The Sinner’s Sanctuary (Doormen of the Upper East Side #3)

33. Gibson

33

GIBSON

I t takes two weeks of careful use for me to train Christian’s hole from going into full blown raw, angry, swollen mode whenever I fuck him. The night before he’s scheduled to leave for the Hamptons, I’m pleased to see that while we had sex the minute he walked into my office this morning, his asshole shows no lingering signs of abuse.

As it is in real estate—patience pays off, but sometimes time is short, and you have to know when it’s time to make a bold move.

I have him cuffed face down on my bed at the club, spread-eagled, with his cock aimed down. Presumably, he’ll be in a swimsuit this weekend, so I have to be judicious about this scene while still giving him what he needs—suffering. With a riding crop, I swat the soles of his feet.

He’s jumpy tonight. Overly responsive. He starts jerking before the crop even makes contact.

Christ, but he looks so good like this. His creamy skin against the dark bedding and leather restraints. His perfect pink hole and his rosy balls. His straw colored hair already damp at the roots with sweat. Fucking gorgeous. It’s almost hard to hurt him.

Almost .

It’s worth it.

Another spot that will be effective and yet subtle is his inner thighs. I surprise him there. He yelps—high pitched and so cute, I grin. I won’t be smiling soon, so I’ll enjoy what I can while it lasts. I alternate soft taps between his legs before snapping my wrist and making it sting.

“Oh— shit ?—”

If he’s still talking, he’s nowhere close to where he needs to be, but I enjoy a challenge. He’ll invite me to the goddamn Hamptons by dawn if I have to choke the words out of him. Stubborn little shit.

“Hold still,” I say with some sarcasm.

The problem with Christian is—among myriad other issues—he truly requires raw flesh to get into the state he needs to be. Tuesday night, I didn’t make him cry, and he told me to forget the whole thing—that the scenes weren’t helping anymore. Which of course made me panic, but only for a moment, because then he started talking. And talking and talking.

He talked about Trinity and her parents and God and her death for so long he made us both cry, and then he climbed on top of me, started kissing my neck and begging me to fuck him.

Irresistible.

Needless to say, he has not started seeing a therapist. He has no time. I blame myself for that, and I’m doing my best to give him what he needs without triggering something in him I’m not deft enough to handle.

“I don’t care if you leave marks,” he says again.

“I’m sorry—are you in charge here?”

Of course, we both know he is, but the illusion is the point.

“Sorry,” he whispers.

I’ve done my research, and too many male sex toys—especially the more brutal ones—I don’t trust myself with. The worst thing I can imagine is damaging some fragile internal structure inside him and accidentally sterilizing him or something. The risk/reward ratio is far too high. Clamps, shock devices—any sort of testicular stretching device—I won’t do. Hot wax would probably only annoy him, and he’s increasingly difficult to humiliate. I’ve had to step up my Dom game, and the opportunity to do so is welcome.

Christian is long-limbed, but the bed is large, and I have options for where I attach the restraints. He’s stretched taut, which means any movement will be uncomfortable. Sudden movements will be worse, and twisting movements will push him past his limits.

I open my newly stocked drawer and pull out a steel cock ring. I bought this one in person, so I know it will fit. I’m rough with him when I put it on. He’s got a flagging-semi, and the ring fits snugly around his cock and balls, bundling them together and preventing an easy orgasm, in case the rest of what I have planned actually works.

I’m jealous of the anal plug as soon as it breaches his hole. Watching the way his ass clenches around it—the way the four-inch toy sinks inside him, has me stiffening in my pants. His pelvis tilts, rocking against the mattress, and he groans as every muscle stretches—as his cock stretches. “What is this?” he murmurs.

“Are you going to use your safe word?”

“No.”

“Then stop asking questions.”

I press the button on my remote, and he jolts. “Fuck!”

As soon as he relaxes again and manages a deep breath, I push it again, holding it down for several seconds and making him squirm as the plug in his ass and its accompanying well-fitted cock ring vibrate. “Shit,” he gasps when I release the button.

I slap his feet with the crop again to confuse his attention, then go straight for his inner thighs. He doesn’t start breathing heavy, though, until I buzz him again.

Reaching between his thighs, I feel his cock, giving it a squeeze to test its firmness. Semi and growing. He tries to press into my touch because he truly can’t help himself, but I remove my hand and send the riding crop straight to his balls.

He makes a noise of total shock, and his thighs shake.

“Are you praying yet, pretty boy?”

He doesn’t respond, his gasps choked from the direct hit, so I buzz him again while I count to ten in my head. He starts pulling at the restraints at five and jerking through spasms at eight. The expression on his face is close to rapturous, and I know that look. I’ve memorized it. I often jerk off to the image of it when I’m showering.

I release the buzzer just before he reaches his edge and go back to slapping his inner thighs. I give his cock a few rough tugs with my hand to remind him I have options, and he’s got a safe word, and then I buzz him for a single second. He digs his forehead into the bed, his neck bending as he pants heavily onto the mattress. Tossing the crop onto the floor, I get into bed with him, settling my body between his spread open legs. Torturing him with pleasure is still torture, and when it comes to him, I can only watch for so long. He’s become my biggest weakness.

I draw his balls into my mouth and get them as wet as possible so he can hear the slurping noise it makes when I suck on them again. I lick the tiniest bead of precum from his strangled cock and then hit him with an eight count vibration. Looking up, I watch his reaction. His hands open and close on air. His hips rock, trying to fuck something, and his back heaves with sharp groans.

I follow up the long buzz with a series of short, rhythmic pulses that have him rigid and groaning. His muscles strain and pull, and it’s so gorgeous. So erotic. I can barely wait to replace the plug with my cock, but we’re not nearly done yet.

While I doubt he’ll safe word, I do think he’ll start to wish he weren’t so stubborn .

I deny him a second orgasm, and he grunts his frustration, flattening himself to the bed and cursing.

“It’s going to help if you can begin to accept what’s happening to you. What’s going to keep happening over and over and over until you break.”

He nods. I suck his balls again, just because I want to.

I put on some trance music and settle in for the long haul, edging him repeatedly both mentally and physically. Because pleasure is involved, the moments of pain are necessarily shorter. Between simulating his prostate and his cock with vibrations, I suck hickeys into his inner thighs, the creases beneath his ass, and of course, the holy grail of his body, his ass itself. I lose count of how many orgasms he doesn’t have. A playlist’s worth pass before I hear him wearing thin and meeting his defeat.

His body twitches uncontrollably. I can’t imagine the fatigue in his muscles and joints. He’s glistening with sweat, covered in my marks, and his balls are a dusky shade of blue—swollen and painful looking. At the end of a long buzz that has him ratcheting up again and his cock helplessly twitching, I cut him off and nip his scrotum with my teeth.

He sobs, finally.

I draw out his agony with a few long sucks of his cock that aren’t enough to get him off, especially with the cock ring, and his body shudders before going completely limp with a full show of surrender.

Sliding the plug out, but leaving the cock ring on, I crawl over his body, slide on a condom, and stuff myself inside him

Gritting my teeth at the tight squeeze, once I’m deep enough, he bears down and stops choking my dick with his ass. The plug had plenty of lube on it, and I slide through it easily, dying inside at the electric pleasure of his body enveloping and welcoming my cock.

He’s crying quietly as I fuck into him, lost in his head and giving up his body for me to use. I wrap my arms beneath his, press my cheek to his head and pump my hips methodically, humping him.

“ Christ, oh Christ, oh Christ ,” he chants.

I don’t particularly want to because he feels so fucking good like this, but I’m eager to end this scene. It’s gone on an extremely long time, and it’s stretched my patience and my affection for him beyond what’s comfortable. Meaning, I can’t bear seeing him like this anymore. He’s much stronger than I am, though, because I think he would tolerate this as long as I dealt it out.

But I’ll never last. My need is so harsh, it has me chasing my own orgasm like my life is at risk, and I’ll die if I don’t come.

I reach down and manage to wrestle the cock ring off, but his dick is still smashed downward, and I have nearly my full weight on top of him. My slow, gliding strokes turn to powerful thrusts that have him howling with the way his body has to fight the restraints. He’ll wind up with cuff marks, but that’s not as bad as split skin.

“Oh fuck —” he gasps as he grabs the chain on his restraints and tries to stabilize himself as I pound him through his orgasm. It sets me on fire when the sounds of his release issue from his perfect lips. I pull out immediately when I realize the clench in my groin isn’t strain—it’s my own savage release. I’m coming with him.

I yank off the condom and hold tight to my throbbing cock as my cum shoots onto his hole, dripping down his sac as it continues to gush from me. It pools on his beautiful, spent dick, and I throw my head back, panting harshly, thanking God it’s over.

“Please,” I hear him whisper. “Please. Don’t make me say it. I don’t want to say it.”

Blinking out of my haze, I turn for his ankles first and let them go. When I get his hands free, he curls into a ball, facing away from me, and I feel the subtle rejection like a punch in the stomach .

I grab his water and put on pants before coming back to the bed. “Will you drink it?”

He reaches out and takes the bottle. “Sit down,” he mumbles.

I let out the breath I was holding and sink onto the mattress to sit beside him.

He puts his cheek on my thigh and lets out his own deep breath. “I can’t feel my body.”

“Can you feel mine?” I ask.

He wraps a hand around my calf and sighs again. “Yeah. Thank you, Gibson.”

I run my fingers through his sweaty hair. “You’re welcome, baby.”

His hand tightens, and I have to reckon with the fact that I just said something I’ve never said to anyone but my wife.

I brush my knuckles down his cheek and close my eyes. These feelings …when did they get so big ?

“How are you doing?” I ask, checking in as I drag my fingers through his sweaty hair.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean…” I sigh, nervous but compelled to ask. “Are you finding what you need here? Still?”

“Do you still think you know what I need?” he asks.

“That’s one of the reasons I’m asking.”

His hand moves back and forth over my right pec, making my nipple hard. “I wonder sometimes if part of me died with her.”

I shut my eyes, understanding deeply what a raw and real thing that is to admit.

“Like I just feel numb. Invisible. I have all these disjointed thoughts, and they’re angry or sad or filthy or whatever, but none of them unstick me. Like I’m still just lying there oblivious thinking she’s asleep.”

His words land like lead in my chest. I try to decipher the meaning of them, piece them together into something I can comprehend, but he goes on. On Tuesday when he spoke about Trinity it was more of a rant about what her church had done with her—the personality changes he blamed on them. It had very little to do with him or his feelings, more of a diatribe on purity culture and the damage it does to young women. He railed against the unfairness of it all, and I didn’t disagree.

Emilia has a similar story about her own upbringing, but she’d been able to grow up, get away. Her faith is unshakeable, but she took total autonomy over her body, which even she’ll admit was a response to being told it was sinful.

“You know there’s no way you could have known, don’t you?” I ask softly.

“I was half asleep, too,” he says. “But you know how it goes, right? What if I had been paying more attention? What if I asked what kind of sleeping pills they were, and looked it up? What if I knew better and watched her closer instead of just being lazy and falling asleep?”

“You were just a tired kid.”

His body shudders against mine, and he lets out a choked sob. I move my hand to his cheek to wipe his tears. It doesn’t last long. Only a few minutes pass before he’s speaking again. “Pain makes more sense when it’s physical. Suffering feels like the least I can do.”

“For her? For God?” I ask.

“For me.”

I hate hearing that. “Is it helping?”

“Yeah,” he whispers.

“How?”

“I’m starting to understand my limits, I think. Not in terms what I can handle physically—I mean, that too—but the restraints…being helpless…just a reminder I guess that I can’t control everything.”

“And no one expects you to,” I add.

“Yeah. True. There’s something comforting about that. Knowing my body—like this thing I’m trapped in—it’s vulnerable, and no matter how hard my brain works, there’s only so much control I have over what I’m feeling before I break.”

“Where does God fit into all this?” I ask.

“I’m not sure. I’m starting to think He’s got nothing to do with it. God may be something else entirely.”

I can’t pretend to understand all the places Christian’s mind goes, but I do love his openness, and sometimes I even get what he means—if not intellectually, then on a gut level. “I think you might be onto something.”

“Come with me,” he says, his hand pausing over my breastbone.

“Hm?”

“Tomorrow. Come with me.”

“Ask me again in an hour if you still want that,” I tell him.

“I’ve wanted you to come. This isn’t new.”

I make myself swallow, choked up suddenly. “What will Drew think?” I ask to buy us both some time.

“Drew’s all up to date,” he says, surprising me. “He gives it another two weeks max.”

I huff. “Good to know.”

“How long do you give it?” he asks.

“I’m not the one who’s relationship averse,” I remind him.

“No, I guess you’re not. But tell me anyway.”

“As long as you want,” I say, which is a cop out, but I don’t want to scare him with forever. I can’t think of another word for what I’d like, though. Maybe always? I’m quite attached, which, given all the time we’ve spent together over the last two and a half weeks, I doubt he’s missed.

“I’m not the one who’s married,” he says, as if I could forget.

I wish I could ask him what difference it makes to him, whether I’m married or not. He and I haven’t tried to hide our—whatever this is. I spend nearly every free second with him. My marriage may be an emotional drain on me, but it’s no hindrance to this. To us .

But now’s not the time to bring it up. He’s still in the fetal position.

“How are you feeling?” I ask, sidestepping the wife issue and the Hamptons. “Physically.”

“Fucked up,” he says.

“More than usual?”

“I feel like if I sit up, I might pass out.”

“Drink the water.”

He takes a pitifully insufficient sip. I grab the edge of the comforter and pull it over his naked body, annoyed it took me so long to remember to warm him up. Our scenes are intense. Since we got back from Rome, this is only our fourth. And each time, I find myself sinking deeper and deeper into a different space in my own mind. I’m more emotional, certainly, and attached as I’ve mentioned, but my recovery time is longer.

The fact that I need recovery time is, in itself, a new phenomenon, but I’ve certainly done everything I can to keep him around while I process all the tumultuous emotions our scenes bring up.

I’ve yet to get him to spend the entire night with me, such that we wake up together. On Tuesday, he fell asleep, only to be gone when I woke.

Since he did the thing I wanted and asked me to be his plus one in the Hamptons, I figure I can ask him for something, too. “Stay the night?”

“In here?”

“Is there someplace else you’d rather go?”

“My place. Yours.”

Sleeping in my apartment means the possibility of hearing Marianne entertain, which is something I’ve never relished. Less so, now that Avery’s been coming around more often. I haven’t seen anyone else doing the morning walk of shame since that one time, but I’ve also never left Marianne alone in the apartment at night. Someone is always with her. “Forget it,” I sigh .

“I don’t want to forget it,” he says. “I don’t mind spending the night with you.”

“Well…if you don’t mind …”

“You know what I mean.”

I don’t, though. I’m far too entrenched in what I want him to mean.

He lifts his head. His cheeks are pale, drained of all color, and his eyes are still feverishly bright and bloodshot from crying. Those eyes…they may as well be a battering ram aimed at my chest for all the damage they do. “Do you want me to stay or not?”

“I asked.”

“You drive me nuts, you know?”

“Yes,” I say. “You’ve mentioned it.”

“Fine, I’ll stay here if this is your safe space.”

“I should pop you in the mouth.”

“I do not consent to that,” he murmurs, scooting up in the bed to put his arms around me and rest his head on my chest. When he slings his leg over my lap, my dick reacts. His favorite cuddling position invariably leads to sex, and I’ve developed a Pavlovian response to the feel of his soft cock on my thigh. It never stays soft long.

He takes a longer sip of water, hands me the bottle to set down, and settles against me. My fingertips skim his side as my heart thuds beneath his cheek. Remembering to breathe is a challenge.

“Wait—you have a house in The Hamptons, don’t you?” he asks.

“Mmhm.”

“Would you rather stay there?”

“I think Marianne’s planning to be there, so no. I told her I was staying here.”

“You lied?” he asks.

I shrug .

His hand moves up my neck and gives me goosebumps. “Why lie?” he asks. “Would she not be okay with this?”

“It isn’t that. It’s a matter of privacy. I don’t need her input on my personal life. She might assume too much if I told her about this.”

“Like what?”

“Like…” I fumble for the right words. “Like…it’s something…else.”

Christian cradles my jaw, tilting my face downward to look at him. “Do you know what I want?” he asks.

I nod.

“Then what are you waiting for?”

Our mouths meet in a long, full kiss that really does feel like something else .