Come in From the Cold

by Tymber Dalton

  He let the ice do its job for another couple of seconds, Douglas’ relieved whine when he removed the ice making Connor giggle again. He made quick work of lubing his boy’s cock and balls before sliding the two-piece chastity cage on him and locking it in place.

  Another whine from his boy.

  Connor slapped his ass and cleaned his hands again with another wet wipe. “No, I think this is necessary. By the time I’m done with you, you’d be ready to come just from a sexy look. Thank me for helping you avoid punishment.”

  A mumbled, “Tankoo, Mathtuh,” from the bound boy.

  “Oooh, gagspeak. Fuck, that makes me hard.”

  Back then, it’d been a bandana tied around his boy’s head to help muffle his moans, or shoving his face into a pillow, or letting him hold a washcloth in his mouth to bite down on and scream around.

  But bigger boys needed better toys.

  “Stay.” He giggled. “Be right back.”

  Normally, he’d never leave someone bound alone, but he’d probably need both hands later on to carry Douglas to the bathroom, and no way in hell was he not doing this tonight. He grabbed what he needed from the kitchen and staged it in the master bathroom, ready for that part of their play.

  Less than a minute later he was back and staring down at his bound boy.

  He walked around him, drinking him in, then had a duh moment. He took several pictures with his phone, including a close-up of Douglas’ face, even capturing a string of drool dripping from his mouth around where the gag distorted his lips.

  He quickly added those pictures to a special folder on his phone, one located behind an additional passcode.

  Ironically, the only other pictures in there were ones he’d scanned in of him and Douglas together from the past, all G-rated pics, innocent, even, but ones he didn’t want anyone else to see before.

  They’d been his alone.

  All he’d had left of his boy.

  And now…

  He sighed as contentment flowed through him.

  Now he had his boy back.

  He brushed his fingers along his boy’s hands, his feet, making sure he still had good circulation. With that checked, he cracked his neck from side to side and took a deep breath.

  “Let’s begin, shall we?”

  * * * *

  Yeah, Douglas knew what a chastity cage was—he’d watched porn, duh. Even when he was a priest.

  He’d just never worn one before.

  And this one had little nubs all inside it, so that when his cock tried to recover and get hard again, it pressed against them in an uncomfortable way.

  An almost painful way.

  Which only served to harden his cock more.

  Which hurt more.

  The wheels on the bus…

  The vibrating butt plug pulsing in his ass wasn’t helping, either.

  “Movherfugger,” he mumbled around his gag.

  “Ah, I guess you’ve discovered the devious nature of that particular chastity cage.”

  “Tankoo, Mathtuh,” he mumbled.

  “You’re very welcome, boy. My pleasure.” Another one of those sadistic giggles erupted from Connor and made Douglas’ cock throb with need. “Well, it really is my pleasure, because I know you’re not getting pleasure from it.”

  Connor started off with bare-handed spanking and pummeling, easily settling Douglas back into a hazy kind of mindset, one where even the pleasure/pain his body was fighting, between his cock and the butt plug, faded to background static.

  Every impact, every blow sent bursts of bright, sweet pain through his body, triggering dopamine, endorphins, adrenaline—all the wonderful brain chemicals the psychologist knew about.

  Speaking of, the psychologist was taking a break and playing checkers with the priest, while the submissive boy was crying with joy and loving every fucking second of this.

  As a kid, the backside of every session with Connor had led to a backwash of vague and uneasy guilt, that what they were doing would be condemned by the Church, that he was leading Connor into temptation, he was possibly leading to the damning of Connor’s soul and maybe his own.

  Another reason he’d fled, unable to bear the possible responsibility for that and unwilling to contemplate a future Heaven that didn’t feature Connor there with him for eternity.

  Even the priest now knew that was a bunch of horseshit and regretted that time away from Connor. But he took a small measure of comfort in the fact that he had eased countless parishioners’ minds over the years about similar issues, assured them that, no, it was’t wicked and sinful to get your consensual freak on with another consenting adult.

  Maybe that had been a penance for him.

  A hard, solid smack landing across both his ass cheeks fully focused him on their play again. It took a split-second for the stinging, burning pain to follow the impact. Whatever that paddle was, he hated it.

  And loved Connor for using it on him.

  “Blessed is my boy on bended knee,” Connor said.

  SMACK!

  Douglas bit down and screamed around the ball gag, now extremely grateful for its presence.

  “My boy, owned by me.”

  SMACK!

  “I own you, heart and soul and spirit.”

  SMACK!

  “Your love is mine, your body is mine, your blood is mine, your life is mine.”

  SMACK!

  “To bend and break—”

  SMACK!

  “—to bow and ache—”

  SMACK!

  “This boy belongs only to me, above all others, above even God.”

  Douglas flinched, but this time it was Connor squeezing his hot, burning flesh, rubbing the impacts in.

  “Because you belong only to me, and my Heaven is you in my arms. I am most happy with you on your knees before me and find comfort with you there forever. Amen.”

  Under the blindfold, tears streamed from Douglas’ eyes, as much from Connor’s words as from the pain, but still he mumbled, “Amen,” around the gag.

  Denim-clad legs pressed against his ass and fingers raked down his back on either side of his spine. Up again, feeling like Connor was running his thumbs along every vertebrae. Then sweeping out at his shoulders, tracing his shoulder blades, down again, along his hips, up.

  It only occurred to the psychologist that Connor was mapping him just before the stingy flogger nailed him in the back of the left shoulder, making him hiss around the gag and sending the psychologist scurrying back to resume checkers with the priest.

  The submissive man wanted no mundane thoughts in his brain right now to distract him.

  He wanted only Connor, his Higher Power, his Master.

  His.

  Fingers traced where the falls had landed. “Good,” Connor said, then repeated it on the right side.

  Thought fled once more.

  * * * *

  The flogger was from Two Crafty Bastards Toys, one Connor hadn’t used much before because it was so fucking stingy that most guys would safeword if he actually put some power behind the throw. With falls made up of window spline material cut to sharp points, it could be made a little less stingy just by trimming the ends of the falls to make them flat, but why?

  Stingy was much more fun.

  Especially now that his boy was home.

  As a nest of red marks quickly bloomed on the back of his boy’s shoulders, Connor worked his way down his body, up again, careful to keep the impacts where T-shirts and shorts would hide every mark.

  Kids to think about now.

  How many times had Douglas gone to school and had to be careful how he dressed out for PE because of the marks Connor had left on him?

  Of course Connor had done it on purpose, because they’d had PE together, and Connor always smiled at Douglas’ red cheeks—both sets of them—as he scurried to the bathroom stalls to change if the bruising was too much to hide or explain away.

  Fortunately, they’d only had PE as freshmen. After that year, since
neither of them were into organized sports, it wasn’t necessary to worry. Douglas only had to remember to wear PJ pants or a bathrobe or jeans at home to hide the marks from his family.

  Connor was careful to not hit him so hard he’d actually break the skin with that flogger. He wanted to cane him bloody, not burn him out this soon.

  After that Connor took the bag of ice and rubbed it up and down his back and over his ass, getting a few yelps from him, lots of wiggling and squirming trying to get away from it, and no doubt swear words mixed in with the undecipherable gagspeak.

  He set the bag aside and picked up a leather strap. “Back to work, baby.”

  Connor kept an eye on the time, not wanting to leave him tied there like that for more than an hour, regularly checking his feet, his hands.

  Adjusting himself in his jeans more than once. He knew he’d have a pretty damn big wet spot on the inside of his jeans from this and would have to wash them before he could wear them again.

  When he finally worked his way up to what he was going to use as the big finish almost fifty minutes later, Connor felt like he was flying. Topspace. Something he rarely fell into when he was with a guy.

  Not since Douglas left.

  The heady freedom, the prideful way he took in the marks on his boy’s flesh—all of it.

  Everything.

  His.

  He picked up the cane and laid it across Douglas’ upper thighs, where ass cheeks met the legs and where it would be most tender and painful.

  “Sing my praises, boy,” he said before he laid the first hard stroke across his flesh.

  It raised another welt immediately, and Douglas’ incoherent screams were like music to Connor’s ears. No angelic choir could have hardened his cock the way every stroke added another chorus to this unholy hymn.

  He wanted to place ten along his ass and thighs, and made sure the last three were hard enough to just draw lines of blood, and right about the spot where the edge of his office chair would hit his upper thighs every time he sat down.

  Douglas had devolved to screaming sobs that shook his whole body. Connor set the cane aside and knelt behind him, licking every cane welt, showering his flesh with kisses.

  “Such a good boy,” he whispered. “Sooo good. And you’re almost done, baby. But it’s been too damn long, and Master needs to baptize you before we close this sermon.”

  He quickly untied him, clipped his wrists behind him again, and grabbed him by the hair. He barely gave him time to get his feet under him before half-dragging, half-carrying him down the hall to their bathroom. He put him on his knees in the shower and removed the ball gag, tracing the marks around the corners of his mouth with his thumb.

  “Open wide.”

  Douglas did, without hesitation, even though he had to know what was coming.

  Except, he really didn’t.

  While as a sadistic and twisted kid this had been one of the hottest things they’d ever done, the husband and father and reasonably sane Dom wanted to limit it more to a mind-fuck than a literal re-enactment.

  He reached for the zipper-top bag he’d left soaking in a sinkful of hot water, and the knife.

  * * * *

  Douglas’ world consisted of Connor’s voice, pain…

  And that was pretty much it.

  Yeah, the man had definitely grown and expanded as a sadist, but when Douglas felt the shower tile under his knees and was ordered to open wide, even though he knew what was coming, like hell would he tap out now.

  Whatever Connor needed from him, he’d do it.

  That afternoon when they were kids had happened early on together and was a huge turning point between them. The moment when Connor truly accepted Douglas really loved him, trusted him, meant everything he’d said when he’d pledged his body and heart and soul and obedience to the boy he’d loved. The adult psychologist knew it’d been a loyalty test, and maybe at the time Connor hadn’t even meant to go through with it until they were actually doing it.

  But unless Connor tried to somehow disfigure him, he would never beg him to stop.

  He heard Connor’s boots hit the bathroom floor, followed by the sound of a zipper parting.

  Jeans hit the floor next. A soft, unfamiliar metallic clatter, like someone dropped a fork or something.

  “You have bled for me today, boy. Now it’s time to baptize you. Blood of my blood, flesh of my flesh, your sin of leaving is forgiven and I wash away all traces of your absence.”

  When the warm stream hit him in the face, in the mouth, he thought he was prepared for what he remembered would be a bitter, salty taste.

  But the psychologist and the priest both started rolling around, laughing their asses off as the submissive husband swallowed and swallowed and tried to figure out why it tasted…tangy and tart, but also sweet. Like…lemon-lime? Like—

  Oh, sonofabitch, he mind-fucked me.

  Douglas swallowed the warm Gatorade, his cock swelling at the sound of Connor’s laughter as he obviously realized Douglas had figured it out, then wincing as his cock met with the hard nubs inside the chastity cage, which made Connor laugh even more.

  The stream stopped and a wet, splooshy sound echoed through the shower as Connor’s lips closed over his.

  He knelt in front of Douglas, from the feel of Connor’s naked body pressing against his. Arms wrapped around him and eased the blindfold off. Douglas opened his eyes, blinking as Connor tossed it out of the shower.

  But the gorgeous smile his husband wore would make Douglas take hours more of torture if asked of him.

  “Happy wedding night, baby.” Connor nuzzled his nose. “Welcome home.”

  He smiled. “Thank you, Master.” Douglas spotted the nearly empty plastic bag on the shower floor, still some Gatorade leaking from it, a hole poked in it. Next to it lay the steak knife he’d punctured the bag with.

  “I’m almost afraid to wonder how you could ever top that mind fuck.”

  Connor reached behind Douglas and unsnapped the clip holding his wrists together. “I wouldn’t, if I were you.”

  “Yeah, I think you’re right. You’d enjoy the challenge too damn much.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Connor helped Douglas to his feet and took his time bathing him, letting him remove the butt plug and freeing him from the chastity cage.

  Once the sticky drink was rinsed off both of them, Connor took his husband to bed and spent hours making love to him, until they both collapsed close to eleven that night, balls drained and hearts full.

  Connor played with Douglas’ hair as he lay snuggled against Connor’s side, halfway draped over him, their legs hooked together. “I’m still trying to decide if I want you to grow your beard out again.”

  Douglas nuzzled his face against Connor’s shoulder. “I will if you want me to, Sir.”

  “You ever have one before? I didn’t see you with one in the other pictures you showed me, from before.” That had been something Connor couldn’t get out of his mind, the memory of the feel of Douglas’ beard against his flesh when they’d kissed that day.

  “No, Sir. That was more of a ‘my life has completely and utterly fallen apart and something’s gotta give so I’m not shaving’ look than a deliberate fashion statement.”

  “Ah.” He trailed kisses along Douglas’ forehead. “Maybe I shouldn’t ask that of you, then. I don’t want bad memories for you.”

  “It’s not…bad memories. It was literally I only had so many brain cells and energy, and anything I had to spare I spent on Zee.”

  Looking at old pictures had been something Connor had done while helping him unpack, paging through a photo album from one of the boxes.

  He couldn’t help but notice the solemn melancholy, the smile that never reached Douglas’ eyes in any of the pictures taken of him while in the priesthood.

  In the pictures with Mackie, however, he did smile more authentically, except while it reached his eyes, he still looked…subdued.

  Or maybe that was
just wishful and selfish thinking on his own part.

  “I’ll think on it some more,” Connor said, snuggling in. “Doesn’t have to be settled right now. Love you, Douglas.”

  “Love you, too, Master.”

  “You can call me by my name when I step us back.”

  “I don’t want to,” Douglas softly said.

  It was his tone more than anything that made Connor open his eyes and look at him.

  Douglas was staring him in the eyes, meeting him with a sure and steady gaze.

  “Why not?”

  “Because I belong to you. If I feel I need to use your name, I will. I want my default mode to be your boy. Unless, you know, dad mode engaged. Obviously.”

  “Obviously.”

  With his fingers, Douglas traced lazy circles along Connor’s chest, his abs. “I’m yours.” He sort of shrugged. “It’s all I want to be, it’s what I’m happiest being, and it’s what I spent a lot of time wishing I had been.”

  “We wouldn’t have the girls if you hadn’t left.”

  “Probably not.” He met Connor’s gaze again. “And it’s why I do give thanks every day. For Zee and Kayleigh and you. I won’t lie and say I don’t think maybe it was God’s greater plan, because I’m not allowed to lie to you. Do I think God made me do it? No. Do I think God killed Mackie? No. Bad things happen to good people, and even though I personally feel guilty for her death, my logical brain is working on trying to help me through that grief.

  “But I think maybe God had His hand on gently steering me on a path that would lead me back to you eventually. Or at least leave me open to returning, and maybe even leave you open to taking me back. I could have stayed up there, tried to find a better-paying job or a cheaper apartment, or even moved in with someone as their roommate. I could have chosen not to ask Doyle if I could call him and talk when I saw him online on Facebook that night a few weeks ago. I could have not been on Facebook in the middle of the night in the first place. He could have chosen just to listen and lend an ear and not thought about me when the job opening happened. He could have not asked Niall if Etsu would be willing to babysit for another child.