Gideon stepped forward the moment Beckett's monotone voice intoned "Gideon initiates Phase 4." No flourish, no dramatic strip, no grin or yap. He simply moved to the open space between the velvet sofa and the onyx monolith, turned to face Kota, and lifted one long leg in a slow, deliberate arc until the knee-high boot rested firmly on Kota's shoulder. The height difference was obscene—Gideon at six-eight towered even when standing flat; with one leg hooked high, Kota had to rise onto his toes just to align properly. The Victorian frilled shirt and corset stayed on, black fabric stretched tight across his narrow waist.
Gideon reached down, hiked the short skirt himself, and shoved the dark maroon panties aside with two fingers. No words. No invitation. Just that calm, unblinking stare through dark red eyeshadow, like he was observing a scientific inevitability.
Kota swallowed hard. His legs already felt unsteady from the first three Carter's gentle worship, Charlie's endless narration, Corey's thunderous clap game that had left his thighs trembling and his balls aching. Four now. He could feel the drain in every muscle, every pulse of blood still sluggishly trying to refill his cock. But Gideon didn't rush him. He simply waited, leg steady, skirt bunched at his hip, massive cheeks framed by the corset's tight cinch. The latex wasn't there to hide anything; the sheer size of those hips made the whole pose look like a deliberate offering to some forgotten altar.
Kota gripped the raised thigh for balance, fingers sinking into warm muscle under the maroon fabric. He lined up, still slick from Corey's release, and pushed in slow almost ceremonial, matching the stillness Gideon radiated. The heat enveloped him inch by inch, tight and unyielding at first, then yielding just enough to let him sink deeper. Gideon never broke eye contact. T
hose dark-lined eyes stayed locked on Kota's face, pupils steady even as his chest rose and fell in deeper, controlled breaths. No moan. No twitch. Just the soft creak of the corset stays and the faint rustle of the skirt every time Kota rocked forward.
Halfway in, Gideon started reciting—quiet, voice deep and measured like he was reading from memory in a library at midnight.
"Pleasure is merely the delay of the inevitable void," he began, echoing his earlier proverb but slower, each syllable weighted. "We chase the flicker of stars already decaying, swallowing light that died long before it reached our eyes…"
Kota thrust again, deeper, trying to focus on the slick grip around him rather than the morbid poetry. The juxtaposition was hypnotic and unnerving the calm recitation against the wet slide of skin, the ripple of Gideon's monumental ass with every plunge. The cheeks jiggled softly, heavy and hypnotic, but Gideon's face remained composed, red eyeshadow catching the purple LEDs like fresh blood. Kota sped up partly to disrupt the calm, partly because the tight heat was maddening—velvet walls fluttering around him in tiny, controlled pulses that made his knees shake.
"…the cosmos folds inward," Gideon continued, voice hitching for the first time on the word inward as Kota bottomed out hard. "Light collapses into nothing, and we pretend the collapse is ecstasy…"
Kota growled low in his throat. "Fuck—stop talking like that," he managed, hips snapping forward again. "You're making this weird."
Gideon's lips parted on a single choked syllable mid-line—"ah"—and the poem died. His long fingers dug into Kota's shoulders, nails biting through fabric. The calm fractured. His back arched off the invisible support of the air, corset creaking, massive hips rolling back to meet the next thrust. Still no loud moans, no theatrical cries—just heavier breathing, a faint tremor in the deep voice that had been so steady.
"Harder," Gideon whispered, the first real word that wasn't poetry. "Disrupt the delay."
Kota obliged. He gripped the raised thigh tighter, other hand sliding to Gideon's corseted waist, and fucked up into him with short, brutal strokes. The height forced him onto his toes, calves burning, but the angle let him hit deep—deep enough that Gideon's controlled breaths finally broke into soft, punched-out exhales. The massive ass rippled violently now, cheeks clapping in a slower, heavier rhythm than Corey's thunderous game. Each impact sent waves through the flesh, the skirt bunched and forgotten, panties shoved aside and stretched to their limit.
"God—fuck—" Kota panted, voice rough. "You're so fucking tight—how are you this calm?"
Gideon's fingers tightened on his shoulders. "Control… is the final illusion," he managed, voice fracturing on the last word as Kota angled up and dragged against his prostate. A single choked sound escaped—half gasp, half syllable—and his whole body trembled like a plucked string. His cock, untouched, jerked once, twice, then spilled silently across the corset stays in thick, pearly ropes. No cry. No dramatic shudder. Just the quiet arch of his back, forehead dropping forward to rest against Kota's, breathing hard for the first time deep, ragged pulls of air that fanned across Kota's face.
Kota couldn't hold back. The clench around him was too much velvet walls pulsing in time with Gideon's orgasm, milking him relentlessly. He slammed in one last time, buried to the hilt, and came deep inside hot, thick pulses that filled Gideon until he felt it leak around the base on the next shallow thrust. Gideon whispered against his ear, voice barely audible over the wet sounds and Kota's own harsh breathing.
"The void… accepts its tribute."
He disentangled gracefully leg sliding down from Kota's shoulder, skirt smoothed back into place, panties adjusted with a single flick of long fingers. Then he stepped away, returning to statuesque stillness beside the monolith as though nothing had happened. The corset gleamed with his own release, but his face was calm again, red eyeshadow flawless.
Kota collapsed back onto the sofa edge, heavy panting filling his ears. His legs shook violently, thighs burning from holding himself up on his toes for so long. Sweat dripped down his temples, soaked the collar of his shirt. His cock twitched oversensitive in the open air, still leaking the last weak drops onto the rug. Four down—Carter, Charlie, Corey, now Gideon—and he felt completely drained. Balls ached with that hollow, overworked throb, refractory period screaming louder than ever. Every muscle protested when he tried to sit up straighter. The purple LEDs pulsed against his closed eyelids, the hypno spirals kept turning on the giant screen behind him, and the room's silence felt heavier than applause.
He dragged a forearm across his brow, wiping sweat, and let out a shaky breath. "Fuck… I'm wrecked already."
Corey, still sprawled on his side from his own turn, grinned weakly from the rug. "Four down, big man. You're doing great."
Mort snorted from the bean bag. "He looks like he's about to pass out. Maybe give him a water break before the next one kills him."
Kota didn't answer. He just sat there, chest heaving, staring at the onyx monolith where four swabs now sat in their silver dish. Four. And four more to go. Five hours max before he had to be back downstairs, pretending he'd spent the day doing anything normal. His body felt like it had been hollowed out and filled with lead. He wasn't sure he had another one in him—let alone four.
But the room waited. Beckett stood ready with the next Q-tip, expression blank.
Phase 4 was complete.
Four down.