Being beaten by a man almost twice my age and size for over an hour, by choice, was an experience I'll never forget.


Doped up on expensive booze and class As. Tied up. Roughed up.


For most part, playing the role of Richard's sub was sensational. Better than sensational. A state of body and mind I'd thought I'd experienced plenty of times, arse up on some stranger's bed.


A foot on the side of my head.


But, as reality had rapidly sunk in, I realised I'd barely scratched the surface. In his commanding presence, Richard's supremacy was like fire and ice.


He shivered over my body before igniting my gut, sizzling and simmering fast before pouring out and into my extremities.


My fingers and toes curled, vertebrae cracked into place and a blast of tingling heat fired over my scalp; my cock swollen and balls pulsing to the pumping beat in my chest.


Precum climbed my shaft as I writhed and wriggled, letting him bind me tighter as he undressed and called me names. Taking his whispered commands millimetres from my ears before being showered in cruel, verbal degradation, twisting the parts of my body I could, as commanded.


Opening my mouth or closing my eyes. Sticking out my tongue or taking whichever part of his anatomy he wanted to slide inside.


Turning me this way or that so he could thud himself hard and fleshy against my cheek or neck, chest or stomach. Showing him whichever patch of smooth skin covering virile body he wanted to use.


A teenage canvas to paint in his signature colours: purple and pink but no blood red.


But like most great art, it hurt.


Sometimes a lot. Too much. Sometimes the tingles stung, slaps ached and pinches seared to the point of agony.


Twice I almost threw in the towel. My jaw sore and soaked bed linin squeaking between grinding teeth, I wanted to yelp our safe word – this time a far more interesting choice than "red".


And, for one terrifying second recoiling from a particularly hard backhand my bound hands had tried to stop in reflex, I almost lost my nerve completely.


Demanded to be released before bolting butt naked, scrambling for my things. Fear and shame and every horrible thought I'd done my utmost to repress on the brink of bursting out and ruining us for good.


For in that flash of hazy, distorted perception, instead of Richard looming in his dark, moody, leather-clad bedroom, I saw my father.


Drunk and enraged, looking down at my broken body with an iron fire poker in his shaking grip. Horrified realisation creeping across his face as my shredded hands had pissed blood over the living room carpet.


But Richard wasn't my father.


As his palm or ringless fingers had met my skin, firing out a crack of flesh-on-flesh, there was no malintent. When pain danced across my flaring synapses, it wasn't to a sinister tune.


No unholy fury in his eyes like my father had, reprimanding me for stealing his credit card. Unlike my alcoholic excuse for a parent now rotting behind bars, Richard knew what he was doing.


Like he could read my mind, as the pain came close to unbearable, his demeanour would shift. From dom to lover. Master to friend.


Richard wasn't hurting me to be cruel. He was asserting his dominance to make me stronger. The pain I took I took because I wanted it. I wanted the rolling subservience in every bulging muscle of my body and the irresistible paradox of his constraints.


Safety. Security.


When Richard pushed me hard, he thanked me by pulling back when I needed him to. Every action and decision was controlled and considered.


After the worst came the best. The yin to his primal yang.


Blissfully balanced.


Every spank and shove hard enough to rattle teeth and blotch skin was followed by caressing sensuality. Gentle words as I took what he gave, moaning in his muscled embrace.


Huge hands pulling me close and squeezing me tight or smoothing sore skin. Long, real kisses as I knelt on his bed, gazing up at his broad, muscular build; coarse brown rope digging into my wrists.


The scratch of his body hair lingering on my lips as he held me and I kissed where I could reach.


Sixty minutes in, my body tattooed in his palette and shaking with churning endorphins, memories of my past long out of my head face down in the mattress, I heard Richard say:


`It's time.'


Twisting, I looked behind. Saw his sublime form knelt behind me; his hands holding my arse cheeks apart.


`For what?' I said, my mouth dry and voice cracking, even though I knew the answer.


`You know what.'


`Fuck yes,' I moaned, my bound hands wanting more than anything to reach between my legs and beat off.


`Good boy.'


Done with tenderising my body, Richard reached to his beside table and picked up his trusty kitchen knife. Japanese steel.


Slicing my bindings in one, effortless cut, he returned the knife and flipped me onto my back. Then, lifting my legs in turn, he tied each of my wrists just below my knees with the now two pieces of rope.


My back aching, I watched him through the shifting frame of my thighs. Watched him pull on himself as he looked over my contorted body. His tongue sliding over his bottom lip. Veins pushing up from behind tanned, toned flesh leading my hungry gaze up, down and everywhere.


My legs spread and locked in position.


I took every inch. Bareback, rough and deep until he unloaded inside; my bones and muscles screaming below the deafening need to please.


Released from my bindings, and with a creamy trail seeping down my inner thigh, I straddled Richard. Took hold of his still hard, wet cock and lowered myself.


It took me less than thirty seconds to blow, riding my Daddy. Watching his strong, powerful body jolt and flinch as I squeezed out every drop from us both.


Then we slept. Me little spoon, Richard big. My body dead and my mind blown by the sexiest, strongest and safest bloke in the city.


Our loads crusting and drying, gluing us together.


For two months, it only got better.


Once a week, to give my body time to heal, I would go to "study group" or a "weekend lecture" and leave Harry with Toby, who by this point was so enamoured with the newcomer he barely noticed Richard's signature marks on my body.


And when he did, I simply passed them off as medals from the Taekwondo class I'd decided to take up "the other day" because I was "bored of the gym".


The fool ate it up like the loads he greedily swallowed watching Toby and me from his knees.


So every Friday, or Saturday if Richard was working late, I would get the bus to his and he would show me the sights of the city I was learning to call home.


Restaurants and art galleries. Private parties and exhibitions. An intimate dinner at his or his friend's. Sometimes Steve would host. Now and again Jason or Nelson or the skinhead couple.


But always back to his. Just the two of us.


And, come morning, Richard would take me for breakfast. Passing jewellers or department stores or designer clothing brands en route or heading back to the car, all I had to do was stand at the window and sigh.


Then, my generous daddy, a twitch of guilt in his daytime eyes over the things he'd done the night before (or indeed that very morning), would lead me by the hand and flash his black Amex.


Voila, Toby's payment secured with minimal effort, just like he'd said.


But, like most great things, it didn't last.


A month until end of term, until Harry and all the nameless faces in my student block would head home for the summer, and I would stay in the city couch surfing via Grindr, or renting next year's digs a couple month's early, greed got the better of me.


It was a late May Saturday. The sky was still blue, warm and sweet smelling like early summer evenings do. Excitement was in the air.


Richard and I had plans with someone I hadn't met yet but had come very close to meeting all those weeks ago. Followed by, fingers crossed, another group session.


`I remember him,' I said. `He couldn't make it last time because he was at a wedding?'


`Christening. But close enough.'


`Is he hot?'


Throwing me a wink while shifting down from fifth into fourth to overtake a slow-moving Land Rover, Richard said, `Insatiable, aren't you?'


`Hey. You guys left such a great impression,' I said, memories of those mind-blowing three and a half hours racing like I'd been gangbanged only yesterday.

Richard laughed and said, `Good point.'




`Well ... Laurie isn't everyone's idea of hot. He's got a great body and a nice dick, and if you're into rich guys, which I know you are, he's next level minted. This party tonight, for example, will be off the charts.'


`But he has a face only a mother can love?' I said.


Richard laughed louder. Booming. Then he said, `No. Just, he isn't what you'd classically call hot, and fuck me he has short man syndrome. I was ... actually, never mind, you don't need to hear that.'


`You were what?' I said, curiosity pricking as the city streamed by our windows.


`I want you to meet him, but.'




Richard sighed and shot me a look of cautious resolve. Then he said:


`One look at you and he'll do everything in his many powers to have you. You're just the kind of lad he goes crazy for and Laurie doesn't care who he steals from.'


`Are you ... scared?'


Then Richard said something I wish he hadn't. Something I wasn't ready to hear. Not from him. Not my pillar of strength and power.


Looking at me with fleeting but genuine vulnerability in his rich brown eyes he said, `A little. It wouldn't be the first time.'


I smiled.


But it wasn't the smile I would smile if he'd said the same to me today. This smile had bloomed bright and beautiful, but like most poisons it belied a venomous nature.


Richard is weak?


For the first time since we'd met, my big, bad Daddy Dick wasn't behaving bad or big.


He was insecure. Scared of losing me to some fugly short arse. That wasn't the man I wanted to be with.


Back then I didn't know insecurities were universal and it was human to be scared. To nineteen-year-old me, Richard was quickly becoming a reminder of a past I never wanted to think about again, and a future I needed to avoid at all costs.


Otherwise the voice that told me I was just as weak and scared as him would be back with its puncturing bite and I would bleed and bleed until my façade of confidence withered away.


So, as Richard drove, I devised escape plans.


Myriad potentials to impress and intrigue Laurie without alerting Richard to my true intentions. Ways to get him alone. Maybe a private tour of his place. Maybe offer to make drinks and accidently smash a glass.


It's not that I wanted to remove Richard from my life. Far from it. I was more than happy to spend plenty of time with him and his friends.


I just couldn't shake the feeling I'd attached myself too soon to the wrong person. That I'd forged alliances with who I'd thought was the king but was merely a queen.


Laurie with his millions and bulldog attitude was who I really needed to cosy up to. It was all so clear now. Sure, he apparently wasn't gorgeous, but anyone who can spark fear into Richard's heart was surely worth my time.


And if I were to spurn my Daddy, I would need to do it in a way that didn't turn him and the group against me. It needed to be Laurie's fault.


Or at least make me look like a bright-blue-eyed innocent.


At one point, I almost gave up on the whole debacle.

As Richard drove and I pretended to listen to this evening's work/sister saga, I realised it was going to be a hell of a lot of work.


And I had it alright with Richard, even if he wasn't the man I'd thought he was, why ruin a good thing?


But, as we drove the half-kilometre drive to Laurie's country manor, vast acres of pruned gardens stretching off in all directions, my mind was suddenly made up.


Bye Dick.


Want more?


The first in my Australian series of erotic tales, Oscar Down Under: Part One, is available now.


A lush sensory experience exploring themes of self-development and morality, find it on Amazon US here, Amazon UK here and Amazon Australia here. Or simply search for `Jack Ladd' on the Amazon homepage.


Also available on iBooks, Barnes & Noble and more.


Want a FREE book? Download my prequel novel, Oscar, for absolutely nothing here. Or head over to my website to learn more, including exclusive content on my series, Oscar Down Under.


Copyright Jack Ladd 2018


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