“Good morning again,” he said.
“Good morning, sir,” I replied.
“That was an unusual wake up call. What sparked that idea?” he asked.
“I woke up, and I saw you here sleeping, and you looked….” I trailed off. I opened my eyes again and propped myself back up on my elbows to look down at him. “You looked incredible. And it made me horny. And then I decided I had to make you cum again. I started to suck you, but you started moaning a little, and I decided I wanted to do something more.”
“You mean you wanted to feel me fuck you.” His eyes bored into mine.
“Yeah, um, yes sir. I did want to feel you fuck me, but I wanted to make you get off even more.”
He looked up at me quietly, reading my face. The tip of his tongue poked out and he slowly wet his upper lip. I felt my cock surge between us, my own lips parting. I moved forward on my forearms, leaning down to kiss him. As our lips met, he rolled over, exchanging our positions so he lay on top of me. It took no time as we kissed for my dick to swell to capacity. My hands moved to his shoulder blades as he slipped one of his between us, the elbow of the other arm propping him up over me. He pulled my nutsack up from between my legs and closed his fist around it and my throbbing shaft. He nipped at my lower lip with his teeth, tugging on it. My hips rocked.
“Do you want to go back to the apartment, Simon?” he asked.
“Yes please,” I writhed.
“Do you know what’s going to happen there?”
“Yes sir. I’m going to strip and clean out my ass and then gag and strap myself on the bed in the gray room. And then you’re going to torture me.”
“And you want that to happen, don’t you, Simon?”
“Yes sir,” I groaned.
“There’s one thing you’ve forgotten. What is it?”
I looked up at him, his face soft in the morning light that escaped the thick cloth of the drapes. “I don’t know.”
“You have to be punished for growing pubes.” His eyes were stern. He waited, gauging my reaction. I only nodded, knowing that I had disobeyed his intention that I remain smooth. I had had stubble on my crotch when he’d inspected me the previous Wednesday. “It’s not going to be pleasant. You’ve gotten some sexual enjoyment out of the other things I’ve done to you, but punishment is not designed for that. Do you understand?”
“Yes sir,” I said solemnly.
“I decided on Wednesday how I was going to punish you. You’ve done some things to impress me since then, but the point is still that you disobeyed. This is the first time I will have had to punish you, and I have to make sure that it leaves a clear enough impression that you don’t do it again. I know that you might think that the offense was trivial; it was. But it stands for something. And no matter what we become, when there are commands – though there may not always be – they must be obeyed.” I was anxious and he could see it in my eyes. He said nothing, letting me simmer in my fear. My cock made no move to soften in his fist.
“Do you still want to go back to the apartment?” he asked after several minutes’ silence.
“Yes sir,” I answered softly.
He smiled evilly, twisting his face into a mask of wicked intent. He rolled off me and released my genitals from his grasp. “Then go. You’ve got some things to do to get ready, don’t you?”
Rule One. Cleanliness. “Yes sir.” I rolled away from him and stood stiffly, my thighs still sore from the exertion of fucking myself on his cock earlier, my hole still sore from its abuse last night and the renewed and vigorous penetration this morning. I padded off to the bathroom.
“I’ve ordered room service. It should be here soon.” His eyes locked on mine. “You should probably get dressed.
I turned to the armoire and retrieved my suit, somewhat rumpled from its unfair treatment during our hasty disrobing. He watched me pull on my jock and socks and button my shirt. I was reaching for my trousers when he stopped me. “Aren’t you forgetting something?” I turned back to him, his eyes still steel, and then he looked to the coffee table in front of the couch where the butt plug still lay.
“Sorry sir,” I muttered, admonished. I picked up the plug and carried it off to the bathroom to clean it.
“Bring it back before you put it in,” he called after me.
It took only a moment before I was back with him. The latex glistened with water, the only lube I’d have before I pushed it back between my swollen ass lips.
“Kneel on the couch, your chest over the arm, and put it back in while facing me,” he instructed. I assumed the position he described. His face was stoic as he watched me grimace, slowly forcing the firm latex into my ass, the friction chaffing my tender flesh. Just as my ring clamped around the narrow channel preceding the retaining knob, a knock came at the door, startling me.
Predictably, he ordered me to answer the door and, predictably, I obeyed, dressed only in my shirt tails, socks, and obscenely bulging jock strap. The waiter, in his crisply starched shirt, tie, flannel trousers, and scarlet waistcoat, was my age and height, a lean swimmer’s build, jet-black hair and emerald eyes. My attire caught him off-guard, and I blushed as his eyes widened. I moved out of his way and he walked in carrying a silver tray laden with covered dishes. He was even more taken aback as he walked into the anteroom to find Alistair at the desk.
“Uh, good morning, um…gentlemen,” he stuttered.
“Morning,” Alistair said casually. “You can put the tray on the coffee table.” I hastily moved back to the armoire to finish dressing. The waiter complied and produced from his back trouser pocket the leather wallet containing the check. He held it indecisively until Alistair, never looking up from the newspaper, held out his hand. Alistair folded the newspaper and retrieved a pen from his shirt breast pocket, quickly signing the check and adding the gratuity. I saw him look up, amused at the discomfort of the waiter, as he handed back the wallet. It only made the waiter more flustered, and he turned as if to flee and saw me, now dressed. The color had not returned to normal on my face as he stared. He paused only briefly and then quickly made his escape into the hall.
“One of those plates will have French toast and the other eggs Benedict. Take your pick,” Alistair said, head buried in his paper again. “Bring me the other.” At the coffee table, I removed the covers from the plates. I looked down at the well prepared entrees as the aroma filled the room. My stomach rumbled again. He had ordered them both. Which one did he want? I stood, indecisive, until I heard the rustle of newspaper, and in the corner of my eye, he rose and moved to my side. He looked down at the tray with me. I felt his hand slip under the tail of my suit jacket and cup my buttock.
“It’s not always about deference, Simon,” he explained. “I ordered two things I like. If I wanted one more than another, I would have told you which one to bring me. I didn’t, and I gave you the choice. A choice is not a trick. Which one do you want?”
“The French toast.”
“Tough,” he said. I turned my face up to his and saw him smiling gleefully, eyes sparkling. He squeezed the butt cheek in his hand and leaned over to kiss me lightly. He bent, picked up the plate with the eggs Benedict, and returned to the desk. I sat on the couch and ate my French toast.
There was more silence, and then the sound of running water as he showered and prepared. At last, he appeared in the doorway. He stood there, naked, still damp, his blond hair turned to honey and slicked back from his forehead. I shivered. He smiled. He moved into the room, closing the door behind him. He made his way to the armoire and flipped the hidden switch to bathe the room in red light. I tilted my head back on the mattress and saw him open the armoire. I again saw the implements it contained, both arousing and frightening, and then he turned back to me. My eyes followed him as he sat on the edge of the bed and buckled in my right wrist, and my bondage was complete. I was again helpless, a willing subject to his delicious, demented torment. I realized I didn’t have the stress ball, the pliable sphere that was my only means of escape, and I grunted and wiggled the fingers of my right hand.
He caught my meaning instantly and shook his head. “Not for punishment, Simon. From punishment there is no salvation.”
He walked around the bed, tightening the straps that held me down, stretching my body taut, and then moved to the corner. He bent to the small black box and keyed it to life, and the silence was gone. The electronica was soft, almost soothing. He returned to the door, his back pressed against it. His eyes closed and, like the first time I’d witnessed the ritual, I found myself entranced in his behavior. His brow furrowed for only an instant, and I could see him absorb the music, planning in his head what he would do to me today, clearing his mind of everything outside the gray room, focusing only on me and how he would hurt me.
His eyes opened and found mine. Again, like the first time, I felt my own eyes widen, an instinctive sense of terror taking hold of me, and I fought in vain against the leather that bound me. Nevertheless, my cock, which had been soft as I lay there waiting, hardened quickly as he approached. He knelt on the foot of the bed, his eyes still locked on mine, and he reached to my balls. He took one between the thumb and forefinger of each hand and began to roll them, pulling slightly, pressing firmly but not forcefully. My cock throbbed and I moaned. I looked away from his expressionless face to watch his hands as they turned, taking my nuts between their palms, the pressure constant, and began sliding over each other in circular motions. My nipples tightened and grew erect. I looked up as he saw them, a smile flickering briefly on his lips, and began subtly to increase the pressure. He watched me wince and grimace – grimace to the extent afforded by the three, wide inches of latex phallus embedded in my mouth – as he ground my balls between his palms. I closed my eyes and groaned, trying to focus on the pain and absorb it. I felt the muscles of my abs and pecs tightening, and I pulled at my arms and legs in the subconscious struggle to curl up and protect myself, my hard cock bouncing and throbbing. I could feel precum bubble out of my slit and drool slowly down my shaft to pool on my crotch. I imagined every pore open and pant as the music filled my ears until it braided down and stopped.
In the silence between the tracks, as he released my sack and repositioned himself to straddle my stomach, the air was cold on my forehead and chest and I knew I had broken into a sweat. When the music resumed, again soft and ambient, his fingers closed on my nipples. They were already erect, but he began by pinching them. He pulled them. He flicked them. He scratched them and plucked at them with his fingernails. He rolled them between the pads of his fingertips. And I writhed and thrashed, or tried to, beneath him, my eyes still clamped shut, my empty hands clenched into angry fists, as I screamed in utter futility into the gag. And my erection waved and bobbed, slinging its juice, as he knelt over my navel.
When this track stopped, my chest heaved, nipples raw, as I gasped through my flaring nostrils. I opened my wet eyes and watched as he moved further up over my chest, still straddling. He looked down at me sternly, waiting for the next notes. When they came, he spoke softly. “You don’t get to taste it. You don’t get to feel it inside you,” he murmured, as he closed his fist around his cock. He lowered his other hand, using its fingertips to caress his balls as he stroked himself. Our eyes held each other’s as he pronounced his doom, that I would be forced to watch him please himself. I would not be allowed to help him. He would not touch me with his erection. I wouldn’t feel it. I wouldn’t contribute in any way to his climax. He closed his eyes, shutting out even the sight of me, as he used the rhythm of the music to drive his masturbation. I lay there, bound, inches away from him, staring up at his lean body as he slowly moved his hand over his cock.
At first, I was lost in the beauty of it, the blond hair, now almost dry, sliding down over his forehead, the muscles of his chest, abs, arms, and legs, flowing fluidly together. Eventually, his hips started rocking gently, his fingers still stroking his sack, his fist working his dick. His head tilted a little to his right and he bit softly on his lower lip. A line of precum dripped down and spattered on my throat. My sense of isolation and exclusion was acute and I could feel a vacuum forming in my chest. I hoped he had pictures of me in his mind behind his eyelids, or imagined the feel of my mouth or ass on his cock as he slid his hand over it. It could be my tongue on his balls now. And then I was struck with the crushing blow that, no, he probably was not thinking of me. He was proving to me now that I was completely unnecessary to him. Even here, with me tied below him on his bed in his apartment, he could please himself. He did not need me as I needed him.
That thought pervaded every corner of my brain, and I began to writhe anew. I grunted, desperate to touch him, to participate in his orgasm before it came. I watched, forlorn, as he simply set his jaw and continued with greater concentration, greater determination. I knew the music was drawing to a climax, and I could detect the more sporadic rate with which his hips moved, and I knew my time was running out. I watched the spasm ripple up his abs as he panted, and his mouth dropped open, and his arms and legs tightened, and he pointed his cock down to me as he stroked. My eyes closed reflexively as the first burst of his seed spewed down onto my face, and my face turned away. And as his hot slime rained down on me, my shoulders racked with a silent sob as I realized I had failed. He didn’t need me. I lay trembling in shame, not that I was coated in his spunk nor, when he stopped as the music stopped and cleaned his hand off in my hair, because he discarded me like a tissue, dismounting me wordlessly.
I turned my face back up and opened my eyes, careful to prevent the streams of cum from running into them from my nose and forehead. I watched him as he saw me, his features scornful, and watched as he wiped the slick cum from his cock with his hand. I closed my eyes again as he reached down and smeared it, swiping the collection on the side of my face where I had turned away, across my chin, cheeks, and forehead, and over the bridge of my nose and eyelids. I now glistened in the dim red light, soaked in his semen. He again used my hair to clean his hand. I felt like weeping.
The music did not begin again. He may have stopped the black box in the corner, with its pulsing colored lights; with my eyelids and face covered, I kept my eyes closed. I felt the restraints on my legs loosen, and then felt as his weight returned to the mattress. My legs rose, one at a time, into the air and held there. I remembered the block with its four rings bolted firmly to the ceiling over the bed, and knew that he had attached the straps to it, though I didn’t know why. He tightened each strap until my hips were raised slightly from the mattress, my ankles about two feet apart. My wrists were still fastened to the corners at the head of the bed, but now my hips could turn somewhat as I twisted my torso.
He climbed off the mattress, and I could hear rustling above my head at the armoire. In a moment, I felt something cold and wet at my hole, smooth and perhaps metallic, as he pushed it firmly into my cunt. It was long but thin, thin compared to his cock and the plug I had grown accustomed to wearing. It widened a bit at the base, then narrowed quickly to form a retaining channel. When it was locked inside me, I was startled and jolted to feel it begin vibrating. My cock, which had completely deflated while I had simmered in rejection as he masturbated himself, returned to life, growing and throbbing. The tip of the vibrator was firmly pressed against my prostate, and almost instantly it stimulated a stream of precum that dripped down to pool at my stomach.
I heard the sound of rubber gloves snapping into place, and then my nose discerned a distinct medicinal scent, strong even through the smell of the cum smeared around my nostrils. He began to spread something cold and oily over my cock and balls, rubbing it in gently, and then applying it down past my balls over my perineum and around the lips of my ass, stuffed with the vibrator still churning inside me. As the cold gel began to warm on my skin, I heard the snap of the gloves being removed. It took only a moment for the silence to be obliterated by a loud, pulsing, driving track piping through the small speakers in each corner of the ceiling.
I felt his breath on my ear. “I have some things I have to do for a while. Remember what happens if you cum,” he whispered ominously. And then he was gone.
I lay there as the cum dried on my face and the vibrator buzzed in my ass and the beat went on and on and on. I realized, eventually, that he must have edited the track to make the end and beginning integrate seamlessly, and that it was playing in a loop. That thought came before the gel he had spread over my genitals began to tingle. Time didn’t exist for me, blind and alone, awash in the infinite and immeasurable meter of music, so I don’t know how long it took the gel to begin working. At first, I thought it was a muscle relaxer, one of those creams that start to get hot as they’re absorbed into the skin. I was wrong.
As the itching began, it was merely a mild discomfort. I tried to buck with my legs against the straps holding my legs aloft. I tried turning my hips. The itch began to grow in intensity, and my movements became more desperate. I tugged at the wrist restraints with more panic than in all the countless hours I’d ever spent tied to the bed as the itch burned into me. It was worse than any case of poison ivy I’d ever had. It was worse than mosquito bites. And it covered the tip of my cock, down my shaft, over my scrotum, between my legs and into my ass. It defied description and it was insufferable. I began to groan and grunt as I twisted my body in agony, trying to find something to rub against, something to scratch. I tried to kick with my legs, but they were too tightly secured. I tried to rub my thighs together, but my ankles were spread too far apart. My fists and hands flapped pointlessly in their leather cuffs. I was half-suspended and fully restrained. The vibrator in my ass was relentless, my prostate desperate for relief. The psychological sensation of the itching on my skin soon blended with the buzzing in my ass, making every vibration into an internal echo of the itch. I was beyond the capacity for rational thought as my entire being was enveloped by the itching in my groin. The music ceased to exist for me, though I’m sure it continued its infinite march. But I was alone. I was helpless. I begged for forgiveness. I screamed for release. The gag made it all incomprehensible. I was being punished, and I had no idea how long the hellish penance would last before I was granted absolution.