by J. A. Rock
up. That was the beauty of Scott, that he didn’t expect
Aiden to lie—or stand, or kneel, or crouch—passively
and take it. He expected active participation, honest
reactions. True obedience.
He held the door for Hera, and the two of them
entered the dim, red-white-and-wood guts of Joe’s
Steakhouse. Immediately Hera was sent to the tables,
and Aiden was told to roll silverware and refill ketchup
bottles. All he could think about was Monday night. And
Scott.
Except that thinking about Scott made his cock stir.
And there was nothing he could do about it. He couldn’t
touch himself for one week. Even if he made it through
the week, there was no guarantee Scott would allow him
release Monday night. Scott had said he didn’t care at all
about Aiden’s dick.
How would Scott possibly know? If Aiden jacked off
tonight, he could go the next six days without it and be
convincingly hungry and desperate by the time he got to
Scott’s on Monday.
It can’t be healthy, after being blue balled all night, to not
get release.
He grew angrier at the injustice of it.
Who is Scott to try to run my life even when he’s not
around? He’s a bossy prick, no different from those doms he was
talking about who just want to feel powerful. What the hell right
does he have to call me Shithead or tell me I don’t know how to
suck dick?
Aiden was sure he was going to listen to the devil
on his shoulder and go home and jack off.
Then the angel started making its case. I promised
him. He gave me an order, and I said I’d obey. He is a good top.
I’d never find anyone else like him around here in a million
years. He doesn’t baby me. He’s going to let me find out what
I’m really made of.
“Aiden?”
Rima’s voice startled him. He was grateful for the
apron he wore that covered his crotch.
“Section four. Now.”
He watched her hurry away. If you had any idea what
I’m thinking about. What I do. Who I am. I’m not your little
slave boy. I am somebody’s slave boy, though. I’m so much more
than Joe’s, so much more than this town. I want to see more, do
more, experience more than anyone else. I want to know what it
means to be alive.
And I have someone who’s going to teach me.
* * * *
When Aiden got home, he unbuttoned his black
shirt and tossed it over a chair. He looked at the pile of
grad school applications on his desk. He’d been thinking
about getting his MFA in Theater for a while now. If he
got into a good program, like UC Irvine or Case Western,
he wouldn’t even have to pay for school—they’d cover
his tuition and give him a stipend. Plus he’d receive his
Actor’s Equity card as part of the degree. Pursuing a
master’s was a good move, one that would get him far
away from this dump of a town. He just couldn’t seem to
find the motivation to complete the applications.
Personal statements? CVs? Auditions, interviews? At
least most of the applications weren’t due until the end
of December. He still had three months.
He undid his belt, and the act sent a rush of heat to
his groin as he remembered Scott’s belt whistling
through the loops in his pants, then doubled in Scott’s
hand, then slamming against Aiden’s ass. If he stayed in
tonight, there was no way he’d be able to keep from
touching himself. The solution was to get out, stay busy.
He changed and headed for the gym, where he lifted
weights for over an hour. You want me to bulk up, Scott?
All right. At home, he showered with the water as cold as
he could stand it, then put on clean underwear and
climbed into bed.
Don’t think about Scott, don’t think about Scott, don’t
think about Scott…
Baseball. Howler monkeys. Rima Wells’s camel toe.
Don’t touch your dick, don’t touch your dick, don’t touch
your dick…
Rent due in a week. The Dow. Steve Buscemi in a
speedo.
Don’t think about…don’t touch…don’t want…
Buscemi in a G-string. Roadkill puppies. Linear
equations.
Don’t, don’t, don’t…
It was useless. His mind was strewed with Scott.
There’s no way he could know. No way. Unless you tell
him. So just do it. Just jerk off and don’t tell him.
He reached down and gave his dick an
experimental stroke.
He let out the breath he’d been holding for what felt
like all day. Scott, Scott, Scott… He stroked again, and the
tension left his neck and shoulders, his head. He
wrapped his fist around his dick and tugged, teasing the
head with his fingertips, thinking about the pulsing
veins in Scott’s cock, about tongue fucking Scott’s slit.
Scott’s deep voice ordering him to sit, stand, bend
over…
It only took a few seconds. He lay back on the bed,
relaxed and already half-asleep.
Scott never needed to know.
Chapter Four
On Monday, Aiden woke at six a.m. even though he
didn’t have to be at work until ten. His cock was half-
hard. He didn’t touch it—hadn’t touched since that first
night.
It’s not like I really did anything wrong.
So why couldn’t he shake the guilt gnawing at him?
The fear that Scott really would be able to tell?
He dressed and went running. He liked what
running did for his mind, as well as for his ass and legs.
The world seemed to open up for him out here in the
chilly morning. His breath burst into the clear air in brief
clouds, and his footsteps echoed in the silent
neighborhood.
One application. That’s what he’d do before work,
complete one grad school application. It would help take
his mind off tonight.
Tonight.
His first night of training.
What would Scott do to him? What did “training”
entail?
I am a good sub, he thought. I do what I’m told. I
make my doms happy. I just… have never been pushed.
Never had to do anything difficult or unpleasant. I’ve
played the role of a submissive, but I’ve never truly
surrendered.
Aiden had had an acting professor at State
University who’d said an audience couldn’t tell on a
conscious level when you were phoning in a
performance. If you did everything technically right, the
audience would leave thinking you were a good actor.
But if you had what the professor had called “the
transcendent experience” of inhabiting your character,
totally immersing yourself in the story, living every
moment onstage as though it was a moment of your own
life—the audience would absorb that on a subconscious
level and leave the theater understanding that they’d
witnessed something divine.
> Most tops couldn’t tell that Aiden was phoning it
in. They didn’t realize that, far from trusting them
enough to hand them his soul, Aiden held back his true
submissive self, offering instead a caricature of a sub
who knew his manners, who could assume all the
necessary positions, who was familiar with the requisite
toys and equipment. Scott knew Aiden was used to
faking. Scott knew, and he wasn’t going to allow it. Scott
made Aiden want to be more, to immerse himself in
submission. To create something divine.
Work passed in a daze. Aiden couldn’t eat anything
all day; his stomach was jumpy. He did as Scott had
ordered and drove straight to Scott’s house without
changing or showering—though he smelled like steak
sauce and felt oddly self-conscious in the tight black
work trousers that showcased his butt (he and Hera had
an ongoing argument over whose ass earned more tips),
and a black button-down shirt stained here and there
with horseradish sauce and barbecue.
He stood on Scott’s small, tidy porch and knocked
—then remembered Scott had told him to let himself in.
He turned the knob. Unlocked. He entered the unlit hall,
shutting the door behind him.
It was colder in the house than outside. He
shivered. No way could he take his clothes off—he’d
freeze. He stood for a moment in the dark, listening to
the hums and clicks of the house. A light was on in the
kitchen, but otherwise there was no sign that anyone was
home.
He started to call Scott’s name but stopped. Scott’s
instructions had been clear. He was to undress. Kneel.
And wait.
He removed his shoes and socks and placed them
by the door, then unbuttoned his shirt with trembling
fingers. He clenched his teeth, trying not to let them
chatter. Why would Scott have the AC on? Aiden’s
nipples stiffened as the cold air slammed his skin. He
folded his shirt and put it on a nearby table. He undid
his fly and slid his pants down, stepping out of them and
folding them. Even though he was alone, he hesitated
before pulling down his briefs. Once he took his
underwear off, he would be totally naked.
He closed his eyes and slid his briefs off. Put the
folded clothes with his shoes. Knelt.
After several minutes, the chill grew unbearable.
His knees ached, both from cold and from holding his
position. He shifted as much as he dared, trying to lessen
the strain on his leg muscles. His stomach growled.
He needed something else to concentrate on. The
floorboards. Spotlessly clean—he could tell even in the
dark; there was no grit under his feet.
The chattering of his teeth seemed horribly loud in
the silent house. He couldn’t stop digging at a hangnail
on his thumb. God, if Scott didn’t show up soon… He
thought about what Scott had said: A pretty boy who calls
himself submissive, but only ever really thinks about his own
desires. He couldn’t let that be true. He wanted nothing
more than to please Scott.
Kneeling with his legs spread made him aware of
how vulnerable he was. He thought about Scott’s cock
filling his opening, Scott’s body pressed against his,
warming him. His cock, which had shriveled from the
chill, hardened slightly.
He stopped moving and bowed his head,
surrendering both to his absent master and to the
understanding that his own needs didn’t matter, didn’t
exist. He stopped shivering and held his position, feeling
neither discomfort nor resentment nor fear. After a few
moments, he heard footsteps approaching.
“Keep your eyes closed.” Scott’s voice was quiet
and sent a shiver through Aiden that had nothing to do
with the cold.
He could smell Scott in front of him—cologne,
soap, traces of sweat and arousal. Scott took his wrists
and pulled him up, made him stand with his arms out
like wings while he circled Aiden, silent, predatory.
Aiden inhaled as Scott’s fingertips ghosted the area
under his left armpit. Scott ran his fingers down Aiden’s
side to his hip, then moved behind him and placed both
palms under Aiden’s arms and rubbed firmly down his
sides. He grabbed Aiden’s ass and squeezed until Aiden
groaned.
“Open your eyes and look at me.”
Aiden did.
“Did you touch yourself?” Scott whispered.
For a second, Aiden couldn’t remember how to
speak. “No, Sir.”
Scott reached around and pinched Aiden’s nipples.
Aiden arched his back.
“You had to think about it.”
Shit. Why had he hesitated? “No, Sir. I mean—no, I
didn’t touch myself.”
Scott let go of Aiden’s tits, took his wrist in one
hand, and swatted his ass with the other. “Walk.”
They went to the kitchen. The tiles under Aiden’s
feet were even colder than the floorboards in the hall.
The room smelled faintly of whatever Scott had eaten for
dinner, and Aiden’s stomach growled again.
Scott directed him to a wall and pushed his head
forward until his lips touched a metal bar.
“Open up,” Scott said.
Aiden opened, and Scott pushed him forward
another inch so that the bar was in his mouth.
“Bite.”
Aiden did. The bar was cold and copper tasting.
Okay, we’re so not in Kansas anymore, Aiden thought.
Scott grabbed his hips and pulled so that Aiden’s
back sloped and his ass jutted out from the wall.
Scott placed a silk mask over Aiden’s eyes, then
cuffed his hands together behind his back. Now Aiden’s
position was extremely awkward—bent at the waist, ass
out, hands behind him, jaws around the bar.
Scott grabbed his nipples again, rolling and
squeezing them into stiff peaks. He put a clamp on the
right one, screwing it slowly tighter until Aiden’s breath
caught and he twisted involuntarily—then tighter still,
until every muscle in Aiden’s body tensed against the
pain.
Scott clamped his left tit with the same agonizing
slowness and flicked both clamps, sending shocks of
pain through Aiden’s body. Aiden was grateful to have
the bar to bite down on.
Scott attached something to the right clamp—a
chain, Aiden realized a moment later, when Scott let the
series of metal links fall from his fingers. The weight of
the chain jerked the clamp down, making Aiden gasp.
Scott picked up the loose end and attached it to the left
clamp, creating a slack arc that swung painfully if Aiden
moved at all.
Scott put his fingers in the U of chain and applied a
steady downward pressure. Aiden whimpered as his
nipples were stretched. He tried to move his torso
downward to alleviate the pressure, but he couldn’t
without releasing the bar. He moaned his frustra
tion. The
pain stopped.
He heard Scott’s footsteps move away, then the
sound of the refrigerator opening. Plastic rustled. The
fridge closed. Aiden shifted his weight, nervous. He
heard a drawer open, and then the sound of Scott cutting
something on a board. Then a—vegetable peeler? It
sounded like Scott was peeling a potato. Again the knife
slammed the cutting board; then there was a familiar
smell in the air that Aiden couldn’t quite pinpoint.
Aiden recognized the smell from the restaurant. It
was something that went in the steak teriyaki. Scott
approached him, taking a position just behind and to the
left of Aiden. He placed a hand on Aiden’s hip. Aiden
jumped.
“Did you touch yourself?” Scott asked again. His
voice was deceptively casual.
Aiden couldn’t back down now. He’d already
insisted twice that he hadn’t. If he stuck to his story, there
was no way Scott could prove he’d broken the rule. He
shook his head as best he could with the bar in his
mouth.
“Let go of the bar,” Scott said, “and answer me. Did
you touch yourself, Shithead, between last Monday and
tonight? Did you take hold of your worthless little cock
and jerk yourself while you thought about me? Did you
come?”
Aiden let go of the bar. “No, Sir,” he said as firmly
as he could manage.
Scott removed his hand from Aiden’s hip. “Bite
down on the bar again.”
The smell of whatever Scott had cut was
overwhelming, and Aiden wished he could figure out
what it was. He didn’t have much time to wonder. Scott
spread his cheeks with one hand and, with the other,
forced something wet and cool into his entrance.
For a second, Aiden felt nothing. Whatever the
object was, it was small, and aside from its odd, moist
texture, there was nothing uncomfortable about it. Then
slowly a fire began in his asshole, spreading through his
body, making him jerk and writhe. He pulled against the
handcuffs and ground his teeth against the steel bar. The
burning sensation grew so intense that he felt nauseated.
He stamped, arched, twisted—anything to lessen the
burn. Scott held the object in place, then began moving it
in and out slightly.
Tears sprang to Aiden’s eyes. Every time he moved
to try to get away from the fire in his asshole, the chain