Over the next two days, Vincent did not come by, and Star’s injuries healed mostly.
He applied his makeup and put in his contact lenses, and less than thirty minutes later, his phone buzzed. The electronic lock beeped, and Star opened the door to greet him. “Sir, you are back.”
Vincent opened his arms to embrace him. “Yes, were you waiting for me?”
A faint, woody scent lingered in the air. Star looked up and gave a sweet smile. “Yes, I was.”
Vincent stroked the mole at the corner of his eye and pecked his soft lips. “Good boy.”
A romantic film played on the living room TV, and the simulated fireplace cast a warm, orange glow. The atmosphere was perfect. Their clothes were discarded one by one from the doorway all the way to the bedroom.
Star wrapped his legs around Vincent’s waist, biting down on a pillowcase to stifle his cries. Vincent, not wanting to end up in the hospital again, was very careful, yet the process was unexpectedly effortless. He turned Star’s head and removed the pillowcase from his mouth. “Did you prepare for this?”
Star was caught in the middle of it, humming uncomfortably. “Mmm…”
Watching him turn red all over, wrinkling his brow in discomfort and biting his lip while remaining as well-behaved as a doll, Vincent lost all restraint. The bed was sturdy and made no sound no matter how much they moved, but the sound of the headboard bumping against the wall gradually echoed through the room. Star tried to hold back at first, but soon he could no longer control his own voice. He wanted to escape, to hide, but his body went limp, and his cries were beyond his control. He was like a tiny boat on a vast ocean, drifting with the waves, unable to govern his own movements, left only to endure.
Star did not know if he had fainted or fallen asleep. When he woke up again, Vincent was holding him. Star glanced at the nightstand. Not bad, only one bottle. He had expected Vincent to use at least two.
A dull ache throbbed in his stomach. Star covered it, slowly moving Vincent’s arm away, and lay flat on his stomach. The pressure of lying face down eased some of the pain, and Star’s nerves began to relax as he listened to Vincent’s rhythmic breathing. For some reason, Star felt Vincent looked unusually exhausted, with faint dark circles beneath his eyes. Vincent was usually alert even while sleeping, not the type to remain unconscious even after his arm was moved. Was he too busy with work to rest properly? It was impressive that he could be so fierce while this tired.
Star used his eye drops and intended to roll to the other side of the bed, but he was instantly hauled back. Vincent finally had a good night’s sleep; it was not just the intimacy that helped, but having this person beside him that allowed him to rest. Especially with that slender body in his arms and soft hair brushing against his chest, he could not help but feel drowsy.
He was not woken by his six o’clock alarm, but by the sunlight. Vincent tightened his arms. The person in his arms still had red-rimmed eyes, with traces of tears left by the mole. His fan-like eyelashes cast shadows on his face. He looked beautiful and delicate, like a doll. Vincent did not want to wake him, so he moved lightly as he got out of bed and headed to the kitchen.
The coffee machine whirred softly. Vincent opened the freezer to get ice, but saw that the freezer was completely empty, with the protective film still on the shelves. The kitchen trash can was also empty. Being a young master, it was natural that he did not know how to cook.
Vincent took his coffee to the living room and noticed the living room trash can was also empty. He frowned, set down his cup, and went to the service room on that floor. Every floor had a service room with a refrigerated trash chute that was cleaned weekly. Currently, they were the only ones living on this floor, and it was not time for cleaning yet, but the trash chute was completely empty.
Vincent returned to the bedroom and pulled the young man out from under the covers. Star lay dazed on his shoulder, unable to open his eyes. “What is wrong?”
Vincent gripped the back of his neck, letting him rest on his arm, and looked into his eyes. “When was the last time you ate?”
“Hmm…” Star wrapped his arms around his neck again, mumbling, “I forgot; maybe the garlic shrimp rice.”
Garlic shrimp rice? That was the last meal in Hawaii. Had this little one not eaten a single thing since they got back? No wonder he had passed out so easily last night; it was clearly from hypoglycemia.
Vincent held the person in his arms, torn between pulling down his trousers for a spanking or ravaging him again until he cried for mercy. The person on his shoulder breathed rhythmically, and Vincent simply tucked him back under the covers.
Star did not wake up until noon. When he did, his whole body ached, not just the sore spots, but a deep, pervasive soreness in his bones. He finally remembered what Vincent had asked him earlier. Oh, so that is why.
He took a long time to sit up, dizzy, his vision blurred. It seemed that exercise really burned through his energy. Vincent was probably gone, so looking a bit disheveled would not matter. Star braced himself against the wall, left the bedroom, and shuffled to the pantry. There were many drinks there, and he picked the sweetest one, leaning against the shelving unit to gulp it down.
“Does it taste good?”
Star jumped, his hand shaking, splashing blue green liquid onto his chest. He coughed violently. “Cough, cough, cough.”
Vincent took the drink from his hand and patted his back. “Am I that scary?”
Star finally caught his breath. “Cough, no, sir. You…”
Star wanted to ask why he was still there, but decided against it since it was his house. Vincent saw his face flushed red from coughing and sighed, scooping him up and heading to the bathroom. Vincent began unbuttoning his shirt. “Why did you not eat?”
Star did not know how to answer. Saying he forgot did not fit his persona; saying he did not want to eat sounded pretentious. As he hesitated, his clothes hit the floor. The drink stain on his chest was barely visible, but the hickey marks were clear. Star tried to cover them, afraid Vincent would lose control again, but Vincent did not seem to notice, focusing only on wiping him clean.
“Speak.” Vincent’s voice was stern.
Star remembered how fierce he was in bed and shuddered. “I ate. I ate out.”
Vincent paused, his hand holding the towel freezing for a second. He tossed the towel into the sink. “Go to the bedroom.”
Star felt a chill run down his spine; he had a bad feeling. He carefully observed Vincent’s expression—he was not smiling, and the pressure was immense. He had a premonition that something bad would happen in the bedroom and hesitated. “Sir…”
Vincent lifted his chin. “I said, go to the bedroom.”
Star swallowed, his voice trembling. “Okay.”
The house was big, but not big enough; the walk from the bathroom to the bedroom was short. Star draped a blanket over himself and sat nervously on the edge of the bed. Vincent returned with another drink. “Drink.”
It was a single command, nothing more. Star did not know what he was planning, but he unscrewed the cap and took two sips. “Mmm, are we going to do it again? Ugh.”
Star was pushed onto the bed. The silk pants slid off easily, and with the aftereffects of last night still present, it was even easier. But even so, Vincent’s size was not easy for him. Star lost his voice, throwing his head back like a dying swan.
“Ugh.” Star’s vision went black. He could not take it anymore and begged for mercy for the first time. “Slow down, please.”
Vincent took his hand and placed it on his own stomach. “Take it.”
Those two words forced Star to bite his lip. The moving hardness beneath his palm clearly reminded him of everything that was happening. Soon, cold shackles circled his wrists. Star could not even grab the sheets. His mind felt like it was being stirred into a pulp; he could not even process what was binding his hands. His lips were nearly bitten through as he swung between unconsciousness and clarity. When his body was struck by a sensation like an electric shock, he burst into tears.
“I was wrong. Woo, I was wrong. I do not want it anymore.”
He cried until his eyes were red, snot and tears covering his face. Vincent finally stopped and gently wiped away his tears. “What were you wrong about?”
“I…” Star did not know what he was wrong about; he only knew Vincent was angry. “I was wrong about everything.”
Vincent used a pillowcase to wipe his tears and lifted his chin to look into his unfocused eyes. “Speak clearly. What were you wrong about?”
“Wrong, wrong…” Star finally gathered some thoughts. Vincent’s gentle, amber eyes were deceptive; he looked nothing like the man who had just wanted to crush him on the bed. Star recalled what happened before Vincent went mad and said tentatively, “I should not have lied to you.”
Vincent’s mood improved. He resumed his movements, this time much more gently. “Good boy.”
Star had thought it was over, but it was just the beginning of the torture. Vincent alternated between fast and slow, forcing him to beg, compelling him to apologize, and coaxing him into making promises until his brain was stirred into a pulp and he could no longer think.
The final light in the sky vanished, replaced by the bustling Las Vegas nightscape. The LED screen on the MSG Sphere switched to a deep sea vortex, and the extravagant lights decorated the southern end of the Strip like an ocean of desire. Star felt as if he were a pool of water, capable of flowing right through Vincent’s fingers.
Vincent carried him to the tub, washed him meticulously, and fed him more of the drink.
“Do you feel better?”
Star had no strength left to speak, only whimpering as he lay against him. He was so well behaved, so obedient, fulfilling every expectation Vincent had. Vincent, in a good mood, dressed him in a bathrobe and carried him to the dining table. A packed meal was there, still steaming. Star did not have the energy to wonder who had delivered it, nor did he care if that person had overheard anything or if he should feel embarrassed; he only wanted to sleep.
Vincent had him sit on his lap and brought a spoonful of porridge to his lips. “Open.”
Star wanted to say he did not want it, but after such a severe lesson, he did not have the guts to refuse. He obediently opened his mouth. The warm porridge flowed into his stomach, the aroma of rice filling the air. It felt like a switch for his appetite had been flipped; for the first time, Star realized that rice actually had a flavor. The golden fried dumplings dipped in black vinegar were even better, and even the simple pickled vegetables carried the fragrance of sesame oil. Star finished almost the entire meal meant for two people.
Vincent was satisfied with the feeding. “It seems exercise really does stimulate the appetite.”
Alarm bells rang in Star’s head. “My appetite is always great; I do not need to exercise for it.”
“Is that so?” Vincent’s eyes grew dangerous again.