Page 34 of Bottoms Up
It wasn’t official, not until the scene was done, but for me, the transfer happened when he walked me into the house on all fours. The leash, the commanding presence, the way he stopped and talked to Cora as if it were completely normal to have someone at his feet, tethered and silent. Waiting.
“Marco’s rules are that you can’t ask me to stop, and that you have a safeword. I gave you a safe phrase, but just to be sure we follow the change-in-ownership rules to the letter, your safeword iswithdraw. Say it once right now, so I know you understand what you have to say.”
“I don’t intend to saywithdrawagain for the next two hours, Master, but I understand that’s my safeword.”
“For the record, the wordstopwill also end the scene.”
I nodded, and he opened a fancy box he’d set on the table before he climbed on.
I sucked in air when I saw what was inside, because it was the exact tool that’d been used on me originally — a smooth fluorite roller held between Y-shaped brackets, mounted on a thick handle.
Beautiful. Exquisitely made.
The kind of beauty that makes your stomach turn, because you know what it’s for.
Memories inundated my brain, and a wave of nausea rolled through me.
My balls were to be rolled flat between fluorite and marble.
“It isn’t fair,” Silver said, his voice quiet. “It wasn’t fair then, and it isn’t fair now. But it’s going to happen now, just as it did then.”
And that was the truth of it. This wasn’t just a scene. This was areenactment. A ritual of pain carved into my body once already. And now done again, on purpose.
I was older now. Stronger.
But some part of me was still that little boy, legs bound, chest heaving, puking bile into a bowl held by someone who didn’t care if I lived through it.
Silver cared.
That was important. It made it different.
But it didn’t change what was about to happen.
Not the pain. Not the terror. Not the way my body was already beginning to tremble — and not from arousal. Just fear. Just memory.
Without further ado, Silver rested the device at the top of my left ball, where it attached to my body, and pressed down, leaning his weight into it, rolling it slowly from top to bottom. He stopped just short of the end, resituated the roller, and pushed it the other way. Over and over. A dozen times. He shifted his whole body to get better leverage, bracing himself so he could drive the pressure sideways, rolling the testicle from edge toedge with brutal precision. Dozens of trips back and forth now. Without end.
I screamed. Gagged. Tried to puke.
There was nothing left in me. As before, I hadn’t been given sustenance today, but my body kept trying to empty my stomach anyway. I gagged and retched, tears flowing down my face, hot and endless. I choked on my tears and my spit, trying to breathe between the screams, the bellowing, the yelping.
I thrashed as much as the restraints would allow, and still, the roller kept moving. Back and forth, front to back, back to front, left to right, right to left. Slow and deliberate.
I roared in pain, fought my restraints, but Silver kept at it. Merciless. Ruthless.
Sobs tore from my body between the shouts.
He paused mere seconds, long enough to caress the top of my thigh, and went right back to it.
“I know, slaveboy. It’s terrible. Too much. No one should have to endure this even once, and here you are, having to live through it again. I know it hurts, but we have to get through it if we want to get out the other side.” Another caress. “There’s no way around. Only through.”
“Together,” I gasped the word, more breath than sound. “Out the other sidetogether.”
“That’s right, dear slave. Together.”
And then he started again, relentless. Top to bottom. Side to side. Diagonal. Slow. Hard. Flattening the soft flesh until it felt like there was nothing left to flatten — then pressing harder still.
When he’d utterly ruined that testicle, rolled and ground it to pulp between marble and stone, he started afresh on the other.
