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“Is that, ah, necessary?” Jamie says when Mr. Slater – ‘Master’; Jamie has agreed to call him ‘Master’ – presses a button and the pulley whirrs Jamie’s hands so high he now stands on his tiptoes.
“Of course it is,” Mr. Slater – Master – says. “The tension in your muscles would make you experience it more keenly. Besides”—he sends Jamie a tight smile through a large mirror, which covers the entire wall, like it was a gym or something—“it looks pretty.”
The room isn’t a gym, but a spacious bedroom, decorated in tasteful beiges with a few gold and brown accents. It brings to mind a luxurious hotel suite – not that Jamie has ever stayed in one. But he sometimes makes deliveries to hotels, even the really fancy ones. Rich bastards like pizza, too, so Jamie has seen his share of what the top ten percent prefer, decor-wise.
Suffice to say, this isn’t what your typical sex dungeon looks like – not that Jamie has been in one of those, either. He likes kinky sex, but the men he usually does it with don’t have the means to dedicate an entire fucking room to their perversions.
Mr. Slater clearly has the means, and he has the will. A man in his late thirties or early forties, normally, he may be a tad too old for Jamie, but he’s not unattractive. He’s not especially tall, but he’s well-built—fit in that particular way only a regular, posh regimen of gym and maybe swimming, in your own fucking pool, can give you. He’s blond, evenly tanned, and his square chin is covered with a short, very well-groomed beard. If Jamie met him on the street, he’d still look twice, despite the obvious age difference.
No wonder that when it turned out Jamie had messed up the man’s order, and Sinclair suggested there may be other ways to settle the issue, Jamie all but jumped at the offer.
Is he regretting that now?
Fuck no.
“I’m going to use rope to keep your thighs spread.”
“Yeah, okay?”
Though Jamie doesn’t know how that could work. He’s already standing on tiptoes, so spreading his legs even an inch seems impossible.
Then, instead of around his thighs, Master starts winding the rope around Jamie’s torso. Jamie’s posture is so strained he can’t see much, but he can tell the man uses those even, fancy knots Jamie has seen in professional BDSM porn. Which means the man knows this shit – that’s good. Jamie would’ve hated it if he’d submitted to a rando he’s just met and gotten hurt.
Jamie is not used to bondage this thorough – usually, it’s just a piece of rope or a pair or two of sex shop bought leather cuffs – and he’s surprised how it feels. It isn’t all that tight – except it is. It doesn’t press hard enough to really restrict blood flow, but Jamie still feels fucking trapped.
The feeling intensifies when Master connects the ropes on his torso and thighs to the pulleys. Suddenly, he’s hanging in the air, his entire weight resting in the not-tight-but-fucking-tight cradle of rope. Now, only the very tips of his toes are brushing the shining, beige floor panels – which only adds to the feeling of instability.
“Whoa!”
Slater chuckles.
He’s behind Jamie, and in the ridiculous wall mirror, Jamie can see him rummage in one of the cabinets. What he gets out is lube – in one of those large, industrial-like containers.
Jamie can’t imagine what they’d need that much lube for, and the uncertainty quickens his heartbeat. They didn’t exactly discuss what would happen. Jamie nodded when Slater asked if he wanted to use the traffic lights, and that was it.
He’ll get fucked – that is a given. Aside from that…
Slater drags a bedside table close enough for whatever he places on it in easy reach and puts the lube on it. What he squirts on his hand isn’t transparent and thin like Jamie is used to but whitish, thick, and viscous enough to drop down in strings. It looks kinda disgusting.
It feels fucking great.
Master fingers him more brutally than Jamie is used to, too. He starts with two fingers, and grins when Jamie whimpers and writhes in the ropes. Jamie’s hard, but it’s a near thing. Much of his arousal is the newness and the excitement – the sudden pain in his hole can’t take away from it.
Soon, that too becomes exciting. Master adds a finger, and this time Jamie moans. The burn of being stretched too wide too fast is still there, but it’s also so damn slippery, and the fullness – under the pain – starts feeling great.
Jamie likes his hole used; oh, he likes it a lot.
“Look at yourself,” Master growls quietly in his ear, making goosebumps prick on Jamie’s neck and shoulder.
Jamie, who has unconsciously closed his eyes, looks.
In front of him, in the mirror, hangs a helpless, debauched man. His head lolls a bit to the side, and his dark brown, curly hair sticks to his already sweaty forehead. The rhythmic movement of Master’s hand is obscured by Jamie’s body, but Jamie’s form sways in response to it, taut from his raised wrists to his spread, flexing feet.
His cock juts to the front, so much darker than the rest of his skin that you could wonder how it’s a part of him. Its tip glistens with precum.
Jamie strains his body to the left and to the right, and the image in front moves, too.
Master kisses his nape, then bites – jabbing his fingers into Jamie’s prostate.
Jamie whines.
He flails his legs.
“Don’t tell me that’s too much for you,” Master says between sucks, more bites, and deceptively gentle kisses.
Now that he found Jamie’s prostate, he assaults it relentlessly.
Jamie can do nothing to stop him.
That’s by design – he’s bound for that very reason – but the stimulation is so intense. It aches in the tips of his toes and fingers, almost more pain than pleasure. It’s too fast, too hard, too much!
Master sucks on the side of his neck now. He uses teeth sometimes, biting into the pulsing ache. Jamie shudders, whines, flails.
Tomorrow, Jamie’s neck will be a single bruise.
His prostate, too.
“You think you’re ready for my cock now?”
“Yes, please!” This has to stop, or Jamie will go mad!
He’s not on the verge of cumming yet, but his cock leaks.
Master lubes himself, wipes his hand on a cloth, then steps behind Jamie. He grips Jamie in the soft, vulnerable place where hips meet thighs. His cock, unguided, shifts and slides over Jamie’s perineum and crack – until it presses against Jamie’s rim and catches.
Already, Jamie’s sphincter is tired and sore, and it gives up easily under the relentless, single-minded pressure. Master’s cock pops through – Jamie jumps – then the man slams in.
Through tear-filled eyes, Jamie can see how much satisfaction Jamie’s whimper and pain has given the man.
‘Oh, fuck,’ Jamie thinks, ‘Slater is a sadist.’
There were signs; of fucking course there were signs, but Jamie ignored them.
He thinks of tapping out – Slater thrusts, ouch! – but then he catches the man’s gaze.
There’s so much elation in it; so much raw pleasure. It ignites something deep in Jamie’s core – right under the exploding pain the man’s cock is hitting.
On the next thrust, Jamie whines for a different reason.
Slater frowns.
He grinds within Jamie, searching for Jamie’s discomfort.
Jamie jerks when he finds Jamie’s tender prostate.
“Ah,” Jamie gasps. “Not there, Master. Too much!”
A slow grin stretches Slater’s lips again.
He thrusts exactly where Jamie told him not to.
Fuck!
“Mmmaster!” Jamie whines, but now that Slater has found what he was looking for, he doesn’t stop.
He doesn’t acknowledge Jamie’s protests either. But then he told him he wouldn’t. Jamie will have to safeword for this to stop.
Will Slater stop?
Why the fuck did Jamie put himself in the position where he doesn’t know?
For a moment there, he’s on the verge of panic, but the arousal perseveres. It’s hot – not being able to stop this. The fear that this is no longer play but reality weighs Jamie down, but it also stirs something in him.
Should he test it? Should he at least yell ‘yellow’ to see what Slater will do?
He may not stop.
But if he does stop – what then? If he stops thrusting and checks up on Jamie – won’t the pause let that imperfect, too intense feeling shooting through his hole and groin…dissipate? Jamie would then feel safe, but the moment will be lost.
Should he listen to his brain or cock?
Slater – Master – grips Jamie’s hips tighter and grinds forward and in. Jamie can see himself swaying on the ropes in the rhythm. His chest is heaving; the skin where the rope bites aches and burns. His mouth is half-open, his eyes are glassy, drunk.
He can also see Master’s darkened gaze.
He’s looking straight at Jamie.
Jamie squirms. That tightens his already taut muscles, and he hisses.
Master nuzzles his bearded chin and cheek into the crook of Jamie’s bruised-red neck. “Hurts?”
Jamie gasps, “Y-yeah.”
“Good,” Master says – as if there can be any doubt. “A proper assfucking should hurt.”
Jamie tenses, struggles, whines.
Master laughs and fucks him harder.
He is enjoying himself – he is really, truly enjoying himself while Jamie suffers.
Well, suffering is not all that Jamie is feeling. All those rapid thrusts ache terribly, and Jamie’s rim is stretched sore, but that weird, thick lube is also doing its job really well. The ease of each slide is divine. There’s just enough friction to shiver through Jamie’s overprimed nerves there, and besides that it’s only the press and shock of the thrusts. It hurts, but it also feels good.
Jamie can’t decide which feeling is stronger.
He’s not even sure it matters.
“Oh fuck, oh fuck, I’m almost—” Jamie whines.
His hole tenses and—
Master thrusts in deeply and cums.
He pulls out.
“Nooo!”
Master walks in front of him and kisses crying Jamie on the mouth. “You’re not done yet, sweet thing.”
“Whoa—?”
Master kisses him again, and this time it’s long and deep.
Jamie’s cock – so sensitive, oh fuck! – rubs against his blond pubic hair.
Master breaks the kiss, looks Jamie in the eyes, and says, “I’m going to fist you.” He makes the ‘s’ in ‘fist’ sound hard and sharp.
“Oh, fuck,” Jamie says.
He’s never been fisted before!
He clenches his hole – the ache is profound.
Is a fist going in there even possible?
He feels Master’s hand running down his flanks. They feel large. He can’t see them, because of the position and because Master is blocking the mirror, but they grow in his imagination, expand.
How would one feel – inside?
Master grins at him, and his smile is mean. “You’re going to have so much fun.”
Jamie isn’t yet sure about that, but he says nothing while his heart runs wild. Master kneels behind him, and in the mirror, Jamie can see his bare body – his spent, still glistening cock – between his own straining, bound open legs. He can see that lube container, now close at hand. He can see the muscles shift in Master’s forearm as the man reaches up.
He whines when three fingers breach him; when four try for entrance on the next shove, he whines louder. He’s sensitive. No, not sensitive – tender. With an orgasm lurking just around the corner, he’s still receptive, but the stretch is intense, and Master is going way faster than is comfortable.
“Slo-hnn-slow down! Slow down, please. Ah, Master!”
Slater chuckles. “Why? If I slow down, we’ll be here all day. Besides.” He pushes hard, and his knuckles pop inside. “You’re taking it just fine.”
Another slow withdrawal, another forceful shove, and Jamie is dancing – one of his feet has lost contact with the ground, then he slips on the other, and suddenly all his weight is resting on the ropes. It doesn’t change the pressure much, and it has happened multiple times when Slater was fucking him, but somehow the loss of control is more profound now. What Slater is doing feels dangerous. The pain there is different from when someone is spanking Jamie with a belt or a repurposed kitchen implement. It’s visceral, intimate. It doesn’t even feel like play!
Master’s knuckles catch on his rim again, and Jamie moans. He’s sobbing now, and it hurts, but it also feels so damn hot. Half of that is a physical sensation; the other half, to Jamie’s chagrin, is arousal. He’s getting aroused by this! He’s looking at Master’s forearm pumping between his legs, and his mind translates that to ‘exciting!’
What has lust done to him? What wires have just crossed?
His body feels like it’s not entirely his anymore!
Master works him. He’s using more and more lube. His hand shines with it – past his wrist and down his forearm. It’s dripping down his skin in thick, viscous dollops.
Jamie watches – then Master smears it with his other hand over his entire forearm.
Jamie shivers. He goes rigid, then hangs limp.
He imagines all of that going inside him.
That’s not possible, right? Surely, that’s not possible! Surely, people only do that kind of thing in porn. And theirs are deep, wide, trained holes. Surely, Jamie can’t take a man’s fist and forearm!
The very idea makes him gasp. His cock twitches. A large drop of pre bubbles out the tip, then drips and hangs down in a long, perverted string. His asshole aches in new ways – broader and deeper.
Master pulls and pushes, and Jamie sways.
Damn, he’s so helpless. And the thought of struggling feels wrong, too. Should he struggle? Does he want to?
He feels more than sees Master angle his thumb. Suddenly, it’s so much more painful, so much more unbearable.
Jamie bears it, though. That he could safeword now doesn’t even cross his mind. He pushes against the opposite push, trying to open up. He wants this, wants to see what happens. He’s fascinated both by the unfamiliar image he’s seeing in the mirror, and by the possibility of experiencing something so extreme. His ears ring. He’s breathing hard from the strain.
Then—
It.
Pops.
In.
And Jamie screams.
He spasms, pulses from the inside-out. Master laughs – happily, meanly – which somehow grounds Jamie, turns the anguished sound into a long, whimpering whine. The pain is hot, and it radiates.
Then Master shifts his wrist, and Jamie’s breath hitches.
He moans.
“Yes, like that,” Master says. “I knew you’d like it.” He pushes more of himself in, and Jamie whimpers again. “Eventually.”
His movements are shallow and careful, and he never entirely pulls out, but Jamie’s hole is far from accustomed to being this stretched, and no carefulness can lessen the feeling of getting fucking split. And, well, it’s clear Master isn’t trying to ‘lessen’ anything – he wants Jamie to suffer; he just doesn’t want to truly hurt him.
Which is a relief.
Jamie is grateful.
Jamie would be even more grateful if Master pulled out his fucking fist!
Soon, Jamie gets his wish – and regrets ever wishing for anything.
Somehow, the sudden, profound ache of being empty is so much worse. His body is trying to squeeze itself together into its previous state and failing. His muscles aren’t contracting. In the absence of what has shaped him, his very cells are getting desperate.
Will he ever be the same?
He feels the cold touch of more lube, and his blurry gaze zeroes in again on what’s happening between his legs.
Master is reaching into him again. There’s that excruciating push, then—
Master’s hand just slips in.
It’s so much easier than the first time that Jamie gets dizzy.
Now, Master is pushing and pulling properly. Jamie’s eyelids feel so heavy, so he closes them, then he experiences his hole sliding past the hardest, widest point again and again with his entire body. Ropes burn him, his tense muscles are getting sore, and he almost can’t feel his raised arms, but it’s that solitary, enormous rhythm which steals all his attention.
He relaxes. He hasn’t quite gotten used to it, but it’s not such a struggle anymore. Master’s hand becomes a part of him – the hot, iron core of a puppet made of soft cotton.
Master squeezes his left buttock with his unoccupied hand. His movements were becoming wilder. He twists and bends; he wiggles; he presses on Jamie’s walls. The pleasure he massages in alongside the pain is magnificent. It’s like he’s touching Jamie’s cock without actually touching Jamie’s cock – from the inside out. The intolerable feeling gathers, and Jamie’s breathless, and—
“Look at yourself,” Master orders.
Jamie opens his eyes.
The man in the mirror is a stranger. He’s bound, submissive, sweating. His cheeks are blotched red, the color more intense than even the flush running down his chest – it’s like he has a fever; like he’s sick with lust. Only his cock is darker. The only part of him that is entirely free, it sways in the air, twitches, leaks. It has made a mess under his feet. And beyond it, in the shadow between his thighs, behind his drawn-up balls, Master’s hand moves.
His entire fucking hand.
The image must be real because Jamie feels movement at the same time.
He looks into his feverish eyes.
Master curls his fingers into a slippery fist and pushes.
Jamie cums.
It’s the widest he’s been yet, and the new stress in his inner muscles explodes. He shakes, spasms like a fly trapped in a spider’s web. His juices spurt – he shakes – he blanks.
Within him, his spider is still taking his meal.
“N-no, I can’t!”
“Safeword?”
The sound gathers in Jamie’s lungs – then he sees the man who is himself, reflected on the wall.
That unfamiliar man is biting his lower lip.
“Can I continue? Red or green.”
Jamie swallows.
The air in his lungs brims, and his mouth opens on its own. “Green.”
Master continues.
And Jamie’s body feels what it wasn’t designed to feel.
Sometimes he moans, sometimes he screams.
When Master asks again – somehow, for some unfathomable reason – it is still ‘green.’
At one point, Jamie wonders – is it him saying it, or the stranger in the mirror.
Then Master punches another orgasm out of him, and he stops thinking.