“You don’t think I’m done with you yet, do you?”
“You’re not, M?”
‘’No. Merely a scene change,’’ I make for the door, indicating that I want him to follow me. ‘’On all fours, J. I should have got a lead, or something, really.’’
I want to pull him behind me. Yank something he’s attached to. In a brief and irrational flare I want it enough to turn round, look at him kneeling on the workshop floor among the debris of our play and the imperfectly swept sawdust and shavings, ready to go on hands and knees as requested and yell ‘’Stop! Stay there,’’ as I make a few steps back, grab an entirely not kinky-play-related coil of rough rope from above the workbench and drop down to the floor next to him.
“C’mon. Mmmm. Yes. Good boy. Getting hard again at the mere thought of being tied up, eh?” My fingers run the length of his cock, pull and stroke, rub the solidified wax and dried up precum in, feel him get harder, hotter.
“Yes. Yes, it is, M.”
“What is? Be precise.”
“My cock is getting hard at the thought of getting tied up again, M.”
“Why is that, J?” I keep talking to him while wrapping the somewhat unwieldy blue raggedy cord around his junk, tying the knots, just roughly accurate, for practical rather than aesthetic purposes.
“Because I’m a slut. A filthy, shameless slut.”
“And you want this. Which is a good thing because I’m not done with you yet,” I get up, push him down, pull the rope tied to his cock.
“Yes. Yes, M. I want this. I need this. Please don’t stop,” he says to my back, following me on his hands and knees through the door, along the hall. We pass a full length mirror and I pause.
''Face the mirror, boy. On your knees, spine straight, hands behind your back. Look at yourself.’’
He obeys and I stand behind him, watching him look at himself in the mirror, no, not just look at himself but carefully examine himself: the sweat-dampened, mussed up hair, wax splatters on his face, chest and pubis, lower lip swollen from my bites, other little bruises emerging, his nipples rubbed and clipped raw, the numerous fading pink scratches on his shoulders and chest and a couple deeper ones that won’t fade for a while, his cock tied with and pulled by a rough blue cord, hard and now getting slick with precum again. His eyes wander down, away from the mirror and to his cock. I put one hand on his shoulder, pull his head up straight with the other.
‘’Look in the mirror.”
He closes his eyes for a fraction of a second longer than a blink, takes a deep breath, exhales slowly, ‘’Yes, M. Yes.”
“Like what you see?”
‘’Yes, M. Yes, I do.’’
I move my hand from his shoulder to the front of his neck, press lightly, but enough to make it felt, push his chin up a little, ‘’Good. I like you like that. Slutty, shameless and mine.’’
In the living room, I fall back onto the sofa and pull the makeshift lead hard enough to make him yelp.
‘C’mere here, bitch boy,’’ I’m holding the rope close to his crotch, bunched in my hand, the fingers of the other tapping lightly along his shaft. He’s rock hard again, copiously leaking precum, shivering a little when I touch him. I’m impatient now. Wound up, turned on and really, really hungry for what comes next.
I pull him closer, then down. Hard, unexpectedly. He bends his knees and ends up half on the sofa, half on the floor. I push him in place, shove into the corner of the couch, my hands grabby, uncareful, uncaring, not precise anymore, helped along by knees and the weight of my body.
But I don't want to hurt you. Not now. Not yet. I want to stick my fingers inside you. I want it so much it’s become a need, nearly overwhelming, making me short of breath and snarly. I want it to be brutal and abrupt. I want to cause you neither pain nor pleasure, or rather I don’t care if what I do is painful or pleasurable, I want it to be invasive. I want it to be a violation.
I tell you that, ‘’I want to push my fingers inside you, J.’’ I am leaning over you, between your legs, my palms on your chest.
‘’I want to push my fingers inside you, ‘’ I repeat, looking at your face, searching for more than acquiescent yielding.
‘’Yes, M. yes. I need it now. I’m yours. Take me. Please,’’ you say and even before you finish I move your left leg onto the sofa’s backrest, bend the right one up at the knee.
“Stay quiet now. Not a fucking word unless it's yes. Or please. Hands behind your head. And keep your legs wide and as high as you can, slut,’’ my hand is already on your balls, pushing them up against your cock. I move aside for a moment, pull a leather glove out of my back pocket, it takes a few seconds and it’s on. ‘’Lick it. Make it wet. For your own benefit, boy,’’ I shove it into your mouth and you suck and drool over it before I withdraw and reach down again.
I don’t wait for you to relax, and your ass has already been stretched by the toy on the board, so you are open and ready for the gloved finger repeatedly rammed in. As deep as it'll go inside you, just for the hell of it, just because I can, just because I want to.
‘’Ohhh… Yes. Yes, M. Please. More,’’ you moan and try to adjust your position whether because it’s uncomfortable or to make it more pleasurable I’m not sure.
‘’Stay fucking still. It's not about you now, ’’ my finger moves out, two push in. First slower, then fast and hard. My other hand and my upper body pinning you down, keeping you in place. My thing. Something to take, something to violate. Something to own. Something to mark. But that, later. Later. There will be still, just about, enough time for that. For now: my fingers are curved now, filling you up, seeking your p spot, finding the bulging area, pressing, rubbing, making you moan and pant, then withdrawing. You try to move towards them, and I let you for a short time, let you fuck yourself on my fingers, watch your face turn into a grimace, listen to you moan, then yank them out, pull the glove off inside out, discard it.
I am between your legs, one foot on the floor, the knee of the other one pushed against your balls, leaning down, my nails on both your nipples, scratching, twisting, tweaking, then moving up. Grabbing your hair. pulling your head back, exposing your face, pushing the fingers of my other hand into your mouth.
You swallow audibly hard, grimace at the pain building between your legs but allow your mouth to open wider for my fingers, groaning from the sensation overload, the rough handling of your face. I lock your gaze, and your eyes are wide open, dilated, asking for more.
I push your face up, heel of my hand on your chin, fingers in your mouth, deep, moving, touching, feeling the inside of your mouth, penetrating it. I can feel your erection against my knee, your eyes close and your tongue on my fingers, now still.
I feel quieter now, more relaxed, more in-flow. The earlier urgency is gone, the carnal, sexual arousal, slower and deeper, takes over and when your leg slides down off the sofa backrest I don’t object, let you hook it around mine, when your right hand moves towards my hair I let you touch it.
Getting uncomfortable, I adjust my position, sitting myself up, pulling my top off leaving me just in the sheer bra. You stretch along the couch, your head down in my lap turned away from my body, your mouth back on my hand, left one this time, sucking, licking, tasting my fingers, you tongue extending when I move my hand, rotate it so you can work your way around my wrist, slide under the leather and metal of my wrist bands, slowly kiss and lick my pulse where the skin stretches thinnest.
My eyes are fixed on the exposed side of your neck. I touch you there, running my fingers down to your shoulder. Nails dragging from behind your ear down along the line of the tendon, catching on the clavicle. Again. And again. Not deeply, just teasing. You squirm. I wish they were longer or sharper. Deliberate again, I want to mark you. You are moaning, eyes closed, chest visibly lifting and lowering, long deep breaths. My desire coalesces in my mind. I want to leave a row of short, parallel cuts on your shoulder. Not very deep, short ones, maybe 2 inches long each. I want it so much it makes me catch my breath and stop what I'm doing and think of a tool suitable for making a thin, neat, permanent ladder of little scars. One of them maybe a little less neat.
I tell you what’s going through my head, and you gasp, your breath hot and rapid on the damp skin of my wrist, ‘’ Yes. Please do that, M. I want to wear your marks. Permanent ones. I want the cuts. I hope they spill a little too much blood…’’ you’re talking in low voice, almost whispering, but it’s steady, as if you were out of the daze or in a different kind of daze maybe, slow and fluid and focused, and this steady fluidity of yours make me feel floaty. You are fucking me up so much, still, after all this time. I love it.
You open your eyes and try to look up at me from your position, ’’Serrated blade, M?’’
This matter of fact query makes me giggle, breaks the spell yet without actually breaking it, makes me realise how comfortable we are here, doing this perverted thing that we do, and yet how much the lines between the fantasy and the real are blurred, so much that maybe we don’t quite know which is which, and if you leave here in two days with a neat row of cuts on your shoulder - one of them perhaps less neat than the others, perhaps left to heal without using butterfly strips to keep the edges together - if you take this mark back to your reality, maybe it will remain blurred forever.
‘’Maybe not as jagged as a cheap steak knife, something finely serrated. What you might slice a tomato with,‘’ you offer.
‘’ A small, fine metalworking blade,’’ I suggest, partially in jest, partially in earnest, my fingers resting lightly on your shoulder, my tongue running along my upper lip, my cunt throbbing.