On His Knees

by Adira August

  "Close your eyes. Relax. Tell me when you're soft."

  He meant my dick. The cool table was taking care of that. I heard him moving around. A stream of piss in the toilet. Flushing. Water running. I could smell - soap? I snuck a look through the barest slits of an eyelid. He was using a washcloth on his genitals. A towel waited on the counter.

  "Now," I said.

  "I like to hear a whole sentence, Hunt, you know that." His voice was soft and dangerous.

  "I'm- " Sonofabitch. "I'm soft now, Cam."

  "Good.” Hands. His hands were back on my body. "Eyes closed."

  He turned my head away and pulled me over to the edge of the table close to him. A hand behind my knee raised my leg up toward my chest. I felt the cheeks of my ass part.

  "Breathe," he said. One hand went straight to my buttocks, kneading, exploring. I groaned a protest. His hand left for a moment. Two hands came back, fingers spreading me, other fingers massaging cold lube onto my asshole. My groan became a growl.

  "You have words, Hunt?"

  I shook my head. He would do what he wanted, protest was useless. I wouldn't give him the satisfaction of pleading futilely while he enjoyed my frustration and humiliation. But I couldn't stop the sounds. I hated them because he wanted them, created them. A hand pressed down on my side, and a finger touched my hole.

  The hand left my waist and fingers combed through my hair, as he massaged my ring around and around, pressed in the center, went back to massage. "I'm going to prepare you because I'm going to shove my cock into you later, Hunter. And you really are tight. Rumor is you're a virgin."

  He stopped massaging and pushed a finger against me again. "If you push out, now, it'll be easier for you. If you don't, it's still going to happen. Take a deep breath, let it out slowly and push, like you're taking a dump."

  No fucking way. When I knelt for him, I knew he might do this. But I sure as shit wasn’t going to help - he shoved, all at once, all the way, hard. Twisted inside me. A rough scream tore from my throat. “Fucking bastard!" I shouted at him through a spasm of pain. Fuck!

  His mouth was at my cheek, his voice soothing me. "I was using my little finger, but you decided to test me, so, middle it is. I'm a big guy, Hunter, feel -" He moved the finger and my sphincter spasmed again. I shoved the next yell into the table.

  "It doesn't have to hurt. No part of it. This isn't pain that will help you. Not, now. I can discipline you, but that takes time." I felt the belt tighten, not enough to cut off my air, but enough for me to feel my blood pounding through my neck.

  The belt loosened. The weight of his hand on the back of my neck traveled down my spine with his finger still shoved in my ass. I was afraid to move. Afraid he would.

  "I'm very good at what I do, Hunter. Trust me. Or don't." As he spoke, he slowly pulled the finger back to the tip. I knew he'd fuck me with it again. Or with an object. Or just shove his dick into me. I took a breath and let it out. Pushed.

  He slid into me until I felt his curled fingers and knuckles press against the insides of my ass cheeks. It didn’t hurt. My cock twitched. Let me die now.

  Cam withdrew and got something from the sink he held in front of my face. "You can look, now. I'm going to use this to clean you.” I opened my eyes. It was blue and looked like an ear syringe for the Hulk. He spread more lube on me and pushed some into me. He put some on the long narrow nose of the bulb.

  "They've been in warm water.” They? “It's just water. Four ounces. It's all going in. You keep it in."

  He twirled it in my center and I made myself relax. I felt it slide home. No pain. I was so grateful, I felt my whole body relax.

  "Now you clench. Like you have to go and are hanging on until you get to the toilet." He didn't wait for me but started squeezing the bulb, I assumed, as I felt a warm fullness. I gasped and bit my lip. But there was no pain, just fuller and warmer and then he slowly withdrew it. The need to shit was urgent.

  Cam walked away. A dull clang as the thing hit the wastebasket. I wanted to squirm, to get up. I clenched. Cam went to my head.

  "You can't sit on the john with the yoke this wide, the wall's in the way." He took his time adjusting it, my hands came together. The belt pulled as he fiddled. Please, please, I have to go.

  "Okay, go sit on the can."

  I slammed my legs tight together and squirmed around and off the table. Then I waddled as fast as I could. Of course he went with me, watched me. Listened to me. Leaned me forward to examine the result. He flushed. Sat me back.

  “Suck your gut in and push it out a couple times,” he said. He waited for more. Flushed.

  Cam dragged me by the elbow back to the end of the table. Rivulets of dirty water ran down my legs. My head hung to my chest. I’d seen the other bulb in the sink, floating. He snatched it out, bent me over the table and hoisted one knee up. Unceremoniously inserted the bulb end and squeezed.

  I felt it entering faster, further. I clenched.

  "Wait."

  He left. Again, the sound of the trash can. I heard water draining and filling the sink. Then quiet. I imagined him leaning back, arms crossed, staring at my tightly clenched ass, with his little satisfied smirk.

  Why was this making me hard?

  "Toilet."

  Standing up was easier, but the small jerky steps made my semi bob around where Cam could enjoy it. I kept my burning face lowered.

  While I sat, he brought towels from under the sink cabinet. White ones, with a faint scent of bleach I could detect from my perch. He placed them on the counter between me and the sink, making a kind of raised pad.

  “Ripple the abs, rock, get it all out,” he said while he attached a hose and sprayer to the faucet. “Chez really needs to put a tub in here,” he mused.

  I did as ordered and tried not to imagine what new humiliations he had in mind for me. But filling the mind with things dreaded and desired kept other things at bay and dissipated the ghost of a broken body on the metal table in front of me.

  So I succumbed to visions of anal hooks as I watched him and there was only Cam. A man whose body was nude instead of naked, muscles lengthened and compressed under satiny skin as he stretched and twisted. Confident. Compelling. Ruthless and implacable. Camden Snow would not fail me.

  He put his bag on the far side of the sink and pointed at the towel. “Head and shoulders there.” He used a shower of hot water to refill the sink. I stood, rivulets from my ass again dripping down the insides of my thighs. I bent over. He used warm, wet hands to position me. The end of the shortened yoke clinked against the faucet.

  Cam adjusted it and left me at a slight angle, the end of the yoke behind the sink hardware. He turned my head to face away from the sink. Pressed briefly - message clear: Stay down.

  After running his hands over me to make sure I was positioned as he wished, he reached over, bracing himself with one hand flat on my sacrum to reach the handle and flush the toilet. He kept the rest of his body away from me. I didn’t blame him, considering where the moisture on my ass came from.

  Back at the sink, he soaked a large old-fashioned washcloth. A cream-colored bar of soap produced a thick lather. I smelled a faint scent of … lavender and ... herbs? Expensive soaps weren’t an area of expertise for me. But it wasn’t cloying or perfumy. That meant expensive.

  “Spread your feet shoulder width and turn your toes in.” He leaned back, watching me. “There. Just like that. Knees straight.” The counter was only deep enough for my arms and head and upper chest. I could feel the edge just below my pecs.

  A wet palm pressed down on my sacrum. “Pop your ass up. This is going to take a while.” And he washed me. The hot lather was thick, creamy, soothing. The cloth soft, warm, and his hand firm and gentle. He washed every part of me not on the sink.

  Over my butt cheeks and between, cleaning me, down the insides of my thighs and all the way to the floor. Careless of the floor, he slathered rich, warm foam over my genitals, across my belly, down my thighs and lower legs
to my feet. He squatted, lifted each foot and washed it carefully, put it down turned in, as before.

  He used the hose and shower head attachment and rinsed me clean, right there. I heard the water draining and realized the Church bathroom must be a wet room.

  Cam started again with a new cloth he got from his bag. What the fuck? I wondered if he had a cleanliness fetish. I wasn’t going to get cleaner, what was the purpose of this from a man who’d seemed concerned about time? Why doesn’t he get on with it?

  Again and again, he spread the creamy lather over me and wrapped the soft, slippery cloth around my now very hard dick, jacking me smoothly, expertly, with frustrating gentleness. Moving back and up between my legs to my butt, a fingertip pressed the soft cloth to open my anus slightly. I gasped when it stung.

  “It’s just the soap. It’ll pass.” His body leaned against me, now, his own burning column against my flank. But he didn’t use me to pleasure himself, the contact incidental to our positions. The steady rhythm of his movements was soporific. My spine went soft, my shoulders, even with my arms bent and wrists bound to the yoke, loosened. If I hadn’t been hard and didn’t have to support my weight, I could have slept.

  Our bodies were still in full contact on one side when he wrapped the cloth around my erection again. He started the long, smooth strokes. When he got to the top, his thumb swiped over my glans, eliciting a brief whimper from me.

  “Stay exactly as you are.”

  I felt his bare hand on my ass, his fingers nestling between my cheeks. He used his middle finger to penetrate me again. Slick with lather, he slid in easily, but not deeply. “Beautiful,” he said quietly, his deep voice thick with his arousal.

  The pad of his finger moved in and out, over my sphincter, working his way around.

  “So lovely and relaxed. Feel it, Hunter.”

  Then he did something I had never imagined. So simple. He used his thumb. The pads of both digits squeezed the rim of my anus, massaging. It felt - shit - there was a hot, thrumming wire from his thumb to the base of my cock. Everything loosened. His index finger entered me along with his middle. He dropped the cloth and used his bare hand on my cock, slow and slick. Tighter. Fingers in my ass pressed -

  Shit. “No!” I cried out. “No. Don’t. Please don’t.”

  Cam didn’t miss a beat. “Are you talking to me, Hunt?”

  Bastard. “Cam.” My cock twitched hard. I jerked as buttocks tried to close but my feet were turned in, the mechanics of the move neutralized.

  “Again,” he said.

  “Cam.” Why does his fucking name make me - precum gushed.

  “Again. Don’t stop.”

  “Cam. … Cam, please. Please, Cam, please. Cam - God, Cam …” A third finger in my ass, he stopped massaging me and fucked me slowly, deeper with every thrust. It wasn’t painful. It was … my sac drew tight.

  “Cam, please -” I choked on it.

  “My whole name,” Cam said. He tightened his grip on my shaft.

  “Camden,” I whispered, feeling the build, searing, insistent. Unbearable. “Don’t. Don’t, please don’t make me come like this.”

  “Like what?”

  It was useless. But now he’d asked and I had to answer. “Not while you - while you’re - inside me.” Everything tightened and plasma fire raced along my nerves to my spine. I shut my eyes, the room was darkening, anyway. What the hell was happening to me?

  “You will come this way. You’re desperate to. You love this, Hunt. You’ve been fucking yourself on my fingers for the last five minutes. I’m just letting you use me.”

  No! No, it’s Cam ... Cam was - hands and will and me, all my consciousness in my cock and balls and sphincter and him and there was no boundary. And … I was still moving ... was I moving? … or was he …

  His fingers shifted and I roared.

  The belt strained across my neck as my head jerked up, trying to meet my ass over my spine. He slowly stroked my prostate over and over while he jacked me firm and steady. Fire hit my cockhead.

  I erupted from deep inside, sound and light annihilated in the exquisite rush to emptiness...

  Preparing for War

  There was a dribble of plaster dust on the counter where an eyebolt had almost ripped from the wall. Cam had had so many subs that were too thin, too soft, too shallow to become truly, deeply, unendurably aroused. They jerked out their orgasms like sneezing fits.

  But Hunter Dane was magnificent. Cam barely hung on as Hunt’s elegantly muscled body undulated helplessly in an s-wave of expending energy. Keeping a steady, outward pressure, Cam rotated his fingers from Hunt’s ass while he came. The wildcat scream that ripped from Hunt’s chest would have made Cam come, too, if he had allowed it.

  Between Hunter’s legs, bent over him, riding his spasms, Cam reached around Hunt’s upper thigh and held him up. A few seconds later, Hunter’s legs gave way and he slumped, chest heaving.

  Hunter had needed Cam to master him, and now he had. Hunter needed Cam to break him, and finally, he could.

  The sprayer’s hose was long. The shower of warm water rinsed them both clean. Cam squatted and directed it under the counter, against the wall where Hunt’s cum still dripped slowly. Like a porn video, Cam thought. He used the spray to chase all the dirty water to the drain, leaving the floor clean under their feet.

  He dried them both with large, soft towels. He didn’t speak to Hunter, now. The time for explaining or threatening or assuring was over. Hunt was his - enticed, humiliated, opened, enthralled.

  But sex wasn’t the point, tonight. It was just a tool for subjugation, the first phase of stripping off the layers inside of which, Hunter Dane dwelt in isolation and pain. Dane was softened, but he wasn’t raw. Not yet.

  Grabbing a plastic bucket from the pedestal under the metal table, Cam used the sprayer to fill it with cold water. Retrieving two hand towels from his gym bag, he dropped them into the water and took the pail out to the table next to the Angel.

  Camden Caulfield Snow was a perfectionist. Control freak. He knew it and he used it on himself. He drove himself, demanded of himself, flogged himself with rigid training schedules and strict dietary discipline.

  Cam was, indeed, a Norse sex god, a gentle soul and an Alpha male. He was an Olympian. He was also something of a nerd, extending his control to the intellectual. He would know everything about snow and skis, poles and clothing. He knew how every element worked, was made, acted or reacted. How temperature changed response, the science, the history, the technology.

  And he approached Domination the same way. He knew the two towels soaking in water were 100% Pima cotton, 15 ¼” by 28.” He knew when he held one corner and took a single wrap around his hand, he had an 18” fall, measured to the tip of the opposite corner. He’d found the towels in Jasna, Slovakia at a cheap “chalet” when he was seventeen. They were double thread high twist and rough - but dense and very strong.

  They made a low whoom sound when he brought them through the air and cracked sharp and loud on a sub’s body. The water that lent them weight had to be replenished after a few strong strokes. The whap of the full length brought weight and a swath of spreading pain, while a slap! from the fall end left a sharp sting of heat. The crack! of a rolled, overstitched corner of the hem produced a white circle of brief agony that quickly turned to red.

  It was a beautiful device for flogging - versatile, controllable. He uncapped a squeeze bottle of oil and then removed the beautifully carved tiger maple anal plug from the padded leather case he’d left on the table. Ready.

  Cam found Hunter exactly as he’d left him. Exactly as he’d expected. What he wanted to do was run his hands all over the body before him and tell Hunter what a very fine ass he had and describe in loving detail what he would do to make Hunt love being fucked by him.

  It was a fantasy he’d had for many months, but it would have been an indulgence that failed his sub. Cam didn’t fail.

  He stood Hunter up and held a bottle of water
for him until he’d finished it all. Cam chugged one, himself.

  With a flick of a hand that said follow me, Cam led Hunter to the Angel and pointed at the folded towel on the floor. Hunter dropped to his knees. Just as he had at the beginning, he knelt upright, but now kept his head up, and his focus on his Dom.

  Cam opened the yoke to full length and then dropped a hand on Hunter’s shoulder. He pressed until Hunter folded all the way down, his butt on his ankles, his forehead on the towel edge in front of his knees. Arms spread wide. The perfect supplicant.

  But Cam wasn’t interested in an acknowledgement of his power. He had that the moment Hunter sprayed the wall with his cum. While Cam moved around the Angel, adjusting the angles so Hunter’s upper body would lean forward a few degrees off full upright, moving the foot supports down two inches to account for his height, he wanted the man to relax. A position others would find uncomfortable, the supple Hunter Dane could fall asleep in.

  Stay inside yourself just a little longer, thought Cam, imagine what’s coming; anticipate the pain. Cam knew Hunter’s shell was thin, now, the darkness inside coiling and churning. His need was monumental, a monster set to devour him from the inside. But Cam was stronger.

  He lifted Hunter and positioned him facing the Angel, squatting to place each of Hunter’s feet on the supports that kept them turned in. He closed the braces that made it impossible to move back, and kept one hand on Hunter’s ass while he did. If he fell back awkwardly, twisting, he could break his ankles.

  Firmly sliding the hand up his spine and along his arms, Cam fastened each wrist to the Angel with the wide, leather restraints from the yoke. But he didn’t discard the yoke.

  Hunter’s head was supported by the Angel’s woven strap. Cam shortened the yoke and refastened it across the back of his head, attaching it to the beams on either side. It should not be uncomfortable, but it would keep Hunter from throwing his head back suddenly.

  Cam believed, just as on the counter in the bathroom, the action was inevitable and would be even more violent. By the hollowing behind his breastbone, Cam recognized his own anxiety. What if he doesn’t need this? What if he needs a fucking therapist?