Chapter Eight Briar #2
I deliver a single, measured strike to his ass, right where the plug is buried. He yelps, the sound ricocheting off the walls.
“I love the way people think they can handle pain. But pain is never the point. Control is.”
I step closer, dragging my nails down the line of his spine, over the welts I left. He leans into the touch, almost involuntarily. His cock is hard as a rock and leaving a small puddle of pre-cum on the floor.
“You don’t break people with pain. You break them with the promise of it. With the knowledge that I can stop at any second, but I won’t.”
He looks at me over his shoulder, lips parted.
I drop the flogger, run my hand over the marks, then grab his cock. It’s hard, rigid, the skin flushed almost purple.
“Why are you hard?” I ask.
He tries to pull back, but the restraints give only a little. “I don’t know.”
I stroke him, slow, once, twice, then stop. “Liar.”
He glares at me, then looks away.
I slap his cock, the sound muted but the effect immediate. He flinches, a line of wetness beading at the tip. I use my thumb to smear it across the head, then step back.
“You like this,” I say, matter-of-fact.
He closes his eyes. “No, I—”
“Don’t lie to me, Landon. You’re terrible at it.”
I walk in a slow circle, let him feel me behind him, then deliver a quick succession of strikes across his back and thighs. He grunts, pain mixing with something else. He’s breathing harder now, sweat breaking across his skin.
I grab the base of his cock again, squeeze until his knees shake, then whisper in his ear, “Say it.”
He’s shaking, but he finally gives in, “I like it.”
I reward him with a gentle kiss to his shoulder, then a rougher stroke to his cock. He almost whimpers, then catches himself.
“See?” I say, “Not so hard.”
Walking to my vault of toys, I pick out a bigger plug than the one he’s wearing. He sees it, eyes wide. “No. Please.”
I smile, then pull out the smaller plug with a slick, wet pop. He shudders, knees almost buckling. I rub a little lube on the new one, then press it to his hole. He clenches, but I push, relentless, until the tip slides in.
He yells, a raw, animal noise, but I don’t stop. I work it deeper, inch by inch, until it seats inside him, stretching him wide.
I stroke his cock, gentle now, and he sobs, the pleasure and pain colliding in his nerves.
“You ever been edged before?” I ask.
He shakes his head, tears on his cheeks.
I grip his cock with one hand and slap his ass with the other, setting up a rhythm: stroke, slap, stroke, slap. He’s moaning now, loud, not even trying to be quiet.
I bring him right to the edge, then stop. He screams, a wordless frustration.
“That’s how it works,” I say, stepping back. “I decide when you come. I decide when you breathe.”
I circle again, my own breathing heavy now. I grab his jaw, force him to look at me. “Understand?”
He nods, desperate.
My cock is hard and throbbing. Dropping my pants, I pull his head up by his hair and make him suck my cock. His mouth is sweet and hot, working me until I want to cum. I hold back, because I want to unload deep inside him.
Every sixty seconds, I stop and lean over to touch his cock, just enough to keep him on the brink. His whole body trembles, sweat running down his sides, the marks on his back blooming dark red.
I pet his hair, slow, methodical, and let the lesson settle in.
“Good boy,” I murmur, loving the tears that fall from his eyes as he looks at me in lustful relief.
Because in the end, that’s what he wants.
And I’m the only one who’ll ever give it to him.
He thinks it’s over. That’s the best part.
Stepping back, I admire my handiwork. He’s beautiful. Perfect. Strung out on the high that pain and submission can give.
He lies across the bench, tears streaking down his face. Every line of his body says submission, but the set of his jaw is pure, beautiful defiance.
I slide my hand up the back of his neck, feel the pulse fluttering there. “Don’t move,” I say, and his body goes rigid again, arms extended along the bench, hands fisted so tight the knuckles are white.
I collect what I need: a bottle of lube, the black-glass tray of dildos. I choose the one that’s thick, but not as long as me, wanting to save the stretch for my own cock. Then I kneel behind him and rest my palm between his shoulder blades, feeling him flinch even at that touch.
“You’re not afraid of pain,” I smile as I pull the bigger plug out, watching his hole gape before closing slowly. “That’s not what scares you.”
He sniffs, trying to clear his head. “I’m not scared at all.”
I chuckle, coat two fingers in lube, and press to his hole. The new plug left him open, but not enough. He clenches, tries to resist, but I push past the ring of muscle and slide my fingers in to the first knuckle, then the second.
He gasps, not pain but surprise, his hips jerking away from me.
I hold him steady, work him in slow, then pump in and out. The slick makes it easier, but he’s still tight, still fighting. I feel every spasm, every involuntary clench.
“You’re afraid of losing control,” I whisper. “That’s the only thing that matters to you.”
He doesn’t respond, jaw locked, but his body answers for him. His cock twitches, throbs, spills another drop of clear fluid on the floor. I curl my fingers inside him, hunt for the spot that will make him moan, and when I find it, he does.
“Say it,” I order.
He shakes his head, hair sticking to his wet cheek.
I withdraw, grab the first dildo, and lube it up. The head is round and blunt, the shaft curved just enough. I press it to his hole and watch as he tenses, then relaxes, then tries to tense again.
Not waiting for him to accept this, I push the toy all the way in. His back arches, a sharp, silent scream in his chest, but he takes it. I leave it there, impaled, and walk around to the front of the bench.
I run my hand through his hair, grip tight, and force his head up to meet my eyes. His face is red, tears and snot mixing on his lips.
“Are you going to be a good boy, or am I going to have to ruin you more?” I ask, gentle.
He sobs, just once, then: “I’ll be good.”
I smile, wipe the tears from his cheek with my thumb, and press his face down into the leather. I move behind him again, twist the toy, pull it out halfway, then slam it home. He screams, a broken, angelic sound.
“Louder. Show me who you belong too. Show me who is the only person that can make you feel like this.”
He does. He lets go, the sound echoing off the concrete.
I work the toy in and out, faster, harder, until the wet noises are the only thing in the room.
His hole is slick, gaping, hungry for more.
I switch toys, the next size up, and he whimpers when I push it in.
This time, the stretch is real. I can see the tremor in his arms, the sweat pooling under his chin.
“You’re doing so well,” I say, stroking his back. “So fucking perfect.”
He shakes his head, but doesn’t protest.
I grab his hips, line up the toy, and fuck him with it. The rhythm is relentless. I don’t stop, not even when his knees start to buckle, not even when he screams for me to slow down.
“I can’t,” he cries, “I can’t, I can’t—”
“You can,” I say, voice sharp. “You will. Because I want you to. Because you want to please me.”
His cock is leaking cum now, despite his best efforts not to give into the urge and all I want to do is fuck him and give him what he so desperately needs.
I pull out, toss the toy on the bench, and watch his hole pulse, red and open. Not able to control myself anymore, I grip my cock at the base. I don’t need lube. I’m already leaking for him.
I press the head to his hole and push. He tries to fight it, but he’s too open, too ruined. I sink in slow, inch by inch, until I’m buried to the hilt.
He screams again, but this time it’s pure sensation.
“Shhh,” I lean over him, mouth at his ear. “You belong to me now.”
I fuck him hard. Not rough, not animal—just relentless. I want him to feel it for days, want every movement to remind him who owns him. His ass grips me, the heat and pressure driving me right to the edge.
But I hold back.
Because this isn’t about me. It’s about him.
I reach down, grip his cock, and stroke it in time with my thrusts. He sobs, begging, “Please, please, please—”
“Not yet,” I say, and fuck him as hard as I can until I explode in his ass. My cock throbs, emptying and I love the way I look buried inside him. I pull out, watch my cum drip from his ruined hole. I grab the biggest toy on the tray, coat it in lube, and shove it in to the hilt.
He comes undone, bucking against the bench, screaming my name.
“Is that what you needed?” I ask, pulling his head up by the hair.
He nods, but it’s barely conscious.
I fuck him with the toy, hard, then pull it out and shove my still-hard cock back in. This time, I don’t hold back. I pound him, the noise wet and obscene, until I feel him tighten around me, milking me for everything I’m worth.
He cums, a jet of white splattering the bench and landing on the floor. The second he does, I let go again, shooting deep inside him, filling him up until it leaks down his thighs.
I collapse over him, breath hot at his neck.
For a long moment, there’s nothing. No sound but our breathing.
I pull out and stare at the mess we’ve made. His hole is ruined, gaping as cum leaks out of him. Satisfied, I leave him twitching, and walk around to unclip his wrists and ankles.
He collapses onto the bench, limp and helpless.
I crouch in front of him, lift his chin.
“You’re not going to disobey me again, are you?” I say, quiet.
He shakes his head, tears streaming down his face.
“Good boy,” I whisper, and kiss the top of his head gently.
He lies on the leather, hair pasted to his face with tears and sweat. I brush the hair away, thumb gentle on his cheek, and he flinches—not from pain, but from the unfamiliarity of the gesture.
“What are you gonna do to me now?” He whimpers.
“Shh,” I say, “it’s done.”
I gather him up, arms under his shoulders and knees. He’s not heavy, but his limbs are leaden, unwilling to function. I carry him across the cold concrete to the adjoining bath, a narrow tile room with a soaking tub and a shower that could blast the skin off a corpse.
I set him on the closed lid of the toilet, then start the water running.
The heat fogs up the glass, fills the room with steam.
When it’s the right temperature, I test it on my wrist, then guide him in.
He sinks into the bath without a sound, his body folding in on itself, arms hugging his knees to his chest.
For a while, neither of us speak. I kneel beside the tub and ladle warm water over his back, rinsing off the cum and the lube and everything else.
He’s shivering, but not from cold. I soap up a sponge, scrub him clean in small, slow circles, careful not to touch the places I know will be sore for days.
When I reach for his hair, he leans in, letting me wash it. I work my fingers into the roots, lather, rinse, repeat. He doesn’t open his eyes, but I see the tension bleed out of his jaw, the lines in his forehead softening.
“Why are you doing this?” he whispers, voice wrecked. “You just destroyed me.”
“Because you’re mine,” I say, no hesitation. “And I take care of what’s mine.”
He processes this, then nods once, a jerky, fragile movement.
I towel him off when he’s done, wrap him up and sit him on the toilet lid again.
His skin is a map of marks—red, purple, blue.
I grab the jar of ointment from the medicine cabinet and dip two fingers in.
The stuff is cold, menthol-scented. I dab it on the welts, massaging it in until the shine returns to his battered skin.
He hisses at the first touch, but after that he’s silent.
“You ever been taken care of?” I ask, because the answer is obvious. “Turn over.”
He shakes his head, eyes fixed on the floor as I work the ointment into the flesh of his ass.
I run my fingers down his arm, wrist to elbow, and say, “Well, as much as I’ll destroy you, I’ll also make sure you don’t break.”
When the ointment’s all rubbed in, I put the jar away and pull him into my lap, letting him curl up against my chest. He tucks his head under my chin and just… stays.
We sit there for a long time, his breath warming the hollow of my throat, his heart beating in sync with mine.
Finally, I say, “You needed to understand.”
He nods.
“And you need to understand what I’m risking by keeping you alive.”
He looks up, surprise flickering in his eyes.
I kiss him on the forehead, slow and careful. “You’re not a liability anymore,” I say, voice low. “You’re my necessity. I’ll protect you from everyone else, but not from me. Never from me.”
He shudders, but doesn’t let go.
I hold him until his breathing slows, until his body relaxes completely against mine.
Early tomorrow, the world will try to take him from me. The Silent will send their best, and I’ll be ready.
For now, I let him sleep.
A few hours delay in moving won’t hurt.