by Cecilia Tan
Oh, that is rich. I laugh deeply. “I’m not gonna rape you, boy,” I say wickedly. “I’m gonna ruin you.”
The Maglite I have isn’t the giant-giant one, but it doesn’t have to be to feel like a violation. The barrel of the one I’ve got is about the size of a dick but as black and metal and cold as a gun. I show it to him, putting the condom onto it with great relish so he knows just what it’s for.
I get two fingers into him and can feel him bearing down on them, squeezing and letting go, trying to get himself ready to take it, even while his mouth is keeping up the act. “Please don’t put that thing into me. Please.”
“Time you learned who’s in control here, boy. I can, and will, do whatever I please to you.”
I have to be careful not to touch my cock for a little while once I have the flashlight buried a couple of inches in his ass. I might come without warning, the sight is so arousing. So are the pitiful whimpers he makes, pleading wordlessly.
“You want me to take it out, boy?”
“Yes, please, sir—please take it out.”
I grasp it as if I’m going to do as he’s begging, and I pull it maybe an inch out, then push it back in. When he realizes I’m not taking it out after all, but instead pumping it, fucking him with it, he starts to full-on cry.
Shit. I’m not prepared for tears. Are they real? If they’re not, then calling him a sissy is the next obvious line in the script. But if they are real . . .
I don’t want to cut him that deep.
Besides, it’s been three hours and my cock could not care less about our little role-play fantasies. It wants to be in him. Now. “Enough of that,” I say, and he gulps, putting a stopper in his tears as I toss the Maglite to the floor with a heavy thunk.
The reservoir tip makes a crinkly sound as I rub my cock up and down his abused hole. It’s gaping, and I make no attempt to prep him in any way other than to pull his cheeks apart.
I shove in. It’s so intense that I feel like my entire body was just hit with a shock wave. I’m holding onto his ass cheeks like the next wave might knock me across the cabin. And then I’m pumping into him. Rough and raw. With the condom there’s too much friction to fuck him quickly. But I’m not in a hurry, not even thinking about orgasm yet. The only thing in my mind is to get my cock into him as deep as it will go, claiming him wholly with each individual thrust, pulling back as if the only reason to do so is because I might drive even deeper on the next try.
But as sweat mixes with the lube, the way gets easier, his hole shaping itself to my cock, and before long I’ve forgotten the playacting, the scenario, and even the real fact that I’ve kidnapped him, all coherence gone under the force of nature that is the fucking itself. All there is in my world at this moment is fucking Chase, devouring Chase, molding my chest to his spine as if I could turn us into one being right through the shirt he’s wearing.
His voice is muffled by the bed, but he’s not saying anything with words right now. His moans are rhythmic, synched to my hips, and I can’t tell which of us starts to speed up first.
My fingers are still sticky from the lube. I spit into my hand and snake my arm over his hip, finding a gratifyingly stiff cock. He can’t help himself. He thrusts into my fist and I hold steady, letting him ping-pong back and forth between impaling himself on me and fucking my hand. His upper body can’t move, tied down as he is, so he’s all spine and clenching buttocks.
I clamp down hard on the roar that wants to pour out of me when I come, so all the energy goes right into the tip of my dick—burning, pulsing.
He’s not so quiet. His sounds grow frantic as he pushes himself toward climax. If I were really a sadist, I’d pull my hand away now. I’d have some whole other gear to go to, some new plan for torturing him. But I don’t. I have four fingers and one thumb squeezing and moving as his flesh drives against them, and then I have the hot release of his passion jetting into my hand.
I keep stroking until his cock goes soft and his rapid panting changes to a groan. My own cock hasn’t slipped free yet. I lick my palm and get a nice tongueful of jizz, sating some animal hunger in me that isn’t about orgasm at all.
Then my brain kicks in again. I push my hand at his face, remembering the scenario, wondering if he’ll refuse, or try to bite me.
No. His tongue tracks the same groove in my palm that mine had followed and then snakes between my fingers, licking up every trace of come.
That night he sleeps on his side with his arm rope gauntlets tying him to one bedpost, with me spooned around him. The fire in the stove burns down to almost nothing, but like that, we’re warm.
Time stamp: 0915 Sunday, Ledge Island
Every night, I tie him to the bedpost before we go to sleep to make sure he can’t run away while I’m asleep, and I swear I’ve never slept this well in my life. Every morning, I wake up with his morning wood in my hand. We’ve spent the past few days working on improvements to the cabin, and fishing and fucking. Chase found the first-aid manual and went through the entire thing yesterday. When he gets back to the mainland, he should get certified easily.
This morning I’ve apparently been tease-stroking him for some time while asleep, and I reach awareness gradually, the scent of his skin against my nose, the quiet whimpers in his throat, the need pulsing against my fingertips as they brush upward, upward, upward on the sensitive track up the center of his glans.
My own cock is as tense and itching for release as his, trapped against his tailbone. But I ignore it. I wonder how long I’ve been teasing him. For that matter, I wonder if he’s even fully awake. I drag my thumb through the large amount of pre-come gathered at the tip of his cock, and he gasps like he’s surfacing from a deep dive. He’s definitely awake now.
“Oh jeez, I gotta piss,” he says.
“Then I better make you come. No way are you getting anything out through this.” I grip his shaft with my slick fingers, and he shudders. “But first . . .” I whip back the sleeping bag we’re under, and he cries out from the sudden chill.
I go to build up the fire. Hanging from a line beside the stove are three small work towels that have become our regular come rags over the past few nights. I can almost use them to figure out how many times we’ve had sex, except I’ve lost track of how many times Chase has washed them and hung them there to dry. At least twice each, but maybe three times.
And he’ll have to once again. I scoot one under his target zone and one under his ass. “You wet this fucking bed and I’ll never let you come again,” I warn, pulling the sleeping bag over us again as I mold myself around him. “Your bladder must be huge right now.”
“Yes, sir!” He’s a bit breathless.
“See how this feels,” I say, as if I’m letting him try on a sweater. What I’m actually doing is slicking my cock with a combination of his pre-come still coating my fingers and my own spit. And then I’m rubbing the slick, fat head against his hole.
He tenses suddenly. “You gonna put it in like that?”
My half-asleep brain snaps suddenly to attention. No condom. It’s not like me to forget that. What the hell is this situation doing to me? It’s one thing to fantasize about shoving it in there because I can—I really could—and another thing to actually do it because I am a fucking idiot who forgot. It’s like the scent of his skin drops my IQ.
It’s the sleep, I tell myself. After so many years of sleeping with one eye open, something about the cold and the exertion and having him securely tied has lulled me into a deeper sleep than I’m used to. There were so many nights in the past year where I slept in a chair at the hospital or on top of a bed at the motel across the street with all my clothes on, with my ears expecting a dire phone call at any minute. My brain isn’t used to real sleep, to real rest.
It just proves how much I need it, how hard the year of my mother dying really was, and how much I lied to myself about what her death was doing to me. Physically, I mean. I know it’s deranged me mentally. I know what I’m doing is wr
ong. Revenge isn’t a healthy motivator. But my choices are either enact the retribution that restores my sense of justice, or self-destruct. In the service, risking my life was a given. Choosing self-preservation over other priorities is still foreign to me.
Self-preservation means being sharper than this. “You know I’m only teasing,” I say. “Testing you.”
He whimpers in acknowledgment, and I go get a condom, glad that, because of how he’s tied, he can’t roll over to see my crimson face. I turn away from him while I tear open the package. With the rubber pinched in one hand, I smack my cock several times with the other. Let him think I’m just stimulating it, getting it good and hard, but it’s already rock hard and I’m doing it to punish myself. Nothing like a good spanking to make a lesson stick in your mind, hmm? Stupid, stupid, stupid, I think as I give myself a few whacks. You need to be more alert than this.
But I need to fuck him even more. I’ve been through periods of my life where I had a lot of sex. Hell, there was one deployment where Cass, Ruiz, and Garrett took turns with me every day for a week. Three cocks, two holes, seven days . . . I was sore as fucking hell and I loved it. But I’ve never had such a relentless need to stick my cock in anything or anyone as I’ve had since Chase first opened that motel room door.
I get the condom on and lube up. This time I don’t bother pulling the sleeping bag over us. The cabin will be toasty warm soon enough. I turn Chase facedown—one of his knees bent, his head tucked against his still-bound arm—and mount him.
The grip of his hole is so perfect right now. He barely needs any preparation at this point other than a single finger of lube to make sure the way is slick. After that I can squeeze my cock right in. Regular fucking has its advantages.
The sound he makes as my body meets his is his pleasure noise, the low wanton cry of a beast. Two animals moving together, mindless in our hunger. So much for keeping alert.
I fuck him slowly a few times and some thoughts return. “How’s that feel?” I demand, my thumbs digging into his ass cheeks, pulling them apart so I can see where we join.
“Uh-uh-uh-mazing,” he stutters. Grunts. “What did you do? Does spanking your meat like that make your cock bigger?”
“Ha, no. It’s your full bladder pressing on your prostate.” I slow-fuck him some more.
“It’s amazing,” he repeats. “I can’t even describe it.”
“I know what it feels like,” I say, admiring the sight of my shaft as it moves in and out of him.
“You do?”
“Hell, yeah. Biggest, baddest topman I know tied me to a showerhead once and made me drink two liters of water, left me there for ninety minutes, then came back and fucked me until I pissed myself.”
He sounds wide-eyed, even though his eyes are clenched shut. “Wow. No shit.”
“Nope, no shit,” I say. “Just piss. If I’d shit on his cock, he would’ve made me lick it off.”
He barks in surprised laughter. “Jeez. That’s harsh.”
“One badass motherfucker,” I agree. Garrett was never completely right in the head, I think. I decide not to tell Chase—yet, anyway—about whose mouth I’d pissed into. In fact, I’m not even going to tell him anything more about Garrett. I’ve already said too much. “See? I’m nice. I won’t make you piss yourself. And I’m gonna let you come.”
Let is an inaccurate term. I sink to the hilt and shift so he’s on his side again, and I resume the tease-stroking of earlier. I tease and tease and tease until he’s jabbering, half-incoherent, begging for a firmer stroke.
The only firm stroke I’ll give him is an internal one. Out and in, out and in, and then suddenly he’s coming so hard he overshoots the come rag and hits the underside of his own arm with his ejaculate.
Well, it’ll be his job to clean it up. I ease out of him and untie him from the post. “Go on, go out and piss, but don’t take too long or I might not give you an option you like for how to get me off in return.”
“Yes, sir!” he answers quickly, but it’s half a minute before his aftershocks subside enough for him to raise his head and move. Once he finally does regain the ability for movement, he hurries to pull on my boots and outer coat but doesn’t bother with anything else. It’s a good look on him.
When he comes back, I’m sitting on the edge of the bed, a fresh condom in place. I beckon him over before he can take the boots off, and I point to my cock with two downward taps of my finger.
How he knows that I mean for him to straddle me and impale himself, I don’t know, but that’s what I want and that’s what he does. He hasn’t even taken the coat off, and the cold clings to it and to his bare ass, a delicious contrast to my hot flesh. When he’s fully seated, I wrap my warm hands around his chilly cheeks. “Why do I love fucking you so much?”
He laughs, his forearms on my shoulders. “My ass is magic,” he says, still giddy from having come and from the breath-stealing cold I just sent him out in to relieve himself.
“As good an explanation as any,” I say, driving up into him. My balls are impatient to empty, and it’s time. “Squeeze tight now. Nngh. Good b—” I don’t even finish the last word as the orgasm grabs me and squeezes me like a giant fist.
Sweet mother of God, I don’t want to give this up. The way my heart beats, the way the blood surges through me, feels so good—now I know what people mean when they say they “feel alive.” This isn’t even pleasure, so much as a whole-body feeling of rightness—like taking that first gulp of water after a desert run, or that first gulp of air after a tankless dive. I need this as much as air.
And that thought is what steals my breath away.
I can’t have Chase Milford. I can enjoy the spoils of my illicit labor a little longer, but no matter how this turns out, I won’t be keeping him in this cabin forever. If it all goes well, I’ll be giving him back to his father. If it all goes badly, he’ll be forcibly taken from me. My face is pressed against his chest, my arms around his rib cage, and I don’t want to let go. I want to hold onto this moment forever.
You stupid fuck. This is the one man on earth you can’t have a relationship with. For every reason imaginable. Even if you hadn’t just kidnapped him, he’s Aiden’s flesh and blood, for fuck’s sake.
Fortunately, my badass top persona can hide all that angst by channeling it into being a bit of a jerk. “Off,” I bark. “Get cleaned up. My turn to piss.”
We fall into our morning routine. We haven’t even been on the island a week and already we have a routine. He brings water from the well and gets the kettle going. He mixes me a bucket of warm water. Every day I use a cloth to sponge-bathe my genitals, and then I pass it to him to do the same.
Today when I’m done getting matted jizz out of my pubic hair, I rinse the cloth and am about to hand it to him when I change my mind. “Present yourself,” I say.
He’s just finished stripping down again. “Sir?”
I point to a spot on the floor in front of me. “Feet apart, hands behind your back, chest out.”
He takes the position silently, but I see him swallow in anticipation, wondering what I’m going to do and how much it’s going to hurt.
The only thing it could hurt is his dignity, I think, and Chase doesn’t seem to have any of that to begin with. Not with me, anyway. I start to wash his flat stomach, ridding him of the streaks of dried lube, then work on his thighs, eventually to his cock and balls.
I rinse out the cloth again. “Turn around and bend over.”
I take my time cleaning him up and enjoying him, memorizing him, his ass, the furrow between his cheeks and the peach-fuzz globes. “Clean as a whistle,” I say, patting him on one butt cheek to signal I’m done and he can stand up.
He straightens and looks at me. “What does that even mean? How can a whistle be clean or dirty? Well, okay, it could be dirty if you mean like . . .” He gives one of those “hey baby” whistles.
“I dunno. Just something my dad used to say.”
His eyes narrow
a fraction. I’m hoping he heard the past tense in that sentence and isn’t going to ask me if he’s still alive.
He does ask a question, and it isn’t the one I’m expecting at all. “Do you take after him?”
Best defense is a good offense, sometimes. “In some ways, probably. Do you take after your old man?”
He snort-laughs. “Not a chance. Not in the slightest. Obviously.” He gives me a funny look, like I should know that.
Except he’s not supposed to know that I know that. Sweat prickles at the back of my neck.
No, wait, he told me the whole bit about having a homophobic jerkwad for a dad. That’s obviously what he means. I force my inner threat-level meter to reset. “Obviously,” I say. “Okay, scout. Thaw some fish out of the stock box and make us some breakfast.”
I could really use a good run right now. We get dressed side by side, and I’m thinking over where I could go. The trails aren’t very well worn since no one’s had a chance to wear them in and there are no deer or large animals to make tracks. From here to the copse where the lean-to is isn’t bad, though, low on rocks and underbrush, and along the ridge to the watch point is rocky but clear enough if I goat-step it. I’ve been doing a couple hundred sit-ups and push-ups a day, but I could really use something more aerobic besides sex.
While he’s getting the pollock we caught from the cold storage outside, I tuck the burner phone into my pocket.
“Where you going?” he asks as I jog in place to warm up my legs outside the cabin door.
“For a run. Be back by the time the fish is done.” I stand on one foot and stretch my quad.
“Okay.” He leans over and surprises the hell out of me by kissing me on the cheek. I’m so surprised I laugh, and he does, too.
I know I’m supposed to ruffle his hair right now—probably after putting him in a headlock—and treat it like a big, fat joke. But my masculinity isn’t feeling particularly threatened right now, and the laugh is sweet.