by Adira August
The soft, secret voice was back. "Commando's a pretty slutty choice for a dick as big as this one." He began long slow strokes. My hands went numb; my legs shook. "You must want it whipped." He sucked the lobe of my ear between his teeth and bit down, steadily increasing the pressure until I whimpered at the pain. Yes, please. Oh, yes.
Cam stepped back from me so suddenly I stumbled. Saliva dripped down my chin. My erection, red and wet, stuck up for the perusal of the crowd. My pants slid down, caught by my ass in back, hanging open in front.
I'd been posing nude since before I got on the job. Hundreds of assistants, make-up people and hangers-on had seen my naked body. But this wasn't a studio. This was my slickened cock, cooled by the air and drooping under the weight of avid scrutiny, for the entertainment of the collective.
Cam turned his back on me and returned to the couch. He picked up his drink from the coffee table and took a long pull. Exchanged a few words with a minion. Laughed.
My knees were still slightly bent, since he never told me I could straighten, but the burning in my legs was nothing to the torment of my humiliation.
Cam looked from me to the audience openly gaping at my limp member. His lips curved in a satisfied little smirk. My dick twitched and, to my horror, I felt myself lengthen again under his enjoyment of my mortification. An excited murmuring around me, like wind soughing through dried leaves.
I was getting hard, fighting back tears, and immobilized by his indifference.
The Last Exit
He means it, Cam thought. Joy welled up in him. He suppressed it and reached behind the couch for his gym bag. He grabbed the baby wipes before he carried the bag back to Hunter.
The wipes were thick and soft, damp and fragrant. His body again a shield against the gaping crowd, Cam cleaned Hunter's sticky penis, wiping and stroking.
It was a beautiful cock. Thick without being fat, longer than average, but not donkey-like at all. Mostly straight, he was uncircumcised, his foreskin a soft muffler for his glans. When Cam was satisfied that Hunter was thoroughly rigid, needing and suffering, he tucked him in and closed his pants.
The crowd sighed disappointment until he did what they had never seen him do. He put his arms around Hunter Dane, whose head was down, chin almost on his chest in ignominy more than submission. Cam pulled him close and nuzzled his cheek.
"Put your arms around me, Hunter," Cam told him quietly, ruffling his hair and hugging him closer. Hunter raised arms that seemed laden with invisible weights and tentatively circled Cam's waist. Cam's arms tightened; Hunter groaned softly and clutched Cam to himself. Cam tilted his hips so their erections rubbed together through the layers of cloth and was rewarded with a low rumble of pleasure.
Holding him, stroking him, Cam touched his lips to Hunter's ear. He spoke without force. "There are no limits. You have no safeword. You do nothing I do not order. I don't stop until I'm done." He repositioned his arms around Hunter's chest, lifting Hunter's arms up and over his shoulders, the dark head resting in the hollow of Cam’s shoulder.
"You have one chance to walk away. Once I restrain you, nothing and no one can or will rescue you. I am all there is." Cam released him. "Straighten up."
Hunter obeyed and Cam pulled an adjustable yoke from his bag. He screwed the pieces together in front of Hunter, wanting him to see, to anticipate his helplessness. It was a high quality yoke, flattened and padded, it curved slightly over the cervical vertebrae, sloping and turning to flatten out along the tops of the shoulders.
"Lower your head." Cam lifted the yoke and passed over Hunter's bowed head, laying it across his shoulders. He kept his hands on it. "Look at me."
Hunter Dane obeyed.
"You can duck down and out from under the yoke and it's over. Or, raise your hands and grab the bar at the wrist restraints. Once I attach them, we're through the gate. Do you understand?"
Hunter's arms were moving before Cam finished speaking. He grabbed the bar, moved his hands apart until he felt the restraints. And stilled.
Cam controlled his breathing, walked around his willing captive, carefully not limping. He wondered if the head of his cock could literally split denim wide open. The longer Cam had spoken words meant to warn and heighten anxiety, the calmer Hunter had become. The man was intoxicating. This man.
No one had ever done what Hunter Dane had just done. Everyone hesitated. Every. One. Cam realized the surrender, as he thought of it, was something Hunter Dane had hungered for. As much as I’ve hungered for him.
For the first time, Cam felt he wasn't alone, doing to. Instead, an odd kind of equality had been established. Not a sub topping from the bottom, but a supplicant as powerful in his choice to yield as Cam was in his duty to decide and execute.
He slid a finger across the top edge of the large black tat just visible above the t-shirt and fixed Hunter's strong wrists to the bar. Cam removed his hole-studded leather belt from his jeans, wrapped it once around Hunter's neck and buckled it to the yoke.
Mine.
The Church
It was the largest playroom in the club, housing a variety of St. Andrew's crosses. A classic wooden X. A frame of metal bars with many cross-bars. A spiderweb of rope stretched from and across support beams. But as large and impressive as these devices were, the Angle Angel dominated the space.
The modified cross was the stage for many a performance piece - the silver extensions glimmered under special lighting Chez had mounted over it. Spectators found standing room inside or peered through actual stained glass windows a Dom would leave open for that purpose.
It wasn't a symmetrical X - the top "V" was wider for arms to spread, the lower part of the V narrower so legs were closer, openings tighter. It was fully upright, now, but the center was hinged. A Dom could easily lower the top after flogging and have the sub in fucking position in seconds. It was a spanking bench or a massage table, the beams studded with metal rings to accommodate a wide variety of restraints.
The Angel was made of neither metal nor wood, but a metal/plastic alloy Hartlines, Inc. guarded zealously. The supports were slightly concave with optional padding. A wide, woven strip supported the head against c-spine injury.
The Angle Angel was a feat of modern erotic engineering - graceful, gleaming, enticing. And impossible to escape.
Hunter
Chez waited by the open doors to the Church, openly panting at the sight of me tethered to the yoke. Chez had long lusted after Cam, who ignored him and led me inside.
Walking, moving, had made it easier to deal with the anxiety of not knowing, and knowing. I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding when when Cam left everyone outside and dropped the big wooden bar across the doors. He checked the windows himself, making sure they were locked. A rush of gratitude brought tears to my eyes.
What the fuck? Just focus on Cam …
He stopped in front of the Angel and removed a thick, folded towel from his bag. He dropped it on the floor next to the device.
"If I tell you to kneel, use that. And unless I tell you otherwise, look at me at all times."
He moved to the prie-dieu, a modified prayer kneeler used for creative penance. But instead of ordering me onto it, he used it as a valet stand as he stripped off. He didn't give me a performance; he simply removed his clothes.
They say Michelangelo employed workmen and stonecutters as models, and the lean well-muscled torsos in his works confirm it. But Cam wasn't David, slender and sharply cut. Cam was the Dying Slave - solid like living stone, smoothly sculpted, strong columns of thighs. This was a body with the strength to hold me up and the power to bring me down.
Once he was nude, he considered me for while, like a complex math problem he was solving in his head. He walked slowly around me and stopped in front.
Cam had big hands, strong fingers. He placed his palms flat in the center of my chest and … felt me. Up along my shoulders, down over my chest and abs, around my waist and up my sides. His hands roughened, warm and … shit … the length
of his body pressed to mine as he worked his way under my shirt, smoothed over my skin around to my back, ran up and down, firmly and … Fingertips in the long groove of my spine pressed me into him harder. Jesus, it felt ... my eyes closed.
I couldn't breathe - my eyes flew open. Cam had one finger under the belt around my neck, twisting; he lasered me with merciless eyes. I nodded, pleaded with a silently mouthed "Please, sir."
He waited another long moment and let go. "I didn't tell you to beg. If you speak to me, you use my name. Assert yourself again and you'll be unconscious on the floor."
I didn't do breath play, too many bodies in the real world hanging from their closet poles by their belts. A stupid way to die. An easy way to die. Cam wasn't playing. He didn’t want to hear me plead and wasn't trying to arouse me. Or himself. I didn't doubt his promise to choke me into unconsciousness.
... nothing and no one can or will rescue you. I am all there is.
Now, I understood.
He used a box cutter to strip away my t-shirt. He removed the rest of my clothes and tossed them toward the prie-dieu. Then he touched me again. He ran his hands over my body, everywhere. I kept my eyes on him, as much as possible. His fingertips outlined the panther that prowled across my shoulders, the neck curving over my right shoulder, the gold-green predator eyes staring out from my pec. Cam brushed his fingers along every part of it, as if he were painting it indelibly into my flesh. And then his hands were on my thighs and ass, between my legs, up my spine - a blind man memorizing a sculpture.
He aroused me with expertise and confidence, my body an instrument he played. His thumbs slid over my nipples and he nodded when they hardened. His fingers between my legs manipulated me and I trembled trying to stay upright and silent, knees weak, my legs going numb and my bright red cock raging under his ministrations.
He smiled his small, satisfied smile.
"Squat."
I felt awkward and unbalanced with my arms extended, attached to the yoke. But I managed to sink down without falling and settled back on my heels. Squatting, I was used to. In concealment, waiting for SWAT to make an entrance. At a crime scene, examining a body or evidence.
Cam laid out things from the bag on a metal tray table, the hospital kind that could slide under a bed. This one slid under the Angel when it was flat. His body blocked my view and the tabletop was above my head. I heard a thunk of wood on metal. Maybe a flogger handle?
A thrill raced up my spine at the thought of Camden Snow with a flogger in his hand.
Outside the Church at the back of the crowd - a glimpse through an open window - Cam’s upper torso bare and shining with sweat - a naked man spread out on the St. Andrew's cross. Cam's right arm flying back and high, bringing the fall around with smooth power to caress a back already scarlet. A scream, hoarse from repetition. Cam swung the flogger around, switched it to his left hand without a bobble and described a smooth arc, the tails touching the opposite side of the back with grace and precision.
I'd forced myself to move on before the balletic movements hypnotized me and the screams seduced me into one night returning Cam's look.
And now I had. I squatted on the floor between Cam and a flogger and a cross. At the sight of me, his own cock rose.
"Suck me off.”
I duck-walked to him. It wasn't like kneeling. I couldn't just lean forward, counterbalanced by my hands clasped or bound at the small of my back. But squatting with my hands and arms attached to the yoke, all I could do was get as close to him as possible. Too short this way, bent forward, I raised up part way and managed to get my mouth around him.
Hands fisted in my hair, he pulled me onto him and I struggled to keep my balance, but again he moved back and all that held me up were his hands in my hair. I looked up at him as much as possible.
"You're thinking about yourself," he said. "Don't. Drop your jaw, push your tongue out. Lick my sac."
I obeyed him and he slid into me, hitting the back of my throat. Precum, slightly bitter and salty flowed into my mouth.
"Swallow."
I never swallowed. But of course, I did. The back of my tongue stroked hard against his frenulum. His fists tightened, hips flexed. "Sac."
I pushed my tongue out as far as I could, the tip seeking along his raphe for the end of him, breathing through my nose.
All there was for me now was this - his hard hot shaft on my tongue and in my throat. His fists in my hair holding me fast, flexing his pelvis and I reached and felt and tasted him … no threadbare carpets with silky curls of hair glued down by blackened blood … and he was the world. Just Cam, all of Cam in hands and will and sculpted penis. He came in a molten flood and the tip of my tongue slid up and touched the ruffled surface of his sac.
The First Opening
Jesusfuck it doesn’t stop. Cam pumped more thick cum down Hunter Dane's throat than he thought it was possible a human male could hold. Hunter swallowed, his tongue pressed and Cam gushed again. Something between a groan and a growl rumbled in his chest, but he held firm. His feet planted, body tight, he did not shift his weight or allow his knees to move a millimeter.
"Freeze," he said as the orgasm finally subsided. Hunter did so with satisfying alacrity, his tongue stretched along the underside of Cam's dick. Good. He'll hold, he thought. Cam needed time to review his sub’s responses.
"Dane doesn't swallow. He doesn't really submit, either. I'm not sure I'd even call it obedience." The Dom shook his head and took a long pull at his drink while another at the table nodded in agreement. "It's like we're machines he's learned to operate. You know, throw that lever, press this button and out pops a beating for his personal enjoyment."
The other Dom shook his head in Cam's direction. "Yeah, and he makes so much as touching his asshole a hard limit. Forget him. He knows your deal, he's just gonna keep walkin' on by." They were on the deck and he lit a cigarette. "Beautiful, though," he said, squinting through a stream of smoke. "Strong. Supple."
"Like his tattoo came to life," the first Dom agreed. "I had him curled up next to me on the green sofa in the Lounge. Just like a big cat." He looked out at the lights of downtown a few blocks away. "I'd give him the fucking world."
"Yeah. Too bad he's not actually a submissive," the other said.
Cam hooked his fingertips under Hunter's clean jawline. He could feel the big man trembling under his hands, off balance. Vulnerable. Trying to stay still as he'd been told. Suffering for Cam.
Cam's dick had softened, but still lay on Hunter's outstretched tongue, the tip still in Hunter's mouth. Saliva dripped from his chin to the floor.
"I'm going to stand you up now, Hunt."
Cam felt the high sound wrenched from Hunter's throat when he used his name. His cock slipped from its warm berth as he tilted Hunter’s head back, the gray eyes fixed on his own. He's in agony. Not from physical pain or humiliation. Not enough, not yet. The key was the sound he made … when I used his name. And Cam knew that sound was the creak of a locked door starting to give way.
Cam lifted and paused when he had Hunter's face just below his.
"All sounds. All words. Mine." Cam moved over the carotids on either side of Hunter's neck, just behind the angle of his jaw, letting him feel the weight of his fingertips. "I didn't tell you to be quiet, Hunter."
Cam shifted his hands to the sides of Hunter's face, his little fingers still against the carotids, feeling the blood pulse. He pushed Hunter back against the Angel and held him still, lowered his mouth to Hunter's, felt his pulse tripping and racing. Taking Hunter's firm upper lip between his teeth, Cam sucked and licked, moved to the lower. He covered Hunter's mouth with his and twisted, forcing him to open.
"Give me your tongue, Hunt," he breathed and a hoarse choked groan rose from the man Cam pressed against as he obeyed. Yes. Cam sucked him hard and deep into his mouth, scraping with his teeth. His thigh pressed against Hunter's searing erection.
The cop who never submitted moaned into Cam's mouth, panting, almos
t sobbing. Cam released his tongue. Hunter stilled, breathless, mouth open for Cam. As it should be. Cam rubbed his wet lips over Hunter's.
"You want to push your dick against me, Hunter?"
"Yes, s- … yes, Cam," He choked on the name.
"No."
Hunter whimpered.
Cam raised one hand and smoothed a damp shock of rich brown hair back from Hunter's forehead. He slipped two fingers under the belt at his neck and with his other hand, cradled Hunter's head, teasing his lips with his own, Cam whispered. "The next time I kiss you, you'll kiss me back. The way you want. Move as you want. Do as you want. The very next time I kiss you, Hunter."
Cam released, picked up his gym bag and motioned Hunter to follow.
Hunter
What in God's name is he doing to me? I lay against the beam of the Angel for a moment, tears leaking from my eyes into my hair and ears. But I quickly rolled off the device and stumbled after him, my erection slapping back against my belly with every hurried step. I couldn't breathe without him.
Part of me wanted to scream that this was fucked up. In my times at the club, I'd had many things in my mouth. One Dom had me lick the tails of the flogger before he used it. Another shoved his toes into my mouth.
But no one kissed me. Not women or men. No one called me by name, no one … his hands … Jesus, his hands all over me … softening … melting …
No time. I had no time to dwell on it. We were in the bathroom. One toilet and sink in a long room dominated by a steel table, like you'd see in a morgue. I was grateful I had to look at him. He pointed at it.
"On your stomach, feet at this end toward the sink."
He leaned back against the deep counter beside the large sink, arms folded across his chest to watch. The table was hip high. I went to the side and lay across it, the metal cold and smooth against my heated skin. I had to use my knees and legs to wriggle around, get fully situated with my head away from him. I craned around to keep him in sight.