by Wayward Ink
Now that someday would never come, and Trace found himself mourning the loss of it just as he’d mourned the loss of his childhood home. Shoving his hands into his pockets, he realized he’d left everything behind. Wallet, birth certificate, clothes—how the hell was he going to prove he was allowed to work when he wouldn’t even be able to prove who he was? And what work would he find without any skills?
Dejected, Trace paused and leaned against the wall, watching the streaks of red and white as the cars zipped by and disappeared into the darkness. Hot tears dripped down his cold cheeks as he huddled miserably. Why had Finn chosen now to do this? Why not in the beginning when it wouldn’t have hurt so much?
THE CHAINS RATTLED as Finn gathered them, the sound sending shivers up Trace’s spine. Trace shifted his stance, sucking in a breath as Finn deliberately shook the chains, and he hardened more.
“You’ve been waiting for this, haven’t you?” Finn asked, his voice already rough with desire.
“Oh yeah,” Trace moaned, trembling in anticipation. Finn circled him, brushing the cold metal against Trace’s shoulder, eliciting a gasp.
Finn snaked the edge of the chain down Trace’s spine, making him moan and toss his head back, allowing Finn to drape it over his shoulder and drag it across his neck.
“Hmmm,” Trace moaned, and he shuddered, his eyes drifting closed. He felt the shock of cold metal along his arm, tickling his ribs as Finn moved in front of him. Finn stroked the chain along Trace’s chest, passing it over a nipple, making Trace squirm.
Finn chuckled low and stepped away.
“Come here,” he barked, and Trace rushed to follow him to the iron rack Finn had welded. “Get in front of it; put your feet where the bars are.”
Trace hurried to get into position, spreading his arms and legs to line up with the bars. The first touch of the chain circling his wrist made him groan, and the chain snaking across his chest, securing his torso to the bar, made him sigh and shiver with delight. By the time his limbs were bound to the rack, there were two bands of chains securing his body and snakes of them coiled around his arms and legs.
“So amazing. God, those chains make you look like one of my statues, all bound in metal. Wish I could give you wings; what a sight you’d make.”
Trace squirmed to feel the metal against his flesh and let out a long, low moan of pleasure.
Finn produced a feather and traced it across Trace’s chest, and Trace closed his eyes at the gentle sensation.
“Leave your eyes closed, or should I blindfold you?”
“I’ll keep them closed,” Trace whined, not wanting Finn to leave him even for a moment.
“Make sure you do,” Finn growled in his ear. “All this stops if you open them.”
Trace shuddered at the feel of the feather running down his spine. Soft touches, the barest whisper of a caress; Trace never knew where the feather would touch next. A brush across his abs made his stomach clench, and he tossed his head, wishing Finn had placed a chain across his throat, but his lover had refused, fearing Trace would hurt himself with the way he flinched and writhed.
“God,” he gasped as the feather seemed to be everywhere at once. Caressing down his cheek, brushing across a nipple, and then God, God, God, trailing down his aching cock.
“Need… need to,” he stammered, his whole body tense, the chains holding him tight, digging in like a lover’s hands.
“Not yet,” Finn growled, and Trace froze, bit the inside of his lip, and pictured severed heads and worm-filled corpses to take his mind off the pleasure for a bit. It helped when Finn stopped touching him, and it was torture, too, to hear those footsteps echo, knowing Finn was moving away.
Trace shivered, half in anticipation and half because the sweat on his body was growing cold. Something buzzed, loud and insistent, by his ear and Trace jerked, startled by the realization that Finn must have stripped, or at least taken off his boots, in order to return soundlessly.
“Open up.”
Trace did, and felt the smooth plastic of the vibrator slide between his lips.
“You know where this is going.”
Trent moaned and sighed around the pulsing toy, ready and eager.
“God, yeah,” he groaned when Finn slowly slid the toy inside him, seating it fully.
“Clench down and keep it there; don’t let it fall out.”
“Mmmm,” Trace moaned as the feather returned to add to his torment and the vibrator buzzed, buzzed, buzzed, pressed against his sweet spot in a way that had him struggling against the chains, moans and pleas spilling from his lips.
“More, Finn, please, oh God, MORE!”
Finn ran the tip of the feather from Trace’s throat to the tip of his cock, then brushed the hard, weeping member with soft caresses before dropping to his knees and swallowing Trace’s full length. That was all it took to trip him headlong into orgasm.
Lights, spots. He heard Finn’s snarled oath as he stroked himself to completion, and was grateful for the chains holding him up.
“I fuckin’ love you,” Finn groaned, one hand on Trace’s thigh to steady himself even as he picked up the vibrator from the floor and turned it off.
Trace floated, weightless and unable to catch himself, as Finn undid the chains. He heard Finn’s grunt as he steadied Trace in his arms, carrying him to the makeshift bed in the corner. Warm cloth was followed by warm arms, and Trace sank into oblivion.
FINN HAD INSISTED that Trace should have a day off from the warehouse, despite Trace’s protests that if there was work to be done, Trace should be there, working right beside him. In the end, no amount of pleading had been able to sway Finn, who’d pressed him to the wall and kissed him senseless before heading out the door.
Trace found himself uncertain what to do in the empty house. They kept it tidy, so there was little to pick up, though he did start a load of laundry.
He swept the kitchen, too; mopped and vacuumed the rest of the house for good measure, then decided to dust because there was enough of a layer on the TV to write messages in. He was still bored again before noon, and not really hungry since the tasks he’d done hadn’t been enough to build up a sweat.
In the end, he’d flopped on the couch with a sketch pad and got back to work on his latest design. He’d found that little metal aliens were kind of cute and inspiring to him. Not the stuff of movies, but the kind that looked like googly-eyed creatures with antennas popping up out of their heads. The stereo was on a good radio station, and as long as they didn’t start talking, he figured he was set. The scratch of pencil on paper was almost hypnotic, and he soon found himself chewing his lower lip as he focused on the design.
Late in the afternoon, the phone rang, jarring Trace out of the rabbit hole he’d tumbled down. Several pages lay on the floor beside him, covered with new ideas and quirky characters he couldn’t wait to fool around with in his spare time. A quick glance at the number on the caller ID told him it wasn’t Finn, so he let the answering machine get it, uncertain if Finn would want him to answer it.
The message that followed put all thoughts of drawing out of Trace’s mind and he found himself frozen, unable to think, unable to move, unable to feel anything besides heavy, constricting fear. He must have lost track of time, because the next thing he knew the lock was turning and cool air was rushing in, along with the scent of rain, as Finn shoved the door open. Trace glanced at the clock and frowned. It was two hours past the time they normally got home.
He hadn’t realized how late it had become. That was a good thing, because if he had, he’d have been more worried about Finn than he already was, and he wasn’t certain his heart could handle the additional stress. He remembered those first few minutes after the call, when panic and little black spots had started to close in. How he’d managed not to pass out, he didn’t know. He was just grateful that Finn was home now.
Finn greeted him with a smile, something that was usually enough to send Trace to his knees, slinking across the floor to
greet him, but not today. Today he sat still, arms wrapped around his chest as Finn approached him, a wrapped package in his hands.
“Not going to greet me with a kiss?” Finn tsked, cocking his head. “I don’t know; maybe you don’t want what I’ve got for you.”
Trace tried to smile, he really did, but with so much weighing on his mind, he knew he’d barely managed to make the corners of his mouth lift.
“You’re gonna be smiling a lot more than that when you see what’s in here,” Finn remarked as he crowded into Trace’s space on the couch and pressed the package into his hands.
He looked proud of himself, Trace thought as he traced his finger along a seam of the wrapping paper.
“Go on, open it.”
Trace licked his upper lip and tugged at the corner of the wrapping, hesitant and wanting to talk to Finn first.
“Open. It.”
Finn’s whole demeanor had changed—gone stern, insistent—and Trace found himself complying before he could make his lips form words. Once the paper was removed, he lifted the lid of the package to see an ornate metal collar lying on tissue paper.
“Let me put it on you; I’ve been dying to see it against your skin all day,” Finn growled.
Trace touched the smooth metal, still a little warm from the torch that had created it, and jumped when he saw the antique-style padlock that lay in the box beside it. Suddenly, the implications were very, very real, and Trace felt his breathing pick up as memories of the afternoon call came flooding back. It was too much, and he shoved the box into Finn’s lap and bolted to his feet.
“No, I-I can’t, I just can’t, I-I-I have to go,” Trace stammered, backing away from Finn’s look of shock.
He turned, and before he could give any more thought to it, he rushed out into the rain, Finn’s voice bellowing for him to stop ringing in his ears as he ran away.
CRUMPLING, TRACE FELL to the ground in a heap and huddled against the wall, giving in to the urge to sob. Warm hands slid around him and Trace let out a cry of shock and outrage as he tried to thrash away.
“Shh. It’s me,” Finn crooned. “It’s just me.”
“No!” Trace snapped, trying again to move, to fight, but Finn’s grip was like an impenetrable trap.
“Tell me why you ran from me,” Finn pleaded. “What did I do wrong?”
“You’re leaving,” Trace blurted. “I heard the call on the machine, confirming the date and time and all that shit for your trip to St. Louis. You’re leaving, you’re going on a train, and you bring home a collar, smiling like… like you’re gonna come back and have it mean something, but it won’t, ’cause you won’t come back and that’s all I’ll have to remember you by. It’ll be back to the streets for me, and I didn’t finish school and I don’t have any skills and I left my wallet, so now I don’t even have my ID, and I’m so stupid ’cause I—”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, stop!” Finn demanded, taking hold of Trace’s shoulders and shaking him gently. “Where is all this coming from? What makes you think I would leave you and not come back? Christ, Trace, I love you. How many times, how many ways, do I have to show it?”
Heavy silence filled the air between them, pregnant with so many unspoken words. Trace’s throat grew tight the way it always did when he considered saying the words back.
“Talk to me?” Finn whispered, the desperation in his tone like the lash of a whip across Trace’s heart. “Please.”
The stormy, gray eyes, always so cool, so calm, so controlled, were brimming over with unshed tears. It seemed wrong for Finn to look that way, especially because of him.
“I just… I can’t do it again. I can’t let you promise me forever when I know it’s going to end.”
“Everything ends,” Finn said gently. “I know you’re thinking about what happened to your parents. I can’t imagine how painful it was to lose them, but, Trace, that was a freak accident. It was unpredictable and unpreventable and the chances of it happening again are slim. You’d have a better chance of being struck by lightning twice in a single day.”
Trace brushed at his tears, knowing he was being irrational, but it was still too raw. He was unwilling to heap another loss on top of it.
“I want you to wear my collar because you’re mine and I love you and I want the whole world to know we’re together. I wanted you to have it before the trip because I intended for you to come with me to the trade show and I wanted other men to have a constant reminder that you’re off-limits.”
“But….”
“No buts!”
Trace curled in on himself, unwilling to look at Finn.
“Do you love me?” Finn asked, his voice ragged, his entire body coiled as if he feared Trace’s answer.
“Yes.”
“Then let me put the collar on you and come with me to St. Louis. See for yourself that it’s safe and you’re not going to be left behind. Or forget the collar and just come back home where you belong. Just please, Trace…. Goddammit, I’m begging you. I love you; don’t leave me.”
Harsh breathing, heated stares as they peered into each other’s souls.
“I do love you,” Trace managed, swallowing hard. “I do. I love you.”
It felt so good to say those words again, to have someone with whom he felt completely safe.
“Then stay, and don’t ever run away from me again,” Finn begged. “Stay with me, please, Trace… stay.”
It was hard to speak, with the way his throat constricted. The pain, the want, the desire, and the hope in Finn’s words made Trace feel sorry he’d hurt and scared him by running away. He never wanted to hurt this man who’d rescued him from a dumpster and not only given him a home but love, too. Nor did he ever want to find himself lost and alone again. He wanted to stay, he wanted the collar and Finn, he wanted Finn surrounding him, drowning him, controlling him, and loving him for every moment they were allowed.
“I-I’ll stay. I love you and I’ll stay and I’ll go with you to St. Louis,” Trace proclaimed, clutching Finn tight. “Proudly wearing your collar the entire way.”
LAYLA DORINE lives among the sprawling prairies of Midwestern America, in a house with more cats than people. She loves hiking, fishing, swimming, martial arts, camping out, photography, cooking, and dabbling with several artistic mediums. In addition, she loves to travel and visit museums, historic, and haunted places.
Layla got hooked on writing as a child, starting with poetry and then branching out, and she hasn’t stopped writing since. Hard times, troubled times, the lives of her characters are never easy, but then what life is? The story is in the struggle, the journey, the triumphs and the falls. She writes about artists, musicians, loners, drifters, dreamers, hippies, bikers, truckers, hunters and all the other folks that she’s met and fallen in love with over the years. Sometimes she writes urban romance and sometimes its aliens crash landing near a roadside bar. When she isn’t writing, or wandering somewhere outdoors, she can often be found curled up with a good book and a kitty on her lap.
Layla Dorine can be found at:
Facebook:https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100005197938547&fref=ts
Twitter: https://twitter.com/layladorine
Pinterest: http://www.pinterest.com/layladorine/
Website: http://rainbowlyricsandmellowmushrooms.blogspot.com.au/
“I NEED A FAVOR.”
“Sure. What do you need?”
“I need a Dom for Michael.”
Jackson stared at his friend, unsure of what to think. Why on earth would Paul need a Dom for his sub? They had been together for a few years already, and to Jackson they seemed to be a stable couple.
“Why?”
Paul paused, pursing his lips.
“Is everything okay?”
“Yes.” The answer came after long seconds that made Jackson doubt its sincerity.
“So why do you need me then? I assume you want me to fill the role and not to give you recommendations….”
“I want you. Yo
u’re the only one I trust.”
“Okay. Trust me for what?”
As he awaited Paul’s answer, Jackson searched his friend’s face. Paul looked tired, dark circles marring the skin above his cheeks. His pupils seemed large, the white of his eyes bloodshot and red.
“He needs something different.”
“Something or someone?”
Paul clenched his teeth, a muscle twitching in jaw. His gaze drifted away from Jackson to stare into the distance. “Something.”
“Okay. Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why does he need something else?”
“It’s a fantasy, all right? Nothing more.”
“And what does this fantasy entail?”
“No safe word. Anything goes.”
At first, Jackson thought he had trouble hearing. Blood froze in his veins at the enormity of that suggestion. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me. No safe word.”
“No.”
“Jackson, please.”
“No. Have you lost your fucking mind?”
Why, oh why, did it have to be this? While he understood the appeal the idea held for some people, Jackson was wary of those who asked this. There were few who really meant it, and they were usually very careful to whom they proposed it. The rest of them—in his experience—were either too new to the scene to know better or had been lucky to have stumbled upon a reliable Dom. And, of course, there were those who didn’t care anymore and used the play just to feel or, even worse, to try and hurt themselves without holding their own noose. Jackson prayed like hell Michael wasn’t one of the latter.
“And why the hell aren’t you giving him this? You’re his partner,” he demanded furiously.
“He doesn’t want it from me.”
All sorts of questions rolled through Jackson’s head. A Dom who had lost the trust of his sub? It wasn’t unheard of, but it was rare. It usually involved a serious misstep from the Dom, especially in the case of well-established couples. Something bad enough to break the bond of trust built over months and months of playing together. And for most D/s relationships, trust ran pretty deep.