The darkness inside the helmet was absolute. Eli felt it press against his closed eyelids like a weight, warm and suffocating, the rubber sealed so perfectly against his skull that he could hear nothing but his own breathing—ragged, amplified, wet through the gag that filled his mouth. The latex taste coated his tongue, spread across his palate, and the pressure at the back of his throat made him want to swallow, but there was no room to swallow, only the constant, dull insistence of the thing lodged inside him.
The suit was worse than he remembered.
It had been seamless when Lena guided him into it—a single continuous membrane of rubber that slid over his legs, his hips, his chest, his arms, clinging to every contour of his lean swimmer's body like it had been poured onto his skin. The material was slick against his thighs, his stomach, his shoulders, pulling with each micro-movement he made, and where it sealed at his wrists and ankles, the steel cuffs had been locked tight, the chill of the metal a sharp counterpoint to the heat of the downlights beating down on him from above.
The suit left him open. His mouth, his cock, his ass—exposed to the air, to the machine, to whatever Marcus had planned. He could feel the cool air on his bare cock, the cage still locked around its base, and the strange vulnerability of being sealed everywhere except where it mattered most.
"Obey."
The word had come from somewhere to his left, low and unhurried, Marcus's voice cutting through the muffled darkness like a blade. It hung in the air, resonating in the silence that followed, and Eli felt it settle into his bones, a command that seemed to bypass his mind entirely and sink straight into his muscle memory.
He didn't want to obey. He wanted to fight, to tear at the seals, to claw his way out of the rubber prison and run until his lungs burned. But his body was already moving.
One step forward. Then another.
Eli felt his legs carry him across the room, the polished floor cool beneath his bare feet, the suit whispering with each movement. He tried to stop, tried to plant his heels and resist, but his body wasn't listening. It moved with a purpose that wasn't his own, a puppet on strings he couldn't see, and the terror of that—the complete loss of control—was worse than the darkness, worse than the gag, worse than the cold steel locked around his groin.
"That's it," Marcus said, his voice closer now, warmer, almost approving. "You're learning."
Eli heard the footsteps circling the platform, the soft click of leather shoes on the polished floor, and he imagined Marcus's cold gray eyes tracking his progress, that thin smile playing at the corners of his mouth. The man was enjoying this—Eli could hear it in his voice, the unhurried pleasure of a predator watching its prey walk willingly into the trap.
His thighs met something solid. The edge of the platform.
Eli felt the polished wood press against his legs, the surface cool and smooth even through the rubber of the suit. He stopped there, his body trembling with the effort of holding still, of not collapsing forward onto the surface he knew was waiting for him.
"Good," Marcus said. "Now bend."
The word was soft, almost gentle, but it hit Eli like a physical blow. His spine curved, his hips tilting forward, his chest lowering toward the platform's surface. He tried to resist, tried to lock his knees and straighten his back, but his body was already moving, already folding, the rubber suit creaking softly with the motion.
His hands found the platform's edge, his palms pressing flat against the cool surface. His chest followed, the rubber of the suit sliding against the polished wood, and Eli felt the full weight of his surrender settle into his posture. He was bent over the platform, his ass raised, his knees spread, his cock hanging exposed and vulnerable between his thighs.
The room fell silent around him.
Eli could hear his own breathing, harsh and ragged through the gag, and beneath that, the faint hiss of the ventilation system, the distant hum of machinery somewhere in the facility's depths. But there was something else too—a sound he couldn't quite place. A soft, rhythmic breathing that wasn't his own and wasn't Marcus's.
It came from somewhere to his right, low and steady, like a body at rest. Like someone waiting.
Eli's heart hammered against his ribs. He tried to turn his head, to catch any sound that might tell him who was there, but the helmet sealed his skull in place, the rubber pressing against his cheeks and jaw, allowing only the smallest movement. He could feel the presence though—a shift in the air, a subtle warmth that had nothing to do with the downlights above.
Someone else was in the room.
"You feel them, don't you?" Marcus said, his voice soft and knowing. "You can sense them, even in the dark."
Eli made a sound around the gag—a muffled, desperate noise that was meant to be a question, but came out as nothing more than a wet whimper.
Marcus laughed, low and quiet. "Patience, Eli. You've earned this. After all your good work, all your cooperation, you deserve a reward."
The footsteps circled closer, stopping just behind Eli's bent form. He felt Marcus's hand come to rest on his lower back, the pressure light but unmistakable, a claim staked on his surrendered body.
"You've been so good," Marcus murmured, his voice barely above a whisper now, intimate and chilling. "So obedient. You helped break in the new stock. You followed every instruction without complaint. You even begged so prettily when I told you the truth."
Eli shuddered. The memory of that moment—the realization of his betrayal, the desperate plea that had risen from his throat unbidden—burned through him like acid.
"Tonight, you get to see what your obedience has bought," Marcus continued, his hand trailing down Eli's spine, following the curve of his back through the rubber. "You get to feel what it means to be truly owned."
The hand withdrew, and Eli heard Marcus step away, the footsteps receding toward the edge of the room. The silence stretched, taut and expectant, and Eli strained against the darkness, trying to hear, trying to understand what was about to happen.
The breathing to his right grew louder.
Closer.
Eli felt the air shift beside him, felt a body settle into place at his side. The presence was tall, solid, radiating a warmth that cut through the chill of the room. He could hear the whisper of rubber against rubber, the soft creak of a suit shifting as its occupant moved.
Another presence joined it, this one on his left. Lighter on its feet, but no less real, no less present. Eli felt his heart pound harder, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps around the gag.
Two of them. Two bodies, sealed and silent, standing on either side of him like sentinels.
"Do you know who they are?" Marcus asked, his voice carrying across the room, warm with satisfaction. "Can you guess?"
Eli couldn't. He couldn't think past the terror, past the darkness, past the weight of his own surrendered body bent over the platform. But something in his chest ached—a desperate, hopeless longing that he couldn't name.
"You've been so good," Marcus repeated, savoring the words. "You deserve to be rewarded. To be used. To be filled."
A hand touched Eli's shoulder—a gloved hand, cool and precise. It pressed down, guiding his chest fully against the platform's surface, and Eli felt his body settle into the position, his ass raised, his knees spread wide, his cock hanging heavy between his thighs.
The hand withdrew, and Eli heard the soft sound of movement behind him. The rustle of rubber. The creak of a body settling into place.
Someone was positioning themselves behind him.
Eli's breath caught in his throat. He tried to twist, tried to see, but the helmet held him still, the darkness absolute. He could only feel—the cool air on his exposed ass, the weight of the presence behind him, the faint heat of a body drawing closer.
"The reward for your good work," Marcus said, his voice soft and warm, almost tender. "Tonight, you're not the one being milked, Eli. Tonight, you're the one being used."
Eli felt a hand grip his hip—a strong hand, familiar in a way that made his chest ache. It held him steady, positioning him, and he felt the heat of a body pressing against his raised ass, the unmistakable weight of a cock sliding between his cheeks.
He made a sound around the gag—a muffled protest that died before it could take shape. His body was trembling now, shaking with a mixture of terror and something else, something that burned low in his gut and made his cock twitch against the cage.
Another hand touched his jaw. Gentle, almost tender. It guided his face, tilting his head back, and Eli felt the presence on his left move closer, felt the heat of a body settling in front of him, felt the soft pressure of a rubber-clad cock pressing against his gagged lips.
The room was silent except for his breathing and theirs. Three bodies, sealed and silent, positioned around him like instruments waiting to be played.
And Marcus's voice, warm and satisfied, cutting through the darkness one last time:
"You've earned this, Eli. Now take your reward."
The words landed somewhere deep in Eli's chest, settling like stones dropped into still water. He wanted to shake his head, to deny what was happening, but his body was already answering the command — his spine arching deeper, his hips tilting up, offering himself to the presence behind him. The rubber of the suit creaked with the motion, and he felt the cool air on his exposed ass as the body behind him pressed closer, the heat of it seeping through the thin membrane of the suit.
The cock between his cheeks was not a machine. Eli knew that with a certainty that bypassed thought entirely—the heat of it, the way it moved with a wet, deliberate slide, searching for purchase against his hole. It was alive. It was a man. And it was pressing against him with an intent that made his stomach drop and his cock strain against the steel cage in the same breath.
A whimper escaped around the gag, thin and broken. Eli tried to shake his head, tried to pull away from the pressure, but the hand on his hip held him fast, and his own body betrayed him—arching back, spreading wider, making an offering of his ass that he couldn't take back.
"Shh," Marcus said, his voice soft from somewhere near the platform's edge. "Don't fight it. You'll only make it harder on yourself."
Eli felt the head of the cock nudge against his hole, blunt and insistent. He clenched instinctively, a reflex born of terror, and heard a low sound from behind him—a muffled grunt, barely audible through whatever sealed the man's mouth. The sound was familiar in a way that made Eli's chest ache, a recognition he couldn't place through the fog of fear.
"Push back," Marcus instructed, his tone conversational, as if he were coaching Eli through a drill. "You know how. You've done it before."
Eli shook his head, a tiny, desperate motion inside the helmet. He didn't want to. He couldn't. But his body was already obeying—his hips tilting, his muscles loosening, the ring of his hole relaxing against the pressure of the cock behind him. He felt the head begin to push inside, the stretch familiar and terrible, and a sob caught in his throat.
The man behind him groaned again, deeper this time, and Eli felt hands grip both hips, steadying him. The cock pushed further, inch by inch, splitting him open with a slow, relentless pressure that made his vision blur behind the helmet's darkness. He was being filled, claimed, used—and his body was taking it, welcoming it, the same way it had welcomed the machine, the same way it had welcomed Adrian.
Adrian.
The name surfaced in his mind like a gasp, and Eli felt a fresh wave of shame crash over him. Adrian was somewhere in this facility, sealed and empty, and Eli was bent over a platform being fucked by a stranger while another stranger pressed a rubber-clad cock against his gagged lips. This was what his betrayal had bought. This was the reward for his good work.
The cock slid deeper, and Eli felt the man's pelvis press against his ass, the heat of the body behind him seeping through the rubber of the suit. The man was fully seated now, buried to the hilt, and Eli could feel him pulsing inside—thick and hard and impossibly real. He tried to breathe around the gag, tried to steady himself, but the sensation was overwhelming, the fullness stretching him in ways that made his cock leak against the cage.
"That's it," Marcus murmured. "Let him use you."
The man began to move.
Slow at first, a gentle rocking that Eli's body answered without permission—his hips meeting each thrust, his ass clenching around the cock inside him. The motion was almost tender, almost kind, and that made it worse. Eli wanted to be hurt, wanted to be punished, wanted the pain to drown out the shame. But this—this gentle, rhythmic fucking—was something else entirely. It was a claiming, a possession, a reminder that his body no longer belonged to him.
The pressure on his jaw increased, and Eli felt the cock against his lips push harder, insistent. The man in front of him wanted in. Eli tried to turn his head, tried to refuse, but the hand on his jaw held him steady, and the gag filled his mouth, leaving no room for anything else.
"Open," Marcus said, his voice soft and commanding. "Take him."
Eli made a sound around the gag—a muffled protest that died before it could take shape. But his jaw was already relaxing, his lips parting, and he felt the rubber-clad cock press past the gag, sliding into his mouth alongside the rubber ball that filled it. The taste was latex and salt, the pressure overwhelming, and Eli gagged—a reflexive, choking spasm that made tears leak from the corners of his eyes.
"Easy," the man in front of him said, his voice muffled but unmistakably human. "Breathe through your nose."
The voice was kind. Gentle. Familiar in a way that made Eli's chest seize with recognition. He tried to place it, tried to remember where he'd heard it before, but the gag filled his throat and the cock filled his mouth and the man behind him was thrusting harder now, driving the thought from his head.
He was being used. Both ends. Filled and fucked, claimed and consumed, his body a vessel for whatever these men wanted to pour into it. And through the shame, through the terror, through the gag-induced haze, Eli felt something else—a dark, shameful heat that coiled low in his gut and made his cock twitch against the steel cage.
He wanted this.
The thought surfaced unbidden, and Eli tried to push it away, tried to deny it, but his body was already answering—his hips meeting the man's thrusts, his throat relaxing around the cock in his mouth, his hands gripping the platform's edge as he surrendered to the rhythm. He was being used, and he was loving it, and the knowledge of that burned through him like acid.
"You feel it, don't you?" Marcus's voice came from somewhere above him, warm with satisfaction. "The pleasure of being owned. The relief of letting go."
Eli couldn't answer. The gag filled his mouth, the cock pressed against his tongue, and the man behind him was thrusting with a steady, relentless rhythm that made his eyes roll back in his head. He was nothing now—no name, no past, no future. Just a body on a platform, being used by men he couldn't see, in a room he couldn't escape.
The man in front of him pulled back, the cock sliding from Eli's mouth with a wet pop. Eli gasped around the gag, desperate for air, and felt the man's hand cup his cheek—a gentle, almost tender gesture that made his heart ache.
"You're doing so well," the man murmured, his voice soft and familiar. "Just a little longer."
Eli's breath caught. He knew that voice. He knew it the way he knew the feel of his own skin, the way he knew the burn of a hard sprint, the way he knew the weight of his own shame. It was a voice he'd heard in locker rooms and on night rides, a voice that had asked him questions he couldn't answer, a voice that had offered help he couldn't accept.
Sam.
The name detonated behind Eli's ribs, and the world tilted sideways. Sam. The man whose voice he'd heard in locker rooms, whose questions he'd dodged on night rides, whose freedom he'd sold for a contract he never signed. Sam was here, sealed in rubber, standing in front of him with his cock pressed against Eli's lips. And behind him, the man who was fucking him with that slow, relentless tenderness—that was Adrian. Adrian, who had trusted him. Adrian, who had walked into this facility because Eli had asked him to.
Eli's throat closed around the gag. He tried to pull back, tried to twist away from Sam's touch, but his body wouldn't obey. His hips kept meeting Adrian's thrusts, his mouth stayed open and ready, and the shame of it—the terrible, burning shame of wanting this, of needing it—flooded through him like a tide he couldn't fight.
"You recognize them now," Marcus said, his voice carrying across the room, warm with satisfaction. "Your friend. Your lover. Both sealed, both obedient, both here to serve you."
Eli made a sound—a broken, desperate noise that was meant to be a denial, meant to be a plea. But it came out as nothing more than a muffled whimper around the gag, swallowed by the rubber ball that filled his mouth.
Sam's hand found his cheek again, cupping it with a gentleness that made Eli's chest ache. "It's okay," Sam murmured, his voice soft and familiar, the same voice that had asked about the cage, the same voice that had offered help Eli couldn't accept. "You're doing so well. Just a little longer."
The words were wrong. They were all wrong. Sam shouldn't be here, shouldn't be sealed in rubber, shouldn't be comforting Eli while Eli was being fucked by Adrian. This was Eli's fault. All of it. If he hadn't told Sam about the facility, if he hadn't let Adrian come with him, if he hadn't signed the contract that put them all in Marcus's hands—
But the contract was unsigned. Eli had never signed it. And yet here they were, all three of them, sealed and used and broken, because of choices Eli had made.
Adrian's thrusts deepened, his hips pressing harder against Eli's ass, and Eli felt the man's chest press against his back through the rubber of his suit. The heat of Adrian's body seeped through the thin membrane, and Eli felt the man's breath against his ear—ragged, desperate, muffled by whatever sealed his mouth.
"You feel that?" Marcus asked, his voice soft and intimate. "That's Adrian. The man you brought here. The man you sealed into his suit with your own hands. He's been waiting for this, Eli. Waiting to feel you around him."
Eli shook his head, a tiny, desperate motion inside the helmet. No. No, that wasn't true. Adrian hadn't wanted this. Adrian had come to help him, to save him, and Eli had betrayed him. He had sealed Adrian into the suit, had watched the machine begin its work, had stood by while Adrian's eyes went empty and his body started responding to the collection process.
And now Adrian was here, fucking him, and Eli's body was loving it.
Sam's cock pressed against his lips again, insistent, and Eli felt his jaw relax without permission. The rubber-clad head slid past his lips, past the gag, filling his mouth alongside the rubber ball. The taste was latex and salt, the pressure overwhelming, and Eli gagged—a reflexive spasm that made tears leak from the corners of his eyes.
"Easy," Sam murmured, his voice muffled but gentle. "Breathe through your nose."
Eli tried. He forced himself to inhale through his nose, the air cold and sharp, and the gag eased its pressure on his throat. He felt Sam's cock slide deeper, felt the head press against the back of his mouth, and he fought the urge to choke, fought the instinct to pull away.
Behind him, Adrian's thrusts were finding a rhythm—a steady, relentless pulse that drove the breath from Eli's lungs with each impact. The man was fucking him with a purpose that felt almost reverent, each stroke deep and deliberate, and Eli felt his own body responding, his hips meeting Adrian's thrusts, his ass clenching around the cock inside him.
He was being used. Both ends. Filled and fucked, claimed and consumed, his body a vessel for Sam and Adrian to pour themselves into. And through the shame, through the terror, through the gag-induced haze, Eli felt something else—a dark, shameful heat that coiled low in his gut and made his cock twitch against the steel cage.
He wanted this.
The thought surfaced again, unbidden, and Eli tried to push it away, tried to deny it. But his body was already answering—his hips meeting Adrian's thrusts, his throat relaxing around Sam's cock, his hands gripping the platform's edge as he surrendered to the rhythm. He was being used, and he was loving it, and the knowledge of that burned through him like acid.
Eli couldn't answer. The gag filled his mouth, Sam's cock pressed against his tongue, and Adrian was thrusting with a steady, relentless rhythm that made his eyes roll back in his head. He was nothing now—no name, no past, no future. Just a body on a platform, being used by the two men he'd failed most, in a room he couldn't escape.
Adrian's hand found his hip, gripping tight, and Eli felt the man's thrusts quicken—a desperate, urgent pace that drove the breath from his lungs. The man was close, Eli could feel it in the way his body tensed, the way his cock swelled inside him, the way his breathing turned ragged and sharp.
Sam pulled back, his cock sliding from Eli's mouth with a wet pop, and Eli gasped around the gag, desperate for air. He heard Sam's breathing, harsh and uneven, and felt the man's hand cup his cheek once more—a gentle, almost tender gesture that made his heart ache.
"Let go," Sam murmured, his voice soft and familiar. "Just let go."
Eli didn't understand. Let go of what? But then Adrian's thrusts deepened, driving into him with a force that made his vision blur, and Eli felt something inside him crack—a wall he'd built to keep out the shame, the fear, the desperate need that had been clawing at him since the moment he'd walked into this facility.
He let go.
His body arched, his spine bowing as he pressed back against Adrian's thrusts, and he felt the man's cock pulse inside him—hot and thick, flooding his ass with a warmth that spread through his core. Adrian groaned, a muffled sound that vibrated through his chest and into Eli's back, and Eli felt the man's hands grip his hips, holding him steady as he emptied himself.
Sam moved closer, his body pressing against Eli's side, and Eli felt the man's hand find his chin, tilting his head up. Sam's cock pressed against his lips again, slick with Eli's own spit, and Eli opened his mouth without hesitation, taking him deep. The taste was salt and latex, the pressure overwhelming, and Eli felt Sam's hips jerk as he came—hot and bitter, flooding Eli's mouth and throat.
Eli swallowed. He didn't want to, but his body did it for him, his throat working around the gag as Sam's cum slid down his esophagus. The taste lingered, coating his tongue, and Eli felt a fresh wave of shame crash over him—not because he'd swallowed, but because he'd wanted to.
The room fell silent.
Eli felt Adrian pull out, felt the man's cock slide free of his ass with a wet, obscene sound, and he felt the emptiness that followed—a hollow ache that made him want to cry. Sam withdrew too, his cock sliding from Eli's mouth, and Eli was left alone, bent over the platform, his body trembling with the aftermath of what had just happened.
The footsteps circled the platform, slow and deliberate, and Eli felt Marcus's hand come to rest on his back—a light, almost possessive touch that made him flinch.
"You did so well," Marcus murmured, his voice warm with satisfaction. "You took them both. You let them use you. You let them fill you."
Eli made a sound around the gag—a muffled denial that died before it could take shape. He wanted to tell Marcus to stop, wanted to tell him that this wasn't a reward, that this was a punishment, that he hadn't wanted any of it.
But he had. He had wanted it. And Marcus knew.
"You've earned a rest," Marcus said, his hand trailing down Eli's spine. "But not yet. There's more to come."
Eli's heart hammered against his ribs. More. What more could there possibly be? He was already broken, already used, already emptied.
"You've been so good, Eli," Marcus continued, his voice soft and intimate. "So obedient. You helped break in the new stock. You followed every instruction without complaint. You even begged so prettily when I told you the truth about Adrian."
"Tonight," Marcus said, his voice dropping to a whisper, "you get to see what your obedience has bought. You get to feel what it means to be truly owned."
The hand withdrew, and Eli heard Marcus step back toward the edge of the room. The silence stretched, taut and expectant, and Eli strained against the darkness, trying to hear, trying to understand what was about to happen.
Sam's hand found his shoulder—a gentle, almost reassuring touch that made Eli's chest ache. "It's okay," Sam murmured, his voice soft and familiar. "We're here. We're not going anywhere."
The words were meant to comfort, but they landed like stones in Eli's gut. They were here. They were sealed and broken, just like him. And they were all Marcus's now.
Eli felt the helmet lift from his head.