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You stop a short distance behind him, close enough to appreciate everything, far enough he shouldn’t be able to sense your presence no matter how hard he is straining his ears to listen for the sound of your footsteps. You know he has done exactly as you said, holding absolutely still in the precarious position you’ve put him in. Eager to obey and serve to a fault.
The chains binding his wrists stretch far upwards, pulling his arms taunt high above his head and showing off all of his exquisite musculature. On that perfect canvas is the metallic mass that was once his spine, its tendrils burrowing red, hard, angry lines into his flesh that are ever expanding, ever entangled with the barely-healed skin of his ritual. The pain, old and new, has long become part of him. You have run your eyes and hands and mouth over it countless times, and every time just kindles a brand new kind of desire, and protectiveness, and heartache and fondness beyond what you are willing to name.
Lyon tries to turn his head back towards you, as if your want and greed were so palpable they touched upon his skin in a heated caress.
“Ah-ah,” you tut, as you resume your walk towards your prize, “straight ahead.”
He whips his head back to its original position, swaying on the balls of his feet in the process. Oh, you sure hope his legs remain strong for what you’re about to do to him.
You take one step at a time, prolonging the already long wait. There is sweat beading on his back, his wounds old and new pulsating as he takes in a deep breath. In your moments apart, you have often wondered what it would be like to be his sole deliverance. To own his pain. Earn his complete submission and eternal devotion. You, his only god. His punishment and his salvation.
You press your lips over the moles on his back, earning a loud gasp. He takes a step back towards your warm presence, chasing after the ghost of your touch. You smash his ass hard enough to leave an angry bright red imprint that sends him reeling forwards.
“Ahh!!!”
“What did I say about talking?” You give him two more smashes, one on each thigh.
Lyon sobs, the chains rattling with how hard he’s gripping them to maintain balance, but wisely does not reply. You place your hands and mouth on his back once more, feeling the tremors and the struggle of keeping still in this impossible position. Oh, how he sings for you. You’ll gladly stand like this all night just hugging him tight, and so you must move on lest you really give in to it.
“I have a gift for you,” you say, once you are standing in front of him, having to crane your neck up further than usual to take in the sight of his face.
And what a lovely sight he makes! His face is flushed with pain and arousal, his hair disheveled, his gaze focused on you and you alone. Just for that golden hair of his, he should have been a priest of Sol.
He bites his lip as nervousness and excitement and curiosity all war on his face.
“Do you want it?”
He nods rapidly, without knowing what it is you’re offering.
You open your hand to show it to him. He looks quizzical at first, before quickly figuring out what it is. His eye flickers back up to yours with both anticipation and trepidation.
“So I was thinking about making it easier for you, since I know it’s hard keeping yourself quiet. I’m going to attach these on you,” you untangle the short chain and hold up the golden clamps, “and you’re going to hold it secure for me. You drop, we stop. Are we clear?”
He opens his mouth, wanting but knowing better than to speak, and it’s not hard for you at all to see the uncertainty on his face.
You cup his face, on the side not etching with scars, and say gently, “Be a good boy and hold it for me, okay? I know you can do it. You’re already doing so well.”
He leans into your touch. With a nervous but trusting smile, he nods for you.
You love him.
Against all your doubts and fears and duties, you do.
You kiss your truth onto his lips, and leave the question of whether you must burden him with it for tomorrow.
You run your hands up his abdomen, massage his chest and play with his nipples. Every single one of his gasps and whines, you swallow them all, shoving your tongue into his mouth, squeezing the small nubs harder and harder until you feel his cock fully hardens against your belly. He sways on his feet, kiss-drunk, melting into your touches. You clip the clamps onto his nipples and yank them off as hard as you can.
He cries out, losing his balance and scrambling to regain his footing. You pull him back to you by his cock, which already spurts some onto your stomach, stroking it from tip to base. “Sorry. My hands slipped.”
You don’t wait for his reaction. You reattach the clamps. He tenses up; they must be biting into his reddened nipples, tight, and will only get tighter as the night goes on. You place the chain between his teeth. He closes his mouth around it, testing its give. It is as you have envisioned: your lion won’t be able to raise his head without yanking them off. Lyon makes a soft sound of protest as he arrives at the same conclusion. He fixes you with a teary gaze, begging for leniency, as his cock pulses and goes even hotter in your grip. Coating it in its own essence, you quicken your stroking just a little, watching as his eye rolls back inside his head. His cock is a lovely thing, big and heavy in your hand, all the more so when he’s desperate for his first climax of the night.
“Now I did promise you I’m going to make you feel so good today, didn’t I, Father?”
You kiss the mole on his chin and nip at his jaw, feeling his heavy breathing, shaking against your body. Lyon nods, only registering your question just now, the chain gripped securely between his teeth. That will change soon, of course, now that you’re getting impatient too.
You lick a stripe across his mouth as you rub the sensitive head of his cock. His breath hitches; a moan wants to burst forth only to be reined back by pure will. You bite his lip to draw blood and shove your tongue in the moment he gasps in pain. The chain is hot and wet with his saliva. Guarded jealously by his own tongue because you told him so. He wants your tongue, your kiss, your hands, your body and he craves your praises, your approval, your trust, your satisfaction and he can’t possibly get them all but by Lua he’ll do everything he can for you or dies trying.
You feel him hold his breath as his body starts shaking violently and his eye squeezes shut.
“You’ve done so well, love. You’ve pleased me so. Now come for me.”
He shoots into your hand—hot, viscous, abundant, burning moaning into your mouth, pulled into your embrace, and you kiss and kiss until you no longer know where you end and he begins...
He rests his head against yours, the chain dangling between your bodies, glistening with his saliva.
“Oh dear!” you gasp, as you pull at the golden chain not so gently. Lyon lets out a yelp, half-pulling away, half leaning in closer. Fresh tears spring to his eye, threatening to spill down his flushed cheek. “What did I tell you about this?”
Quickly looking down at you, Lyon shakes his head hurriedly and opens his mouth wide, begging to receive your chain again.
“Shall we stop then? Get you cleaned up and retire for the night?”
You make to take a step back. He bends his head as far as his position will allow, lowering his gaze, and breaks his silence. “I beg of you. Please don’t stop. P-Please please I promise I will be better.”
You heave a long-suffering sigh. “Alright.” You grip his chin and lick a broad stripe up his cheek, tasting the salty tears of his desperation. “I’m willing to overlook this once. But,” you flash him a sadistic smile, “I can’t overlook a priest breaking his vow of silence.”
He looks both relieved and fearful at the same time. He sniffles quietly, nodding, and oh were you a lesser woman you would have given in to him right there and then. You make to sweep his messy, matted hair away from his face only to realize your hand is filthy with something of his.
He licks his spent off your hand without any command, his eye fluttering shut, as his mouth skillfully sucks each of your fingers down to the base. You thrust two fingers inside and toy with his tongue, pressing deeper, deeper, deeper until you touch the back of his throat.
He gags. You yank them out before your lion can swallow them any further, drinking in the sight of your man choking on what you have given him.
You run the back of your hand over his flawless ass cheeks and the beautiful scarlet lines that you imagine will be there once you’re done with him. You don’t plan to take him tonight but perhaps tomorrow morning, under the soft morning light, if you find the heart to wake him from his peaceful rest.
“Count out loud for me. If you miss one, we’ll start again.”
You watch him bite his lip and brace himself, but his cock is half-hard again. You raise your hand and let the cane cut the first line across both of his ass cheeks.
He arches his back with a choked scream, the chains overhead rattling with the force of his grip, and the first count stumbles out with a loud moan of anguish, “One!”
You run the cane up and down his round buttocks and strike a random spot you found. “Two!”
Crack!
He slips and loses his balance. “Urghh— argghhh! Th-Three!”
Crack! Crack!
Two bloody lines appear on the back of his thighs.
“F—” he hiccups as he struggles to stand on the balls of his feet while bracing the pain. “Fou—”
“What was that?”
“Four! Five!” he sobs loudly, openly. You have never heard him make these sounds before in all these months you have known each other, since you began this carnal relationship. You know his agony, his pleasure, his pain, confusion, anger, and now you know how much he’s willing to endure for your satisfaction.
You run your fingers over the welts and cuts, marveling at the way his body receives you, and raise your hand.
After the 10th hit, he begins moving away from you earnestly. You tut loudly as you come round to face him. You’re not surprised to see his cock dripping wet with precum, red and angry and ready to burst, or find his face also a mess of tears and drool and sweat. He’s breathing heavily, trembling violently; his body’s betraying him, its weight dragging him down but there is no safe landing.
He’s calling out for you.
You place your hand on his flushed chest, over his racing heart, and breathe slowly with him until he blinks his eye open and sees you.
“Are you with me, Lyon?”
He nods.
“Do you want a break?”
He shakes his head fervently.
“Speak to me.”
“No. Don’t stop. Please,” he rasps out.
“Okay. You know we’re not done yet. Think you can handle another ten for me?”
He bites his lip, his sweaty brow furrowing, and nods once more.
“Good boy.” You pat his cheek with an encouraging smile. “Count for me.”
You hit the front of his thighs and watch his body contort to your every move, the chain flashing gold on his beautiful flushed skin. You get to 15 before he peaks with a drawn-out scream. You don’t stop, landing two more on his violently shaking thighs. He shoots for much longer than you’ve ever seen, all over the floor in front of him, thick, long shots that seem almost painful in their intensity.
“What number was that?” You twirl the cane around his jerking cock.
“Hah-ah… Ah… Aah…” he drools dazedly, looking utterly wrecked, as he hangs limply from the chains.
“I can’t hear you.” You dig the tip of the cane into the soft flesh under his chin.
“Dix—hic! Dix-sept!” he whimpers. “Attend—! Ahhh! Ah—”
You get on your knees, kiss the mole on his heaving stomach and take his still twitching cock into your mouth. “S'il te—s'il te… ahh! C'est trop—” Sucking softly, wrapping your free hand around the base, teasing the balls, stroking your tongue along the underside and over the head. He tries to jerk out of your grip but to no avail.
“Hah-ah… Ah… Aah… Ne peut pas… mon miracle… p-pas plus…”
He tastes tangy and something that’s unique himself—a taste you’ve told him time and time again that you love. He’s trying his damnedest to keep himself still for you. Such an obedient boy. You really can get him off like this, sending him to euphoria and back, before you see if he can come untouched like you did plan for him.
Something hot and heavy hits the top of your head. Still with his cock in your mouth, you stop just long enough to feel for it with your hand.
“Oh.” You pull off the thick, quivering length to glance up at him. “Can’t keep it in your mouth?”
He’s too delirious with pain and pleasure to realize he’s drooling all over you. You have no other choice but to make him close his mouth around the chain, knowing it’s only a matter of time before he makes a mess again.
It doesn’t take much more for him to reach the peak. You catch it in your hand. You lap up the thin cum that coats your palm and wrist before it drips all over the floor, holding his half-lidded gaze as you do so. With a devilish smile that matches Roathe’s, you pry his mouth wide enough to spit all of it inside.
“Hold it until I say otherwise.” His mouth clamps shut as he nods firmly, trying his best to focus on one more task you’ve given him. You tap the cane on your palm, still wet and sticky with his essence. “Now I believe we have a bit more to go before we’re done.”
You trail the thin implement over both marked and marble skin, across cuts oozing with crimson that your priest is going to feel whenever he kneels for his prayers.
He begs silently. With his beseeching eye that never once leaves you. With every rise and fall of his chest, the strength that it takes to remain in this position for however long you demand of him. You don’t understand how you can be so lucky that this man is wholly yours, if only for these short hours.
One on the crest of his perfect ass. One on the back of his thighs, to be felt against the coarse fabric of his clothes. And the last one over the deepest cut you can see.
It’s too much of everything—the pain, the blinding pleasure, the chains he’s holding in a death grip and his tired legs, the chain he can’t afford to drop, the clamps biting into his oversensitive nipples, the mouthful of his own cum and both of your spits. He comes silently but for the sound of the clamps being yanked off as his back forms a perfect arch.
You hug him from behind, feeling with your whole body how your torment turns into his ecstasy, and you take hold of his cock. He no longer has the strength to resist, just incoherent pleas and pitiful sobs that do nothing to slow the pace of your stroking.
“One more for me, love. One more.”
He goes still, and then wheezes as his cock shoots blank in your hand. You speak your praises into his heated, warped skin, kiss and caress him all over, let him know you are still with him. Always with him. Always.
You bring him down from the suspensions as gently as you can. He kneels before you exhausted and barely conscious with your chain clasped tight in his mouth and you know you would die for him if it were the last thing you did.
“Swallow,” you say breathlessly.
He gulps and shows you his pink, empty throat.
“You”—the words almost die stillborn in your mouth; you don’t think you’ll have the courage comes morning—“mean the world to me, Lyon.”
He blinks drowsily with a sated smile. He probably doesn’t think you truly mean it. You don’t know how you can tell him otherwise.
You take him to his bed, your hands straying away from him only when you need to discard the water used to cleanse the wounds. You hug him chest to back, your legs far from where it hurts the most. A sense of accomplishment, and love, and warmth take hold of your heart, but no—your heart isn’t yours. It isn’t inside your chest, but in the man slumbering in your arms, safe and cherished, now and forever.