Honeypot

I wanna thank everyone for their responses so far.

This chapter marks the end of Part 1: Initiation.

Chapter 4 will start Part 2: Orientation

Warnings/Enticements: Honeypot deals with themes of coercion, dubious consent, and weaponization of intimacy. If these themes make you uncomfortable, the back button is your friend.

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My heartbeat slows; my breathing evens out. As I finish the second glass of water, I begin to feel like myself again.

The Magister takes the glass from my hand. In one fluid movement, swaps it with the bottle of lubricant on the nightstand.

Instead of returning it to the drawer, he says... something.

It's an order; I know it's an order, but I can't make sense of it. Hesitant, I raise my gaze to meet his eyes and I see that hungry beast again.

"I said, on your stomach."

Moving like a broken marionette, I roll into a prone position. Apparently dissatisfied, he grabs a firm hold of my hips and drags me back until my legs dangle off the bed. Then, after a brief assessment, he takes two pillows and shoves them under my hips, forcing my back into an arch.

Pinned between my belly and the bedding, I feel my flaccid cock twitch once. Fragments of whispers come rushing back. Late night gossip, rumors even, spoken in hushed voices trying not to draw the attention of the guards.

Hear it's even better than --

--Only if you're the one doing it --

--Wait, what about the other one--

--Someone's coming, shut up!

I'm the other one.

His hand traces the lines of the most powerful muscles in my body, and now the most vulnerable. He studies my anatomy like he is preparing for a test, but I am the one who is about to be tested.

Without warning, heat erupts in my right cheek. The sound of flesh on flesh is almost deafening in the quiet room. My body absorbs the pain easily. I have endured worse. I have endured far worse. I catalogue the pain in my mind -- localized, sharp, fades quickly.

The second strike lands on my left side. Similar intensity, heat builds as my heart begins to send blood to heal the micro-damage to the tissue. Three, four, and five continue alternating sides. I turn my face into the sheets to stifle my groan.

The blows become methodical. Each one comes at a steady clip, never giving me time to fully integrate the pain. This isn't a test of my pain tolerance -- the heat is no longer contained to my ass.

My dick is no longer flaccid.

His rhythm builds to a crescendo and ends in a final, percussive smack that draws a strangled cry from my throat.

Rough hands stroke reddened skin as he admires his handiwork. A shiver works its way up my spine, and I wait for him to say... anything. To explain the point of this exercise or give me an order. Anything to help me know where to file this moment away, give it a category, a purpose, a meaning.

I only hear the wet sound of lube spilling from the bottle.

One cool, slick finger slides between my cheeks. It circles the tightly clenched exit from my body and I go still. It's not the disciplined stillness of a trained operative. No, my body freezes like an animal hearing a predator in the dark.

"Relax," he says.

It's an order my body does not know how to obey.

Another stinging blow lands on my tender ass. "Relax."

All I can think to do is let out the breath I am holding. As I breathe out, the finger sinks inside.

My mind does not know how to catalog this sensation. It isn't pain, not really. I think about the scar near my bicep. This is not the first time I have had a foreign object in my body.

Several years back, a training accident ended with a 10mm slug lodged in my upper arm. The doctors removed it with a pair of forceps and sutured the wound shut. My engineered healing capacity meant that my strength was back within a matter of weeks. I knew how to endure that kind of damage.

But the bullet did not have an intention, it did not ask anything of me. I did not have to do anything.

The object inside me now is asking me to open to it, yield to it. As the ring of muscle finally begins to welcome the single finger, he adds another. My hands curl into fists in the sheets. He is changing my body, molding it for another purpose. The fingers slide, spread, curl. I am being worked open with meticulous patience. A knee presses against the mattress by my hip, and a third finger joins the other two. All I can do is breathe out and try to make room inside me.

Every instinct in my body is screaming to close myself off, to protect myself. But I am a different kind of weapon now and I need a different kind of armor. I force myself to lie still and accept.

I'm not sure how long he works me, but when he finally pulls his hand away leaving emptiness left in his wake. A moment later, I hear the rustle of fabric and the metal of a belt buckle hitting the floor.

My grip tightens in the sheets.

I feel the heat of him before anything else, the warmth of his body against the back of my thighs. Hands grip my hips, giving a few final adjustments to my position. Something warm and solid presses up against me. The first image of him standing before me, revealing his girth swims up in my mind. How am I going to be able to accommodate that?

"Breathe in."

I do.

"Breathe out."

He is inside me. I am filled by him.

It shouldn't be any different than when I had his dick in my mouth earlier, at least in theory. His anatomy in my anatomy. But my mouth is made to consume. I drink, I eat, I breathe. Taking him in my mouth felt natural. This feels--

He slides in deeper and my mind goes blank. There is nothing but weight of him against my body. He sinks into me in increments that remind me that I have so much more to take. More, even, than he prepared me for.

I bury my face against the bedsheets and the sounds that escape me are unrecognizable. I cede more and more of myself to him. It hurts. It hurts in ways that I've never felt before. It hurts in ways that feel horribly, agonizingly good.

Then, with one final push, the Magister stills. The tops of his thighs rest flush against the back of mine, and I realize he is fully seated within me. I have taken all of him, and it feels like victory. I'm certain he can feel my legs trembling with the strain of adjusting around his shaft.

His fingers dig into the reddened flesh of my ass, and my head jerks back. The spark of pain makes me clench around him, even as I try to accept his presence inside me. He growls in satisfaction.

"Good boy."

I am. I am good. I haven't just obeyed an order - I was built to obey. I am a weapon deployed at will and a weapon isn't supposed to look like this. Splayed open, willingly dismantling my own defenses from within.

This should look like defeat. But I do not feel defeated.

That's when he moves. Holding my hips where he wants them, he draws back. Regrouping, not retreating. As he presses in again, I find my hips moving, too. Suddenly, I'm reminded of my cock, trapped between my body and the sheets. The friction stirs embers I thought had died out.

Above me, inside me, he is deliberate, unhurried in his thrusts. There is a certainty, an inevitability each time he hilts himself. He forged this weapon and he handles it as he pleases.

I want that control. I want that composure. I want to know how to wield myself. But he shifts his angle and the kindling catches.

My hips writhe as he fucks me, and I'm helpless to how badly I need it. I need everything. I need the pressure that's more than pressure from his cock hammering away. I need the drag of my cock beneath me so much that I buck back against him to get more and more. I'm going to catch fire here, pinned between his body and the sheets.

Friction above.

Friction below.

I am burning alive and he wants me to burn.

Ignition. It detonates deep in my core and sends shockwaves through every nerve ending in my body. All I can do is bury my face in the sheets as I clench and convulse around him. My body grips and releases in time with the pulses of my cock spilling against the sheets beneath me.

And he doesn't stop. No, he times himself, thrusting in time with each wave. He isn't just enjoying my climax, he's prolonging it. He wrings every last drop from my body until I am hollow.

Only when there is nothing left for me to give does he give a few final, forceful thrusts. I feel every pulse of his length as he finishes inside me.

The Magister doesn't collapse the way I did. His grip bruises my hips until his dick softens and only then does he pull out of me. Something wet trickles down the back of my thigh and I'm suddenly aware.

I'm aware of the hollow emptiness of his absence, the raw ache in my core. I'm aware of the cooling puddle I've made on the sheets and the way it's sticking to my skin.

I took him. I took all of him. Every inch, every drop, and my exhausted body is proof.

When he finishes walking around, doing whatever it is he needs to do, he tosses a dry washcloth onto the bed beside me.

"Clean yourself up, get dressed, and meet me in my office."

Then he is gone and I am still laying bent over the bed waiting for something I am not going to receive. It takes a few moments for me to gather the strength to move my limbs. I wipe the evidence of this from my body and drop the washcloth on the floor next to the bed.

Muscle memory gets me back into my clothing, but when I bend down to lace up my boots my body rebels. I have nothing to compare this pain to in my memory. It is not a wound or a broken bone or a strained muscle. It's a deep, radiating ache from a part of myself that I did not know I could feel.

I finish lacing my boots slowly, run my fingers through my hair, and make my way back through the hidden doorway. My file is in the Magister's hands. He slides it into a different cabinet than the one he took it from. Noticing my entrance, he gestures to a bowl of stew that appeared on his desk while we were in that room. There is no clock to tell me how long we were there, but I must have missed dinner.

The ache inside me doesn't love the idea of sitting down, but I know how to manage my pain. And I'm too hungry to refuse the meal.

Once I'm sitting, spooning the lukewarm broth into my mouth, he sits back down in his chair.

"You will be moving to the western barracks," he tells me. My morning schedule will remain unchanged, but my afternoons will be restructured. There are new lessons to come. "I encourage you to spend some time with your bunkmates honing your new skills."

I fight down a wave of nausea and force myself to finish my dinner.

"You are dismissed, Candidate Mikel."

I move on autopilot towards the western wing. The bunk room hums with the normal sounds of men preparing for bed. Low conversations. Boots hitting the floor. Footlockers opening and closing.

It stops when I walk in.

Most of the faces that turn towards mine are familiar. We shared bunks in the past until one by one we aged into that elite group -- the candidates, the one in eight. But their expressions are not one of old comrades, or even of sizing up new competition. Some of them simply return to their evening routine. A few of them look at me with a hollow sort of expression; they know exactly where I have been tonight.

But most of them? Most of them look at me like--

I encourage you to spend some time with your bunkmates honing your new skills.