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filthgoblinThis fic is not by me. How I wish I could say that it is, but it's not. It is written by someone I've recently had the privilege to come to call a friend, who wanted to have a crack at writing something that she'd never done before and wasn't prepared to unmask right now. I understand her reasoning, and hope that you can accept this as truth rather than the old "my friend wrote this fic..." schtick because it isn't. I would be proud to own this one as my work. But instead, I am proud to present it for her.
Anon commenting is switched on for this post, and I won't be replying to comments. Rather, the writer will respond to anyone kind enough to leave a one. Everything from this point onward is in her words:
Title: Stockholm Syndrome
Fandom: Museslash
Pairing: Matthew Bellamy/Dominic Howard
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 9,635
Summary: It's about exploring boundaries and trust, fulfilling a partner's fantasy.
Warnings: BDSM, handcuffs, rope bondage, pain, spanking, cutting, verbal abuse and humiliation.
Writer's Notes: I've read a lot of slash over the years, but I've never been able to read a complete fic that centres on BDSM. It's something that really unsettles me, most of the time. That's why when I heard about the Come As You're Not fic writing party, it was the first thing that sprung to mind. This has been a real revelation to write and couldn't have been done without the unfailing support of![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
filthgoblin. You’ve been a god-send for guiding me through this, and persuading me it’s good enough to share.
I’m still not sure I’ve cured myself of the unease of reading it, but maybe I have of writing it.
Slowly, he opens the web browser, hands shaking slightly, his skin clammy with anticipation. From further inside the house the sound of movement drifts to him but he doesn’t pause, loading the familiar page swiftly. As soon as he sees the far too well known logo and flashing text he moves the cursor, up to the login section. He mistypes his details twice. On the third attempt the egg timer finally remains on the screen a few seconds longer than before – telling him he has succeeded.
Then he’s on.
There are many videos that he could look at. Most he’s seen at least once, some many more. Today though, there is only one he wants to find.
Footsteps move across the ceiling, but he knows you won’t be down yet – your morning ritual dictates it. Turning his attention back to the screen his eyes rove over the small video already playing, taking note of the supplies that he’s already memorised. He had to; there was no way he was making the trip to the store without knowing precisely what he was buying, and now those purchases are in the backpack leaning against the table leg, along with a rather interesting and informative book that he just couldn’t resist.
Far too soon the video ends. For a few seconds he stays staring at the small black rectangle on the screen, the images burnt into his mind, and then he moves. It’s all well and good having the supplies, having a visual guide, but without the person agreeing to carry it out, it will all be for nothing. Breathing in deeply, he makes his way out of the living room and up the stairs. He can hear you still fussing with something in the bedroom and pauses in the doorway, leaning against the jamb as he watches you fiddle with your hair in the mirror.
“It looks fine as it is.” The wry tone to his words causes you to flick a glance over your shoulder, grey eyes twinkling as you direct a cheeky wink at him.
“No offence, but I think I’ll be the judge of that. Your hair looks like you’ve been out all night and not bothered to even bloody comb it.” The remark makes him bite his lip, reaching up to feel the tufts sticking up every which way. You smirk at his reaction.
“Yeah, well, you’d be flustered if you’d just been watching...” voice trailing off, the phrasing has the desired effect; you turn to face him fully, gaze expectant.
“You can’t leave it there, Matt. Come on, spill. Early morning porn without me?” you shake your head as if despairing of him; he folds his arms across his chest, unrepentant.
“Yes.” The conviction to his tone makes you blink and finally take in the determination to his stance and expression. “I want you to do something for me.”
“And that would be...?” you walk over to him, reaching out to chuck his chin, softly. A small and altogether secretive smile rises on his features.
“Watch a video, agree to take a walk on the wild side,” the barest pause, he unfolds his arms and takes hold of yours, firmly. “I want you to forget who we are.” Another beat, he bites his lip hard as if unwilling to say anything further, but you simply wait, knowing that he will, regardless. “I want you to use me... degrade me.” You look at him as if gauging exactly what he means by the words – you’ve never been averse to games in the bedroom but there’s something to his expression that’s telling you this is going to go far deeper.
“You want me to get the handcuffs out again?”
He shakes his head, fingers tightening into vices on your arms. “No. Much more than that. Just go downstairs, watch what’s loaded on the laptop, have a look in the bag, read my note, think about it and then let me know. I’m going to go out for the day.” You raise your eyebrows at his level tone and then look down to where you know his nails will be leaving marks in your skin.
“And how am I going to let you know if I’m prepared to do whatever the fuck it is you want, to you?”
“Text me. Yes or no. Simple as that – then I’ll come back.” He looks at you intently. “I mean it. If you say no, then it’s fine. But I want this – probably more than anything I’ve asked you for before.” As if you can’t see that by how seriously he’s behaving, his words leave you in no doubt and you nod, struck dumb by confusion and bafflement. “I’ll see you later, then.” And with a short, chaste kiss, he turns and hurries back down the stairs – the front door slamming a short while later as if to place the full stop to the conversation.
“Crazy fucking bastard,” you shake your head as you wander out of the bedroom and slowly downstairs, your curiosity overwhelming your desire to make him wait, to let him sweat it out. Walking into the living room you spot the bag first, then the laptop. Sitting down, slightly perturbed, you knock the mousepad, the screen flickering to life. The choice of website doesn’t shock you – or at least not in the way that he probably thinks it would. Instead you simply click play on the selected video and watch as two figures appear on the screen.
Twenty minutes later your breathing has finally calmed enough for you to digest what you’ve seen, and wonder when the hell he started to want what you’ve just watched. You shift, uncomfortably aroused despite your misgivings, your foot hitting the backpack on the floor as you remember his instructions. Pushing back you pick it up, feeling its weight. Placing it on your lap you unzip it and look inside. The first things you see are coils of rope, twisted and looped around themselves. Reaching inside you let one run through your fingers, feeling the smooth surface, obviously designed not to chafe the skin too much. You smirk, letting the other items in the bag capture your attention – some make you frown, others bring the smirk back stronger upon your face. And then you spot the envelope peeking out of a rather interesting looking book. Sliding it free you rip it open, smoothing out the pages you find inside to see Matt’s scrawled writing covering both sheets. Settling back into the chair you begin to read.
~*~
He’s wasted the morning spending far too long looking in shops he has no interest in. Eaten a mediocre lunch at a random sushi bar, and is now walking through a patch of grass that’s laughingly been labelled as a park when he feels, then hears, his mobile signalling the arrival of a text message in his back pocket. He makes the old man on the bench flinch with his exclamation of delight, tempered with the double realisation that a) it might not be your answer and b) you may be saying no.
Thankfully both answers turn out to be what he hoped they would: your name above the little envelope icon and, when he opens it, one word; yes.
And it’s then, in that scrap of park, surrounded the normality of the city, that he feels the first frisson of terrified excitement. You said yes. The video from that morning and many nights past runs back through his head, images vivid and raw in his mind’s eye – everything overlaid with the knowledge that soon it will be you doing those things to him. He shivers; looks around; shoves his phone back in his pocket and heads off, walking back in the direction of where he now knows you will be waiting.
~*~
The house doesn’t look any different to how he left it. Not that he expected it to – no red light in the living room, no sign advertising what may be happening inside in a short while – instead he opens the front door as he would at any other time, steps inside, slips off his shoes on auto-pilot. From where he stands he can see the kitchen is empty. Outside the world is hovering on the cusp of twilight and inside there is still enough natural light to make lamps and lights redundant.
From the living room comes a sound. The shifting of fabric against fabric. It pulls him along the hallway and through the door. This room, he sees straight away, has changed, altered from this morning. Gone is the laptop on the table. Gone too, is the bag underneath it. Instead, you now sit at the table, back straight, one hand splayed on the wooden surface, the other abnormally still upon your thigh. His eyes move over your body, your dark clothes, bare feet and gaze, hard and direct. Stepping nearer to you, he opens his mouth to speak, but your voice drowns out whatever words he was going to utter.
“Tonight, I own you. Correct?” your tone is hard, unyielding and he finds his head dropping almost immediately. A shallow nod and you grunt, annoyed. “Answer a direct question. Your body is mine, is that correct?”
“Yes,” exhaled breathily, skin tightening and you continue, apparently unaffected.
“Your pleasure, your pain, is under my control.” You sit, preternaturally still, whole posture exact and uncompromising – there’s no softness present in your eyes or demeanour – he swallows thickly.
“Ye–”
“It wasn’t a question; shut up.” Jaw snapping shut he blinks, once, at the way your eyes harden further. “You will do what I say, when I say. Answer.”
“Yes,” his voice drops in volume, word barely breathed out and you tense, the muscle in your jaw jumping as you slam your fist down on the table-top – he flinches.
“Answer me so I can hear you.” The barest movement, you shift nearer to the seat edge and his skin begins to heat.
“Yes,” louder, a roughness to it that he hadn’t expected so early in whatever you have planned and your mouth twists into an ugly line; an approximation of a smile.
“What’s the word?” you don’t specify which, but then again you don’t have to. His eyes flick to the table-top, his note flattened against the smooth surface. That you ask him it now is a signal that things are about to begin.
“Knights,” he catches the disdain on your face but doesn’t react to it. That isn’t his place to, you’ve made that abundantly clear, and you can’t change the word. After all, it’s the last piece of control he has left, and even then, it’s tenuous.
“As long as we’re clear,” finally you stand – quite abruptly – he has to stop himself taking a step backwards as you begin to walk towards him. “Tonight, whatever I say, you follow. To the letter, instantly. If you don’t, you’ll be punished.” You lean in as you reach him, a look of outright disgust on your features. “And we both know how much you’ll fucking love that, how much your twisted little mind will get off on it.” He bites his lip, hard. You continue walking, cutting behind him where he hears you stop. “Lose the shirt.” His fingers grip the hem instantly, the request not one that he’s averse to carrying out, at least not usually. Pulling it up his body, over his head, he feels your eyes as a heavy weight upon his back. You don’t speak again until he allows it to fall to the floor. “Pick it up,” a beat of silence, thick with anticipation and he bends, retrieving the clothing, holding it uselessly in his hands. He hears you pick something up, and then soft, but deliberate footfalls carry you back into his line of sight.
Scissors glint in the last dying rays of the sun and he blinks, not fully comprehending what you may be about to order him to do. Until you hold them out, handles towards him, an expression on your face that tells him you’re deadly serious as the words fall into the air.
“Cut it to shreds.” Your tone is matter-of-fact, no sign of any emotion. He bristles immediately.
“No fucking way!” and immediately your eyes narrow in response to the words, anger flaring to life at his outright disobedience.
“What did I say, Matthew? What did you tell right at the start?” your voice is low, lower than he’s heard it before, threatening in a way that’s shooting straight to his cock. It promises more than he had thought you capable of, and he finds himself wanting to push just that little harder.
“That you own me.” You take one step forward, scissors still held out.
“And don’t you fucking forget it. What else?”
“That I do what you say, when you say it.” A nod, a self-satisfied smile rises on your features.
“Again, correct. Now, cut the fucking shirt into fucking shreds.” And again, heart in his throat, he shakes his head. Your eyes widen then snap into thin slits, grey flint that sparks at him violently. “Fucking little shit.” In two strides you close the distance between you and him, your free hand rising, grabbing a fistful of his hair at the back of his head, and dragging on it until he has no choice but to arch backwards. A pained gasp is wrenched from his mouth before he can stop it, the power in your grip unmistakeable. His chest expands, the angle putting pressure on ribs, his spine, lower back. The pain throbs, muscles burning, but he doesn’t attempt to remove your hand, or stop you when he catches sight of the scissors in your other hand. “Always so vain about your bloody skin, aren’t you? Always staying out of the fucking sun like a bloody vampire,” they dance closer, your hand making lazy circles with the blades in the air. “You know what? It’s like fucking a ghost. Sometimes,” your voice drops further, “sometimes when I’m inside you, fucking your tight arse, I forget you’re even there.”
The words cause a jolt to pass through his body; a tight smile appears on your features as you see his reaction and then it’s gone again, the mask of indifference firmly back in place.
“Yeah, that’s right. It’s like you just disappear. Could be anyone under me, could be no one. And then you still have the gall to take the piss out of me wanting to look good...” The scissors begin to lower, disappearing out of his line of sight; his muscles tense instinctively. “Well, how about this, how about I fuck up your skin, cut you a little bit –” the first touch comes suddenly, at his navel, the blades marking a circular pathway around his bellybutton, causing a slight scratch to appear. Stomach muscles contract, pull in, away, and his eyes widen impossibly. “How about I cut a pattern into you so I can see who I’m fucking? How’s that sound?” the blades move upwards, grazing his skin one shade away from tearing it, his chest now heaving, breaths taken in gulping bursts. They press down on a nipple and his hands move before he can stop them, rising, still holding the shirt, but to do what, he’s not sure. “Ah, ah,” your voice is firm, brokers no argument. “Drop them.” And he does, his hands falling just as quickly as they had risen, loose and limp at his sides. The scissors continue upwards. “Maybe I won’t cut you,” they pass over his throat, lips, cheek, “maybe I’ll just cut a lump of your hair off.” As if to punctuate the threat, you yank that bit harder on his hair – tears spring to his eyes and he blinks them away, furiously. He will not let you see him cry. Instead he allows you to see the pain your words cause, a mutinous glare that somehow loses potency the nearer those scissors move to his hair. His back has reached its limit, his knees buckling, slightly, but you shift, one hip sliding in behind his, bracing him as you place the scissors by his scalp.
Long seconds pass; you begin running the open scissors along the hair clenched in your fingers, feeling each shiver through his body as you do so, the vibrations running across his head as a silent promise. After interminable moments, your voice comes again, low, and bitingly sharp by his ear.
“Cut the shirt into shreds.” You release his hair, his head slowly rising, muscles protesting at each slight movement. The scissors are pressed into his unresisting hand. “Or I might just decide to make good on those threats.” With that you move back in front of him, but he can’t look at you. His gaze remains rooted on the floor just in front of your feet, the cold steel of the scissors almost burning his palm as he hefts them in his hand, slipping his fingers into the handles. “Good boy.” The words drip with derision as he slides the material in between the blades, mind numb as he begins cutting up the garment. You wait, patiently, as he does it, watching the scraps fall to the floor. When the last piece slips from his fingers, you step forward, taking the scissors back and patting his head almost consolingly. “I don’t know what you got so worked up about.” Your tone draws his gaze, blue eyes half pained, but half aroused all the same. “Your hair’s hardly your best asset, is it?” Your gaze drops to his chest, assessing and critical. He fights the urge to hide himself from you. “Then again, what is?” You drawl the question, gaze unrelenting and he finds himself shivering. “Answer me. What do you think makes you so fucking special?”
“N–nothing,” he answers automatically, knowing it’s what you want to hear, half believing it himself. He shakes his head as if confirming his answer and you smirk.
“Good. Now we’re getting somewhere.” You wander back to the chair by the table, turning it so it faces him, and then resume your seat. Resting one hand on the cool wood, you cast an appraising glance over his lightly scratched chest, the scraps of material on the floor. “I want you naked. Now.”
He swallows, once, skin immediately goosebumping at the order. Clumsily he bends, yanking at his socks, throwing them aimlessly behind him as his fingers fumble with the button of his fly. Biting his lip, he feels a fine sheen of sweat break out upon his skin.
“Faster.” The button pops open, zipper lowered immediately after – you don’t react as he grasps both jeans and boxers, shoving them down his legs together. His cock is already half-hard. You have a feeling that it has been harder, before your comments had obviously had their desired effect. Once free of his feet, he picks them up, holding them helplessly as he looks at you for direction. “Throw them over there. I don’t give a shit where.” Without a pause he does as instructed, then turns back to wait, silent and pensive. Your eyes drift to his penis, a look of disgust clear on your features. “That really is a pathetic excuse for a cock.” Shifting slightly, you widen your thighs, thrusting your hips suggestively as you settle. “Maybe that’s why you like taking it up the arse. I wouldn’t be able to feel that even if you were pounding the shit out of me,” you smirk, “or attempting to, anyway.” Another speculative gaze and he can feel himself wither further under your glare. “Make it hard. I want to see how much you love me degrading you, want to see how much of a little perverted shit you are.”
And as much as he’d love to refuse, as much as he wants to break this right now, to try and claw something back – something vaguely resembling dignity – he can’t. More to the point, he doesn’t actually, truthfully, want to. This is, after all, exactly what he’s wanted for far too long. Even though you seem to be revelling in it much more than he thought you would.
It’s a combination of that thought, and the glint in your eye, that makes him obey. That and the fact that this is rapidly blurring what boundaries you had in place between which Dom is the real one: the one of this morning, soft and satiated in bed, or this one, all hard edges and unrelenting venom? Did the first one ever exist, at all?
He feels himself stiffen in his hand and you nod, appreciatively. “What are you thinking of, ay? Thinking of the way I’m going to abuse you later? The way I’m going to use your body any fucking way I want?” you smile, snidely, watching as the expression makes his hand tighten that bit harder around himself, his strokes rougher at the implication. “Oh, you’re a fucking deviant. A filthy, perverted bastard who can’t get enough of being treated like shit,” a pause, your eyes glittering, and then: “Good job I love telling you exactly what you’re worth, then, isn’t it?” A grunt slips from his lips before he can stop it and you still, immediately. “Stop.” His hand falls away, reluctantly. “You still don’t get it, do you?” rising from your seat, you turn and grab something from the chair behind you – the backpack – his breathing quickens. “Don’t understand how pathetic and worthless you are. You’re mine. Wonky teeth, skinny arse, fat stomach, fucking huge nose – it all belongs to me.” Your attention is taken by something within the bag, hands delving inside. “Looking at you like that, I have to remind myself exactly why I’m with you.” You glance at him, take in the way his eyes are pain-filled, hands clenched into fists despite your words, or perhaps because of them, and you slowly withdraw your hands from the bag. “Maybe it’s because you’re just desperate to be treated like shit.” Two sets of cuffs appear; leather and metal, sturdy, well-made – you heft them in your hand before taking a step towards him. “Maybe it’s because I know you’ll let me make you helpless, because I know you’ll love the abuse.” Yet again you walk behind him. His skin prickles with anticipation.
This time you don’t halt, instead continuing your journey until you’re standing in front of him again. A set of cuffs dangle from each hand. Up close he can see they’re far more substantial than the handcuffs he’s used to. Thick leather fastens with a metal clasp, a strong chain linking the two pieces together. You let one set drop to the floor, the other you pull taut between your hands.
“Do you want to be helpless?” your voice is low, gravelly, and he swallows, hard.
“Yes...”
“Do you want me to bind you so you can’t move? So you can’t stop me doing a fucking thing to you?” you don’t wait for a reply – he knows his face shows his answer far too clearly – and walk behind him. There are a few seconds of silence and then he feels you grasp his arm firmly, wrenching it back as you slip the cuff on. It’s fastened tightly, far tighter than previous times between you, and he gasps before he can stop himself. You ignore it, grabbing his other wrist and binding that in the same way. He feels your fingers running over his skin, then the cuffs, and back again. The restricted movement makes his skin heat with anticipation. “Kneel.” The instruction is accompanied by you pressing your foot into the hollow behind one of his knees, legs buckling almost instantly. He tries to control his descent, but gravity and your foot make it impossible and his knees collide heavily with the floor. A pained grunt leaves his lips even as he sees you collect the second set of cuffs and feels you kneel behind him. Suddenly his ankle is encased in the same way as his wrists, the second following swiftly, until there is no room for manoeuvre. He hears you make a contemplative sound, a tug on the chain between his wrists making his spine arch, dragging his shoulders down. You don’t stop pulling until he can feel his fingers brushing the floor, you fiddling with something on the chains, until, with a self-satisfied grunt and metallic click, you move away.
Slowly, you walk back to your seat, not looking at him once. Sitting down you retrieve the book from the bag and then put it back on the chair beside you. An air of disinterest settles over your features as you glance at him, as if checking that he is as immobile as you want, and then your eyes turn quickly to the pages that you have just opened. He shifts, uneasily, disliking the way you’re ignoring him, feeling the reaction to it as a niggling pain in his chest that he can’t get rid of. The cuffs and chains clink quietly.
Minutes pass.
Pages turn.
At one point you stand, stretching. His eyes follow the motion until you look at him, glaring as though he disgusts you, and he drops his gaze to the floor again. Minutes stretch further, interminably long. His knees begin to throb, dully; his shoulder’s taking on a deep burn. You rise again, wander past him, not looking at him once, he hears your footsteps fade, the sound of cupboard doors opening, the kettle first being flicked on, then clicked off, and after another moments silence, you return, holding a steaming cup in your hand. Still, there is no acknowledgement. Instead you sit back down, cradling the hot drink in your hands as you turn pages over, idly.
His head droops, falling forward on his neck, shoulders unbearably sensitive to even the slightest movement. If this were a game whereby one could differentiate between a winner and loser, right at this moment, he knows precisely which side he would be on.
Outside the night darkens. He has no idea how long you have left him kneeling there for – it could be minutes, or hours – but when you finally stir, closing the book with an abrupt snap, it pulls his head up sharply. Your gaze is heavy and intense on him and he shivers, bound hands clenching into fists behind his back.
You stand slowly, every motion deliberate as you pick up the bag from the chair beside you, zipping it closed and tucking the book under your arm. For the second time in as many minutes you leave the room, his ears straining to listen to your footsteps. He hears the stairs creak and feels his skin heat, a prickling sensation bursting out over his flesh. Slow seconds pass and then the stairs announce your return. Again, you move with a focus that he rarely sees. Without pause you move behind him, the clip between the cuffs between his wrists and ankles coming free with a definite snapping noise.
“You’ve had enough time to think about what a perverted shit you are.” You speak as you set to freeing his ankles, the leather sliding free with a purposefulness that makes his body shudder. “Now it’s time for me to show you just how deep those perversions run.” As soon as both ankles are free, you straighten, hand delving to twist and tangle in his hair, pulling it just beyond the edge of pain. “Just how much you’ll want to beg me to fucking use your body, to debase you completely.” You arch his head back until you can stare down into his darkened eyes, tears pricking the corners at the painful angle you hold his head in. “And you’ll fucking love it. You’ll never want it to end.” Arm muscles tense, contract, and you start to pull him upwards, his legs still tingling – limbs desperate to support himself as the tension across his scalp becomes nearly unbearable. “You little fuck. Get to your feet. I want you upstairs, ready for whatever I want.” He gains his feet unsteadily, your breath hot and moist against his neck. “Because whose body is this?” a sharp tug on his hair and he grunts, softly. “Answer.”
“Yours.”
“And who has every right to treat you like shit?”
“You.” The answers are automatic, his mind only focused on one thing – that you are the one in control. That this is who they truly are, in this moment: he is consumed by it.
“And why is that?” you begin to walk towards the door, dragging him behind you by the hand still buried in his hair.
“Because I’m a worthless, perverted piece of shit.” Passing through the door he stumbles as you continue, feet tripping over themselves clumsily.
“You’re my worthless, perverted piece of shit,” the warmth that passes through his body at your words is immediately tempered by what you say next. “After all, who else would want you?” The first stair appears and you finally change your grip; abruptly releasing his hair, causing him to lurch forwards, before grasping his upper arm, digging your nails in one shade away from cutting into his skin. Propelling him roughly ahead of you, you make your way upstairs. His feet catch on the stairs as they turn the corner and you grunt in exasperation, fingers clenching on his arm, bruises forming at your touch. “You can’t even walk, for Christ’s sake. Those big, clumsy fucking feet of yours.” His eyes remain lowered, too busy watching where he places each foot to let your words sink in. “And that’s another thing – big feet, big cock? What a fucking joke. Obviously they’ve never seen you naked.” Reaching the landing you continue to shove him in front of you, the bedroom door appearing far too quickly. He turns, letting his shoulder take the brunt of the impact with the door; it swings open to reveal the bed, covers already turned down, the backpack placed to the side. There’s a single lamp lit, casting fuzzy shadows over everything. You release him just inside the door, walking away and wiping your hand down your jeans as if to clean it. “They’d probably die laughing if they ever did.” Shaking your head you take hold of the bag, unzipping it once more and retrieving something from inside. Straightening, you cast an assessing look down his body. He shies away from it, actually twisting to the side and taking a step backwards. “Come here, now.”
Breath lodging in his throat there’s a moment where he debates what you would do if he disobeyed you outright. If he walked back out of the room and tried to go back downstairs. There’s a battle waging inside his head, even now. Every cell in his body is begging to submit, it’s the role he’s slipping into, the role he’s craved. Even so, there’s still a tiny part of him that is, for want of a better word, insecure about what is about to happen. Half terrified of how intense it may be.
You don’t give him enough time to decide, though. Letting out a loud exclamation of rage, you cross the room in hurried, determined strides, grabbing him roughly by the hair again and yanking him over, nearer the bed.
“You fucking move when I say move. Do you understand me?” fingers twist and he can’t stop the pained yelp that falls from his lips.
“Ye-yes.”
“Good. Now, let’s see how much your deviant little mind loves this...” and with that you fall to your knees, coming eye-level with his flaccid penis. Throwing a smirk back up at him, you lift your other hand – he catches sight of something glinting in the low light – and then comprehension steals over him as you lift his cock, taking one of his testicles between your fingers. “You better have washed this morning.” The glint comes again, from what he now recognises as a steel cock ring. He feels his breathing hitch and stutter in his chest. “We both know how fucking foul you can get. How you let yourself reek.” The first testicle is fed through, the second following rapidly after. You grasp his penis, making sure his eyes meet yours before speaking again. “See how pathetic you look?” you gesture with his penis, as if using it to illustrate your point. “Fucking pointless, worthless excuse for a man,” you smirk and then drop your eyes back to the task in hand, feeding his penis through the steel ring before adjusting it slightly, pushing it back snugly to his body. Sitting back on your haunches, you gaze up at him. “Let’s see if that helps you look more attractive, hmm?”
His eyes remain cast downwards, the sensation of steel slowly warming against his skin causing little shivers to tear through his body. Everything feels tight, his cock already beginning to stir, no matter what you say. He barely registers you standing, or moving around the room. Shifting he tests the fit – it doesn’t move – and abruptly stills at the sound of an all-too familiar click. Glancing up from beneath his lashes, he sees you take step nearer, the camera held out in front of you as you take another shot. He drops his eyes back down; feeling the flush begin to rise through his body at the realisation there will be physical evidence of his degradation.
“Turn around, face the bed.” There’s the barest hesitation, hands clenching before releasing impotently. “Now,” the word is growled out and he obeys with little thought as to why. His head remains bowed as he senses you moving behind him, only the quiet sound of the camera’s shutter and your breathing breaking the stillness. Finally there’s a louder noise – the camera being placed upon the side – and your hands run over his cuffs. “I think it’s about time you learned just how fucked up you are...” Your voice trails off as you turn away and he feels his skin grow clammy as the sound of you rummaging in the bag reaches his ears again. A tube of lube hits the bed; his eyes drawn to it as you come behind him again, catching hold of his neck in your hand, fingernails piercing the skin. Without giving any warning you shove him forward, the hand on his neck pressing his face into the mattress as you knock his feet further apart. His chest hits the bed hard, body bouncing slightly, a pained grunt falling from his lips that is muffled entirely by the sheets. You smirk as you retrieve the lube, finally releasing his neck as you straighten. “Now you look as pathetic as you really are. All laid out and willing for me to do whatever the fuck I want to you, isn’t that right?” He nods, but you slap the back of his thighs, hard, making his body jolt. “Answer the fucking question. Isn’t that right?”
“Yes.” Twisting his head to the side his eyes remained closed, skin heating and smarting at the sudden slap. He hears you twist the cap off of the tube, an unfamiliar stretching sound is heard, followed by a snapping, and then your presence is back, hovering over him.
“Keep your eyes closed. One fucking peek and I’ll punish you for it so severely even you won’t get off on it.” It isn’t a question, so he doesn’t answer, knowing from the hardness to your voice that you mean every word. Beneath him, his cock stirs at the implication, but he doesn’t disobey, even as he feels your hands spreading the cheeks of his arse apart, roughly. A frown mars his features, something not feeling quite right about your skin on his, and he hears you snort, derisively, as one finger traces the cleft. “That’s right. I’m wearing gloves. Got to take precautions with you; after all I know exactly what you like to shove up this arse, how often you get fucked by anything you can get your grubby little paws on.” Without warning the finger breaches him, sharply. His head rises off of the bed, mouth falling open. Immediately your hand is there, pushing it back down. “No, not one fucking sound. Not a whimper, not a moan. You take this in silence, like the sick fuck you are.” The finger is thrust back inside, until he can feel your other gloved fingers pushing against his body. He shivers. “That’s it, this is how you love it, isn’t it?” one withdraws, two re-enter; no warning as before, right up to the knuckle. His cock jumps, already half-hard and rapidly filling. Your other hand drifts from his neck, his body remaining on the bed, and even though it’s tense and rigid, you still apply pressure between his shoulder blades as you add a third finger.
He bites his lip. A cry tries to force its way out of his throat as you thrust your fingers in and out of his body uncompromisingly. You’re treating him like he’s just a vessel to be used, to be filled, and he hates and loves how much it’s arousing him. Then you stop. Hand and fingers removed, from on and in his body.
“Let’s see how you take this, you little shit, take everything I want to give you...” as you speak he feels something hard press against him, forcing its way inside him. Thighs trembling, he squirms as sensitised nerve-endings are stimulated. You laugh, condescendingly. “God, you really do fucking love it, don’t you? Love me shoving this up your arse, how it holds you open...” what he now can feel is a butt plug, is firmly inserted, fully, into his body. Your hand resumes its place on the back of his neck, anticipating the arch the last few centimetres disappearing into his body will induce. And then it’s in place. He feels full, stretched in a completely different way to when you’re inside him. His legs shift, his now fully erect cock rubbing against the sheets, friction tantalisingly out of reach. You tap the end of the plug, the vibrations travelling through the toy and into him, magnifying as they do. His teeth drag against his bottom lip hard enough to draw blood.
Again, there’s a moment’s pause as you move away, the sound of gloves being stripped from your hands, and then the sound of the camera’s shutter. His fingers flex impotently as he lies prone upon the bed. Nothing more happens. Long, long moments pass, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t even contemplate opening his eyes to check if you’re still in the room or not. That wasn’t your instruction, and because of that, he simply doesn’t even think of doing it.
The blow, when it comes, is sudden, sharp and hard: an open palmed slap across his arse, his body bouncing slightly on the bed, the plug thrumming from the impact. The slightest whimper passes his lips and you do it again, no rhythm to it, no chance for him to anticipate the next blow. At times you hit him twice in quick succession, watching the way his skin reddens, the sudden increase in blood flow colouring skin usually pale and uninteresting. At others you let the seconds build between, one atop the other, as you watch the way the redness fades to pink, then nearly white, before you bring your hand down again, harder than the previous slap. And as you do, you speak, your words falling into the air with more rhythm than your hand.
“I know you’re hard. I can smell how much this is turning you on, you perverted bastard,” another slap, the redness taking longer to fade, his body shivering and flinching whether a blow connects or not. During the lull you let your palm flatten against his reddened cheek, pressing lightly, the touch barely there, but it still produces a delightful flinch from him, his body shuddering on the mattress as you caress the abused flesh. “You’re dying to be marked, begging for me to bruise your skin, make you fucking hurt.” You notice the way he pushes up, onto the balls of his feet, moisture pricking at the corner of his eyes, the way his hands curl into fists with each slap, and you sense his limit approaching. Or at least for this particular brand of humiliation. You take a slow breath in. “You fucking bore me.” And on those words you step away with one final hard slap that pulls a choked off whimper from him. You ignore it, instead turning back to the bag.
From where he lays, still in self-imposed darkness, his whole lower half a bemusing mix of tenderness and arousal, he can hear you pulling something else from the bag. The shiver that moves through him is entirely his subconscious’ doing. His body feels raw: as though you’ve not merely abused his arse and thighs but somehow managed to make your touch extend to cover every last inch of him, whether physically, or not. His cock is still unrelentingly hard.
He senses you leaning over him, but can’t stop the way his body flinches as your hands take hold of his wrists. His eyelids flutter, but at no word from you, he keeps them shut. Slowly one cuff falls open; the muscles in his arms unresponsive, still too used to being restrained to move. The second falls away and you drop them to the floor.
“Climb on the bed – lay on your back.” Words followed to the letter, there’s the faintest of sharp inhalations as his bruised knees come into contact with the softness of the mattress, and then he turns, positioning himself as ordered. “Arms up, above your head.” Again, the order is followed obediently, his hands brushing the headboard. You kneel on the bed, once more grasping his wrist. He feels the soft cord of what he knows is one length of the Japanese bondage ropes slip around it – Japanese, something he just couldn’t pass up – and then you pull it taut. It’s fastened swiftly to the headboard and then you move around to the other side of the bed, repeating the action. “Open your eyes.”
The first thing he sees, other than the ceiling above him, is you, standing just to the left of him. Your eyes are dark, hidden by the shadows deepening in the room, your skin flushed. He looks away quickly, biting his lip as if caught doing something illegal, muscles involuntarily tensing in their bonds as you climb onto the bed fully. The ceiling holds his attention as you move to straddle his thighs, carefully avoiding any contact with his now fully erect cock.
“Look at you, so fucking easy – a few harsh words, some spanking, and you’re hard as fuck.” You tilt your head, examining his cock more closely. “You’re even weeping, you little shit.” You pause and then lift your hand into view. “I wonder if you’ll still be like that when I start running this over your skin, hmm?” His body stills completely, toes and fingers curling as the blade in your hand catches the lamp light. “Or maybe you’d like it to slice into you...” The tip of the knife makes contact; you drag it over his abdomen, noting with disinterest how his cock jumps at the contact. A thin score rises behind the tip, white before flooding with red. It’s not hard enough to break the skin, yet, and you set to drawing out a spider’s web tracery of marks. With each stroke, he shivers or jolts, eyes watching first you, then the blade closely. “Fucking twisted little...” as you bring the knife under his nipple you allow it to slice deeper, parting the skin until small droplets of blood well up along the line. He gasps, bottom lip once more caught between his teeth as he sets to worrying it, obsessively. You let it happen again, this time lower, towards the centre of his abdomen, watching the flare of pain that crosses his features, noting the way he tries to smother it until all that remains is the moisture pricking at the corners of his eyes. His arms begin to twist and pull at the ropes, his head pressing back into the pillows and you know he’s nearing the edge, but you don’t relent.
What you know will be the last cut falls just below his collarbone, running in a thin, meandering line for a few inches. His reaction is intense – head turned to the side, tendons standing out in sharp relief in his neck as the ruby line wells up, finds the air and oozes along his skin. You can hear his breathing, shallow and rapid; you feel his legs push slightly upwards, as if trying to dislodge you and see his mouth fall open, lips forming what you know will be the first syllable of his safe word. Before that can happen, though, you remove the knife completely, rising to your knees and placing it on the side. Retrieving the cloth you’d left there earlier, you settle back atop him. His head is still turned away, eyes unseeing.
“Not even that can make you any more fucking interesting to me.” You gently wipe the cloth – slightly damp – along each scratch and cut on his chest. “Only a fucked up freak like you would get off on being bloody cut.” His body trembles and flinches beneath your touch. When you’re satisfied, you climb off of him, disposing of the cloth before your hands set to freeing his arms. “I’ve had enough.” You sense his eyes on you, but know if you look down, he will drop his gaze away from yours. “I can’t stand touching you anymore, doing all these fucked up things just to get you off.” Once one arm is free, you do glance down at him – he averts his eyes immediately – and you walk around to his other arm, freeing that just as swiftly. Coiling the rope absent-mindedly, you regard the way he remains in the bound position; arms still raised as though never having been freed. You shake your head, instead taking your time to place both the rope and the cuffs back in the bag, zipping it closed and pushing it underneath the bed, out of sight. Moving away, you look at him for a second before finally sitting down on the chair beneath the window. Your eyes narrow, the position of the chair allowing you to see his whole body, and you note how hard he still is. Biting your lip you take a deep breath in, using it to calm you before exhaling and addressing him, harshly. “You can finish yourself off. If you think I’m touching you after that little twisted, deviant display, you’re fucking mistaken.” His hand twitches, but he still doesn’t make any move to lower it to touch himself. “I mean it; make yourself come. Let me see how you fucking get off on being treated like shit – how much you loved me degrading you. Do it.”
And, just when you think that you may have to do something else to persuade him, he moves, one hand lowering to grasp his cock firmly, the other trailing over his chest.
“That’s it, you little pervert, show me how much you loved it. Fuck your hand like you want me to fuck you.” His hand tightens: you see the muscle tense in his arm as he strokes his cock hard and rough. “Let me hear you, hear how much you want my cock inside you, tearing you open.” Immediately his mouth falls open, breathy, half-pained cries finding their way into the air. “Can you feel my cock shoved up inside you? Feel how I love using you, just pounding into your tight arse... That’s all you are to me,” whimpers intermittently join the litany of sounds falling from his lips, “just a pretty arse to lose myself in until I come.” You see his spine arch, the flush rising steadily on his skin and you know he’s close. Your own knuckles are white where you’re clenching your fists, every instinct in you telling you to get over to the bed and help him finish it – but that isn’t your role – at least not yet. “Can you feel me coming, shooting my load into your arse, forcing it deep inside you until you can fucking taste it? You’d beg me for more, wouldn’t you? Because you’re a sick, twisted little fuck, who just loves being treated like the shit that you are.” The first wave of his orgasm hits suddenly, his voice catching, stuttering as his body stiffens and arches on the bed. His hand moves in a spasmodic motion over his cock and then you see him coming, a guttural, roughened exclamation of agony pulled from his lips as his body twitches and convulses.
Then, after what seems like minutes, everything stills. His body lies spent and drained upon the mattress, his head once more turned away from you, a low, quiet snuffling breaking the silence.
You stand, slowly, walking on weak legs around the bed. As you pass him, you risk looking down, seeing the moisture now spilling freely from his eyes, the redness gradually appearing around his wrists, the darkness of the skin around his eyes. Every instinct is screaming at you to comfort him, but you can’t, not yet. Instead you keep walking, moving into the en suite and quietly closing the door. You strip quickly, not stopping until you are completely nude, throwing every item of clothing into the laundry bin and scrubbing a damp cloth across your face. Inside, your stomach feels like it is tied in knots – complicated and impossible to untangle – and in the mirror, the face that looks back at you seems subtly altered. You don’t dwell on that for long, though.
Exiting the bathroom you pad softly across the room. Since you left, he has curled on one side, legs drawn awkwardly up, as far as he can, towards his body, his head pulled down until his chin rests on his chest. Gingerly you step nearer, reaching out to lightly rest your hand upon his head as you come to kneel on the floor beside him.
“Matt...” tone tentative, unsure, you stroke your fingers slowly through his hair. “Matt, it’s me, Dom.” A deep breath: “Let me take care of you. I need to make sure you’re okay. Please, Matt.” Your fingers drift from his hair, along his neck to his shoulder, your breath catching in your throat as he slowly nods. His eyes remain tightly closed. Biting your lip, you gently press against his thigh, your voice soft, soothing – a stark contrast to its tone only a few minutes ago. “I need to get to... I need to take off the...” Suddenly awkward, unsure of how to vocalise things without being far too abrupt, you hope he understands. Thankfully, he appears to, his legs slowly straightening slightly, hands gripping the pillow beneath his head tightly. “Thank you.” You breathe the word, relief clear in your voice. With infinite care you reach out, careful not to touch his skin any more than you have to, aware of how sensitive he is by the slight tremors still travelling through his body.
At first he shies away as soon as he senses your hands hovering over his now flaccid penis. Pausing, you bite your thumb, deep in thought, and then reach over to the bedside cabinet nearest you, grabbing the lube you used earlier. Squirting some on your fingers you reach out again, carefully applying some to his penis and the ring. Once you’re sure it’s slippery enough to prevent any further discomfort, deliberately trying to ignore the way he flinches away from you, you gradually begin easing the steel band off. It’s a slow task, made slower by your over-attentiveness, but finally the constriction is removed and you release a heavy breath. Glancing at his face you see some of the tension drain away, the tightness in his jaw ease, minutely.
“One more, Matt,” another small nod in answer and you rise, moving around to the opposite side of the bed. This time you climb onto the mattress behind him, gently rubbing your hand along his thigh before your fingers take hold of the base of the butt plug, your other hand bracing against his hip. “Just breathe for me, Matt, just relax.” You know as soon as he does, muscles loosening as much as they’re going to, and, again, just as slowly as you pushed it into his body, you ease it out. As soon as it comes free he hisses, lowly, and you climb off of the bed with one final caress, taking both the cock ring and butt plug with you as you walk back into the bathroom. Placing them out of sight, you collect a small tub of cream from the cabinet and the wash cloth from earlier, dampening it again slightly. When you return to the bedroom the first thing you notice is the fact that his eyes are now open, watching you intently. Gesturing with the cloth and tub, you speak softly. “Roll onto your back for me, let me clean you up, yeah?” For a moment you’re terrified that, despite what he said, what he confessed that he wanted from you that morning, you’ve gone too far. That he won’t be able to let you near him without fear crossing his features. The thought is obliterated when he bites his lip, nods, and releases his grip on the pillow long enough to hold out one hand towards you.
“Please...” and at that word you cross the remaining gap between you quickly, sitting down on the edge of the mattress as he turns onto his back. Placing the cream down on the side, you set to cleaning his stomach, wiping the evidence of his arousal from his skin. The cuts have already begun to scab over, fading to a darker red. He watches you closely, you feel his gaze moving over your face and body as you tend to him, but you don’t meet his eyes. Once you’re satisfied that he’s clean, you retrieve the cream and look at him, expression soft and open.
“For your wrists,” at your words he glances down, raising a hand to inspect the redness and abrasions caused by the cuffs from earlier. “I thought it would help soothe them.”
“Thanks.” You shake your head, declining his gratitude as you unscrew the tub and dip your fingers inside. Placing it beside you on the bed you take hold of his hand, gently applying the cream and rubbing it in. He sighs, and as you continue to massage first one wrist and then the other, you feel his body relax further. Soon there is no cream left on his skin and you stop, allowing him to turn back onto his side. For a few seconds further you tidy things away, wandering around the room, and only when you are sure that everything is back to normal, do you go back to him. Taking hold of the covers you draw them over his body, before climbing into bed behind him. You hesitate before touching him, just watching his side rise and fall with each soft exhalation, noting the calmness that’s now present between you both. He shifts, looks back at you, and smiles softly. As though this is the signal you’ve been waiting for, you close the distance between your bodies, sliding one arm around his waist, hugging him against you as you curl the other around his head. He sighs, contentedly in your arms, as you begin to run your hand over his stomach and chest, stroking, soothing him.
“I love you,” you whisper the words over his skin, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. He shifts, one hand fitting snugly over yours.
“And I love you,” there’s a natural pause in his speech, but you don’t interrupt, knowing that he has more to say. “I do still love you, you know that, right?” he continues, quietly, but with conviction. And there is the fear lurking deep within your heart, laid bare. You breathe in, hold it for a few seconds and then release it, slowly.
“Yeah, I do.” The confidence in your voice surprises you and you close your eyes briefly. “But Matt,” you wait until he turns his head to regard you closely, ensuring your gaze is open but intent. “The only person who does that to you, who will ever hurt you like that, is me. Do you understand?” Far from brushing your words aside, he simply nods.
“The only person I’d ever trust enough to do that to me, anyway, is you.” Shifting further, he twists in your arms until he’s facing you, trailing his fingertips across your cheek. “I only want your marks on me, Dom. No one else’s.” With that reassurance echoing in your ears, you wrap him in your arms, finally able to comfort him as you had wanted to all night – you feel him respond in kind – relaxing into the embrace as though nothing had passed before. And it’s then that you allow yourself to believe that everything is just as it always had been between you, apart, of course, from the knowledge that you now carry. The awareness of not only what you can be, and what you can do, but that it was through his desire that you discovered this about yourself – a thing that you now know you wouldn't change for the world.
Anon commenting is switched on for this post, and I won't be replying to comments. Rather, the writer will respond to anyone kind enough to leave a one. Everything from this point onward is in her words:
Title: Stockholm Syndrome
Fandom: Museslash
Pairing: Matthew Bellamy/Dominic Howard
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 9,635
Summary: It's about exploring boundaries and trust, fulfilling a partner's fantasy.
Warnings: BDSM, handcuffs, rope bondage, pain, spanking, cutting, verbal abuse and humiliation.
Writer's Notes: I've read a lot of slash over the years, but I've never been able to read a complete fic that centres on BDSM. It's something that really unsettles me, most of the time. That's why when I heard about the Come As You're Not fic writing party, it was the first thing that sprung to mind. This has been a real revelation to write and couldn't have been done without the unfailing support of
filthgoblin. You’ve been a god-send for guiding me through this, and persuading me it’s good enough to share.I’m still not sure I’ve cured myself of the unease of reading it, but maybe I have of writing it.
Slowly, he opens the web browser, hands shaking slightly, his skin clammy with anticipation. From further inside the house the sound of movement drifts to him but he doesn’t pause, loading the familiar page swiftly. As soon as he sees the far too well known logo and flashing text he moves the cursor, up to the login section. He mistypes his details twice. On the third attempt the egg timer finally remains on the screen a few seconds longer than before – telling him he has succeeded.
Then he’s on.
There are many videos that he could look at. Most he’s seen at least once, some many more. Today though, there is only one he wants to find.
Footsteps move across the ceiling, but he knows you won’t be down yet – your morning ritual dictates it. Turning his attention back to the screen his eyes rove over the small video already playing, taking note of the supplies that he’s already memorised. He had to; there was no way he was making the trip to the store without knowing precisely what he was buying, and now those purchases are in the backpack leaning against the table leg, along with a rather interesting and informative book that he just couldn’t resist.
Far too soon the video ends. For a few seconds he stays staring at the small black rectangle on the screen, the images burnt into his mind, and then he moves. It’s all well and good having the supplies, having a visual guide, but without the person agreeing to carry it out, it will all be for nothing. Breathing in deeply, he makes his way out of the living room and up the stairs. He can hear you still fussing with something in the bedroom and pauses in the doorway, leaning against the jamb as he watches you fiddle with your hair in the mirror.
“It looks fine as it is.” The wry tone to his words causes you to flick a glance over your shoulder, grey eyes twinkling as you direct a cheeky wink at him.
“No offence, but I think I’ll be the judge of that. Your hair looks like you’ve been out all night and not bothered to even bloody comb it.” The remark makes him bite his lip, reaching up to feel the tufts sticking up every which way. You smirk at his reaction.
“Yeah, well, you’d be flustered if you’d just been watching...” voice trailing off, the phrasing has the desired effect; you turn to face him fully, gaze expectant.
“You can’t leave it there, Matt. Come on, spill. Early morning porn without me?” you shake your head as if despairing of him; he folds his arms across his chest, unrepentant.
“Yes.” The conviction to his tone makes you blink and finally take in the determination to his stance and expression. “I want you to do something for me.”
“And that would be...?” you walk over to him, reaching out to chuck his chin, softly. A small and altogether secretive smile rises on his features.
“Watch a video, agree to take a walk on the wild side,” the barest pause, he unfolds his arms and takes hold of yours, firmly. “I want you to forget who we are.” Another beat, he bites his lip hard as if unwilling to say anything further, but you simply wait, knowing that he will, regardless. “I want you to use me... degrade me.” You look at him as if gauging exactly what he means by the words – you’ve never been averse to games in the bedroom but there’s something to his expression that’s telling you this is going to go far deeper.
“You want me to get the handcuffs out again?”
He shakes his head, fingers tightening into vices on your arms. “No. Much more than that. Just go downstairs, watch what’s loaded on the laptop, have a look in the bag, read my note, think about it and then let me know. I’m going to go out for the day.” You raise your eyebrows at his level tone and then look down to where you know his nails will be leaving marks in your skin.
“And how am I going to let you know if I’m prepared to do whatever the fuck it is you want, to you?”
“Text me. Yes or no. Simple as that – then I’ll come back.” He looks at you intently. “I mean it. If you say no, then it’s fine. But I want this – probably more than anything I’ve asked you for before.” As if you can’t see that by how seriously he’s behaving, his words leave you in no doubt and you nod, struck dumb by confusion and bafflement. “I’ll see you later, then.” And with a short, chaste kiss, he turns and hurries back down the stairs – the front door slamming a short while later as if to place the full stop to the conversation.
“Crazy fucking bastard,” you shake your head as you wander out of the bedroom and slowly downstairs, your curiosity overwhelming your desire to make him wait, to let him sweat it out. Walking into the living room you spot the bag first, then the laptop. Sitting down, slightly perturbed, you knock the mousepad, the screen flickering to life. The choice of website doesn’t shock you – or at least not in the way that he probably thinks it would. Instead you simply click play on the selected video and watch as two figures appear on the screen.
Twenty minutes later your breathing has finally calmed enough for you to digest what you’ve seen, and wonder when the hell he started to want what you’ve just watched. You shift, uncomfortably aroused despite your misgivings, your foot hitting the backpack on the floor as you remember his instructions. Pushing back you pick it up, feeling its weight. Placing it on your lap you unzip it and look inside. The first things you see are coils of rope, twisted and looped around themselves. Reaching inside you let one run through your fingers, feeling the smooth surface, obviously designed not to chafe the skin too much. You smirk, letting the other items in the bag capture your attention – some make you frown, others bring the smirk back stronger upon your face. And then you spot the envelope peeking out of a rather interesting looking book. Sliding it free you rip it open, smoothing out the pages you find inside to see Matt’s scrawled writing covering both sheets. Settling back into the chair you begin to read.
~*~
He’s wasted the morning spending far too long looking in shops he has no interest in. Eaten a mediocre lunch at a random sushi bar, and is now walking through a patch of grass that’s laughingly been labelled as a park when he feels, then hears, his mobile signalling the arrival of a text message in his back pocket. He makes the old man on the bench flinch with his exclamation of delight, tempered with the double realisation that a) it might not be your answer and b) you may be saying no.
Thankfully both answers turn out to be what he hoped they would: your name above the little envelope icon and, when he opens it, one word; yes.
And it’s then, in that scrap of park, surrounded the normality of the city, that he feels the first frisson of terrified excitement. You said yes. The video from that morning and many nights past runs back through his head, images vivid and raw in his mind’s eye – everything overlaid with the knowledge that soon it will be you doing those things to him. He shivers; looks around; shoves his phone back in his pocket and heads off, walking back in the direction of where he now knows you will be waiting.
~*~
The house doesn’t look any different to how he left it. Not that he expected it to – no red light in the living room, no sign advertising what may be happening inside in a short while – instead he opens the front door as he would at any other time, steps inside, slips off his shoes on auto-pilot. From where he stands he can see the kitchen is empty. Outside the world is hovering on the cusp of twilight and inside there is still enough natural light to make lamps and lights redundant.
From the living room comes a sound. The shifting of fabric against fabric. It pulls him along the hallway and through the door. This room, he sees straight away, has changed, altered from this morning. Gone is the laptop on the table. Gone too, is the bag underneath it. Instead, you now sit at the table, back straight, one hand splayed on the wooden surface, the other abnormally still upon your thigh. His eyes move over your body, your dark clothes, bare feet and gaze, hard and direct. Stepping nearer to you, he opens his mouth to speak, but your voice drowns out whatever words he was going to utter.
“Tonight, I own you. Correct?” your tone is hard, unyielding and he finds his head dropping almost immediately. A shallow nod and you grunt, annoyed. “Answer a direct question. Your body is mine, is that correct?”
“Yes,” exhaled breathily, skin tightening and you continue, apparently unaffected.
“Your pleasure, your pain, is under my control.” You sit, preternaturally still, whole posture exact and uncompromising – there’s no softness present in your eyes or demeanour – he swallows thickly.
“Ye–”
“It wasn’t a question; shut up.” Jaw snapping shut he blinks, once, at the way your eyes harden further. “You will do what I say, when I say. Answer.”
“Yes,” his voice drops in volume, word barely breathed out and you tense, the muscle in your jaw jumping as you slam your fist down on the table-top – he flinches.
“Answer me so I can hear you.” The barest movement, you shift nearer to the seat edge and his skin begins to heat.
“Yes,” louder, a roughness to it that he hadn’t expected so early in whatever you have planned and your mouth twists into an ugly line; an approximation of a smile.
“What’s the word?” you don’t specify which, but then again you don’t have to. His eyes flick to the table-top, his note flattened against the smooth surface. That you ask him it now is a signal that things are about to begin.
“Knights,” he catches the disdain on your face but doesn’t react to it. That isn’t his place to, you’ve made that abundantly clear, and you can’t change the word. After all, it’s the last piece of control he has left, and even then, it’s tenuous.
“As long as we’re clear,” finally you stand – quite abruptly – he has to stop himself taking a step backwards as you begin to walk towards him. “Tonight, whatever I say, you follow. To the letter, instantly. If you don’t, you’ll be punished.” You lean in as you reach him, a look of outright disgust on your features. “And we both know how much you’ll fucking love that, how much your twisted little mind will get off on it.” He bites his lip, hard. You continue walking, cutting behind him where he hears you stop. “Lose the shirt.” His fingers grip the hem instantly, the request not one that he’s averse to carrying out, at least not usually. Pulling it up his body, over his head, he feels your eyes as a heavy weight upon his back. You don’t speak again until he allows it to fall to the floor. “Pick it up,” a beat of silence, thick with anticipation and he bends, retrieving the clothing, holding it uselessly in his hands. He hears you pick something up, and then soft, but deliberate footfalls carry you back into his line of sight.
Scissors glint in the last dying rays of the sun and he blinks, not fully comprehending what you may be about to order him to do. Until you hold them out, handles towards him, an expression on your face that tells him you’re deadly serious as the words fall into the air.
“Cut it to shreds.” Your tone is matter-of-fact, no sign of any emotion. He bristles immediately.
“No fucking way!” and immediately your eyes narrow in response to the words, anger flaring to life at his outright disobedience.
“What did I say, Matthew? What did you tell right at the start?” your voice is low, lower than he’s heard it before, threatening in a way that’s shooting straight to his cock. It promises more than he had thought you capable of, and he finds himself wanting to push just that little harder.
“That you own me.” You take one step forward, scissors still held out.
“And don’t you fucking forget it. What else?”
“That I do what you say, when you say it.” A nod, a self-satisfied smile rises on your features.
“Again, correct. Now, cut the fucking shirt into fucking shreds.” And again, heart in his throat, he shakes his head. Your eyes widen then snap into thin slits, grey flint that sparks at him violently. “Fucking little shit.” In two strides you close the distance between you and him, your free hand rising, grabbing a fistful of his hair at the back of his head, and dragging on it until he has no choice but to arch backwards. A pained gasp is wrenched from his mouth before he can stop it, the power in your grip unmistakeable. His chest expands, the angle putting pressure on ribs, his spine, lower back. The pain throbs, muscles burning, but he doesn’t attempt to remove your hand, or stop you when he catches sight of the scissors in your other hand. “Always so vain about your bloody skin, aren’t you? Always staying out of the fucking sun like a bloody vampire,” they dance closer, your hand making lazy circles with the blades in the air. “You know what? It’s like fucking a ghost. Sometimes,” your voice drops further, “sometimes when I’m inside you, fucking your tight arse, I forget you’re even there.”
The words cause a jolt to pass through his body; a tight smile appears on your features as you see his reaction and then it’s gone again, the mask of indifference firmly back in place.
“Yeah, that’s right. It’s like you just disappear. Could be anyone under me, could be no one. And then you still have the gall to take the piss out of me wanting to look good...” The scissors begin to lower, disappearing out of his line of sight; his muscles tense instinctively. “Well, how about this, how about I fuck up your skin, cut you a little bit –” the first touch comes suddenly, at his navel, the blades marking a circular pathway around his bellybutton, causing a slight scratch to appear. Stomach muscles contract, pull in, away, and his eyes widen impossibly. “How about I cut a pattern into you so I can see who I’m fucking? How’s that sound?” the blades move upwards, grazing his skin one shade away from tearing it, his chest now heaving, breaths taken in gulping bursts. They press down on a nipple and his hands move before he can stop them, rising, still holding the shirt, but to do what, he’s not sure. “Ah, ah,” your voice is firm, brokers no argument. “Drop them.” And he does, his hands falling just as quickly as they had risen, loose and limp at his sides. The scissors continue upwards. “Maybe I won’t cut you,” they pass over his throat, lips, cheek, “maybe I’ll just cut a lump of your hair off.” As if to punctuate the threat, you yank that bit harder on his hair – tears spring to his eyes and he blinks them away, furiously. He will not let you see him cry. Instead he allows you to see the pain your words cause, a mutinous glare that somehow loses potency the nearer those scissors move to his hair. His back has reached its limit, his knees buckling, slightly, but you shift, one hip sliding in behind his, bracing him as you place the scissors by his scalp.
Long seconds pass; you begin running the open scissors along the hair clenched in your fingers, feeling each shiver through his body as you do so, the vibrations running across his head as a silent promise. After interminable moments, your voice comes again, low, and bitingly sharp by his ear.
“Cut the shirt into shreds.” You release his hair, his head slowly rising, muscles protesting at each slight movement. The scissors are pressed into his unresisting hand. “Or I might just decide to make good on those threats.” With that you move back in front of him, but he can’t look at you. His gaze remains rooted on the floor just in front of your feet, the cold steel of the scissors almost burning his palm as he hefts them in his hand, slipping his fingers into the handles. “Good boy.” The words drip with derision as he slides the material in between the blades, mind numb as he begins cutting up the garment. You wait, patiently, as he does it, watching the scraps fall to the floor. When the last piece slips from his fingers, you step forward, taking the scissors back and patting his head almost consolingly. “I don’t know what you got so worked up about.” Your tone draws his gaze, blue eyes half pained, but half aroused all the same. “Your hair’s hardly your best asset, is it?” Your gaze drops to his chest, assessing and critical. He fights the urge to hide himself from you. “Then again, what is?” You drawl the question, gaze unrelenting and he finds himself shivering. “Answer me. What do you think makes you so fucking special?”
“N–nothing,” he answers automatically, knowing it’s what you want to hear, half believing it himself. He shakes his head as if confirming his answer and you smirk.
“Good. Now we’re getting somewhere.” You wander back to the chair by the table, turning it so it faces him, and then resume your seat. Resting one hand on the cool wood, you cast an appraising glance over his lightly scratched chest, the scraps of material on the floor. “I want you naked. Now.”
He swallows, once, skin immediately goosebumping at the order. Clumsily he bends, yanking at his socks, throwing them aimlessly behind him as his fingers fumble with the button of his fly. Biting his lip, he feels a fine sheen of sweat break out upon his skin.
“Faster.” The button pops open, zipper lowered immediately after – you don’t react as he grasps both jeans and boxers, shoving them down his legs together. His cock is already half-hard. You have a feeling that it has been harder, before your comments had obviously had their desired effect. Once free of his feet, he picks them up, holding them helplessly as he looks at you for direction. “Throw them over there. I don’t give a shit where.” Without a pause he does as instructed, then turns back to wait, silent and pensive. Your eyes drift to his penis, a look of disgust clear on your features. “That really is a pathetic excuse for a cock.” Shifting slightly, you widen your thighs, thrusting your hips suggestively as you settle. “Maybe that’s why you like taking it up the arse. I wouldn’t be able to feel that even if you were pounding the shit out of me,” you smirk, “or attempting to, anyway.” Another speculative gaze and he can feel himself wither further under your glare. “Make it hard. I want to see how much you love me degrading you, want to see how much of a little perverted shit you are.”
And as much as he’d love to refuse, as much as he wants to break this right now, to try and claw something back – something vaguely resembling dignity – he can’t. More to the point, he doesn’t actually, truthfully, want to. This is, after all, exactly what he’s wanted for far too long. Even though you seem to be revelling in it much more than he thought you would.
It’s a combination of that thought, and the glint in your eye, that makes him obey. That and the fact that this is rapidly blurring what boundaries you had in place between which Dom is the real one: the one of this morning, soft and satiated in bed, or this one, all hard edges and unrelenting venom? Did the first one ever exist, at all?
He feels himself stiffen in his hand and you nod, appreciatively. “What are you thinking of, ay? Thinking of the way I’m going to abuse you later? The way I’m going to use your body any fucking way I want?” you smile, snidely, watching as the expression makes his hand tighten that bit harder around himself, his strokes rougher at the implication. “Oh, you’re a fucking deviant. A filthy, perverted bastard who can’t get enough of being treated like shit,” a pause, your eyes glittering, and then: “Good job I love telling you exactly what you’re worth, then, isn’t it?” A grunt slips from his lips before he can stop it and you still, immediately. “Stop.” His hand falls away, reluctantly. “You still don’t get it, do you?” rising from your seat, you turn and grab something from the chair behind you – the backpack – his breathing quickens. “Don’t understand how pathetic and worthless you are. You’re mine. Wonky teeth, skinny arse, fat stomach, fucking huge nose – it all belongs to me.” Your attention is taken by something within the bag, hands delving inside. “Looking at you like that, I have to remind myself exactly why I’m with you.” You glance at him, take in the way his eyes are pain-filled, hands clenched into fists despite your words, or perhaps because of them, and you slowly withdraw your hands from the bag. “Maybe it’s because you’re just desperate to be treated like shit.” Two sets of cuffs appear; leather and metal, sturdy, well-made – you heft them in your hand before taking a step towards him. “Maybe it’s because I know you’ll let me make you helpless, because I know you’ll love the abuse.” Yet again you walk behind him. His skin prickles with anticipation.
This time you don’t halt, instead continuing your journey until you’re standing in front of him again. A set of cuffs dangle from each hand. Up close he can see they’re far more substantial than the handcuffs he’s used to. Thick leather fastens with a metal clasp, a strong chain linking the two pieces together. You let one set drop to the floor, the other you pull taut between your hands.
“Do you want to be helpless?” your voice is low, gravelly, and he swallows, hard.
“Yes...”
“Do you want me to bind you so you can’t move? So you can’t stop me doing a fucking thing to you?” you don’t wait for a reply – he knows his face shows his answer far too clearly – and walk behind him. There are a few seconds of silence and then he feels you grasp his arm firmly, wrenching it back as you slip the cuff on. It’s fastened tightly, far tighter than previous times between you, and he gasps before he can stop himself. You ignore it, grabbing his other wrist and binding that in the same way. He feels your fingers running over his skin, then the cuffs, and back again. The restricted movement makes his skin heat with anticipation. “Kneel.” The instruction is accompanied by you pressing your foot into the hollow behind one of his knees, legs buckling almost instantly. He tries to control his descent, but gravity and your foot make it impossible and his knees collide heavily with the floor. A pained grunt leaves his lips even as he sees you collect the second set of cuffs and feels you kneel behind him. Suddenly his ankle is encased in the same way as his wrists, the second following swiftly, until there is no room for manoeuvre. He hears you make a contemplative sound, a tug on the chain between his wrists making his spine arch, dragging his shoulders down. You don’t stop pulling until he can feel his fingers brushing the floor, you fiddling with something on the chains, until, with a self-satisfied grunt and metallic click, you move away.
Slowly, you walk back to your seat, not looking at him once. Sitting down you retrieve the book from the bag and then put it back on the chair beside you. An air of disinterest settles over your features as you glance at him, as if checking that he is as immobile as you want, and then your eyes turn quickly to the pages that you have just opened. He shifts, uneasily, disliking the way you’re ignoring him, feeling the reaction to it as a niggling pain in his chest that he can’t get rid of. The cuffs and chains clink quietly.
Minutes pass.
Pages turn.
At one point you stand, stretching. His eyes follow the motion until you look at him, glaring as though he disgusts you, and he drops his gaze to the floor again. Minutes stretch further, interminably long. His knees begin to throb, dully; his shoulder’s taking on a deep burn. You rise again, wander past him, not looking at him once, he hears your footsteps fade, the sound of cupboard doors opening, the kettle first being flicked on, then clicked off, and after another moments silence, you return, holding a steaming cup in your hand. Still, there is no acknowledgement. Instead you sit back down, cradling the hot drink in your hands as you turn pages over, idly.
His head droops, falling forward on his neck, shoulders unbearably sensitive to even the slightest movement. If this were a game whereby one could differentiate between a winner and loser, right at this moment, he knows precisely which side he would be on.
Outside the night darkens. He has no idea how long you have left him kneeling there for – it could be minutes, or hours – but when you finally stir, closing the book with an abrupt snap, it pulls his head up sharply. Your gaze is heavy and intense on him and he shivers, bound hands clenching into fists behind his back.
You stand slowly, every motion deliberate as you pick up the bag from the chair beside you, zipping it closed and tucking the book under your arm. For the second time in as many minutes you leave the room, his ears straining to listen to your footsteps. He hears the stairs creak and feels his skin heat, a prickling sensation bursting out over his flesh. Slow seconds pass and then the stairs announce your return. Again, you move with a focus that he rarely sees. Without pause you move behind him, the clip between the cuffs between his wrists and ankles coming free with a definite snapping noise.
“You’ve had enough time to think about what a perverted shit you are.” You speak as you set to freeing his ankles, the leather sliding free with a purposefulness that makes his body shudder. “Now it’s time for me to show you just how deep those perversions run.” As soon as both ankles are free, you straighten, hand delving to twist and tangle in his hair, pulling it just beyond the edge of pain. “Just how much you’ll want to beg me to fucking use your body, to debase you completely.” You arch his head back until you can stare down into his darkened eyes, tears pricking the corners at the painful angle you hold his head in. “And you’ll fucking love it. You’ll never want it to end.” Arm muscles tense, contract, and you start to pull him upwards, his legs still tingling – limbs desperate to support himself as the tension across his scalp becomes nearly unbearable. “You little fuck. Get to your feet. I want you upstairs, ready for whatever I want.” He gains his feet unsteadily, your breath hot and moist against his neck. “Because whose body is this?” a sharp tug on his hair and he grunts, softly. “Answer.”
“Yours.”
“And who has every right to treat you like shit?”
“You.” The answers are automatic, his mind only focused on one thing – that you are the one in control. That this is who they truly are, in this moment: he is consumed by it.
“And why is that?” you begin to walk towards the door, dragging him behind you by the hand still buried in his hair.
“Because I’m a worthless, perverted piece of shit.” Passing through the door he stumbles as you continue, feet tripping over themselves clumsily.
“You’re my worthless, perverted piece of shit,” the warmth that passes through his body at your words is immediately tempered by what you say next. “After all, who else would want you?” The first stair appears and you finally change your grip; abruptly releasing his hair, causing him to lurch forwards, before grasping his upper arm, digging your nails in one shade away from cutting into his skin. Propelling him roughly ahead of you, you make your way upstairs. His feet catch on the stairs as they turn the corner and you grunt in exasperation, fingers clenching on his arm, bruises forming at your touch. “You can’t even walk, for Christ’s sake. Those big, clumsy fucking feet of yours.” His eyes remain lowered, too busy watching where he places each foot to let your words sink in. “And that’s another thing – big feet, big cock? What a fucking joke. Obviously they’ve never seen you naked.” Reaching the landing you continue to shove him in front of you, the bedroom door appearing far too quickly. He turns, letting his shoulder take the brunt of the impact with the door; it swings open to reveal the bed, covers already turned down, the backpack placed to the side. There’s a single lamp lit, casting fuzzy shadows over everything. You release him just inside the door, walking away and wiping your hand down your jeans as if to clean it. “They’d probably die laughing if they ever did.” Shaking your head you take hold of the bag, unzipping it once more and retrieving something from inside. Straightening, you cast an assessing look down his body. He shies away from it, actually twisting to the side and taking a step backwards. “Come here, now.”
Breath lodging in his throat there’s a moment where he debates what you would do if he disobeyed you outright. If he walked back out of the room and tried to go back downstairs. There’s a battle waging inside his head, even now. Every cell in his body is begging to submit, it’s the role he’s slipping into, the role he’s craved. Even so, there’s still a tiny part of him that is, for want of a better word, insecure about what is about to happen. Half terrified of how intense it may be.
You don’t give him enough time to decide, though. Letting out a loud exclamation of rage, you cross the room in hurried, determined strides, grabbing him roughly by the hair again and yanking him over, nearer the bed.
“You fucking move when I say move. Do you understand me?” fingers twist and he can’t stop the pained yelp that falls from his lips.
“Ye-yes.”
“Good. Now, let’s see how much your deviant little mind loves this...” and with that you fall to your knees, coming eye-level with his flaccid penis. Throwing a smirk back up at him, you lift your other hand – he catches sight of something glinting in the low light – and then comprehension steals over him as you lift his cock, taking one of his testicles between your fingers. “You better have washed this morning.” The glint comes again, from what he now recognises as a steel cock ring. He feels his breathing hitch and stutter in his chest. “We both know how fucking foul you can get. How you let yourself reek.” The first testicle is fed through, the second following rapidly after. You grasp his penis, making sure his eyes meet yours before speaking again. “See how pathetic you look?” you gesture with his penis, as if using it to illustrate your point. “Fucking pointless, worthless excuse for a man,” you smirk and then drop your eyes back to the task in hand, feeding his penis through the steel ring before adjusting it slightly, pushing it back snugly to his body. Sitting back on your haunches, you gaze up at him. “Let’s see if that helps you look more attractive, hmm?”
His eyes remain cast downwards, the sensation of steel slowly warming against his skin causing little shivers to tear through his body. Everything feels tight, his cock already beginning to stir, no matter what you say. He barely registers you standing, or moving around the room. Shifting he tests the fit – it doesn’t move – and abruptly stills at the sound of an all-too familiar click. Glancing up from beneath his lashes, he sees you take step nearer, the camera held out in front of you as you take another shot. He drops his eyes back down; feeling the flush begin to rise through his body at the realisation there will be physical evidence of his degradation.
“Turn around, face the bed.” There’s the barest hesitation, hands clenching before releasing impotently. “Now,” the word is growled out and he obeys with little thought as to why. His head remains bowed as he senses you moving behind him, only the quiet sound of the camera’s shutter and your breathing breaking the stillness. Finally there’s a louder noise – the camera being placed upon the side – and your hands run over his cuffs. “I think it’s about time you learned just how fucked up you are...” Your voice trails off as you turn away and he feels his skin grow clammy as the sound of you rummaging in the bag reaches his ears again. A tube of lube hits the bed; his eyes drawn to it as you come behind him again, catching hold of his neck in your hand, fingernails piercing the skin. Without giving any warning you shove him forward, the hand on his neck pressing his face into the mattress as you knock his feet further apart. His chest hits the bed hard, body bouncing slightly, a pained grunt falling from his lips that is muffled entirely by the sheets. You smirk as you retrieve the lube, finally releasing his neck as you straighten. “Now you look as pathetic as you really are. All laid out and willing for me to do whatever the fuck I want to you, isn’t that right?” He nods, but you slap the back of his thighs, hard, making his body jolt. “Answer the fucking question. Isn’t that right?”
“Yes.” Twisting his head to the side his eyes remained closed, skin heating and smarting at the sudden slap. He hears you twist the cap off of the tube, an unfamiliar stretching sound is heard, followed by a snapping, and then your presence is back, hovering over him.
“Keep your eyes closed. One fucking peek and I’ll punish you for it so severely even you won’t get off on it.” It isn’t a question, so he doesn’t answer, knowing from the hardness to your voice that you mean every word. Beneath him, his cock stirs at the implication, but he doesn’t disobey, even as he feels your hands spreading the cheeks of his arse apart, roughly. A frown mars his features, something not feeling quite right about your skin on his, and he hears you snort, derisively, as one finger traces the cleft. “That’s right. I’m wearing gloves. Got to take precautions with you; after all I know exactly what you like to shove up this arse, how often you get fucked by anything you can get your grubby little paws on.” Without warning the finger breaches him, sharply. His head rises off of the bed, mouth falling open. Immediately your hand is there, pushing it back down. “No, not one fucking sound. Not a whimper, not a moan. You take this in silence, like the sick fuck you are.” The finger is thrust back inside, until he can feel your other gloved fingers pushing against his body. He shivers. “That’s it, this is how you love it, isn’t it?” one withdraws, two re-enter; no warning as before, right up to the knuckle. His cock jumps, already half-hard and rapidly filling. Your other hand drifts from his neck, his body remaining on the bed, and even though it’s tense and rigid, you still apply pressure between his shoulder blades as you add a third finger.
He bites his lip. A cry tries to force its way out of his throat as you thrust your fingers in and out of his body uncompromisingly. You’re treating him like he’s just a vessel to be used, to be filled, and he hates and loves how much it’s arousing him. Then you stop. Hand and fingers removed, from on and in his body.
“Let’s see how you take this, you little shit, take everything I want to give you...” as you speak he feels something hard press against him, forcing its way inside him. Thighs trembling, he squirms as sensitised nerve-endings are stimulated. You laugh, condescendingly. “God, you really do fucking love it, don’t you? Love me shoving this up your arse, how it holds you open...” what he now can feel is a butt plug, is firmly inserted, fully, into his body. Your hand resumes its place on the back of his neck, anticipating the arch the last few centimetres disappearing into his body will induce. And then it’s in place. He feels full, stretched in a completely different way to when you’re inside him. His legs shift, his now fully erect cock rubbing against the sheets, friction tantalisingly out of reach. You tap the end of the plug, the vibrations travelling through the toy and into him, magnifying as they do. His teeth drag against his bottom lip hard enough to draw blood.
Again, there’s a moment’s pause as you move away, the sound of gloves being stripped from your hands, and then the sound of the camera’s shutter. His fingers flex impotently as he lies prone upon the bed. Nothing more happens. Long, long moments pass, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t even contemplate opening his eyes to check if you’re still in the room or not. That wasn’t your instruction, and because of that, he simply doesn’t even think of doing it.
The blow, when it comes, is sudden, sharp and hard: an open palmed slap across his arse, his body bouncing slightly on the bed, the plug thrumming from the impact. The slightest whimper passes his lips and you do it again, no rhythm to it, no chance for him to anticipate the next blow. At times you hit him twice in quick succession, watching the way his skin reddens, the sudden increase in blood flow colouring skin usually pale and uninteresting. At others you let the seconds build between, one atop the other, as you watch the way the redness fades to pink, then nearly white, before you bring your hand down again, harder than the previous slap. And as you do, you speak, your words falling into the air with more rhythm than your hand.
“I know you’re hard. I can smell how much this is turning you on, you perverted bastard,” another slap, the redness taking longer to fade, his body shivering and flinching whether a blow connects or not. During the lull you let your palm flatten against his reddened cheek, pressing lightly, the touch barely there, but it still produces a delightful flinch from him, his body shuddering on the mattress as you caress the abused flesh. “You’re dying to be marked, begging for me to bruise your skin, make you fucking hurt.” You notice the way he pushes up, onto the balls of his feet, moisture pricking at the corner of his eyes, the way his hands curl into fists with each slap, and you sense his limit approaching. Or at least for this particular brand of humiliation. You take a slow breath in. “You fucking bore me.” And on those words you step away with one final hard slap that pulls a choked off whimper from him. You ignore it, instead turning back to the bag.
From where he lays, still in self-imposed darkness, his whole lower half a bemusing mix of tenderness and arousal, he can hear you pulling something else from the bag. The shiver that moves through him is entirely his subconscious’ doing. His body feels raw: as though you’ve not merely abused his arse and thighs but somehow managed to make your touch extend to cover every last inch of him, whether physically, or not. His cock is still unrelentingly hard.
He senses you leaning over him, but can’t stop the way his body flinches as your hands take hold of his wrists. His eyelids flutter, but at no word from you, he keeps them shut. Slowly one cuff falls open; the muscles in his arms unresponsive, still too used to being restrained to move. The second falls away and you drop them to the floor.
“Climb on the bed – lay on your back.” Words followed to the letter, there’s the faintest of sharp inhalations as his bruised knees come into contact with the softness of the mattress, and then he turns, positioning himself as ordered. “Arms up, above your head.” Again, the order is followed obediently, his hands brushing the headboard. You kneel on the bed, once more grasping his wrist. He feels the soft cord of what he knows is one length of the Japanese bondage ropes slip around it – Japanese, something he just couldn’t pass up – and then you pull it taut. It’s fastened swiftly to the headboard and then you move around to the other side of the bed, repeating the action. “Open your eyes.”
The first thing he sees, other than the ceiling above him, is you, standing just to the left of him. Your eyes are dark, hidden by the shadows deepening in the room, your skin flushed. He looks away quickly, biting his lip as if caught doing something illegal, muscles involuntarily tensing in their bonds as you climb onto the bed fully. The ceiling holds his attention as you move to straddle his thighs, carefully avoiding any contact with his now fully erect cock.
“Look at you, so fucking easy – a few harsh words, some spanking, and you’re hard as fuck.” You tilt your head, examining his cock more closely. “You’re even weeping, you little shit.” You pause and then lift your hand into view. “I wonder if you’ll still be like that when I start running this over your skin, hmm?” His body stills completely, toes and fingers curling as the blade in your hand catches the lamp light. “Or maybe you’d like it to slice into you...” The tip of the knife makes contact; you drag it over his abdomen, noting with disinterest how his cock jumps at the contact. A thin score rises behind the tip, white before flooding with red. It’s not hard enough to break the skin, yet, and you set to drawing out a spider’s web tracery of marks. With each stroke, he shivers or jolts, eyes watching first you, then the blade closely. “Fucking twisted little...” as you bring the knife under his nipple you allow it to slice deeper, parting the skin until small droplets of blood well up along the line. He gasps, bottom lip once more caught between his teeth as he sets to worrying it, obsessively. You let it happen again, this time lower, towards the centre of his abdomen, watching the flare of pain that crosses his features, noting the way he tries to smother it until all that remains is the moisture pricking at the corners of his eyes. His arms begin to twist and pull at the ropes, his head pressing back into the pillows and you know he’s nearing the edge, but you don’t relent.
What you know will be the last cut falls just below his collarbone, running in a thin, meandering line for a few inches. His reaction is intense – head turned to the side, tendons standing out in sharp relief in his neck as the ruby line wells up, finds the air and oozes along his skin. You can hear his breathing, shallow and rapid; you feel his legs push slightly upwards, as if trying to dislodge you and see his mouth fall open, lips forming what you know will be the first syllable of his safe word. Before that can happen, though, you remove the knife completely, rising to your knees and placing it on the side. Retrieving the cloth you’d left there earlier, you settle back atop him. His head is still turned away, eyes unseeing.
“Not even that can make you any more fucking interesting to me.” You gently wipe the cloth – slightly damp – along each scratch and cut on his chest. “Only a fucked up freak like you would get off on being bloody cut.” His body trembles and flinches beneath your touch. When you’re satisfied, you climb off of him, disposing of the cloth before your hands set to freeing his arms. “I’ve had enough.” You sense his eyes on you, but know if you look down, he will drop his gaze away from yours. “I can’t stand touching you anymore, doing all these fucked up things just to get you off.” Once one arm is free, you do glance down at him – he averts his eyes immediately – and you walk around to his other arm, freeing that just as swiftly. Coiling the rope absent-mindedly, you regard the way he remains in the bound position; arms still raised as though never having been freed. You shake your head, instead taking your time to place both the rope and the cuffs back in the bag, zipping it closed and pushing it underneath the bed, out of sight. Moving away, you look at him for a second before finally sitting down on the chair beneath the window. Your eyes narrow, the position of the chair allowing you to see his whole body, and you note how hard he still is. Biting your lip you take a deep breath in, using it to calm you before exhaling and addressing him, harshly. “You can finish yourself off. If you think I’m touching you after that little twisted, deviant display, you’re fucking mistaken.” His hand twitches, but he still doesn’t make any move to lower it to touch himself. “I mean it; make yourself come. Let me see how you fucking get off on being treated like shit – how much you loved me degrading you. Do it.”
And, just when you think that you may have to do something else to persuade him, he moves, one hand lowering to grasp his cock firmly, the other trailing over his chest.
“That’s it, you little pervert, show me how much you loved it. Fuck your hand like you want me to fuck you.” His hand tightens: you see the muscle tense in his arm as he strokes his cock hard and rough. “Let me hear you, hear how much you want my cock inside you, tearing you open.” Immediately his mouth falls open, breathy, half-pained cries finding their way into the air. “Can you feel my cock shoved up inside you? Feel how I love using you, just pounding into your tight arse... That’s all you are to me,” whimpers intermittently join the litany of sounds falling from his lips, “just a pretty arse to lose myself in until I come.” You see his spine arch, the flush rising steadily on his skin and you know he’s close. Your own knuckles are white where you’re clenching your fists, every instinct in you telling you to get over to the bed and help him finish it – but that isn’t your role – at least not yet. “Can you feel me coming, shooting my load into your arse, forcing it deep inside you until you can fucking taste it? You’d beg me for more, wouldn’t you? Because you’re a sick, twisted little fuck, who just loves being treated like the shit that you are.” The first wave of his orgasm hits suddenly, his voice catching, stuttering as his body stiffens and arches on the bed. His hand moves in a spasmodic motion over his cock and then you see him coming, a guttural, roughened exclamation of agony pulled from his lips as his body twitches and convulses.
Then, after what seems like minutes, everything stills. His body lies spent and drained upon the mattress, his head once more turned away from you, a low, quiet snuffling breaking the silence.
You stand, slowly, walking on weak legs around the bed. As you pass him, you risk looking down, seeing the moisture now spilling freely from his eyes, the redness gradually appearing around his wrists, the darkness of the skin around his eyes. Every instinct is screaming at you to comfort him, but you can’t, not yet. Instead you keep walking, moving into the en suite and quietly closing the door. You strip quickly, not stopping until you are completely nude, throwing every item of clothing into the laundry bin and scrubbing a damp cloth across your face. Inside, your stomach feels like it is tied in knots – complicated and impossible to untangle – and in the mirror, the face that looks back at you seems subtly altered. You don’t dwell on that for long, though.
Exiting the bathroom you pad softly across the room. Since you left, he has curled on one side, legs drawn awkwardly up, as far as he can, towards his body, his head pulled down until his chin rests on his chest. Gingerly you step nearer, reaching out to lightly rest your hand upon his head as you come to kneel on the floor beside him.
“Matt...” tone tentative, unsure, you stroke your fingers slowly through his hair. “Matt, it’s me, Dom.” A deep breath: “Let me take care of you. I need to make sure you’re okay. Please, Matt.” Your fingers drift from his hair, along his neck to his shoulder, your breath catching in your throat as he slowly nods. His eyes remain tightly closed. Biting your lip, you gently press against his thigh, your voice soft, soothing – a stark contrast to its tone only a few minutes ago. “I need to get to... I need to take off the...” Suddenly awkward, unsure of how to vocalise things without being far too abrupt, you hope he understands. Thankfully, he appears to, his legs slowly straightening slightly, hands gripping the pillow beneath his head tightly. “Thank you.” You breathe the word, relief clear in your voice. With infinite care you reach out, careful not to touch his skin any more than you have to, aware of how sensitive he is by the slight tremors still travelling through his body.
At first he shies away as soon as he senses your hands hovering over his now flaccid penis. Pausing, you bite your thumb, deep in thought, and then reach over to the bedside cabinet nearest you, grabbing the lube you used earlier. Squirting some on your fingers you reach out again, carefully applying some to his penis and the ring. Once you’re sure it’s slippery enough to prevent any further discomfort, deliberately trying to ignore the way he flinches away from you, you gradually begin easing the steel band off. It’s a slow task, made slower by your over-attentiveness, but finally the constriction is removed and you release a heavy breath. Glancing at his face you see some of the tension drain away, the tightness in his jaw ease, minutely.
“One more, Matt,” another small nod in answer and you rise, moving around to the opposite side of the bed. This time you climb onto the mattress behind him, gently rubbing your hand along his thigh before your fingers take hold of the base of the butt plug, your other hand bracing against his hip. “Just breathe for me, Matt, just relax.” You know as soon as he does, muscles loosening as much as they’re going to, and, again, just as slowly as you pushed it into his body, you ease it out. As soon as it comes free he hisses, lowly, and you climb off of the bed with one final caress, taking both the cock ring and butt plug with you as you walk back into the bathroom. Placing them out of sight, you collect a small tub of cream from the cabinet and the wash cloth from earlier, dampening it again slightly. When you return to the bedroom the first thing you notice is the fact that his eyes are now open, watching you intently. Gesturing with the cloth and tub, you speak softly. “Roll onto your back for me, let me clean you up, yeah?” For a moment you’re terrified that, despite what he said, what he confessed that he wanted from you that morning, you’ve gone too far. That he won’t be able to let you near him without fear crossing his features. The thought is obliterated when he bites his lip, nods, and releases his grip on the pillow long enough to hold out one hand towards you.
“Please...” and at that word you cross the remaining gap between you quickly, sitting down on the edge of the mattress as he turns onto his back. Placing the cream down on the side, you set to cleaning his stomach, wiping the evidence of his arousal from his skin. The cuts have already begun to scab over, fading to a darker red. He watches you closely, you feel his gaze moving over your face and body as you tend to him, but you don’t meet his eyes. Once you’re satisfied that he’s clean, you retrieve the cream and look at him, expression soft and open.
“For your wrists,” at your words he glances down, raising a hand to inspect the redness and abrasions caused by the cuffs from earlier. “I thought it would help soothe them.”
“Thanks.” You shake your head, declining his gratitude as you unscrew the tub and dip your fingers inside. Placing it beside you on the bed you take hold of his hand, gently applying the cream and rubbing it in. He sighs, and as you continue to massage first one wrist and then the other, you feel his body relax further. Soon there is no cream left on his skin and you stop, allowing him to turn back onto his side. For a few seconds further you tidy things away, wandering around the room, and only when you are sure that everything is back to normal, do you go back to him. Taking hold of the covers you draw them over his body, before climbing into bed behind him. You hesitate before touching him, just watching his side rise and fall with each soft exhalation, noting the calmness that’s now present between you both. He shifts, looks back at you, and smiles softly. As though this is the signal you’ve been waiting for, you close the distance between your bodies, sliding one arm around his waist, hugging him against you as you curl the other around his head. He sighs, contentedly in your arms, as you begin to run your hand over his stomach and chest, stroking, soothing him.
“I love you,” you whisper the words over his skin, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. He shifts, one hand fitting snugly over yours.
“And I love you,” there’s a natural pause in his speech, but you don’t interrupt, knowing that he has more to say. “I do still love you, you know that, right?” he continues, quietly, but with conviction. And there is the fear lurking deep within your heart, laid bare. You breathe in, hold it for a few seconds and then release it, slowly.
“Yeah, I do.” The confidence in your voice surprises you and you close your eyes briefly. “But Matt,” you wait until he turns his head to regard you closely, ensuring your gaze is open but intent. “The only person who does that to you, who will ever hurt you like that, is me. Do you understand?” Far from brushing your words aside, he simply nods.
“The only person I’d ever trust enough to do that to me, anyway, is you.” Shifting further, he twists in your arms until he’s facing you, trailing his fingertips across your cheek. “I only want your marks on me, Dom. No one else’s.” With that reassurance echoing in your ears, you wrap him in your arms, finally able to comfort him as you had wanted to all night – you feel him respond in kind – relaxing into the embrace as though nothing had passed before. And it’s then that you allow yourself to believe that everything is just as it always had been between you, apart, of course, from the knowledge that you now carry. The awareness of not only what you can be, and what you can do, but that it was through his desire that you discovered this about yourself – a thing that you now know you wouldn't change for the world.
