I’d tried everything over the past six months. Different positions, different rhythms, different fantasies. Nothing came close to the intensity of that night when they’d reduced me to a desperate, begging mess who would have done anything for their touch.
Marco’s gentle hands stroking my hair while Stefano’s palm burned against my ass. The way he’d whispered praise even as they humiliated me.
“Such a good boy,” I gasped, echoing Marco’s words from that night. But hearing them in my own voice just made it worse, made the longing sharper. I needed his voice, his hands, his mouth telling me I was being good while Stefano punished me.
And Matteo watching. Studying every expression, cataloging every response like my humiliation was data worth collecting.
The memory of those amber eyes tracking my face while I fell apart made my cock pulse in my grip. I’d hated how he watched me, but I’d also craved it—that focused attention, like I was the most fascinating thing in the world.
You sick fuck. You actually miss being their lab rat. You miss being studied while you got spanked like a child.
My rhythm became erratic as frustration built alongside arousal. This was how it always went—getting close but never close enough, chasing a release that only they could give me. My body had been rewired that night, programmed to need their specific brand of discipline and care.
I can’t spank myself. Can’t recreate the way Stefano’s hand felt, the perfect balance of pain and pleasure. Can’t replicate Marco’s gentle torture or Matteo’s clinical observation.
Tears of frustration pricked at my eyes as I stroked faster, desperately trying to reach that peak they’d pushed me to so effortlessly. But my own touch was hollow, meaningless compared to the memory of being completely at their mercy.
“You need this,” Stefano had growled while his hand painted fire across my skin. “Your body knows what it needs, even when your mind fights it.”
“I hate you,” I sobbed, my hand moving frantically as pleasure built but refused to crest properly. “I hate that you’re right. I hate that I need it. I hate that I can’t stop wanting you to do it again.”
The admission broke something in me. I came with a strangled cry, their names falling from my lips like a curse and a prayer combined. But even as release crashed through me, it felt incomplete—a pale shadow of what they’d given me.
Stefano… Marco… Matteo…
When I finally came back to myself, I was shaking with more than just aftershocks. The familiar self-loathing crashed over me like a wave, but underneath it was something worse—the knowledge that this pathetic attempt at satisfaction had only made the craving stronger.
This is what they’ve turned me into. A broken omega who can’t even masturbate properly without missing his kidnappers.
I hated myself for the neediness, for the way my body had been trained to respond to the memory of their dominance. Six months of this—six months of chasing highs I couldn’t reach alone, of missing three men who’d probably forgotten I existed the moment they’d collected their paychecks.
Where are you? Why haven’t you come back? Did that night mean nothing to you while it completely fucked up my entire existence?
The questions burned in my chest as I stumbled toward the bathroom, desperate to wash away the evidence of my weakness. Maybe if I scrubbed hard enough, I could finally get them out of my system. Maybe if I used enough soap, I could stop craving the sting of Stefano’s palm or the heat of Marco’s mouth.
Who am I kidding? They’ve ruined me completely. Made me into some pathetic omega who gets off on being disciplined and then abandoned.
The bathroom tiles were cold against my bare feet as I cranked the shower to its hottest setting. Steam began to fill the small space, and I stepped under the spray, reaching for the shampoo bottle as I tried to push their faces from my mind.
Just once, I want to stop thinking about them. Stop missing them. Stop hating myself for wanting them back.
I squeezed shampoo into my palm and began working it through my hair, letting the hot water cascade over my shoulders. The heat felt good against my still-sensitive skin,though it did nothing to wash away the phantom sensation of their hands.
Maybe they’ll never come back. Maybe I’ll spend the rest of my life chasing a feeling I can only get from three men who?—
A gunshot cracked through the air like thunder, shattering my pathetic little pity party and probably my bathroom window simultaneously.
What the actual?—
I froze mid-lather, shampoo sliding into my eyes with burning enthusiasm. The bottle clattered against the tile like the world's most useless warning bell. Childhood memories crashed over me with all the subtlety of a freight train—eight years old, curled beneath my mother's bed, dust bunnies as my only friends while men with guns played hide-and-seek-and-murder downstairs.
Seriously? Gunfire? Today of all days? I couldn't even get my hair clean before the universe decided to remind me that being yakuza offspring comes with its own special death benefit package.
A second shot followed, then a third, then what sounded like the entire NRA hosting a convention in my living room. Aunt Akiko's terrified scream cut through the barrage, her voice hitting a pitch I'd never heard from her human vocal cords before.
"Leo-kun! HIDE!" Her desperate command in Japanese might as well have been hardwired directly to my spine. My mother's voice overlapped in the memory playlist from hell."Stay hidden, baby. No matter what you hear, don't come out until I come for you."
Spoiler alert, Mom never came back. Thanks for that psychological landmine waiting to be triggered by today's homicidal visitors.
