection, Zorin stroked the shaft gently, enjoying how Locque’s sharp eyes drank in the movement.
“Suck.”
It was a testament to Zorin’s genius how quickly Locque had his lips around him. Upon awakening from his surgical coma, the first thing Locque had tried to do in captivity had been to kill Zorin. He had tried it at every available opportunity, from before he was capable of getting out of his hospital bed, secreting away sharp implements, cords, wires, bits of plastic, keys – anything he might turn into a weapon, anything with which he might maim and murder. He’d been quite successful at taking down various members of Zorin’s staff initially, though this was more due to Zorin’s interest in seeing for himself the exact perimeters of his project’s skills. Over time he had observed and subsequently patched each and every weakness in his defenses. Locque was drugged, chipped, beaten, shocked. Sensors embedded beneath his skin tracked his movements, his heart rate, his adrenaline, his hormones, knew when he slept, when he ate, when he came. Combinations of chemical and physical stimulus forced Pavlovian reactions into him until he could not see, hear, even smell certain signals without his body’s forced submission, constantly hot and wet and trapped.
Zorin no longer needed to keep a gun at his head at every moment. Locque knew better than to think he was free from surveillance, even when he was released into the world again, employed as he once was in assassination against Zorin’s enemies. Killing had once been Locque’s key to freedom, his currency exchanged with the right hands for access to a world where whatever he desired was available to be taken. Now, the underworld which had once seemed to offer him total independence from the constraints of society proved itself to simply be another facet of it, equally governed and fatalistic. Locque had never been so naive as to imagine he would die old, but neither had he been perverse enough to conceive this may be how he would pay for his sins.
Taking Zorin into his mouth had his own cock throbbing like he was sucking himself. His holes gaped open, sharp pain searing through his belly with each clench but still hungry to be fucked. The orgasm had been earth-shattering, to the point that his ears were still ringing, but Zorin’s cock, unfortunately, would always shoot hot needles of arousal through him as if he were being injected directly at the sight of it. His head bobbed almost mindlessly, like he needed to feel Zorin against his tongue to breathe, laving along the underside of his dick and drinking in the salty heat of his folds. A hand rested on top of his head, neither controlling not passive, as if he was a cat curled in Zorin’s lap.
“Jack yourself off,” Zorin said; “Let’s see if you can wring another one out before I’m finished.”
The words were barely spoken before Locque had a grip on himself. Zorin couldn’t exactly see it from that angle, but the bathroom was as heavily mirrored as it was marbled and there were enough views of Locque’s arm working furiously to give him a good idea of how violently he handled himself. Having been trapped in chastity all day was not unusual for Locque, but the circumstances were rarely as dire. Just taking hold of himself between a couple fingers was almost more than he could bear. His body was no longer his own, and yet it was still the flesh he inhabited, and so, disgusted with himself, Locque jerked at himself rapidly, harshly, building that familiar and yet alien pressure inside his groin by force.
It was quick and sloppy. Locque had no interest in attempting to retain a level of decorum, and Zorin liked it that way. He remained stood tall, a hand pushing back his jacket to rest casually on his waist while the other pet Locque as he sucked grotesquely at his cock, slurping and drooling. Locque’s holes continued to clench down wantingly, and he managed to snake his other arm back between his legs for them before Zorin’s touch turned mean, yanking at his hair.
“I said you could jack off, not fuck yourself. Don’t get cute with me.”
He wanted to bite Zorin’s cock off. Instead he sucked harder, shoving his face against Zorin’s groin like a dog getting his scent, too addled by desire to do anything else. His fingers pinched at his own dick far too hard, hammering the hood back and forth like he could take out his rage on Zorin that way, and his pussy spewed another slight squirt of fluid between his shoes. Zorin began to fuck his mouth with the same unhurried leisure as he did everything.
“Come on,” he chirped, sex only just straining his voice.
“That’s a good boy.”
Locque grunted, growled, rubbed himself raw. Faint sounds of glasses tinkling and the live band swinging into a lively rendition of Camille Saint-Saëns filtered in from the party. The smell of Zorin’s sweat, perfumed by his body lotion, rich with the musk of his cunt, filled Locque’s brain like a miasma.
“Yeah, there we go.”
Suddenly both Zorin’s hands were on his head, gripping with force. Locque made a sort of choking sound, because that was all he could muster, and Zorin began to fuck his mouth with a ferocity he did not look capable of. This, more than anything else, was what had kept Locque in line – this strength, inhuman, so often masked behind Italian suits and slick smiles. For a brief moment he felt as if his skull would be crushed, rocked so violently that his vision blurred and he ceased to draw breath. Then, with a sort of self-satisfied sigh, Zorin came, thrust three times more, and threw Locque back onto the floor.
Locque was vaguely aware that he was now soaked in his own piss. One of the dildos he had left behind him was directly under him, digging wetly into his spine. His hips were jerking up in ugly spasms, cumming for what may have been a third time, his cock twitching and his cunt wide.
Zorin washed his hands, brushed back his hair, and straightened his bow tie.
“Do your best to make yourself presentable when we leave. It’s a real pain in the ass to get the upholstery in the limo cleaned. Go naked if you have to, I don’t care. And put those,” he flicked a hand towards the dildos, “back in before I see you next.”
Then he returned to the party, leaving Locque sprawled on the floor, grinding his teeth.