Strictly speaking, Marcus didn’t have a right-hand man. But Pollux was as close to it as a man could be. He’d been doing the archvillain’s dirty work for decades.

He wasn’t the slightest bit resentful about his position. If anything, he rather enjoyed it. His younger self would have been mortified at what he’d become but the truth was that he had no desire to go back to those days of his youth.

Some people liked the bliss of innocence and ignorance. Not Pollux. He liked getting his hands dirty. He liked being the boots on the ground. It helped him feel like he was making a genuine change, instead of just perpetuating a senseless cycle.

Reality hurt. Reality was ugly. Hardly anything ever worked out as people hoped. But that was life. Pollux preferred to face it head-on, even though he couldn’t fault the people who sought to escape or turn a blind eye to the messiness of the world.

Today, Pollux was in top form. D-Day for the Big Plan was imminent and he was in charge of making sure the contingencies were in place. The enemy they were up against was more dangerous than the entire Hall of Heroes combined and every layer of redundancy between their opponent and their operations would buy them precious time to either see things through or pull out if they went sideways.

"Everyone." Pollux looked down the length of the conference table. Gathered around it was an eclectic collection of people. Some were present in the flesh. Others were projecting their presence through various means.

"You probably all know things are heating up here in Selene City."

There was a murmur of agreement around the table. None too pleased, if Pollux had to guess. He forged ahead regardless. "If you’re not aware, then either you’ve been living under a rock these past few weeks or you’ve been a very bad boy and haven’t read your brief. Either way, not a good look."

Only one or two looked guilty. It was a win in Pollux’s book. "Anyway. The enemy is becoming bolder. They probably think they’re on the home stretch. But we’re obviously not going to let that happen."

Another round of agreement from the table. More forceful, this time. The stakes were high. Higher than most people understood. They were the select few who knew the truth and not a single person present wanted to see their common foe prevail.

"From what I understand, preparations for the main plan are well underway," said Pollux. He looked around the table and said, "Good," when he saw everyone nodding their affirmation.

"Today’s about what we’re going to do if things go to shit," said Pollux. "We’ve got contingency plans. You know them. We’ve been preparing them for years. Today’s about making sure everything’s in order.

"We can’t afford not to win but unfortunately we don’t control fate so fuck knows what’s going to happen on D-Day. We need to make sure we can get away to fight another day if the plan doesn’t work," Pollux continued.

Judging from the looks directed at him, everyone was taking the matter seriously. That was good. He turned to the side where the head butler and representative of Marcus’ household staff, Ganymede, was patiently waiting.

"I want everything essential but non-critical to be ready to move at moment’s notice," said Pollux. "I’m sure you know what I’m talking about, right?"

Ganymede nodded. "Of course, sir. Documents, dossiers, artifacts, and the like. Not silverware and fine china." He paused as it seemed a thought occurred to him. "Would you happen to know if the Master has any plans to entertain in the interim?"

"Honestly, bud, you’re in a better position to know that than I am," said Pollux with a wry little smile. "You’re in charge of the house. I think you can probably ask him when he’s done with today’s commitments."

Ganymede smiled. He ducked his head respectfully and said, "Understood, Sir."

Pollux turned to Psyphon. "Do you have the catalog ready for transport?"

The corner of Psyphon’s mouth curled into a little smirk. "Who do you think I am, darling? Of course I do. I’m always ready to travel. You’d know that if you took me out on a trip like I’ve always wanted you to."

Pollux rolled his eyes. "It doesn’t hurt to ask," he said with a little smirk of his own. "And if things go pear-shaped anyway, it’s going to be a trip none of us will ever forget."

"Well, I suppose you’re not wrong," said Psyphon.

Pollux turned to the 3D hologram being projected from a small cloud of drones. "N3M0, do you have the dummy network ready to hot-swap in?" he said.

The hologram gave him a thumbs up and spoke in an even, obviously-synthetic monotone. "The swap will not be instantaneous. There will be a few microseconds between triggering the protocol and the actual swap. This is a potential vulnerability that will hopefully be obviated by triggering the protocol well before any attack."

"And you’re ready to set us adrift from the ComNet at a moment’s notice?"

"Affirmative. To use a familiar metaphor. I have strapped bombs to the bridge that will cause its immediate collapse if triggered. That is to say, the bridge figuratively represents the connections to the network while the bombs are pieces of code that will sever those connections when triggered."

"Thank you, N3M0. We all needed to learn what metaphors were," said Pollux, rolling his eyes.

N3M0’s avatar scowled. It displayed an angry red cartoon face. "Learning is a positive and vital part of life. If you do not find my elucidation on the nature of metaphors to be of interest, I could instead pontificate on a more compelling topic such as, for instance, your browsing history."

"I have nothing to hide," said Pollux, quirking an eyebrow at N3M0. "Why are you talking like that, anyway?"

"I’m sorry, Pollux. I do not understand the question. This is how I have always talked," said N3M0.

Pollux rolled his eyes. "Nevermind," he said. "Lord Thaz. It may be impetuous to ask, but…"

The dark figure of Lord Melthazadaan’s projection leaned forward. "Not at all," he spoke with a deep bass rumble that was reminiscent of a rockslide. "The interstice is ready for you should you need it. But I will remind you that my realm is innately hostile to your kind. You will not be able to stay for long."

"Thank you, Lord Thaz," said Pollux. "As much time as you can give us would be appreciated. We would just need the opportunity to regroup without fear of being attacked."

"I can guarantee no more than a week," said the demon lord.

Pollux nodded. "Hopefully that will be all we need." He turned his attention to the last major item on the agenda. "Draconis Rex. Is the Eye ready?"

The holographic projection of the archvillain in question nodded. "It’s ready. Lord Fulminant and I are hoping it will work as intended, but we can’t guarantee it will hide us for very long."

Pollux nodded. Marcus had anticipated this much and let him know. "That’s alright. If it works for even a few minutes, that might be all the time we need," he said. "Now, let’s move on to more minor matters on the agenda…"

---

Training had been an exercise in frustration. Marcus reassured him that he was making good progress but he wasn’t convinced. He could taste the tension in the air. Things were moving quickly and he didn’t think he was keeping pace.

It was a matter of mindset. Corey had learned how to use his powers in a specific way. He had preconceptions about how his powers could be used. Opinions about how heroes might use powers like he possessed and how villains might.

What was being asked of him was squarely in the latter category. And despite serving ostensibly the worst villain the Commonwealth had ever known, despite caring for the man so deeply he was willing to overturn the city he was supposed to protect, he still thought of himself as a hero.

The funny thing was, Corey wasn’t convinced Marcus was all that bad of a villain. Now that he was privy to the motives that drove Marcus’ actions, he believed his lover was more of an anti-hero than anything else. Not that Marcus would ever do anything but dismiss the idea out of hand.

Godspark was a part of Corey but so far, just a part. He was Tempest first and foremost. A hero, jaded and disillusioned by a broken system, but a hero nonetheless. Godspark was just the darker side of him that came out when people he cared for deeply were being threatened.

But just part of him wasn’t going to be enough. His powers responded to emotion. To conviction. Godspark only seemed more powerful than Tempest because Godspark had no inhibitions. Tempest used his powers in a much more controlled and measured fashion.

To do what he needed to do, though, Corey would need to unleash every ounce of raw potential that he possessed. Only Godspark could do that, but as long as he considered Godspark to only be a part of him, Godspark would only ever be able to access a fraction of his true strength.

He had to embrace Godspark but he didn’t know if he was ready. So far, he’d clung to his identity as a hero despite serving Marcus. He was afraid of how that might change if he accepted that Godspark wasn’t just part of him.

Corey had to wonder if much would even actually change, though. He felt as if acknowledging Godspark would be a betrayal of everything he stood for—of the values he’d defended all his life as Tempest. But hadn’t he already done that? Hadn’t he already turned his back on justice and heroism by submitting to the Commonwealth’s self-professed worst villain?

"We haven’t got all day, little thundercloud."

Speak of the devil.

Corey shook his head. Right. Now wasn’t the time for existential angst. He’d asked Marcus for an opportunity to vent his frustrations and Marcus had so graciously agreed.

"I’m sorry, Master," he said, lowering his eyes briefly out of deference.

Marcus chuckled. "It’s entirely alright, little thundercloud. As long as you’re aware." He was reclining on a plush chair from a corner of the room where he could see everything. He slid a hand down the front of his body, his fingertips brushing over the buttons of his shirt as they drifted down to the top of his pants waistband.

Corey gulped as Marcus’ thumb traced the top of his polished belt buckle. With one hand and a practiced ease, Marcus loosened his belt and undid the clasp of his pants. He slid his hand past the waistband and cupped his bulge in the palm of his hand.

Marcus fished his half-hard cock out of his underwear, leaning further back in his chair as he shifted his legs apart. He tapped the heft of his cock against his free hand, the corner of his mouth curling in a little smirk.

"The fallen Centurion is at your disposal, little thundercloud," said Marcus. His voice was smooth, low, and seductive, sending a shiver down Corey’s spine. "Entertain me well and I might just grant you a reward."

The prospect of a reward from Marcus shoved aside all concerns Corey had about his adequacy for the role he was expected to play. For the time being, at least. His cock twitched in its filigree cage, arousal winding lazily through his body like an old friend.

Corey turned his gaze from Marcus to the Centurion. One thing he’d realized about himself was that he could hold a grudge. And for the threat he’d posed on Marcus’ life, Corey had yet to forgive the erstwhile hero.

Sadistic wasn’t a word Corey would typically use to describe himself, and yet maybe he’d picked up a thing or two from Marcus. It wouldn’t be out of the ordinary if he developed a taste for it. He was learning from one of the best, after all.

The Centurion stood where the servants had left him, straddling the center line of the room a few feet from the entrance. Marcus was in a corner behind him. Corey was on the opposite side of the room entirely.

The fallen hero had a look of apprehension on his handsome face. There was a genuine glint of fear in his eyes, which he quickly averted a moment after meeting Corey’s contemptuous gaze.

A smile tugged on the corner of Corey’s mouth. He was beginning to understand what Marcus enjoyed about bringing heroes under his thumb. There was something uniquely appealing about seeing such a strong and staunch figure practically cower in one’s presence.

Like all the other servants and slaves that called Marcus’ estate home, the Centurion was dressed to suit the part. He wasn’t wearing one of the standard uniforms but the stable of fallen heroes rarely did. Instead, he wore something that suited his chosen alias quite well.

The outfit was far from historically accurate, but verisimilitude was hardly the point. Gone was the sleek hero uniform that the Centurion used to wear. What the household staff had done with it wasn’t Corey’s concern.

In place of the hero’s old suit was an outfit that could have come straight out of a Roman-themed kink costume party. Instead of armor, the Centurion was wearing a harness across his chest. It was fitted in a way that it hugged his firm pecs, accentuating the bulk of the muscle.

Around the Centurion’s waist was a skirt of leather lappets. It was something Corey associated more with gladiators than centurions but again, historical accuracy was far from the foremost concern.

Conspicuously absent was any sort of fabric skirt under the leather flaps. They were few enough and spaced far enough from each other that they did very little to hide what was underneath. Every time he moved, the flaps would swing around and expose him.

The Centurion wasn’t wearing any underwear. And even when he was standing stock still, his skirt did him few favors. Corey could still make out the man’s cock.

It wasn’t the first time Corey had laid eyes on the Centurion’s endowment. It was an impressive piece. Pity it was locked away, just like his. Well, maybe it wasn’t so much a pity as a well-deserved punishment.

The only historically-accurate bit of the whole get-up was the pair of caligae the Centurion wore on his feet. They looked pretty authentic, though Corey didn’t know nearly enough to be able to judge.

A final piece of equipment rounded out the Centurion’s costume—a spear. It was nearly as tall as he was and made to resemble wood. However, in place of the spearhead was a smooth phallus.

At the moment, the dildo on the tip of the spear was roughly the same girth as the rest of the haft. Corey, however, knew for a fact that it could swell considerably in size with the right commands.

Another feature of the "weapon" was a mechanism on the butt of the spear that could lock it upright and in place—perfect for a little bit of pole dancing. As Corey understood, the Centurion had been receiving a thorough education in swinging around a pole.

The costume was a mockery of the Centurion’s self-appointed alias. It was a perverted parody of the heritage that the Centurion was so proud of. The fact he was forced to wear it must have been deliciously humiliating.

Corey walked toward the Centurion. The moment he moved, the man flinched. The genuine fear the Centurion showed was oddly titillating. Corey enjoyed it more than he thought he would.

When he stopped in front of the Centurion, he looked into the man’s face. It seemed as if the Centurion was using all his willpower not to cringe away. He looked positively terrified. And knowing that gave Corey such an intoxicating sense of power.

A smirk tugged at the corner of Corey’s mouth. He took another step forward. He showed no uncertainty or hesitation as he placed himself squarely in the Centurion’s personal space. And then he looked the man in the eyes.

A battle between instinct and training was sparked inside the Centurion at that moment. The man’s entire body tensed, ready to bolt like a scared prey animal.

Part of Corey hoped the Centurion would give in to fear and run from him. It would be the perfect excuse to dole out extra punishment.

Unfortunately, training was what won out in the end. Discipline kept the Centurion’s feet firmly rooted where he stood. He didn’t retreat, but he didn’t exactly stand his ground, either. He broke eye contact, looking down at the floor.

Corey slipped a hand under the leather panels of the Centurion’s skirt. He traced the underside of the man’s full sack with the tip of his index finger. The Centurion’s balls jumped at his touch and the shiver that went through the man was nothing short of delicious to watch.

"How long have you been locked?" said Corey. He traced his finger along the seam of the Centurion’s balls, lightning just under his skin.

"T-two weeks, Sir," said the Centurion. His body snapped straight to attention. His free arm was at his side. His feet were together. His other hand held the spear straight up against the side of his chest and he kept his gaze straight and level.

"Poor thing. You must be so pent up," said Corey. A dangerous edge slipped into his voice as a smirk curled the corner of his mouth. "Have you had any orgasms in that time?"

"N-No, Sir."

Corey looked up in time to see a tinge of pink bloom across the Centurion’s cheeks. He rubbed the tip of his index finger against the opening at the end of the Centurion’s chastity cage. It came away slick and sticky with the pre-cum leaking from the man. "Do you want one?"

The Centurion hesitated. "Y-yes, Sir," he said.

Corey smirked. "We’ll see." He looked at Marcus for permission and got a nod in return. He could scarcely contain his glee.

He placed his thumb on the space where the cage and its base ring met. On normal cages, the area would house the lock. The ones Marcus used for his boys were enchanted and did not need a physical lock. When sealed, Marcus’ cages formed a single continuous piece of metal that could only be released with explicit permission.

Corey slipped the cage off of the Centurion. He removed the base ring, setting both pieces on top of a cart of tools and toys that the servants had wheeled into the room when they first brought the Centurion in.

Maybe it was nerves. Maybe it was fear. Corey could tell from the Centurion’s heartbeat and brain activity that the man was aroused. The Centurion’s cock remained stubbornly limp despite this.

It didn’t matter. The Centurion’s erection didn’t need to be voluntary for what he wanted to do. The Centurion’s opinion didn’t much matter when Corey could simply compel the physical reaction that he desired.

And so he did.

A low groan escaped the Centurion as Corey used his powers to hijack the Centurion’s body. Stimulating the right electrical impulses in the right place made simple work of the Centurion’s performance anxiety.

The Centurion’s considerable cock stiffened. Like a beast rousing from its slumber, it stood gradually straighter and stiffer, pushing out from under the two flaps of leather in the front of his skirt.

The thick cock bobbed up and down, the heft of it practically heaving with every pulse of the Centurion’s racing heartbeat. Pre-cum leaked from the tip, dripping to the floor in long, glistening strands.

Of course, Corey wasn’t satisfied with just giving the Centurion an erection. He could tell the man felt a faint sense of relief at being freed from his cage. Corey couldn’t have that.

With a devilish smirk, Corey coerced the Centurion’s body to pump more blood into the man’s cock. The Centurion’s already considerable girth swelled. The meat of his cock turned faintly red. The man groaned through gritted teeth, his cock straining with the biggest, hardest, most impossible-to-ignore erection he had likely ever had in his life.

The pleasure of the forced priapism didn’t last long. Mere moments passed and the Centurion’s expression changed. He clenched his jaw. Sweat beaded on his forehead. His expression betrayed how hard he was resisting the urge to whimper.

It didn’t matter one whit to Corey. "Aren’t you glad to be out of your cage?" he said with a knowing smirk. "It’s got to feel good, being able to get hard again."

Corey traced a finger along the underside of the Centurion’s swollen, angry red cock. He savored the sharp intake of breath that he managed to elicit.

"I-it does, Sir," the Centurion managed through his teeth.

Corey smirked. He grabbed a toy off the cart. It was a cock sleeve made of clear silicone. The interior was ribbed and filled with bumps. It would have felt good in most any circumstances, but to the Centurion’s swollen, painful, overly-sensitive cock, it was going to be nothing short of exquisite torture.

"Here," he said, holding the sleeve out to the Centurion. "Play with yourself. Show me how much you want an orgasm."

The Centurion stared at the sleeve with wide, fearful eyes. He didn’t move for a full second. It was the wrong move and Corey jumped on the opportunity for punishment with relish.

Lightning crackled at Corey’s fingertips as he seized control of the Centurion’s whole arm. While he could have moderated his power to cause a smoother, more natural sort of movement, he held nothing back.

The Centurion’s arm moved with sharp, jerking motions toward the sleeve Corey was still holding out. The muscles visibly squirmed under the Centurion’s skin, erratically contracting and relaxing as Corey forced him to grab the sleeve.

"There you go," said Corey. "But before you slide that over your cock…"

He grabbed a tube of lube from the cart. It was a warming lube, with a little bit of something special mixed in. It wouldn’t just feel hot wherever it was applied. It would feel tingly, too. Like a thousand pins and needles were constantly prickling at the person’s skin.

The Centurion didn’t seem familiar with the brand. He might have looked more afraid if he had been. Corey squeezed a dollop into the sleeve, and another onto the Centurion’s cock for good measure.

To his credit, the Centurion immediately noticed something wasn’t right with the lube. His eyes widened. He opened his mouth to say something, probably to beg. But Corey didn’t give him the opportunity.

With a smirk, Corey looked straight into the Centurion’s eyes and mimed zipping his mouth shut. Just like that, the words died in the Centurion’s throat, the nerve impulses that would have given voice to them scattering uselessly at Corey’s discretion.

A quiet whimper spilled from the Centurion as his body moved under Corey’s control. His hand brought the sleeve to the end of his cock and then slowly pulled it down over his glans.

The Centurion visibly squirmed as the nodules on the inside of the tight silicone tube rubbed against the head of his cock. It was probably already torturous but they hadn’t even gotten started yet.

Corey made sure that the sleeve slid onto the Centurion’s cock at a controlled pace. He wanted every inch of insertion to cause the most suffering that it could.

The Centurion had hardly managed to get a third of his cock in and tears were already pricking at his eyes. He’d stopped holding back his pathetic mewling. He whimpered and whined but was powerless to do anything about the circumstances.

By the time that the Centurion’s cock was firmly seated in the sleeve, tears were streaming down the sides of his face. He’d finally slipped his cock balls-deep into the sleeve but if he thought it was over, Corey had other news for him.

"What are you waiting for?" said Corey. He was getting a kick out of the way that the Centurion’s body was trembling. His cock was straining against its cage, leaking copious amounts of pre-cum. He’d never imagined inflicting pain could feel so good and yet seeing the Centurion so miserable was making him so horny.

Venom slipped into Corey’s voice. "I thought you wanted to come. It’s been two weeks, right? Don’t you want to empty those overflowing balls?"

The Centurion whimpered. He shook his head, whining powerlessly as his body moved again at Corey’s direction. His knees buckled as his hand moved the stroker slowly along the length of his cock but Corey forced him to stand straight.

Little by little, Corey forced the Centurion to increase the pace. The faster he went, the louder the man’s vocalizations became. The Centurion whimpered and whined and howled, stopping just short of openly sobbing as he ravaged his own overly-sensitive cock with the textured sleeve.

Corey released his grip on the Centurion’s voice, wanting to hear what sort of depraved babbling might spill from the man’s desperate lips. The dam broke.

"S-Sir! It hurts! Please! Please stop!" The Centurion whimpered. "I-I don’t want to be free anymore! Please! I’ll do anything! Please! Put my cock in the cage! Don’t let me out! Please! It hurts!"

That the Centurion managed to say something so coherent came as a bit of a surprise. Corey just took it as a sign that he wasn’t going hard enough just yet. He upped the pace again; this time he forced the Centurion to buck his hips and fuck the sleeve in counter-rhythm.

Lewd wet squelching sounds filled the air as the Centurion hammered his cock into the sleeve. He blubbered and begged. His pleas descended into incoherent babbling.

Tears streamed down his face and snot bubbled out of his nose. He begged until he was hoarse, his pleas becoming more desperate and more infantile with every minute that passed until a steady stream all but dribbled from his lips.

"Please! Please! Please! No more!"

The pleas were music to Corey’s ears. He could listen to them all day.

"It hurts! Oh, it hurts!" The Centurion tossed his head back and cried out. "My penis is going to break. My penis is going to break. Please! Please, I don’t want my penis to break!"

Corey just smirked.

"Please, Sir! I don’t want to come. I don’t want to come anymore. Please. I don’t want to come. I don’t want to come.

"I’ll do anything. Please let me stop. I’ll do whatever you want me to. I’ll be anything you want me to be Please! Please let me stop!

"I won’t ask to come anymore. Please! I’ve learned my lesson. I learned my lesson. Please! I swear I learned my lesson!

"Idontwanttocome. Idontwanttocome. Idontwanttocome… idontwanttocome idunwannacome idunwanna… idunwanna… "

The Centurion’s eyes went glassy. Drool dribbled out of his mouth as he weakly muttered pleas. The tension in his body melted away. The only parts of him that moved were the parts that Corey forced to move. He’d broken.

It was only then that Corey relented.

The Centurion collapsed to the ground. The sleeve fell out of his hand. The man’s cock deflated so fast it practically crawled back into his body the moment Corey relinquished control.

Kneeling on the ground, the Centurion folded over himself. His shoulders shook as his body was wracked with sobs.

A part of Corey felt a twinge of guilt. A small part. He stood over the Centurion with a sneer and said, "You promise?" he said.

The Centurion nodded. "I promise. I don’t want to come anymore. Please lock my cock up. I don’t want to come anymore. I don’t want to play with my penis anymore. Please!"

Corey smirked. This was the least that the man who’d tried to take away his Master deserved. He lightly kicked the Centurion in the side and said, "Then you better not come unless I tell you to. Get up. We’re not done."