Chapter 8 #2
Minutes passed. Five, maybe ten. Kieran kept trying to find something that might satisfy Vale, but terror made his playing worse with each attempt.
“Breathe,” Vale said from somewhere behind him. “You’re thinking too much. Let your hands move without planning. Trust your instincts.”
Kieran closed his eyes behind the hood, though it made no difference in the absolute black. He forced himself to stop thinking about what Vale wanted, about what would happen if he failed or what consequences waited in the darkness.
Just the guitar. Just the music.
His fingers found a single note—A minor, open string. He let it ring out long enough that he could hear it fade into silence.
Then another note. And another. A melody started to emerge, slow and sparse, with spaces between notes that felt like held breath.
“Better,” Vale said. “Much better. Keep going.”
Kieran built on the melody, letting each note inform the next one. Without sight, he had to rely entirely on sound—the way each note resonated, the quality of the tone, the feeling of the strings under his fingers.
The melody took shape gradually. Something about isolation, about being alone in the dark, about the specific terror of not knowing when the light would return. About being trapped inside his own head with no escape.
More time passed. The darkness that terrified him at first became almost familiar, a space where nothing existed except sound.
The melody grew more complex, harmonies emerging as he found chord progressions that captured the feeling of being buried while still conscious, still aware, still desperately seeking escape that wouldn’t come.
“Yes,” Vale said, and his voice was closer now. Not right behind the chair, but moving. “That’s it. That’s what I wanted to hear.”
Kieran kept playing, fingers moving with increasing confidence across the fretboard. The melody found its center in a phrase that kept returning—four notes, descending, with a rhythm that sounded like a heartbeat slowing down.
He played the phrase, varied it, built it into something that felt like grief made audible. Like surrender. Like the moment when he could stop fighting and accept that the darkness was going to win.
Behind him, Vale’s breathing changed.
Faster. Shallower.
“That,” Vale croaked, right behind the chair now. “Play that again. The four-note phrase.”
Kieran played it again, letting each note hang in the basement’s perfect acoustics before the next one fell like a stone into water.
Vale’s hands landed on his shoulders—harder than necessary, his grip almost painful.
“Again.”
Kieran played it a third time, building the phrase into something more complex, adding harmonics that made the melody shimmer with overtones.
That’s when Vale’s hands started moving.
His fingers traced down from Kieran’s shoulders to his collarbones, then lower, spreading across his chest with a faint tremor.
“Keep playing,” Vale commanded breathlessly. “Don’t stop.”
Kieran’s fingers stumbled on the strings, the melody faltering as his awareness split between the music and Vale’s hands moving across his body. Down his chest, his stomach, lower—
“No—” Kieran tried to twist away, hands flying up from the guitar to grab Vale’s wrists.
The drawstring pulled tight immediately. The canvas sealed against his mouth and nose, molding to his face completely.
I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe.
Then it loosened just enough to gasp air.
“Hands on the guitar,” Vale whispered. “Keep playing.”
Kieran’s hands dropped back to the instrument, shaking so badly he could barely hold it. His lungs burned, each breath a conscious effort.
Vale’s hands resumed their exploration, more confident now. One palm pressed flat against Kieran’s stomach while the other slid lower, fingers tracing the line of his hip through his pants.
“This is—you can’t—” Kieran’s voice came out muffled by fabric and weak. “This isn’t t-teaching, this is—”
“This IS teaching.” Vale’s hands moved with increasing purpose, and Kieran could feel him pressed against the back of the chair, body heat radiating through the thin wood. “Your body, your fear, your surrender—it’s all part of the art. Play.”
Kieran tried to play, fingers searching for notes through the fog of terror and confusion. The melody came out broken now, fragmented, each phrase interrupted by gasps for air and the desperate need to understand what was happening.
Vale’s hand found the button of his jeans. Then the zipper. The sound was loud in the quiet basement, mechanical and final.
“Stop—” Kieran tried to stand, to escape, but Vale’s free hand caught the drawstring and pulled it tight again.
No air. The canvas sucked against his face, sealing his mouth and nose completely. His vision went spotty behind his closed eyes as his lungs screamed for oxygen that wasn’t coming.
One second. Two. Three.
The pressure released. Air flooded back in harsh, desperate gasps.
“Be still,” Vale said, and he sounded almost desperate. “Just—be still.”
Vale’s hand slid inside his jeans, beneath the waistband of his boxers. Skin on skin. No barriers left. His fingers wrapped around Kieran’s cock, gripping the soft length as Kieran’s stomach twist in revulsion.
“No—pl-please don’t—” Kieran’s voice broke on the words. “Please, I-I-I don’t want this—”
Vale’s free hand wrapped around his throat through the canvas.
“Stop fighting.”
Behind him, Kieran could feel Vale moving. The hard ridge of Vale’s erection pressed insistently through his pants, rubbing against Kieran’s lower back in rough, urgent motions that matched the pace of his hand.
He’s lost it...
The realization hit with sickening clarity. This wasn’t some twisted methodology. This was Vale’s composure shattering completely, broken by four descending notes.
Vale’s hand stroked up and down Kieran’s shaft with slow, deliberate pulls that forced blood to rush southward against his will.
He twisted his wrist at the tip, thumb circling the sensitive head, slicking it with the first beads of pre-cum that leaked out.
And Kieran’s body—god, his stupid broken body—began to respond, hardening in Vale’s fist.
“I said stop fighting,” Vale repeated as Kieran tried to yank the guitar against himself and knock Vale’s hand away. The hand on Kieran’s throat tightened until black spots danced behind his eyes.
Kieran went limp. Not in submission, but for survival. The same way he’d learned to go limp when he felt the beginning of a seizure, to stop fighting the inevitable and let his body do what it was going to do regardless of his will.
Fight and make it worse. Surrender and survive.
His hands found the guitar strings again, playing on autopilot while Vale took what he wanted. The melody that emerged was fractured and desperate, the notes sounding like begging without words.
Behind him, Vale’s breathing matched the rhythm of his hips grinding against the chair and his back, of his hand working Kieran’s body with increasing desperation—faster now, the strokes turning rougher as Kieran’s cock throbbed helplessly in his grasp.
“You’re still playing,” Vale said with wonder in his voice. “Even now, you’re still playing.”
Because what else was there to do? Stop playing and focus entirely on the violation happening to his body? That seemed worse. Infinitely worse.
So Kieran played. His fingers executed chord progressions while his mind tried to separate itself from what was happening.
Vale’s fingers squeezed tighter, pumping Kieran’s rigid length from root to tip, forcing waves of unwelcome heat to build in his core.
His balls tightened, drawing up as the pressure mounted, nerves igniting in a blaze that ignored all else.
“Please,” Kieran gasped, though he didn’t know what he was begging for anymore. For Vale to stop? For his own body to stop responding? For this to be over?
“Keep playing,” Vale groaned.
“Stop. P-please Vale, please—” Kieran felt it building despite himself—the inevitable conclusion his body was racing toward as shame flooded through him. The heat pooled lower, his hips moving in tiny, involuntary jerks against Vale’s hand, chasing the friction that promised release.
No. No, I don’t want this. I don’t want—
But biology didn’t care about want. Hot, coiling pleasure divorced entirely from desire tore through him like a bullet. His orgasm ripped free—thick ropes of cum spilling over, splattering against his own stomach in hot, shameful spurts that left him trembling and spent.
Kieran’s fingers went still on the strings as he shuddered through it.
Behind him, Vale made a sound—low and guttural—and his movements against the chair became erratic.
Kieran felt the warmth of Vale’s release soaking through his pants to the fabric sticking to his back as Vale ground out his climax with a final, desperate thrust. His hand stilled on Kieran’s body, fingers slick and unmoving around the softening flesh.
For a long moment, neither of them moved. Kieran could hear Vale’s gasping, his breath returning to something resembling normal. His hands trembled where they still touched Kieran’s skin.
Then the hood came off.
Light stabbed Kieran’s eyes. He blinked, unable to focus, his vision swimming with tears he didn’t remember shedding. The basement looked too bright after the darkness, stone walls and acoustic panels swimming in and out of focus.
Vale stood in front of him, though Kieran didn’t remember him moving. His expression—
Disturbed. Confused. Almost frightened.
And his hands were still shaking.
“That was—” Vale started, then stopped. He swallowed hard and tried again. “You played through it. The whole time, you kept playing.”
Kieran couldn’t speak. Couldn’t look at him. He could only stare at the guitar in his lap, at his own hands that had kept moving even while his world had been ending.
The silence stretched. Vale seemed to be waiting for something—a response, an acknowledgment, Kieran didn’t know.
“Go upstairs,” Vale said. “Clean up. Rest.”
Kieran set the guitar down and stood on legs that felt like water. His jeans were still open, his waistband loose around his hips, but he couldn’t make himself care enough to fix it. He moved toward the stairs, each step requiring conscious effort to execute.
“Kieran.”
He stopped but couldn’t make himself turn around.
“What we discovered today—” Vale’s voice cracked slightly and he cleared his throat. “We’ll continue this. Tomorrow. We’ll build on it.”
Tomorrow. There’s going to be a tomorrow of this.
Kieran climbed the stairs without responding, one hand on the wall to keep himself upright. Each step took him further from the basement, but not away from what happened there.
He made it to his bedroom, closed the door with a soft click that felt too final, and sank onto the bed. His jeans were still open. His body still hummed with the unwanted sensation. His mind still screamed with violation.
Vale looked like he lost control.
Or maybe he never had control in the first place.