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It’s the middle of the week. Not a good night for business. You’re working the late shift behind the bar, serving patrons until the early hours of the morning. Long hours, and the pay’s only middling, but it would be a lie to say this isn’t where you’d like to be. You’ve got friends who work the cocktail bars further downtown, friends out attending gigs, playing gigs. Drinking with pounding bass music as a backdrop. It’s fun, no doubt about it. But truth is, you have a soft spot for this little place, where they play real LPs instead of digital music files, where the lights are bright enough to see the labels on the liqueur bottles but low enough to cover up the beer stains on the tables. It’s the kind of place that attracts people who have stories to tell, and you like it that way.
The bar top is smooth larvikite, a dark stone that shimmers black and silver, and you’re busy scrubbing off the sticky mark left by the last gin and tonic to rest on its surface when the door opens, and the wind that blusters in from the cold outdoors steals your attention.
On a slow night like tonight, every new customer is an immediate point of interest. Not only you, but the few patrons that sit dotted about the place turn to look.
This newcomer is tall, and his many layers rustle against the oaken door frame as he enters. A mild tip of the hat in your direction as he does so, and this quaint gesture makes you smile. Although you haven’t gotten a close look at him, everything about his demeanour, his stance, leaks charisma. Magnetism.
You bet he has a story or two to tell.
As he walks languidly over to the bar, the others return to their drinks, the moment of interest faded. But from where you’re standing, the low light hits his face just right and you see his features clearly. Chiselled jawline, intense eyes, and an expression that belies status, as if he’s used to people falling into line around him. There’s too much stubble across his chin for him to be clean-cut, but despite that he’s refined, well-aged. Just your type.
You realise you’re staring. You get back to sorting the whisky glasses.
‘Evening, my good man,’ you say, in your most practised customer voice. The charm of it is that none of the tone is put on, none of it sounds fake, and he recognises this, because the smile he returns is warm.
‘And what an evening it is.’ He leans an elbow on the bar, and has to stoop a little, he’s so tall. It ends up looking … somewhat suggestive, and you try not to gulp with the proximity. He smiles wider now, calm and languorous, like a cat lounging without a care in the world, and his long, wavy hair catches the lamp glow and you realise it’s not just a trick of the light, it really is blood red. You’re staring again.
‘What can I get you?’
‘You look like a bright young lad. Recommend me something.’ So softly-spoken. You don’t quite know why, but you want to trust him.
Task at hand, come on, focus. He doesn’t look like the kind of man who would appreciate ale. Wine would be too easy. He seems more complex than that, and this … somehow, this feels like a test. You like to pride yourself on your bartending, after all. So you pause, hand resting on your hip and - is that a wandering glance he’s giving you? Wait, ignore that, think about the drinks.
You end up recommending him a gin made with cloudberries from the Risorath basin. It’s absolutely the right choice. When you slide the tumbler over to him, he ghosts it in front of his nose, inhaling the scent like it’s a familiar memory. He doesn’t even look at the note when he hands it over to you. And that voice, now, when he thanks you, does delicious things to your nerves. You flush with the praise, then gather yourself, get back to stacking the glasses. But you don’t leave him alone entirely. Good barmen talk to their patrons.
He doesn’t look like the kind of guy who’s interested in the sport, so you talk about the crowds downtown. It’s been hopelessly busy today since the art gallery opened its new exhibition. Purgatory, the works of a famous classical painter. He nods.
‘It made the traffic absolutely unbearable. I must say, it was fitting for the theme.’
‘Been a long day?’
‘Oh, like you would not believe.’
You’re caught off-guard by his manner of speech. It’s unusual, but charming. You’re reminded of the way someone would talk in an old play. Oric the Bard or similar. Somehow he manages to get away without sounding pretentious; it’s more like this is his natural state, like he’s just wandered into this reality out of pure happenstance.
You wonder if he’s a method actor. Maybe not a celebrity. A diplomat? Presumably, he’s someone of importance. But then, he would hardly be in a place like this if he wanted you to point that out. So you don’t. For now, the handsome stranger sits quietly at the bar, sipping away and ruminating as the music player moves from track to track. You know the signal - you leave him to enjoy his drink in peace.
He only shifts when the music turns solemn.
‘What an interesting choice,’ he murmurs, tilting his head towards the record player.
‘Oh. Myrlwood - you like ‘em?’
‘There’s something rather moving about their music.’ He looks at you, and his eyes are hungry. Searching. You feel suddenly stripped bare. And there, again, is the urge to move closer.
The guitar idles out a melody, the synth beneath it swells. You lean on the bar with your elbows and clasp both hands together, glance into his intense eyes. Just a quick glance, because he’s hardly the sort of person you’d win a staring contest against.
‘This song’s from the last album they did before the guitarist left. I was lucky I saw it live last year. A lot of people didn’t like it being so experimental, but it said more than any of their previous stuff did. You could really feel the heartache.’ It sounds stupid as soon as you’ve said it, and you wince inwardly. You’re talking too fast.
At this outburst, he is amused, but not in an unkind manner.
‘Your passion is remarkable.’
You tap away at the rivets on your belt, shuffle a few things on the counter. He’s looking you over, and it’s starting to drive you crazy. Could merely be that he’s noticed the vest you’re wearing bears the Myrlwood logo. Could be something more.
He lays a hand on the bar, close to you but not touching. At first you wonder if it’s an invitation, then you notice the tumbler. He’s finished his gin. Oh, of course. You switch back into service mode.
‘Well, Sir. What’ll it be next?’
His smile quirks up at the epithet.
‘While I certainly shan’t stop you referring to me as such, I believe an introduction would do well. Please, call me Ardyn.’
Ardyn. Even the name sounds like something from an Oric play.
You smile, offer up your own name in return, and his face lights up. ‘Pleased to meet your acquaintance,’ he says. Then, his eyes take to scanning the shelves of whisky behind you. A moment’s consideration, and you appreciate that he takes his time. ‘I’ll have the Callatein blend.’
‘Goes down smooth as caramel, that one,’ you say.
‘And with just enough salt to make it worthwhile,’ he replies, lowering his dark amber eyes to yours.
You pour the honeyed liquid into a small glass - straight, no ice - and slide it over to him.
A wry smile now: he’s noticed the black handkerchief tied to your right arm.
Does he know what it stands for? Oh, he must do, because he’s looking suddenly like a child incapable of keeping a huge secret. He must do.
His eyebrow quirks up, and you wait for him to say something, busying yourself with realigning the whisky bottles. But he doesn’t speak, and you end up asking.
‘Is the drink okay?’
A small chuckle, barely audible against the music. ‘Definitely worthwhile,’ he says, a sly note to his voice, and you’re not sure if he’s talking about the drink or the decision to enter the bar in the first place.
You’re stretching up to replace the bottle on the top shelf, aware your vest is riding up just a little too far, when his rich voice interrupts once more.
‘The black handkerchief,’ he says. ‘It’s rare to see such an item on a dashing young man such as yourself. Do you know what it means?’
Your breath almost stops in your throat. Words that you don’t speak in common company bubble to the forefront of your mind. Submissive. Likes to be hurt. For those in the know, the handkerchief is a blaring label across your skin. A burning starts up in your chest as you say, ‘I … presume you do as well?’
‘I have only met one other in this city who wore a band like yours. Another young, punkish lad, so full of spark, and so very obedient.’ Ardyn smiles to himself now. The memory must be fond. All you can think is that this is good, this won’t be awkward, he’s no newcomer to this game.
At the same time, a thrill’s coursing through you at the mention of the word obedient.
You’re aware you’re looking at Ardyn like he’s a treat being dangled before your eyes. You wonder: would he hurt you? How far would he be willing to go? He looks strong, despite the numerous layers of clothing, despite the soft voice, despite the kindly demeanour. It all seems to hide some deeper threat, and it might be exactly what you’ve been looking for.
You lean in.
‘So what are you suggesting?’
With measured finesse, he unfurls the orange scarf from under his collar, and, keeping his gaze fixed on you all the while, he ties the scarf delicately around his left arm. Orange, now, that’s rare. What did it mean again? Dominant. No limits.
Fuck.
You have to check. You ask him to specify, to elucidate, and you use that word because you think it suits him.
‘Well,’ he says, with a prizewinning smile, ‘it means I’m up for anything.’
‘Anything?’ you ask.
He shoots the word back at you, more calm and measured than you could imagine.
‘Anything.’
It makes the hairs rise on your skin. His intent is unmistakeable. His eyes are a challenge. Your pulse quickens, and you blurt out, ‘I finish at two.’
Suddenly his expression hardens and he looks like a predator who’s just cornered its prey. A flash of teeth in that crescent-moon smile, and then, satisfied, he returns to his previous air of public decorum. Requests another drink, and sits there ruminating and making small talk while the other patrons in the bar drink themselves slowly into stupor. For the rest of the evening, your pants sit far too tight, and the suspense is agonising.
Ardyn meets you outside once your shift is over. The bar’s locked up for the night, and now, in the alley behind the building it’s just the two of you and his car, uplit by blue city lights from the main street.
His car looks as old as he does, although in nowhere near as good shape.
‘She’s not much to look at,’ Ardyn admits, catching your eye. ‘But she’s a dear old thing, and has served me well.’
You know how this works. You walk to the passenger door, and lean against the vehicle, an open invitation.
The alleyway is empty, and the first thing Ardyn does is push you up hard against the passenger door, one hand round the nape of your neck, holding your head in position as he smothers you in a possessive kiss. The other hand dives immediately down to your crotch and grips hard. You fret and whine, but it’s all for show. Your struggling: an invitation for him to push up against you even harder. God, he’s as strong as you imagined he would be. Strong, and so tall, surrounding you, fencing you in.
It doesn’t take long for him to coax you into hardness, and when he achieves this, he breaks off cruelly. You’re breathless, yearning for more.
‘Eager, aren’t we?’
You huff, and he ignores your frustration with a wave of his hand, saying, ‘I’m not one for the outdoors. What say we move this somewhere more comfortable?’
‘Yes, Sir,’ you reply immediately.
He ruffles your hair idly, almost offhandedly. ‘Such a good boy.’ And he whirls round to the driver’s side, heavy coat swaying. You miss its warmth already.
The car smells of sandalwood and cloves, like it too has stories to tell. Ardyn plays classic rock during the drive, and some of it’s a little cheesy, but he’s humming along and, after a while, so are you. It’s a cloudless night, and as you travel down near-empty city streets the blue haze envelops you - neon city lights mixing with ordinary streetlamps and the stars up above, and you think this night is simply perfect. You really lucked out.
Your gut instinct about the man is correct when Ardyn stops in the more upmarket end of town. It’s an area that has hardly seen any renovation; the houses are still old and gothic, with tall sash windows and numerous floors.
He has a penthouse suite on the top floor of one tall, pillared building. It’s not flashy, but it’s clearly worth a lot. He leads you up a winding staircase, clicking his fingers for you to follow, and follow you do, eager to prove your worth. Every step of the way you’re wondering if he will switch to shoving you up against the wall, like he did against the car, and the tension is unbearable. Your attention to detail is waning, and by the time he unlocks the front door and beckons you inside, you’re not interested in what the suite looks like. You’re only looking at him.
No small talk as you cross the threshold. He hasn’t removed his coat, so you don’t either. His boots are heavy and intricate, and as you listen to them fall on the wood-panelled floors, you want nothing more than for him to just step on you. You fall back on to the hallway bench, and he brings his boot up to rest on the bench beside you with a thud. Not exactly stepping on you, but the gesture is enough to set your cock pulsing. He leans down over you, one arm loosely draped on his raised knee, and he smiles like a patient owner looking upon a disobedient pet.
‘My dear boy, you don’t know what you’ve gotten yourself into.’
You think you do, so you smile, and say ‘Yeah? Show me.’
His hands are around your neck in an instant and he’s knocked your head hard against the wall. Coming in now to kiss fiercely across your forehead, tongue running over your skin. Your throat feels clogged with his musk, and there’s a spice to it, not dissimilar to the cloudberry gin you had recommended him earlier. You’re overcome by the urge to have him consume you. You yearn upward, try to reach him, to kiss back, but he won’t let you.
‘Please…’ you murmur. You’re running out of breath.
He tuts softly.
‘The rule is thus: you do as I say, without question. You obey. You take what I give you.’ He grips your jaw hard, forces you to look at his face only inches away, suddenly incredibly serious. ‘Your get-out clause, should you need it to stop. Let’s see… Myrlwood. That should do. Can you remember that?’
You can’t nod, so you hum your agreement.
‘Good.’
And he pulls you up, drags you through to the next room.
It’s dark as hell in here, and Ardyn doesn’t switch the main lights on, but rather, settles for a small standing lamp in the corner that casts long shadows across the room. This … isn’t a bedroom. Lounge, office, you’re not exactly sure. There’s stuff everywhere, it smells of old incense burners and cardamom seeds, and while you’re trying to figure it out, he clips you lightly across the back of the head.
‘Focus, my boy.’
You stand to attention. You know your place.
He shrugs his coat off, and does the same to you, letting his hands wander over your chest, feeling muscle through your dark vest. Tracing your exposed biceps, before trailing down to squeeze at your wrists.
‘Now,’ he says, satisfied with your body, with what he is presented with. ‘Arms up where I can see them. Like so.’ He raises his own hands up in front of his face, crossing at the wrist. You obey. You know where this is going.
A clinking noise in the gloom. From some dark drawer, Ardyn retrieves a chain.
You had guessed handcuffs, but for a man like him, perhaps that would have been too simple. You hold your wrists in a cross before you, and wait for him to fasten them together.
He has a curious little piece of metal, a U-shape, that he threads through the links and fastens with a screw pin. Once tightened with a small wrench, it’s inescapable.
You can’t help but let out a small moan. Shit. This is hardcore. It’s so fucking hot, and while you’re thinking this, the distant, practical part of your mind is whirring away, hoping he has bolt cutters. Should anything go wrong.
Ardyn tilts his head up toward the ceiling.
‘Higher, now.’
You obey, and cast your eyes upward for the first time.
There’s a hoop above you, rigged into the ceiling.
A tight knot starts to unfurl deep in your belly. He’s not fucking around.
You gulp down your fears - the fear is delicious, and you want to taste more - and you raise your hands, hold them in position while he shackles you to the hoop. You end up almost on tiptoes but not quite, left to your own inertia, upright in the centre of the room. The chains are cool on your skin, the links small enough to bite in the most perfect way. Ardyn brushes back wavy red hair from his face, admires his handiwork, and sighs. Now he fondles you roughly, fussing and rutting against your body through your clothes, and you groan, letting yourself be tossed this way and that, groaning all the louder as his touches grow ever rougher.
When you start saying ‘Please, please, Sir…’ he shuts you up with a hand clamped over your mouth.
‘Just begging to be stuffed,’ he murmurs, tracing a thumb over your lips. His thumb delves inside the warm hollow of your mouth momentarily, then his eyes flash, and he’s back to the box of toys.
He returns, twirling a ball gag idly between finger and thumb.
’Such a shame it is to stopper those delicious cries. But - oh, it’s so much more fun when you can’t speak at all…’ His amber eyes bore into yours, full of dark intent. ‘Now, what do you say?’
‘Just use me,’ you mutter. ‘Use me, Sir. Please.’
‘Good,’ he says, stroking your cheek. ‘Because it’s not as if you have a choice.’
The words thrill you, and your breath hitches as he forces the silicone gag into your mouth with a gentle pop. The ball nestles between your teeth, in the cavity of your mouth, pressing your tongue down. You can’t enunciate. Drool is already pooling. You look up at him, helpless, and he smiles down fondly as he buckles the straps at the back of your neck.
This is the moment, as with every instance of the sort of BDSM cruising you enjoy, where things could go horribly wrong. Now you have fully submitted, rendered yourself completely under his control. If he was to ignore your pleas to stop, he could do so with very little effort.
Thinking about it gets you so fucking hard it’s unbelievable.
‘Oh, look at you,’ Ardyn purrs. ‘Thrown yourself on my mercy with nary a second thought. Was it wise, boy?’ His lips brush your ear, soft as butterfly kisses. ‘Fear not. Your get-out clause now, should you need it, is to tap on the hoop. You can reach just fine, look. Are we understood?’
You’re determined not to need it. But you nod, and he bites your earlobe as he pulls away.
Now you whine and strain against your bonds, cock twitching, still restrained beneath your tight pants. You want him to touch you. You want him to jerk you off so badly. You want him to toy with your asshole and fuck you senseless.
Your illegible noises do not go unnoticed, nor does your squirming.
‘You ought to speak up if you want something,’ Ardyn says with relish. You give another muffled whine in response, eyebrows perking up, pleading, and he sighs in satisfaction.
The hoop lowers, and as the tension in your arms lessens with every inch, you wonder what he’s doing.
Then, without warning, he kicks your legs out from under you, and in a short, jerked movement you fall almost to your knees, your full weight now hanging from your restrained arms above you. It hurts, it wrenches at your shoulder sockets, and you can’t stop a gasp escaping.
‘Oh… Hurts, does it?’ He smirks, and playfully shoves you, exacerbating the pull, making you sway. It’s second nature to try and scrabble upward, to set your feet on solid ground again, find some purchase.
‘Ah-ah, stay,’ he warns, like he’s scolding a puppy. You let your legs fall slack. He’s returned with black rope in his hands, thick and luxurious, and he doesn’t bother undressing you, moving straight in to tie your ankles together, then your knees.
His moves are practised, his fingers deft, and the knots he ties are firm. The feeling of rope securing your limbs together over tight jeans only adds to the burning beneath your skin. The hoop inches ever lower, until you’re able to kneel on the ground properly, and he makes you do this. The final touch is a bracing length of rope running from your ankles to your mid-thigh, pulling your feet up off the floor behind you, stringing you up like a sacrificial animal. Within minutes you are well and truly at his mercy, and there’s no chance you will be able to stand on your own accord now.
His hands travel up from your knees, and you buck into his touch, thinking, hoping, that finally he will undo your belt, free your cock. Another bout of heavy fondling, then he moves away, completely neglects your cock in favour of hitching up your vest. You hiss in frustration through the gag, and cast your head down, and wait as he moves off to another corner of the room.
There’s shuffling now, the sound of drawers opening. More boxes of toys. You shiver.
In time with his returning footsteps there’s a new sound - something hard, something firm, tapped with a fingernail, being passed from hand to hand. You know what it is when the first blow falls upon your exposed back. A riding crop, and the leather thong at the end packs a real sting. It’s such a shock that your groan of pain is delayed by a few seconds. Your feet kick against their bonds, your body vibrates softly, and you steel yourself for round two.
Ardyn doesn’t hold back. He’s putting so much energy behind each strike, and by the fifth hit, your muffled yells of pain are so fervent and choked-up that you manage to elicit a response from him - a heavy, satisfied grunt. It makes you flush - you’re pleasing him - and all you want is to get more of a response.
Again and again the crop christens your skin with searing warmth, and the pain’s teetering atop a thin wire, a nervous edge between good and bad. You cry out, a little too over the edge, a raw scream muted by silicone, and you fear you’re bleeding. Are you? He stops. You recover your breath. But there’s not much time, it’s false hope, because he hits again, harder, chuckling in amusement as it catches you off-guard. Then, softness again. A thumb tracing one of the raised marks on your back. ‘Beautiful,’ he murmurs, all silken and giddy, and you know that if you weren’t bleeding before, you certainly are now. You can feel the slickness smearing your skin, and, judging by the shallow, reverent breaths he’s making, this is as much a religion for him as it is for you.
Hot breath at your neck as he bends in close behind you.
‘Can you take more?’
You nod fervently.
‘Well, aren’t you a delight.’
Energy gathers in the room again. Sensuality is replaced by fervour and rage, and once again you go under battery.
You’re holding up well under what is perhaps the most intense whipping you’ve ever experienced, until one blow in particular feels like it cleaves your spine in two. It leaves you shivering and shaking, and - are those tears spilling from your eyes? Ardyn lets up his abuse - the riding crop falls to the floor with a clatter - and moves in close behind you, hands running round your lean, strained sides, face nestling into the crook of your neck. You’re breathless, you’re overwhelmed, you appreciate every gentle touch as if it’s a gift from heaven.
‘Very good, my boy.’
Before you can say anything more, his fingers are at your neck, unbuckling the gag.
You try to protest. ‘I … I can take it.’
‘And take it you will,’ Ardyn replies, dropping the gag and standing before you now, toying with his own zipper, his meaning clear.
He frees his cock and starts to stroke the already-erect length. A casual smirk - as if he’s got all the time in the world - and he moves back to retrieve the riding crop. Your body tenses up automatically, and it makes him chuckle softly, high off the power. But he doesn’t hit you. Instead he traces the end of the crop around the parts of your body as-of-yet unmarked; the curve of your ass, your muscular thighs, your chest, your stomach, and finally, your groin.
‘Please…’ You murmur. You just want him to give in and fuck you already.
He’s smiling again. He plays his part far too well. And it’s so unbearably frustrating. You mutter your pleas in a garbled mush below your breath, ashamed his teasing is so effective. You should be a good submissive, you shouldn’t be making demands. But you want and want so badly, especially with someone like him.
Ardyn slows to a stop in front of you again, with all the decorum of one taking part in some arcane procession. ‘My dear, you look so terribly delightful when you beg like that. Look up.’ He traces the riding crop across your cheek, dipping under your chin, raising it so you’re forced to face him directly. ‘Now say it properly. Ah - loud enough that I can hear you.’
Your voice seems embarrassingly loud in the still air when you finally speak.
‘Please, Sir. Fuck me. Fuck me hard. Show me - show me no mercy!’
Ardyn croons softly at you, his voice now lowered to almost an insult. He’s enjoying this. ‘Oh, well done, my boy. See? That wasn’t so hard now, was it?’
The crop flicks away from your chin, and the inertia makes you hang your head. But he’s not moving behind you, he’s staying right where he is, pressing and flicking the leather thong against your crotch, still stroking himself, still taking his sweet goddamned time.
You’re more than a little frustrated. You really, really want to be good, but you can’t keep the ire from your eyes. But you’ve already figured he gets off on passionate displays, so you know it’s fine.
‘You failed to specify how I would fuck you, dearest. Now, open wide.’
Your back is smarting as you gain control of your breathing once more, preparing for the next gag. He finishes slipping his pants down, and the moment you’re waiting for comes, where he grasps your hair and impales you on his cock, your mouth nothing but a hole to be used. It’s so offhand, so inconsiderate, so forceful, and you respond to the harshness with utter affection, snaking your tongue around his shaft, taking his engorged cock right in to the far back of your throat, teasing and licking and sucking despite the fact he’s intent on using you like an inert object.
He sighs deeply, and holds your head firm after one particularly deep thrust. You choke and splutter, you feel tears leak from your eyes, but you keep still. His cock pulses against the back of your throat and it takes all your control to stop your gag reflex kicking in.
And then, words that make you flush all the more.
‘Oh, you’re so good.’
He’s looking down at you with benevolent satisfaction. Hands that grasp your hair slide round to cup your face as he retracts slowly. His gaze is utterly magnetic, and you want him to look at you like that forever. You want to please.
Hands move back to the nape of your neck again, and he starts to slowly thrust once more.
You return to sucking him off. You worship him like he’s your god, like he’s the only one worthy of your devotion. You tell yourself you are nothing but a servant, you tell yourself that your supplications are to him and him alone. Every soft lick, every languid suck, every whirl of your tongue around his head, every pump of his length into your warm cavity, you make it all for him. It shows through in your every action, and it has him on the edge of bliss. He’s the most gorgeous man you’ve ever sucked off, and his head tilts back in such a regal way, with that burgundy hair framing it in waves, that you think he looks like a fallen angel.
And you fully intend to drag him further down.
When his grunts start to come thick and fast, when you feel his muscles quivering, you know he’s close. Ardyn teeters on the edge of his own orgasm for a few seconds too long, then the final act is rough thrusting, a harried cry, so forceful and violent and his cock swells as he reaches his orgasm.
Hot seed decorates the back of your throat, spilling down with enough strength to make you choke.
He hasn’t pulled out just yet.
‘Take what you are given,’ he says, stroking your face from temple to chin as he starts to slowly pull out. ‘Every … last … drop. There’s a good boy.’
You swallow everything, surprised at how salty-sweet it tastes. It reminds you of liquorice root, and isn’t entirely unpleasant.
And now he comes in for a fierce kiss. He’s not afraid to taste himself. You give your mouth up to him again, teetering on your knees, arms strained upward, hands being extra careful not to tap on the hoop. You don’t want this to stop, not yet.
When he’s done claiming your mouth again, Ardyn steps back, surveys his handiwork. You squirm in your bonds, bucking a little. You don’t need to say a thing - it’s perfectly clear what you want.
But he tuts, and moves behind you now, where he unbuckles your belt and pulls down your pants. His tone is wry and teasing as he says, ‘No, I’m afraid not. Your job is to warm my cock until I get hard again.’
‘Ardyn… Sir!’
‘Shh.’ He places a hand over your mouth, breath on the back of your neck as he repeats the rule. ‘Take what you are given.’
Kneeling puts you at too low an angle. Ardyn huffs, considers, and yanks the pulley, drags the hoop up by a few inches, taking your body along with it. You’re completely suspended now, with feet still pulled back and tied to your thighs behind you, and he takes a moment to trace along your shoulders, to check the joints.
‘It doesn’t hurt,’ you say, and he slaps you lightly across the back, making your wounds smart.
‘Did I tell you to speak?’
You shiver, and stay silent.
When he has you in the perfect position, Ardyn cups your exposed ass cheeks, lubricates his fingers, then works you open. His cock is still semi-hard in its post-orgasmic state, and he has to work it up a little to get it in. Taking that girth in your mouth had been one thing, but having it forced into your ass, through the tight ring of muscle, is entirely different. It sets your nerves shivering. It’s so goddamn delicious.
When he enters you fully, he holds himself there, enjoying your warmth, moving only slowly, until you feel him start to get harder, to fill out. One arm moves to encircle your midriff, holding you close to him as he gyrates inside you. The other moves down to your groin, teasing your cock, rubbing and stroking but never quite gripping, never going so far as to give you true pleasure.
You whine. These light touches, these slow movements, his grunting and sighing and low rumbling groans, it’s all too much. And then the words, the goddamn words, setting up residence inside you where they set your insides on fire.
‘I could always just keep you here. Nobody would find you for a very long time. You would be’ — He sighs — ‘all mine.’
You still haven’t been allowed to come, and the building pressure is absolutely torturous. You buck against the hand that loosely holds your cock, not caring that each buck drives his own length harder against your prostate, because you want the friction, you want him to -
‘Oh, excuse me? Did I say you would be allowed to come?’ He cocks his head to the side like he’s listening to a distant melody. ‘You know, I don’t believe I did.’
‘Ardyn, please.’
He pulls your hair back, stares devilishly into your wide eyes.
‘That look of distress suits you.’
Your fear and frustration is exactly what he needs - finally, he’s entirely hard again, and he drives into you with force, slamming hard enough to make the chains shake. You’re overcome with the intensity; there’s a tightly-coiled feeling unfurling from deep within you. He could split you right open for all you care, just as long as he doesn’t make it stop. Every thrust brushes his glans hard over your prostate, bringing you to the edge until you’re shaking and shivering and pleading. He presses close against your back, but not so close as to dirty your fresh wounds with sweat. Instead, he buries his face in the crook of your shoulder, and like a cat subduing its prey, he takes the scruff of your neck in his teeth and clamps down while he fucks you. He bites hard enough to bruise, and you yell, which only makes him grunt in satisfaction all the more.
Ardyn continues, hitting your prostate mercilessly while wandering hands tease at your shaft. It always takes longer to come a second time, and this is no exception. He slams into you for what feels like an eternity, until you’re high off the pleasure, until you’ve lost track of all sense of reality. Then the pace picks up - as if you thought it even possible - and he starts to jerk you off properly. You’re already so hard from his relentless fucking, you’re sure it’s not going to take long now.
‘Fuck … fuck, please… Oh god, oh god…’ Your voice reaches fever pitch, and you feel him smiling into your neck. You come with a body-wracking shudder, painting the floor. Every nerve is wired, every vein flushed. It’s the most intense orgasm you’ve had in a long time.
Ardyn pauses, cock still buried deep in your ass. He gives you a few tender seconds to recover, then starts running his hands sensuously across your overstimulated body. You twitch, you yell out, but strung up like this, you can’t pull away. He returns to slamming into you with little warning, bringing himself back to the edge of ecstasy. Your muscles are slack in the aftermath of your orgasm, and you open right up to him with no resistance. You feel inert, used, hopelessly objectified and completely, utterly accepting and calm. Your cries have simmered down into exhausted, pleasurable groans, and it doesn’t take long for Ardyn to finish inside you once again.
He pants deeply, reaching for breath, clutching you tight. When he’s steady on his own feet again, he tells you you’re such a good boy, and he pulls out slowly.
You’re still dangling inches from the ground, and you try not to struggle too much. You’re exhausted. Again, as seems to be his habit, he takes his sweet time in untying the cord that pulls your feet up off the floor. You overestimate your strength - there’s no fight left in you when he unties the final knot and your feet hit the floor with a harsh thud. You wince, and Ardyn tuts, clearly pleased he’s managed to push you so far over the edge as to lose control of your body.
He frees you from the hoop that pulls your arms up high, and, legs still tied, you slump sideways to the floor. A masterful smirk as Ardyn raises his leg, presses his boot firmly upon your cheek, pinning you to the ground while he stands, lording over you.
‘Right where you belong,’ he murmurs, and his voice is a low, saccharine rumble that washes over you in your heady, post-orgasmic bliss. You’re happy to have him crush you underfoot, and you heave out a breathless ‘Yes, Sir.’
Pleased with his final act of mastery, Ardyn shifts to unbolting the screw pins that hold your chain links in place. It takes him a while, and no small amount of fiddling with a wrench. You sigh as he works, thinking this is all so much better than handcuffs. He doesn’t start untying your legs until he’s manipulated the life back in to your shoulders. You know the moves well - the mark of a good dom, checking for nerve damage.
Once you’re standing up - albeit on shaky legs - Ardyn won’t let you go clean up until he’s had a look at your back. His hands gloss over the fresh wounds, mere millimetres above the flesh, and you can’t see what he’s doing exactly but it feels warm … almost golden. Glowing. You really must be high from your orgasm.
‘Don’t let it get infected,’ he says, and while this is obvious enough information, you don’t reply with sarcasm. You tell him you won’t, and then he shows you the way to the bathroom. ‘I would be remit to let a partner leave the house in such a state.’
While you shower off, he sets a stick of incense burning in the main room, and lets the smoky aroma fill the air. By the time you’re cleaned up, he’s made coffee, but you politely decline, because when you get back home, you’re absolutely going to fall into bed and have an extended sleep - you don’t want anything to keep you awake after this experience. The good news is, you’re on a late shift again tomorrow. Plenty of time.
‘You were a real treat,’ Ardyn says, and god, he looks so attractive in his state of semi-undress - belt only loosely buckled back up, shirt and waistcoat half-undone, collar open to reveal a smattering of chest hair. Hair wild and unkempt from the exertion. Eyes as steady and piercing as ever. ‘I must admit, it’s not often I am afforded the chance to go so far.’
‘It’s not often I find someone so willing to hurt me,’ you shoot back.
You share a moment. Understanding, peace, solace, passes between the eyes of predator and prey. Then the predator returns to his cup of coffee, and you shrug on your jacket.
‘Well then,’ he says. ‘If I want more whisky recommendations, I know where to go.’
This is your cue to leave.
‘We should try a more adventurous blend next time,’ you say, readjusting your jacket. ‘I’m sure you have plenty of ideas.’
‘Oh, my boy,’ he purrs. ‘You have barely scratched the surface.’
It’s a warning, and an invitation, one you keep close to your heart as you bid your farewells and make the journey home. For the words that echo inside your head and the stiff ache in your lacerated back as you walk on down the hall, you’re not going to forget him in a hurry.