Size Matters

by R. J. Moray

  “Sweetheart, give me a color.”

  Channon swallowed hard, unable to think. Was he all right? He was. He could take it. “Green, Sir,” he said, but it came out slurred, like he was drunk. He felt drunk, hot and dizzy and off-kilter. He clung to the bench, grateful for the solidity of it.

  A hand in his hair, curling in tight. Two hands on his hips, gripping him hard. And that pressure again, his body opening up for that thick, firm hotness, as he was plundered.

  Oh God, oh God… His breath came fast in short shallow huffs, the edge of a whine in his throat as he filled up. The head of Tom’s dick slid past his prostate and Channon yelped, bucking into it, the sheer overwhelming pleasure of it whiting out his brain. He wanted more. Fuck, he couldn’t take more, could he? But he wanted it now, now, now, and he clenched his teeth against the begging in his throat: please, please stop, please don’t stop, please give me more, please Sir…

  So slow, this long slide of flesh inside him. Endless. Every fraction of an inch took him deeper, winching his focus in tight on the stretch of his body as he took Tom in. God, it was a lot. It felt twice as big inside him, and it kept going like it would never, ever end. Tom rocked into him and he gasped. Tom did it again and Channon felt it along every nerve, the whole of his body pricking with sparks.

  And then Tom drew back, dragging the head of his cock over Channon’s prostate, and it was like an electric shock. Channon jerked, an obscene sound spilling out of his mouth. For a second he burned with humiliation, but then Tom thrust in and all thought of anything except that cock was shunted out of his head.

  It should have hurt. Shouldn’t it hurt? It ached, but no, this wasn’t pain, this was a pleasure so intense that it felt like pain, like when Jack played with him after he’d already come, too much too fast. Channon clawed at the bench, each thrust shoving into him deep enough he felt it in his throat, like he might choke on it. Impossible, but he felt so full, stuffed with cock and aching, his mouth open and his throat raw with the awful noises that wouldn’t stop.

  He clawed at the bench, his vision gone to a watery blur, and then it was too much. Everything was too tight, too deep, he couldn’t, he was going to break open.

  “Sir,” he sobbed, hearing himself from a distance like it was someone else entirely, “I can’t, I’m gonna…fuck, Sir!”

  “Color, Channon,” Jack demanded, but it was too late.

  The tide of terrible pleasure bore up in him all at once, carrying him up over the edge before he could beg for mercy, and then he crashed. The force of it wracked him from end to end, shuddering him to his bones, his body clutching tight around the cock driving into him as he spilled out in a shameful rush. For the eternity of a moment it was a mind-shattering, blissful relief, pulsing through him like thick, warm honey and leaving him wrung out and wrecked on the shore of somewhere wonderful.

  And then he realized what he’d done.

  Chapter Three

  It took Jack a second to realize what was happening, and by then it was too late. Channon bucked, his voice breaking on a wail as his hips jerked, head thrown back, his whole body racked with spasms. He sounded overcome, like he’d been dragged over the edge against his will and tossed into space, and Jack saw the exact moment he came back to himself, the shattering guilt and remorse in his face.

  Channon had come without permission, and he knew it.

  Disappointment warred with arousal in Jack’s belly. Channon was flushed, shiny with sweat, fucked open on Tom’s cock. He looked debauched. Jack wanted to have him, wet and messy and soft from another man’s cock, wanted to claim his used body and make it over for himself again. But. Channon had broken a rule, one of the oldest rules, one he hadn’t broken since, oh. The morning after prom. It felt like a lifetime ago.

  “Channon,” Jack said, letting his disappointment show. “You know you’re not allowed to come without permission.”

  “I’m sorry,” Channon gasped. His face was pinched like he was in agony, but Jack knew it wasn’t a physical pain that tormented him now. “Sir, I didn’t mean to!”

  Tom had slowed to a halt, hips flush with Channon’s ass, and he grunted now in irritation. “So I guess that’s not allowed,” he said, his voice thick with stern disapproval. “Bad boy.”

  Channon whimpered, his eyes squeezed shut. He knew something was going to happen, that much was obvious. It was clear he didn’t know what to expect, however, and Jack’s mind raced. What would be the best way to fix this?

  He caught Tom’s eye. “He’ll have to be punished.”

  Tom nodded, and pulled out, his cock still huge and hard, glistening with lube. “Pity. I was enjoying that.” He came up beside Channon, twisting a hand in his hair to pull his head back. “But bad boys don’t get fucked the way they like. Right, Channon?”

  “Yes, sir,” Channon whimpered. He was blinking hard, like he was on the verge of tears. Well, that was going to happen one way or another. Best get on with it.

  “You wanted to flog him,” Jack said, as cold and calm as he could. “Now’s your chance.”

  Channon shuddered, dropping his head so Jack couldn’t see his eyes. Yeah. It was going to be like that. Jack bent to unbuckle him from the bench, guiding him to his feet. Channon kept his face turned away, every line of his body trembling. It made Jack’s chest hurt in a way he didn’t like. Poor Channon. This wasn’t fun for him, not feeling like this. This wasn’t how Jack wanted to see him flogged. He pulled Channon against him, smoothing a hand down Channon’s spine.

  “All you have to do is take your licks,” he murmured, “and then all this guilt can go away. You’ll be clean again. We’ll forget about the whole thing.” He caught Channon’s chin and forced his head up, making him meet Jack’s eyes. “But I need you to give me a color, sweetheart. Just in case it’s too much.”

  Channon stared at him, green eyes wide and glistening. Then he sucked in a hiccup of breath, and said, “I’m green,” holding up his wrists like he expected to be bound.

  He wasn’t wrong, but the gesture was a sweet offer of submission. Jack took his hands and led him to where rings had been installed in the ceiling. He let one down, adjusted it for Channon’s height, and took a length of rope from the shibari chest.

  Channon watched him with anxious, pleading eyes. Jack normally enjoyed this, the way a submissive might beg him for mercy, knowing full well he wasn’t going to show them any. But with Channon it was different. It went beyond play into something else. Channon trusted him. It was Jack’s job to keep him safe. Was this his own fault, then, for giving Channon more than he could handle? Or was this a lesson for them both?

  A lesson, he decided. Jack had learned something new about Channon, after all, something delicious.

  Channon liked big cocks. Not just big—Tom was particularly thick, something deeply masculine in the weight of him, of his salt-and-pepper hair. A real daddy Dom, with a big ego and a bigger dick, happy to smack sweet little boys like Channon around as much as they needed.

  Now Tom caught Jack’s eye, a smirk curling the corner of his mouth beneath his beard. He casually tucked himself back into his pants and stretched one arm behind his head, then the other, as he waited for Jack to finish binding Channon in place.

  When it was done, Channon made a pretty column of pale, lean flesh, arms bound above his head, his shoulders rippling with muscle as he squirmed. The line of his back was smooth and unblemished, all the way to his pert little ass and juicy cheeks, his thighs strong and smooth as silk. Not a hair on his body, waxed smooth, hiding nothing. The scent rising from his skin was tangy citrus and the rich, polleny scent of his come. His cock hung small and shy between his legs. Jack took the opportunity to wipe Channon’s thighs and belly clean, sliding his foreskin over the head of his cock to veil him. There. With the hot flush of embarrassment in Channon’s face, he was a picture of contrite terror, waiting for whatever Jack and Tom decided to do with him.

  A flogging. I want to flog his balls, Tom had said, and he h
adn’t been joking. Was Channon thinking of that now?

  Tom was waiting, watching Jack with intense dark eyes that promised something special for Channon, something painful and glorious, something to remake him into something fragile and beautiful and new.

  Yes. Jack ran a hand down Channon’s spine. “He hasn’t had much flogging,” he said aloud. “But he does deserve something that hurts.”

  Tom smiled, reaching for a suede flogger that Jack knew was soft as butter. “We’ll work our way up to it.”

  It was gratifying to know that Channon was in good hands. Jack trusted Tom, of course he did or he would never have allowed this, but to be sure of it was a relief. He took himself around to where Channon’s head hung down between his shoulders, his eyes on the floor, and settled the armchair in front so he could see Channon’s face. There was a mirror to the side, standing against the wall. It reflected a view across Channon’s back so he could enjoy Tom’s technique, but more than that he wanted to watch Channon’s expression shift with each stroke.

  “Don’t bite your lip,” he said, and Channon obediently let go. Tom ran a hand down Channon’s spine, and Jack saw the way Channon shivered, his eyes squeezing shut. He was prepared for pain. Well, they’d get there eventually.

  When Tom began, he began slow, almost tender. Tom reveled in sensation, Jack knew, liked to bring his victims slowly to a point of ecstasy—pain or pleasure, it didn’t seem to matter either way. He liked to work on them, taking his time. Jack had first seen him at a party years ago, taking his sub to pieces over the course of a long and exquisite evening. It had been beautiful to watch, the way Tom demanded complete trust and submission and then gave every reassurance that it was warranted, that he deserved it and could be trusted with it in turn.

  But this wasn’t quite like that. This was a punishment, and Tom started gently enough, but he didn’t stay that way for long. The suede flogger gave way to horsehair, a beautiful beast with stingy tresses that made Channon yelp, his eyes blown wide at the shock. Jack watched Channon try to twist away from it, watched as he realized how much worse it was than the last, and saw the discovery bloom in his face: Channon didn’t like stingy. Oh, that was new. Jack leaned forward, watching him, seeing the realization of it solidify. Channon hated stingy. That was interesting.

  Tom didn’t give him time to acclimate to it. He switched his target from Channon’s shoulders to his ass, and Channon hated that even more, it seemed. Jack watched, this wonderful tension building in his gut as he was torn between the joy of seeing Channon stripped back by someone so skilled in it, and the envy that it was someone else peeling him down to his core like this. Not jealousy, no. He couldn’t lose Channon this way, he had nothing to be afraid of here. But envy, coupled with the determination to use what he learned tonight to work Channon over again and again, to break him open and feast on his tender, wounded emotions. To flay him and love him and give him everything he needed to thrive.

  Because it was love, wasn’t it? This desperate feeling that choked Jack’s throat as he saw the tears gather in Channon’s eyes, as Channon lifted his chin, locking his gaze with Jack’s, his mouth moving on a silent, “Please, Sir,” as Tom tore into him with the horsehair. The jolt in his chest when Tom put the horsehair aside for the wicked single-tail, when Channon cried out, when the dam broke and Channon pleaded with them both aloud, “Please, please, I can’t…”

  “Three more,” Tom said, and then he hit Channon with laser precision, in the same spot over and over, leaving a great red welt in the middle of one rosy cheek. Tom laid a hand over the welt and pressed down with his thumb. Channon screamed, a short, ragged sound that went straight to Jack’s cock; he throbbed with the need to be inside Channon and hear him make that noise again.

  “Good boy,” Jack said, watching the way Channon’s head came up, his eyes seeking Jack out. “Is that it, Channon? Have you learned your lesson?”

  Channon stared at him, blinking slowly. He seemed incapable of speech for a moment but then—“No, Sir.”

  Oh, sweet boy. “Do you need more punishment, Channon? To make sure it sticks?”

  Channon shook like his skin was trying to crawl away, but he nodded, slow and ponderous, and in a voice gone husky with strain he said, “Yes, Sir. Please teach me a lesson.”

  Jack breathed out in a slow shudder. What a beautiful thing he was. How precious and perfect. “Tom, would you be so kind?”

  The older man let out a low chuckle. “My pleasure.”

  And he began again.

  This time he wasn’t gentle at all. Channon seemed to realize his mistake almost at once, the whip of the single-tail brutal and merciless and more than he’d bargained for. But he bore it, whimpering in his throat, then groaning in this broken, distressed way that made Jack want to hurt him and hold him all at once. And then he began to sob, this constant keening sound, punctuated by a sharp gasp every time Tom landed another cut in his flesh.

  He was beautiful. Jack wanted to ruin him, a beautiful thing made more beautiful in its destruction. But Channon was his, the most precious thing he owned, and Jack knew better than to break him completely.

  Plus, Tom would never forgive him if he let things go too far.

  So when Tom lifted the horsehair flogger again, cocking his head at Jack in query, Jack shook his head. Not tonight.

  Tom nodded, and reached for another.

  “Six,” he said, dancing the tresses over Channon’s back.

  Six it was, and by the end of it Channon was glassy-eyed, his mouth wide around his sobs, on the tipping point into something deeper. But that wasn’t a place Channon went from pain alone. What Channon needed was to feel owned, to feel used, to be Jack’s. Then he went under as easy as breathing.

  So. The moment Tom was done, Jack was on his feet, smoothing his hands up Channon’s body to ground him. “Good boy. That’s my good boy.” Channon shuddered as Jack unbound his wrists, and when Jack pushed him to the ground he went easily, a grateful sigh spilling out of him. “There, it’s over. Just one more thing you have to take.” He caught Tom’s eye, unbuttoning his jeans one handed. “Well. Two more things.”

  Tom laughed, his eyes glittering. He was flushed and shirtless, his arms corded with muscle, and Jack remembered a time when he would have knelt for Tom, would have tried his best to please him, and have wondered at the dissatisfied ache in him all the while. Now, with Channon between them on the floor, it seemed a ridiculous thing to have ever thought he might want. Not when he could have this, instead.

  Jack gripped Channon’s hair to pull his head back, and took out his cock. Watching Tom work Channon over had been arousing enough that this wouldn’t last long, and by the way Tom’s cock jumped in his hand when he did the same, nor would it last for him. Jack brushed Channon’s cheek with the head of his dick, leaving a wet smear of precome, but when Channon tried to turn to catch it in his mouth Jack tightened his grip.

  “No,” he said. “You’re still being punished. You don’t get to suck this tonight.”

  Channon made a wet, distressed sound, but Jack was firm with him, jerking himself off fast and watching Channon’s face as his eyes flickered from Jack’s hand on his cock to Tom’s hand on his cock. He looked hungry, poor baby, denied something he loved so much. And if his eyes lingered on Tom’s length, Jack wasn’t jealous. It was a lot of cock, after all. Jack could forgive Channon for wanting it badly, for not knowing before tonight how much pleasure could be had from being stuffed with something so big.

  They’d do it again. Jack imagined it, imagined blindfolding Channon and tying him down, and Channon thinking it was Jack’s cock he’d be getting right up until the moment Tom pushed inside him and he knew.

  Just the thought of the sound Channon would make, his betrayed shock—it pushed Jack over the edge. The rush of orgasm made his knees buckle. He tightened his grip in Channon’s hair and shot a streak of white across Channon’s cheek, then his mouth, watching it fall on Channon’s tongue. Channon groaned and
opened up wide, and Jack painted his lips with sticky gouts of come, each throb threatening to take his legs out from under him. And then Tom grunted, spilling over in thick spurts into Channon’s mouth, coating his tongue and his chin until he was dripping in it.

  Channon gulped it down, licking his mouth and hanging his tongue out for more, until they’d shaken the last drops onto him, and then he let out this weak, hysterical little giggle, his expression contorting like he was halfway between ecstasy and agony. Jack let go of his hair and Channon collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut, shuddering and shuddering. He’d gone under. Jack knew what he needed. He coaxed Channon up on his knees, gently tipping his head back.

  “Sweetheart?”

  Channon was glazed, wet and sticky, his muscles gone weak as putty. He nuzzled into Jack’s arm, leaving sticky smears, but he seemed happy. Content under a blanket of endorphins.

  Jack eased him to his feet and over the side of the spanking bench to spare his welts. Then Tom and he set about cleaning Channon up with wet-wipes, rubbing him with their hands to see where he was tense, where his muscles protested being pushed into unnatural places for too long.

  Channon didn’t resist them, let himself be handled easily, and when Jack pulled him up to lean against his chest he smiled, eyes closed, his heart still beating fast beneath his ribs. “Sir,” he slurred.

  “Yeah, sweetheart?

  “I’m sorry.”

  “That’s okay. You’re forgiven.” Jack kissed his temple. “You wanna say thank-you to Mr Lockwood?”

  Channon blinked, tilting his head to eye Tom blearily. His cheeks were pink; now they blushed even pinker, and Jack felt a wonderful thrill to see it. “Thank-you, Mr Lockwood,” Channon breathed, his eyelids fluttering sleepy against his cheek.

  “You’re welcome, baby.” Tom ran a finger down Channon’s jaw, tickling him under the chin. “Feeling better now?”

  Channon nodded, letting Tom tip him up how he liked, soft and compliant. Tom kissed him on the brow, just a brush, but it made Channon shiver.