by Jay Ellison
“No,” I said with a little flush to my cheeks. Even after months of being together—being his courtier, his lover, his sub—he could still make me blush like a schoolboy. “It doesn’t hurt. And I like it sometimes when you use force.” I hesitated to add the last. “You know, when you force me.”
He considered that. “Sometimes I worry I don’t know my own strength.”
It was my turn to take his hands. “I loved last night,” I told him honestly. “I can’t wait to do it again with you.”
That seemed to relieve his tension. “No regrets?”
I thought about that. “Maybe one. I wish Mr. Martín had been there. I would have loved to play with you both.”
He nodded but didn’t elaborate on that, even though it was a clear opening to tell me why Mr. Martín had been thrown out of the Dollhouse. Instead, he added, “How about Sasha? Any regrets there?”
“Absolutely none. We have a date planned for next week. We’re going to talk about baby things…I mean, assuming she is pregnant, that is.” I was really pumped about our “date.” I liked the fact that Sasha wasn’t cutting me out now that I’d done what I had promised her. She really wanted me a part of this, and that left me feeling flattered and honored. The more I thought about it, the more excited I became over the prospect of Sasha having a baby. I mean, it wouldn’t legally be my baby, but Sasha had reassured me that I could be involved in the child’s life, if I chose to be.
He nodded at my answer. Then he reached into an inside pocket of his sports jacket and whipped out a square, flat box. It looked like a jewelry box, and that made me nervous—I loved the collar he had given me, but I just didn’t feel right about accepting expensive gifts from him, otherwise. “You shouldn’t,” I said, touching the beautiful sterling silver collar my throat. “This is everything I want.”
“It wasn’t expensive. Open it,” he urged.
I was relieved to find a small but elegantly tooled leather diary inside, along with what looked like a gold-plated pen. Some of the pages were blank, but some were also designed to hold music notation.
Byron quickly explained, “I thought it might help with your music. And your thoughts, too.”
“It’s really beautiful,” I said, admiring the work that had obviously gone into it. I sort of doubted it “wasn’t expensive.”
“And there’s something else.”
I looked up.
The lust and desire was back in his eyes. “When you go home tonight, I would like you to write down your most intimate fantasy and then share it with me. But it has to be one you wouldn’t share with anyone but me.” He hesitated and took my hand and brought it to his lips for a tender kiss before adding, “You’ve fulfilled my greatest fantasy, Timothy. Now, I want to fulfill yours.”
* * *
CHAPTER TEN
The ride in the van seemed to take forever. Or maybe that was just my perception of time. My low-grade panic came and went. Sometimes I thought it would overwhelm me. Other times, it seemed distant, like something that couldn’t quite touch me. But then it would crest again, and I would need to talk myself down mentally by reminding myself that I had asked for this. My greatest fantasy come true.
* * *
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Our last stop of the evening was at a goth club in downtown SoHo. It was way bigger than the dives that The Long October played in and totally sick! A converted church, the ceilings went all the way up into flying buttresses, which had the added effect of bouncing the sounds of the live industrial band on the stage all over the place, making the music sound as if it was coming from every direction.
The lights were low and everyone was wearing black light or carrying glow sticks they were waving around as they danced and sweated on the floor. “I really brought you here to catch the band,” Byron explained. “But if you want to dance…” He indicated the lighted floor that reminded me of something out of Saturday Night Fever.
“Of course I want to dance with you!” I said, louder than usual to be heard over the crashing music.
He laughed nervously, looking around. “I think I’m a bit long in the tooth for this crowd.”
“You look pretty young enough to me. I promise not to tell anyone that you’re this big corporate guy.” We both laughed at that, and I took him by the hands and led him to a fairly open place on the floor where we were less likely to crash into the other couples twerking like crazy. It was fun to lead him for once. We danced to a couple of Sisters of Mercy covers, but, toward the end, Byron looked tired and a little uncomfortable. I could tell he wasn’t really a club guy, that he was doing this for me. I kept forgetting that, despite being young, he was really and truly a corporate powerhouse and a gentleman. That was more his scene.
“I’ll let you off the hook. Could you get us something to drink?”
“Of course.”
A guy my age asked me to dance with him while Byron was off ordering at the bar. Eventually, he brought our drinks back and we drifted to one of the tables up in the loft area to rest and rehydrate. “Want to go again?” I asked when I had finished noisily sucking down my chartreuse drink.
He waved me on. “I’ll watch. Go have fun!”
I went back down and danced with a couple of real riot grrrls. Since there were three of us, it looked more like one of those crazy British country dances, but we still had fun. Then another cute goth guy full of facial piercings came up and asked me to dance. This time, though, while we were down on the floor, he started feeling me up in subtle and “accidental” ways.
“You’re really hot. Do you maybe want to go somewhere and party in private?” he asked.
I told him no, but he insisted on another dance. We finished, and I decided I needed to rehydrate again, but before I could get to the foot of the metal stairs leading to the loft, the goth guy grabbed me by the arm. “Don’t go, gorgeous. I want another dance.” He laughed a little drunkenly.
That’s when Byron appeared. And I mean appeared. Totally out of nowhere. He was just there, standing behind the guy, grabbing him by the collar of the jacket. His face was dark. His eyes were dark. I almost didn’t recognize him for a moment. “He said no. Now back off!” he shouted in that electrifying baritone of his.
His tone of voice, combined with his size, sent the guy running like a little rabbit. I found it a bit extreme.
“I could have handled that,” I said, turning to him with a little more force than I had intended. “He was just drunk, Byron. I’m not a club noob, you know!”
“He had his hands all over you,” Byron said, sounding irritable. Then he spat out, “Arschloch!” in the guy’s general direction (along with some serious spit, because, you know, German). The riot grrrls looked over, suddenly concerned, and I saw a bouncer move uncertainly away from the wall.
I could have gotten really mad, but I had a feeling this was coming from some other place, a dark place I had never seen into before. A fucking black abyss into his soul. I put a hand on his arm. That seemed to calm whatever beast had awakened inside him. “Byron…let’s go.”
He didn’t apologize on the drive back to my apartment, but I could tell he had been pretty well reprimanded by my reaction and was feeling ashamed of himself. I started feeling bad about that, but I wasn’t sure what to say. I mean, his reaction had been a little over the top, and I think he deserved what I’d given him, but I didn’t want to make more of an issue out of it than it was. God, I didn’t want our date ending on a bad note!
Before I got out of the car, I slipped into his lap, wrapped my arms around his neck, and started kissing him. I liked that he melted against me, that he became all soft and kitten-y. I was slaying the beast with that kiss, and, before long, we were making out like a couple of silly teenagers. It was really nice. I always enjoyed making out with him, kissing and petting, our hands going everywhere and nowhere at the same time.
Before I got out, I rested my forehead against his and said, “It�
�s okay, Byron. I forgive you.”
* * *
CHAPTER TWELVE
I couldn’t see anything past the tinted windows, but when the van finally came to a stop, I had the perception of some kind of large, enclosed space. I waited, my heart ticking and tocking in my chest like a runaway clock.
The heavy van doors were thrown open and light that I knew was probably weak but seemed bright after all the darkness hit me full in the face. My captors stood there, shadowy and faceless with the sallow, orangey light of some kind of underground parking lot behind them. They were talking in Spanish to one another, which made the panic crest again.
It wasn’t that I didn’t recognize their voices. It wasn’t that I didn’t trust the two men whose voices I was listening to—because I did, I trusted them with my very life—but the Spanish put this bleak and powerful barrier between us and made them seem foreign and dangerous to me, like two men who might do anything. I thought of South American drug cartels in crime movies, and a shiver went up my spine as they reached for me. Part of that was fear, but I was quickly recognizing another part of me that was reacting to the taboo nature of what we were doing.
They were anything but gentle as they dragged me from the van and onto the hard concrete floor of the parking garage. My breath actually puffed out of me when I dropped to the floor like a flour sack. I half rolled so I was on my back and could see them better—and a low moan escaped my lips from behind the gag.
The entire parking garage was empty of both people and vehicles. We were the only ones here, and both men standing in front of me were dressed in pristine black suits, their hair slicked back. It gave them both a lean, dangerous, Mafioso vibe I found myself responding to on a wholly primal level. As they crowded around me, I discovered I was afraid. Afraid…and suddenly so aroused I wondered if they could tell.
Maybe they could, because they smirked as they looked at me, and Sir rattled off something in Spanish as he removed his sunglasses. It sounded particularly lascivious.
Master didn’t wear sunglasses, but his eyes were cold and lustful, all the same. When I started to struggle to sit up, he crouched down and wagged his finger in my face, saying something in Spanish that sounded like both a warning and a promise. My panic edged up a notch, along with my arousal. I wasn’t really trying to fight or get loose. My body just did its own thing, struggling until Master wrapped his big hand around my throat and pinned me to the floor. He barked commands at me, but I turned this way and that anyway.
Struggling won’t help, I thought. Telling them no won’t help.
We had agreed to this. I had written down my fantasy and surrendered it to Master, to be carried out at a time of his choosing. That time was now.
Sir crouched down near my head and helped Master restrain me. I liked that he was here, a part of this. It was the one element that had kept my experience at the Dollhouse from being absolutely perfect. He grabbed my bound wrists and pinned them above my head. Master used the sheer weight of his body to hold me down. They were powerfully built men—lean but muscular. Even were I not bound, I knew there would be no way to free myself. There was no escaping what they wanted. What they planned to do to me tonight.
Sir made tutting noises and increased the pressure against my wrists. Master steadied my writhing legs with one hand while, with the other, he drew a truly terrifying-looking switchblade from his jacket pocket. My heart immediately went from a stutter to a full-on gallop in my chest.
The light of the parking garage glimmered off the wicked-looking blade. Master hesitated a moment. I could tell he was reading me, deciding whether my panic was real or part of the play. Waiting to see if I would stop our play with a few rapid blinks of the eye. I grew very still beneath him, breathed very hard, waited for him to decide how much I could endure.
He did. He knew me so well. Eyes hard and merciless like hard blue stones in his handsome, rugged face, he leaned down, the blade brushing my collarbone, and spoke the first words of English into my ear. “This is going to happen whether you fight or not. Whether you scream or not. Your boy pussy is ours, little slut.”
And just like that, we were both back in the play.
His words frightened me, excited me, and aroused me all at once. I had never felt anything like this—to be utterly powerless and at someone else’s complete mercy. To have no choice but to be used however they chose. It was the deepest—maybe the darkest—fantasy I had ever had.
Sir said something approvingly in Spanish. Of course, he had no doubts in me. He knew exactly how much I could take. We hadn’t known each other for long—only a few weeks, in fact—but he had this impeccable judgment where I was concerned. He knew what I liked, what I could handle, almost better than Master himself. He was a formidable Dom—a very experienced gentleman. And he enjoyed pushing my boundaries.
First Master deftly cut my gag away. I breathed big gulps of air like I had been drowning. Spit had dried and crusted over my mouth and chin. I knew I would likely scream at some point, and the fact that I would and it would do nothing to stop this only make me harder still. Master didn’t hesitate in his work. He didn’t free my wrists, of course, but he did cut the hemp binding my ankles before bringing the incredibly sharp blade up to my chin again.
My breathing turned to harsh gasps. I listened to it. It was the loudest sound in this underground place.
Master cut the buttons off my black dress shirt. It was one of my favorites, with some awesome roses and skulls embroidered on the back, but I didn’t care. All I could do was watch him rip my shirt open before running his cool hand over my sweating chest and abs. My skin goose-pimpled where he touched me. I trembled so hard for him, my whole body writhed in need and anticipation.
“He likes it, the pretty little slut,” Sir said, surprising me with English. ”We’ve chosen well.”
Master grinned hungrily. “We’ll see how he likes it when we’re both inside him at once.”
His words only made the thrilling fear intensify, and I found myself struggling beneath him once more. “No,” Master commanded in a voice so low it was almost dangerously demonic-sounding, then followed through with a surprisingly sharp slap to the hardness in my jeans. The blow shocked me to the core—not the pain, but the suddenness of it. In all the months we had played, all the things we had done, Master had never struck me with his hand. The most I had ever gotten was a light tap of the crop he liked to use on me to correct my posture or direct me into some position. I groaned as I experienced this side of him. A side I had never seen until now.
The blow was disorienting and I found myself lying unusually still while he ripped at my jeans, tearing them down off my legs while Sir applied yet more pressure—a hand to my bound wrists, holding me in place. Not hurting, but not letting me move, either. I shivered and my cock slapped with embarrassing hardness against my lower belly as Master de-pantsed me. I moaned and found myself looking up into Sir’s handsome, devilish upside down face while Master went about sliding his strong, sure fingers up the insides of my thighs.
They went back to speaking in Spanish, but even though they were speaking a language I knew very little of—I mean, I knew a few words here and there from living with Jesus, my Hispanic roommate—I could follow their meaning and the general gist of what they were saying pretty well. Sir was commenting approvingly on my anatomy. Master was calling me his pet, his dog, his little bitch in heat.
I gasped at the sheer, devastating aggression of his words. With Sir using all his strength to restrain me, Master was free to force my legs apart and use first his fingers, and then his tongue, to explore every part of me. His tongue traced quick circles around my most sensitive parts before he grabbed me at the knees and pinned them nearly to my ears. That opened me up fully to him, and he grunted and inclined his head, his tongue following my perineum to my little, aching hole. He ground his spongy, rough tongue against me like a ravenous dog. I cried out, which earned me another sharp slap to my now bare
cock.
The powerful impact drove a thin web of precum from my hard, swaying dick, and soon I was covered in my own excitement. I bit back a new cry, afraid of what further punishment awaited. Master said nothing about my little accident and went back to lapping ravenously between my legs until he had softened my opening and built up such wetness that I could feel it trickling between my legs.
I gasped and panted, on the very edge of hyperventilating.
“Is he wet?” Sir asked, his voice a low male growl deliberately close to my ear. It sent new shivers over my scalp and down my back. “I want him good and wet for when he dances on my big, fat cock.”
Master let out a low, animal-like growl of his own. “The little slut is mine. I go first.”
“Are you so sure?” Sir asked, leaning over me so he was practically nose to nose with Master. The two faced off like a pair of alpha wolves fighting for mating privileges. I had no idea if they were serious or just playing, but the conflict only ramped up my own lust. I was so cranked, I could already feel an orgasm building in the small of my back.
After a few moments, Sir laughed. “Go ahead. You will open him up for my much more impressive cock.”
Master grunted with derision at that, then smiled. I should have known that even in conflict, they adored each other. He quickly switched his attention back to me. Leaning between my legs, his eyes caught and held mine while he braced himself against my chest with one hand and his other disappeared beneath me. Two of his fingers found my opening and pressed against it, hard, popping inside, quickly but shallowly. I jumped at the invasion, but he quickly withdrew his fingers. “Wet. Tight. Just the way I like my sweet little bitches.”
I moaned low in my throat.
“You like that, little bitch in heat?” He held my eyes with a feral glare while he entered me again, harder this time, his fingers sinking inside so quickly, so deeply, that I cried out and my whole body lurched at the sensation. He buried his fingers to the knuckles inside my body, making me writhe and fight.