Tom says nothing. He’s as blank and stoic as if he’s simply a security guard keeping watch over a prisoner.
Ethan is a prisoner.
Ethan takes a deep breath and unbuttons his pants, kicking them off along with his shoes to reveal more bruising down his thighs and shins. When he slips off his socks, he’s left standing before Tom in only his boxer briefs. Sharply, Ethan turns around. He curses himself for wasting this opportunity to seduce the other man. But he can’t do it. It’s too disingenuous. Ethan can’t pretend he’s not shy and vulnerable right now.
He slips his underwear off and steps into the shower, his back to Tom the whole time. He can’t let Tom see the signs of his growing arousal between his legs.
The shower spray stings—and then soothes. It’s warm, and Ethan groans at the relief that crashes through his body at the familiar, comforting sensation of the water. He closes his eyes and tilts his face towards the spray, sighing at how good it feels.
Several minutes pass in silence. Ethan can practically feel Tom’s gaze burning into him.
He doesn’t want to push his luck by lingering in the shower too long.
“Do you, uh, have soap?” Ethan asks Tom, glancing at him over his shoulder. This is a mistake—because Ethan can’t help his eyes from flitting down to Tom’s crotch, where an obvious erection is bulging down one leg of his jeans. Ethan quickly averts his gaze, his own cock twitching in interest. Fuck. He’s almost painfully aroused now.
Tom reaches into the cupboard above the sink and comes up with a clean washcloth and a bar of soap.
Ethan holds out his hand to take them, but Tom doesn’t budge.
“Do you—do you want to do it?” Ethan asks, hesitantly. “Wash me?”
Tom seems to take that as an invitation, because he steps forward, reaching into the shower and pressing the soapy cloth to Ethan’s neck. The next thing Ethan knows he’s being scrubbed roughly across the upper back, so forcefully that his body has to be held still by Tom’s massive hand gripping his shoulder.
Despite the roughness, the cloth scrubbing across his back feels good—Ethan’s never had this kind of attention before. Why does it feel so much better than if he was scrubbing himself?
Tom manhandles him, grabbing his arm and jerking it up to wash beneath it.
Ethan squeaks involuntarily at this, and then laughs.
“Sorry,” he says, “tickles.”
Tom grunts as if in apology and makes an attempt at being gentler with the next arm.
Even when Tom scrubs lower, towards the small of Ethan’s back and over his hips, his movements are anything but gentle—like washing a dog or a car. Ethan wonders if this man has ever had to learn how to be gentle.
Tom stops, suddenly, not making any attempt to clean below Ethan’s waist.
Gruffly, he says, “Turn.”
As with everything Tom says, it’s such a firm command that Ethan obliges before he can really consider the repercussions.
Tom immediately begins washing him across his chest, and Ethan can’t help but stare at the way the water and soap bubbles drip down Tom’s strong arms.
And then suddenly, like a slamming of breaks, Tom stops.
He double takes.
He’s staring, wide and serious, right between Ethan’s legs, where his full erection bobs guiltily in a nest of auburn curls.
Shit.
“I’m—I’m sorry,” Ethan blurts, reaching down to cover his shame as best he can with his hands.
Fuck, fuck, fuck. What happened to attempting to seduce the guy?
Who is Ethan kidding—he’s much too awkward for that.
Tom’s gaze snaps up to Ethan’s flushed face accusingly. “Get rid of it.”
“Uh,” Ethan says, helplessly. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. It will go away, I swear. Just ignore it.”
Tom hums in frustration, dropping the soap and washcloth to the floor and taking a step away from the shower.
Confused and humiliated, Ethan stands there like an idiot, shielding his erection badly with his hands. He moves to turn away and Tom’s hand shoots back in the shower to halt him.
“No,” Tom growls. “Get rid of it.”
It’s then that Ethan notices the red flush creeping up Tom’s neck under his open shirt collar.
Does… does Tom mean for him to get rid of his erection by masturbating? In front of him?
A flash of panic shoots through Ethan—he can’t do that. He’s never done anything like that. Not with someone else watching.
But.
Isn’t this what Ethan wanted? Isn’t this the plan? To make himself valuable to his captor, regardless of the expense? And isn’t his own arousal flaring tenfold now, pooling in his groin and flooding his whole body with an insatiable urge?
In the end, it’s the way Tom asked it of him that manages to calm Ethan down.
Get rid of it.
There’s something so sexually repressed about the way he said it. Like an erection is something dirty and shameful that needs to be hidden away before anyone notices.
“You want me to…” Ethan starts, carefully, steeling his nerves. He has to do this. Has to try. “take care of it?”
He emphasizes his words by uncovering his erection and taking it in hand instead. He swears he can see the exact moment when Tom stops breathing.
“Is this what you meant, Tom?” Ethan reiterates, stroking his cock from base to tip and then back again. He doesn’t mean to say Tom’s name, he really doesn’t, not after it infuriated him last time.
Tom’s face darkens and his breath picks up at double speed—but he doesn’t protest the use of his name, not this time.
And. He’s not stopping Ethan. Not objecting to Ethan jerking himself off in front of him under the shower spray.
Ethan groans at the pleasure his own grip gives him as he twists his palm over the head.
This man is dangerous. Frightening. He could easily overpower and kill Ethan on a whim. But right now, Ethan has his full attention. Tom’s captivated by him. It’s empowering.
The thought of having any influence over such a violent man only serves to send shudders of pleasure through Ethan in waves.
“Can I look at you?” Ethan asks, breathless, imploring Tom with honey-brown eyes. Wanting, needing Tom’s consent. “Can I look at you while I touch myself?”
Tom swallows visibly, taken aback.
At Tom’s lack of voluntary response, Ethan casts his eyes down to the water swirling the shower drain. The last thing he wants is to make Tom uncomfortable. And shit—he shouldn’t even care about Tom’s comfort of all things, after what the man’s done to him.
Ethan almost startles when Tom lifts Ethan’s chin with his fingers, guiding Ethan’s gaze back onto him. The noise this elicits from Ethan is practically a purr.
Tom’s eyes rove over Ethan’s naked body as if unsure what part of Ethan he would most like to watch. Eventually, he steps backs, allows himself to focus on Ethan in his entirety.
Ethan’s panting now, hand no longer performing the slow, hesitant strokes it started with. He speeds his motions, his hips snapping forward to fuck his own fist. He manages to lock eyes with Tom and keep his gaze, body flooding with a blissful, swirling heat that keeps his fist pounding harder and harder down his cock.
The skin of his palm slips effortlessly over his erection with the aid of the shower. It’s so, so good, and he wants Tom to see him. Wants Tom to look at his body—wants Tom to like what he sees. And—oh, Tom does, because the bulge of the man’s impossibly large erection is still straining at his jeans.
“I want to touch you,” Ethan blurts, self-control smothered by the weight of his arousal. “I want to touch you so bad, Tom, I think I’ve wanted to since I first saw you.”
It’s not even a lie.
Fuck, it’s not even a lie.
The noise Tom makes in response—a low, guttural sound that Ethan can’t help but translate optimistically as desire—is too much for Ethan.
And—fuck.
What did he just do?
The high from his orgasm seems to dissipate as quickly as it hit him—and he’s left feeling numb and embarrassed and so much less bold than his arousal made him. An intense, sickly fog of malaise rushes in to replace any pleasure the orgasm brought.
Tom reaches forward and peels Ethan’s hand away from where it’s still cupping the head of his cock, his come filling his palm.
Horrifically embarrassed, Ethan watches as Tom lifts his sticky hand to his mouth and licks.
Oh. Oh.
Tom’s… licking Ethan’s hand clean.
Enthusiastically.
And all Ethan can think about is wanting that warm, thick tongue on his cock next time, instead.
Tom has to loom so low over Ethan to lap at his hand—in any other circumstance Tom would look akin to a prince bowing in a fairytale greeting; lips brushing knuckles. But this—this is anything but innocent.
And god—Ethan should not be so enamored by this man lapping up his come, not when Ethan highly suspects this man and his family may very well be cannibals.
“Thank you,” Ethan manages, dazed. “For cleaning me up.”
He doesn’t mean it to be a double entendre—really, he doesn’t, but the double meaning seems to go over Tom’s head, anyway.
“Can I take care of you, too?” Ethan asks, voice small, eyes flicking pointedly down to the bulge straining Tom’s pants.
The face Tom makes in response to Ethan’s proposition is one of utter disgust. Outright refusal. It’s enough of a rejection that Ethan feels struck by a wave of shame for daring to ask.
What’s wrong? Is it sexual repression in general that makes Tom recoil at the thought of being touched by him—or is it because Ethan is another man?
Ethan drops his face again in shame—but he’s quickly intercepted by Tom.
Tom reaches out and touches Ethan’s face with both hands, swiping at the ribbons of shower water flowing down his cheeks.
Ethan’s sure his face is burning a deep red. He’s sure Tom can feel his pulse pounding like a crazed, caged animal through his ribs when he returns to washing Ethan with the discarded bar of soap and his own bare hands.
As… as if nothing happened.
As if Ethan hadn’t just jerked off right in front of him.
As if Ethan’s orgasm hadn’t belonged to him.
But it had been possessive—hadn’t it? The way Tom licked Ethan’s come from his hand. As if he knew the orgasm was for him. Because of him.
As Tom’s hands wash over his torso in soothing circles, Ethan closes his eyes and allows himself to relax for the first time in what feels like forever.
Tom’s still forceful, like he doesn’t know his own strength, but the expression on his face is that of concentration. Like this task is important to him. He doesn’t end up washing below Ethan’s waist—which strikes Ethan as almost funny. The man was willing to lap Ethan’s come into his mouth, but he’s hesitant to touch Ethan below the waist, even to wash him.
Ethan has no idea what to make of that.
Has no idea what to make of Tom.
When the last of the soap suds slip down his body and swirl down the drain, Tom shuts off the water.
Ethan stands there with the air cooling his skin as Tom produces a towel from the cabinet and roughly dries him.
It’s almost comforting, to be taken care of so domestically.
Ethan wishes he could trust that comfort.
Wishes he could trust Tom, now, after something so intimate.
But he can’t.
Tom allows him to dress in new clothes from his luggage and then chains him right back up next to Jed.
10
Ethan expected to be chained up again, but it still feels like a betrayal.
He manages a small, sad smile at Tom, who is much gentler with the ropes than he was the first time. At least Ethan thinks his wrists aren’t bound nearly as tight as they were before.
Maybe he’s delusional.
No, scratch that—he is definitely delusional, to have done what he did in the shower. To have enjoyed it. To have been able to reach orgasm at all under his captor’s scrutiny.
The worst part about being returned to his chains, however, is that Jed is awake next to him. The man’s bushy eyebrows knit in accusation, his eyes narrowed at Ethan’s damp hair.
Perhaps more revealing than Ethan’s damp hair and clean skin, is the blatant lack of trauma in his features. What does Jed assume happened, in the room behind the curtain?
Did he wake up with Ethan gone and think Ethan was dead?
When Tom brought Ethan back out, did Jed assume Ethan had been abused sexually?
That must be it.
But Ethan doesn’t look like a victim right now, smiling as sweet as he can at Tom. It’s a difficult task when his heart is so heavy.
It’s humiliating that Jed is bearing witness to this. To Ethan’s depraved attempt at survival.
From the look on Jed’s face alone, Ethan can tell that he’s thinking he would never stoop so low as to perform sexual favors for his captor and then thank him afterwards with a smile.
But Jed’s wrong—it isn’t like that.
Tom didn’t… didn’t use him.
Tom didn’t even get off.
He just…
He…
Ethan doesn’t know.
He doesn’t fucking know what that was, or why he managed to enjoy it—or why he’s defending Tom in his own head right now.
Fuck.
After Tom checks that the chains are secure with a quick tug, he holds Ethan’s gaze with a stony expression for only a moment before he abandons Ethan for the freezer.
The freezer latch opens and the door is lifted with a pop of suction. Ethan’s heart drops as he watches Tom collect two recently packaged bundles of meat—bundles of Ricky—out of the freezer and trudge up basement stairs. Out of sight without another word. The distinct sound of a door closing and locking sounds from the top of the stairs.
Ethan immediately recognizes Tom’s heavy footfalls on the floor overhead, making his way through the house above.
Worse than the beating—worse than the entire day—hell, worse than even the disgusted way Jed is glaring at him right now—is the smell of frying meat that wafts from upstairs a handful of minutes later.
Ethan closes his eyes tight. He curls up on himself as much as his chains will allow. And tries very hard not to think about the smell of cooking and the active bustling of several pairs of footsteps.
He doesn’t want to know what it means.
The first thing that Ethan notices when he wakes up is that his luggage is gone—it’s no longer piled haphazardly amongst the existing clutter of the basement. Panic washes over him in waves. What does that mean? Does it mean anything at all? Why is the absence of something as unimportant as his luggage sending his heart pounding in fear?
It’s silly.
But.
That luggage—his clothes, his snacks, his things… they were the last of the outside world that he had with him.
What did Tom do with them?
Dispose of them?
Is he planning to do the same to Ethan?
Horribly, Ethan is comforted by the sound of Jed snoring beside him. If Jed is alive, then Ethan still has time. Tom won’t kill Ethan before Jed. Ethan’s sure of that. Jed will be first. As long as Jed is alive, Ethan will be too.
It’s an awful, intrusive sort of comfort and Ethan tries not to hate himself for it.
Time moves sluggishly forward, slowed further by his discomfort, his apprehension. How long has he been in this basement? At least overnight. Probably not a full twenty-four hours yet. But how could he possibly know, with no windows to gather a sense of daylight?
Hours pass before Tom returns to the basement, heavy steps familiar do
wn the old wooden stairs.
An intrusive sense of relief flows through Ethan at the sight of Tom. He can remember the look on Tom’s face last night in the bathroom, the flush spreading over his chest and crawling up his neck before it ever reached his face.
It shouldn’t be a pleasant memory.
Ethan shouldn’t be teetering on the verge of being happy to see this man.
“Tom,” Ethan breathes, smiling when Tom approaches. He thinks he’s allowed, now, to say Tom’s name. Tom didn’t stop him last night, and he’s not stopping him now, either. Not even a frown. Ethan plans to abuse this privilege. “It’s good to see you.”
Tom’s busy staring at Ethan’s hair for some reason.
“Oh,” Ethan realizes, knowing without having to see it. “My hair is curlier today, huh? Yeah, it does that when I don’t brush it after it gets wet.”
Tom’s face seems to soften just slightly.
“You can touch it if you want,” Ethan invites, scooting forward on the table.
Hesitantly, as if afraid a simple touch will break him, Tom lifts a hand to twist a finger around one of Ethan’s curls.
Ethan leans into the touch until he’s nuzzling his head against Tom’s hand. He’s on autopilot. Letting his instincts take the wheel. Doing what feels right.
It shouldn’t feel right, it shouldn’t feel right.
In a shy hush, Ethan says, “I liked what we did yesterday.”
He hates to find that he means it a little. More than a little. Too much.
Tom’s only response is a choked noise as he shifts his fingers in Ethan’s hair and pets him outright. The touch sends a gush of sparks down Ethan’s spine.
“Did you sleep well?” Ethan asks, because his need to keep conversation flowing through awkward silence is something that existed well before he ever wound up in this basement.
Tom grunts in surprise. Shrugs one heavy shoulder.
Ethan hums in acknowledgement, struggling to think of some way not to let Tom’s minimal responses shut down communication entirely.
“You?” Tom asks.
“Me?”
“Yeah,” Tom confirms. “Sleep well?”
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