Paid to Take Control

by Romilly King

  “Are you using it?”

  “No, Sir,”

  “Twelve strokes of the cane, two of them to your hole,”

  Brio swallowed, his mouth was dry, his heart hammering.

  “Then I am going to fuck you,”

  Brio felt a deep down tightening in his stomach, a fluttering like he wanted to pee, “Sir,” he breathed.

  “It’s going to hurt, Brio, it needs to hurt,”

  “Yes, Sir,” Painter was stripping off his clothes and there was no suggestion that this was an erotic striptease. He unzipped his jeans and pushed them down before he stepped out of them and kicked them to the side and fuck, Brio could see he was already hard, his long cock jerking as he moved.

  Brio tried to regulate his breathing as Painter walked over to the cupboard where the canes, floggers, and paddles hung. He could already feel the tension in the back of his thighs from the widespread position. That would increase the pain of any strikes, he noted.

  He relaxed into the position as much as possible whist he could, arching his back to take the pressure off his thighs and shoulders and pressing his heels into the floor.

  “Colour?” Brio watched as Painter strode towards him, a rattan heart cane in his hand. Painter examined it as he moved, his gaze intense as he ran it through his hands to check for weakness, its varnished length glowed red-gold in the light. The sight made Brio speechless with a mix of desire and pride.

  “Colour?” Painter asked again,

  “Green, Sir,”

  “Sure?”

  “Yes sir,”

  Brio could see Painter in the mirror. He saw his Dom position himself carefully behind and to the side of Brio, he checked the distance between himself and Brio’s naked buttocks with the cane, tapping it on Brio’s cheeks which caused him to shiver and moan.

  “Still, Brio, nice and still,” Brio saw Painter stroke his cock lightly with his left hand, and the knowledge that this turned his Dom on sent a deep thrill through him.

  There was no warning, no build-up, the first strike landed hard on the lower half of Brio’s buttocks. The middle of the cane against his skin caused a burst of pain across his cheeks and as Painter held the cane to the stroke, pressing it into the line. The compressed nerves flared sending a shockwave of lightening up Brio’s back and he yelled, going up on his toes, his back arching against the sting.

  “Fuck,”

  “One,” Painter’s eyes met Brio’s in the mirror as Brio panted through the pain.

  Painter pulled back and Brio couldn’t help it, he tensed further and the next strike was an explosion of pain as it landed on the sensitive crease between his buttocks and the top of his thighs. He howled, head back and shoulders straining.

  “Two,” Brio hung his head and tried to regulate his breathing. Breathe through the pain, become part of the pain. God, Painter knew how to do this.

  The next strike was just below the first and second and Brio’s balls tightened in fear as the whipping wind of the cane’s passage brushed them. The pain radiated through him. He felt it in his buttocks, in his cock, in his spine.

  Brio shook his hair out of his eyes and looked up at the mirror. The expression on Painter’s face blew him away. Painter’s lips shone where he had licked them and his gaze on the marks he was laying on Brio was intense and greedy.

  Painter stepped forward and scratched his nail down the burning lines of the first three strikes and Brio yelled as his nerves convulsed. “So pretty,” Painter’s voice was appreciative and possessive. His eyes met Brio’s wide-eyed gaze in the mirror, “Three,” he stepped back and again loosely stroked his rock hard cock, “Colour?”

  Brio swallowed the saliva in his mouth, “Green, Sir,” he gritted out, his voice rough in his throat.

  “Good boy,” Painter smiled at him, and through the pain, Brio felt an answering pulse of pleasure inside him.

  Painter delivered the next three strokes in rapid succession. Pull back, land, press the pain in. And by the time he paused Brio was shaking and panting in his bonds.

  A far off part of Brio’s brain noted that Painter was perfect at this - a varied pace, perfect strikes, and added sensation with the nail scratches over the welts. Brio didn’t think he would be able to access that part of his brain for much longer.

  The pain was a thrumming song in his skin and when the next two strikes landed parallel to each other further down his thighs he sobbed through them.

  “Stand up Brio,” Painter’s hand was on his shoulder, levering him upright and back against Painter’s body. He groaned as he straightened. Painter had slackened the wrist rope and he could lower his arms. He swayed backward, braced against Painter’s chest and shoulder. His fingers brushed against the hard length of Painter’s erection as Painter wrapped an arm around his waist and held him in place.

  “The next two will be across the front of your thighs,” said Painter and Brio groaned, turning his face to the side and sobbing against the hot skin of Painter's throat.

  Using his height and reach Painter leaned around and lined up the next strike. There wasn’t as much punch behind it but the pain was just as severe, shooting up his thigh and pulsing wildly in the root of Brio’s flaccid cock.

  Brio was crying now, tears streamed from his eyes and he could taste them on his lips. Painter’s arm around his waist was like an iron band, a strong lifeline holding him up.

  “Oh lovely, look at you, so soft, so good,” Painter’s voice in his ear was a silken menace.

  The last strike across the front of his thighs caused Brio to jerk pathetically in Painter’s grasp.

  “Good boy, nearly done, soon I will be inside you,” Brio felt Painter press a kiss into the sweat-slicked skin of his forehead, “Just two more,”

  Painter was running his hands up and down Brio’s biceps, soothing him and encouraging him to move again.

  Everything was so far away now that Brio struggled to move. “Up again Brio, I need you to bend forward for me, going to do your hole now,” Brio waded through the molasses in his mind to move as Painter wanted, his sobs were a slow counterpoint to each movement.

  He was aware that the tension was back on his wrists and he obediently bent forward, leaning into the position, “Good boy,” he smiled through the sobs when Painter praised him.

  Looking in the mirror he could see that Painter was now crouched behind him, the cane in an upright position, between the cheeks of his buttocks. “Lower Brio, I want you wider,” Brio dipped lower, arching his back and pushing his ass back towards Painter.

  “Gorgeous,” said Painter.

  Brio saw him pull the tip of the cane back and when he released it a pain fiercer than any he had felt before exploded in his anus. He screamed and convulsed and he would have fallen if Painter hadn’t been prepared and rose to grasp him around the waist and hold him safe.

  The pain wasn’t going away, it swelled and swelled and filled Brio’s whole body. He had never felt anything like it before.

  “Just one more, baby,”

  Brio realized that through his sobs he was pleading, “Please, please, please, Sir,”

  Painter urged him back into position and Brio went obediently, lowering himself with total submission. Everything but the pain was soft and fuzzy now, the pain was a roaring wind that surrounded him and buffeted him, a hurricane that lifted him higher.

  The last strike of the cane on his asshole was a shriek of sensation that sang in his head and he sobbed into it, his head hanging low, his sweat-soaked hair stuck to his forehead.

  He was distantly aware of Painter’s voice and his hands, “Going to take you now Brio, going to fuck you, tell me your color, give me your color baby,”

  There was cold lube on the burning star of his asshole and Painter’s hands were biting into his hips, “Green, green, green, please sir, green,”

  Brio screamed a thin long wailing note when Painter thrust forward brutally into his hole. His body convulsed and then submitted to his master and opened for
his cock. Painter groaned and fucked into him again, pushing in deep as he hauled Brio back by his hips.

  “Yes, that’s it, oh god you are so fucking tight,”

  Painter set a punishing pace and Brio was nothing more than a collection of nerves firing pain and pleasure through his limbic system.

  He was here for Painter, he surrendered himself to Painter, inside his head he reveled in enduring what his master chose to give him.

  “My boy, my beautiful boy, look at you,”

  Brio opened his eyes and looked in the mirror. Painter had loosened the wrist rope and had pulled him back against his body. He was a golden god that held Brio in his arms, that bent him and controlled him and made him complete. Brio could see the fierce possessiveness on Painter’s face and the drugged joy on his own.

  Painter reached around him and cupped his flaccid cock, a tender gesture at odds with the harsh thrusts of his cock into Brio’s abused ass. “So soft, so pretty, taking it for me,”

  Brio moaned, he could feel a rising tide low in his belly, not an orgasm but a slow rising of pleasure and pain mingled together, he could feel the muscles of his ass tensing, his perineum pulsed with a slow convulsion. He felt like he was overflowing.

  He rolled his head back against Painter’s chest, “Sir,” he whispered through the sunlight of the pain that flooded his body, “Going to, going to,”

  He was aware of rippling spasms in his ass and his cock pulsing slowly in Painter’s loose grasp as warm wetness spilled out of it and over Painter’s hand and ran down his legs.

  Painter groaned and with one last thrust spilled his come into Brio’s clenching ass.

  Brio sobbed quietly, empty and far away, washed away by dopamine, blown high into space by cortisol.

  Painter’s voice was distant and he strained to hear it, “Fuck Brio, we’re done, that’s it, it’s over, you’re finished, baby,”

  He tried to pull himself together, to get back to his Dom, something in Painter’s voice told him he was needed. He swam through the dark, starry spaces in his head, looking for the way back.

  He felt Painter’s hands on his body and heard the grunt when Painter picked him up, “Gonna put you here, Brio, talk to me baby, how are you?”

  “Okay, I here,” Brio slurred, he blinked heavy eyes at Painter whose face gradually swam into view, “I’m okay, I’m good,”

  Painter was pulling soft throws over him, arranging a pillow under his head, avoiding his eyes, and Brio felt the first prickles of wrong in his soft black haven.

  “I’m going to go call Ash,”

  “No, please no, I’m okay,”

  Brio couldn’t get control of his limbs; they jerked but wouldn’t respond to his orders, too soon, too fucking soon. From where he had been laid out on the recovery mat he saw Painter cross the room and drag his jeans on. He didn’t look back at Brio when he pulled his t-shirt over his head and ran from the room.

  Brio curled tight into himself and waited for Ash, again.

  Chapter Ten

  Painter and the Submissive’s suggestions

  “I used to think this place was just for the professionals but it seems that anyone can just wander in,” Painter said.

  Richard smiled at him and crossed the room, he hopped up onto the spanking bench, legs swinging, “You forget I was a Venditor too,”

  “Yeah for like 15 minutes until you found your happily ever after,”

  Richard tilted his head to one side, “I was lucky,” he said, “And I know it, I know it every day,”

  Painter continued to stretch and work the rope through his hands. It had become second nature now, to care for the rope, and the rope felt good, like an extension of himself, a competent and useful extension, not evil, not like the part of him that beat a man until he screamed and wet himself.

  He clenched his jaw, hard, he wanted to cry, wanted to be sorry, but inside his head, the shadow brother was crowing his victory.

  “Do you want to talk about it?” Richard asked,

  “Nope,” Painter popped the “P” obnoxiously,

  “Would it help to know I have done it?”

  “Done what?”

  “Submissive wetting, male squirting, whatever you want to call it,”

  Painter stilled and looked at Richard. Normal, nice, Richard, in his plain jeans and his white t-shirt, his decent haircut and his wedding band.

  “You know what happened?”

  “Probably better than you do,” Richard’s voice was gentle,

  Painter dropped the rope, he hopped up onto the spanking bench next to Richard, their shoulders brushed.

  “I hurt him,” he said, “I caned him and I fucked him and at the end, he wet himself,”

  “That’s one way to look at it,” Richard said mildly, “Or you could say that you gave him the pain he craved in a controlled environment, then you got pleasure from the body he willingly offered you, and he was so happy about that, so proud of himself, that he hit a submissive state so profound his pelvic floor muscles contracted involuntarily, his bladder flattened and he had an emission that was a mixture of urine and semen and is known as male squirting or submissive wetting.”

  Painter stared at Richard.

  Richard shrugged, “I did it once, Ash was so overjoyed he tried to buy me a car,”

  Painter barked out a shocked laugh.

  Richard rolled his eyes and grinned, “I know, ridiculous, but he was so damn happy about it like I had given him something special,”

  “I didn’t know,” Painter said, “I’ve never heard of such a thing,”

  “Neither had I,” said Richard, “But then there were a lot of things I had never heard of before Ash. I looked it up though, because he is not the font of all my knowledge, and yeah, it turns out he was right. Some truly bored scientists in Ohio caught a Doppler scan of a sub having an episode,”

  Painter shook his head at the crazy in the world.

  Richard nodded in apparent agreement, “Yeah, funny old world. But the thing is it's involuntary, you can’t make it happen. It’s not like rub this place long enough and whoosh.

  “It’s not just physical, it’s everything, brain, body, sense of self, connection to the dom. It’s like when puppies wee on the floor when the Alpha dog looks at them a certain way. It’s fear, love, respect, pain, joy, safety all rolled into one.”

  “Wow,” Painter breathed, “That’s amazing, you should have let him buy you the car!”

  “I probably would have but I don’t remember a damn thing about it,” Richard looked almost wistful, “I was so deep under all I remember is coming around and he’s got me wrapped up in his arms, smothering me with kisses and wiping me down like I was a gold statue,”

  They sit in silence for a while before Painter finally said, “I fucked up massively didn’t I?”

  “Yeah,” Richard said softly, “But we can fix it,”

  “Where is he?”

  “I left them in the little room,”

  “Ash stayed with him?”

  “Yes, he can’t be alone right now,”

  “I thought he and Ash weren’t compatible,”

  “They are for aftercare, all good Dom’s can do aftercare and Ash is used to doing this for Brio,”

  Painter hung his head, he wasn’t a good Dom. He had left Brio. Ash had called him a fucking pussy asshole when he had called him to say he thought Brio was going to drop but he couldn’t cope with it.

  “Ash mad?” he asked Richard,

  “Fucking raving,” said Richard placidly,

  Richard was silent for a moment, his head down, hanging between his shoulders, his eyes on the floor, “Ash asked me once,” he said, “back in the early days, when the whole submission thing was so new and confusing if I was happy?

  “And when I thought about it I realized that yes I was. Submission didn’t make my problems go away but it did make them seem less overwhelming.

  “At the time my Mum had just died, my Dad was sick and things were, financia
lly precarious,” he looked sideways at Painter and grimaced, “And that’s putting it mildly. But when I was with Ash, in that one part of my life there were no worries, Ash was there, in control, taking care of me, in this weird way, but taking care of me all the same. Despite all the confusion, I felt it was freeing and I was happy.

  “I don’t think it matters if you are submissive or a dominant, that feeling of getting one thing right can spread throughout your life, like a catalyst, it helps all the others pieces fall into perspective,”

  Richard raised his head and his kind, dark eyes, soulful and calm, locked with Painter’s, “So the thing you have to ask yourself, Painter, is, do you feel happy?”

  Painter blinked and breathed, and his eyes prickled with tears. Yeah, he was happy, when Brio was under his hand he was happy, when Brio looked up at him with adoration and respect he was happy, when Brio teased him and tempted him and then stood pliant and beautiful within his ropes, he was happy and when Brio took the punishment he gave him, he was beyond happy.

  “What do I do now?” he asked.

  “Well,” said Richard, “I think we coil up these ropes and put them away, and then we go back to Brio’s house and we’ll see about slotting you into his Little scene and we’ll play it by ear,”

  “Should I see him now?” Painter asked, “He’s in a drop,”

  “Then you can bring him back up,” said Richard with sweet confidence.

  ◆◆◆

  Painter could hear Brio before he saw him, “I like Archaeopteryx,” Brio said and his voice was the voice of a child, young and opinionated, “I like the way it sounds in my mouth like I can taste the word,” he giggled, "And I like the idea that it’s a transition, between dinosaur and bird,” Brio was a genius and this was him as a child, prodigious and precocious, “I think the transitions between one state and another are more important than the states themselves,”

  Painter stepped closer to the open door and peered inside. Ash lay on his stomach on the playroom floor, his head pillowed on his folded arms. Brio sat cross-legged on the floor beside him. He was arranging dinosaurs up and down Ash’s spine and across his shoulders.