Chapter 17 #2
The ice burned against his skin, trailing cold water down his chest and thighs.
Then Vale’s mouth was warm in contrast, and Kieran’s mind couldn’t hold both sensations at once.
He couldn’t maintain the narrative that this was violation when it also brought sensations his body interpreted as pleasure, regardless of what his conscience wanted.
“You’re learning,” Vale murmured between sessions that blurred together like watercolors running in rain. His voice had taken on a quality Kieran hadn’t heard before—softer, almost reverent. “Learning not to flinch from intimacy. Not to hide from what your body wants.”
My body doesn’t want this.
But the distinction was getting harder to maintain when Vale’s touch started feeling like the only constant in a world that had become unmoored from time and space and logical progression.
Another session. Or maybe the same one.
This time when Vale positioned him against the wall, his hands secured above his head, the contact felt almost familiar.
The leather belt had been replaced with something softer—Vale’s hands, moving across the welts with careful attention to what made Kieran gasp versus what made him flinch.
Fingers traced the raised, reddened lines on his back, pressing just enough to send jolts of mingled pain and heat through his nerves, with thumbs circling sensitive spots that forced involuntary twitches.
“You’re so sensitive,” Vale murmured. “The sounds you make. The way you—”
He stopped himself, breathing hard, and Kieran recognized the moment for what it was: Vale’s control slipping again.
The careful justifications cracking. The truth underneath becoming visible—Vale’s erection straining against his pants, pressing insistently against Kieran’s hip as his hands trembled with barely restrained need.
“Sing for me,” Vale whispered against his ear, his hands moving with renewed purpose, sliding down to cup Kieran’s ass, squeezing the flesh before dipping between his legs to stroke his hardening cock through the fabric of his pants. “Please. I need to hear you.”
And so Kieran sang.
Not because he was forced. Not because he was afraid of what would happen if he refused. But because the request had been genuine, and responding to genuine need felt easier than maintaining walls that had already crumbled.
His voice filled the basement with lyrics about heresy and confessions, about structures built on fault lines, about learning to find beauty in collapse.
And Vale’s hands moved in rhythm with the melody, pulling responses from Kieran’s body that felt almost like collaboration: the unbuttoning of his pants with deliberate slowness, freeing his cock into the cool air, and wrapping firm fingers around the thickening shaft.
Vale stroked him steadily, thumb smearing pre-cum over the head in slow circles that made his breath hitch and his voice waver on the high notes.
Kieran’s hips rocked forward, thrusting into Vale’s grip as heat coiled tight in his core.
When it was over—when Kieran’s voice gave out on a moan and his orgasm tore through him, hot spurts of cum coating Vale’s hand and dripping down his wrist in sticky trails, while Vale ground his own release against Kieran’s thigh with a muffled groan, soaking the fabric between them—Vale released him from the restraints.
Neither of them spoke. Vale simply caught him when his legs gave out, lowered them both to the floor, and held him while Kieran’s body shook with exhaustion that went deeper than the physical, their fluids cooling on skin and cloth in the dim light.
“You’re doing so well,” Vale finally whispered into his hair, and there was genuine warmth in his voice, affection that felt real even if everything else was twisted. “So much better than I imagined. You’re becoming exactly what you were meant to be.”
What am I meant to be? Your instrument? Your prisoner? Your—
But Kieran’s mind couldn’t finish the thought before exhaustion dragged him under.
When he woke, there was something around his neck.
Kieran’s hands went to his throat, his fingers finding smooth leather. A collar.
Vale sat in the chair beside the mattress that had appeared in the basement at some point—Kieran didn’t remember it being there before, but maybe it had been. Time was unreliable.
“A reminder,” Vale said simply.
Kieran’s fingers traced the leather, finding the small buckle at the back. Not locked. Not even particularly tight. He could remove it anytime he wanted.
But his hands fell away without trying.
Too tired. Too broken. What’s the point?
“We’re almost ready,” Vale continued, and something in his voice made Kieran’s stomach drop with fresh dread. “Tomorrow I’m bringing someone to film your next performance. Another raw session for your fans. She’ll want to capture the same authenticity as the first video.”
“Who?” His voice came out rough from his restless sleep.
“Eliza. My assistant. She’s filmed projects for me before—she’s very talented, very professional.” Vale moved to crouch beside the mattress. “She thinks this is all artistic collaboration, Kieran. An intensive creative process between producer and artist. That’s what she’ll be filming.”
Kieran’s chest tightened with understanding. “You want me to—to pretend—”
“I want you to perform ‘Temple of Flesh’ with the same honesty you’ve found here.“ Vale’s hand settled on his shoulder, warm and heavy. “Can you do that?”
No. I can’t. I can’t pretend this is normal. I can’t look at someone else and act like I wanted any of this.
But the words wouldn’t come. Because what was the alternative? Tell her the truth? Hope she’d believe him over Vale? Hope she’d help him?
“She doesn’t need to know about the specifics of our process,” Vale continued, voice reasonable as always. “Just that you’ve been pushing yourself creatively. Artists do intense things all the time in pursuit of their craft.”
“I d-don’t know if I can—”
“Then we’ll just have to try harder to get you used to persevering.” Vale’s thumb traced the edge of the collar. “This is what professional artists do, Kieran. They perform regardless of their personal state. They don’t let the audience see them break.”
I’m already broken.
But some fragile part of Kieran understood the real threat underneath Vale’s words: if he couldn’t maintain the performance, if he cracked in front of Eliza, then everything that had happened here would have been for nothing.
All the endurance, all the pain, all the times his body had betrayed him—wasted.
Proof that he couldn’t handle what it took to be a real artist.
And worse—proof that Vale was wrong about him.
I don’t want to disappoint him. God, what’s wrong with me that I don’t want to disappoint him?
“She’ll arrive in the morning,” Vale said, standing.
“You’ll shower, eat, and present yourself as a mysterious artist who’s been working intensively on new material.
You’ll perform the song. You’ll be brilliant.
” His hand touched the collar one more time.
“And if you do this successfully, we can move forward. We can start planning a full album and booking interviews, maybe some venues. Everything you’ve worked for. ”
Everything I’ve worked for. He makes it sound like I chose this.
But some part of Kieran couldn’t deny that his voice had improved. That the honesty Vale had forced out of him was the same honesty that had made people cry. They cared about what he had to say.
The cost was just... everything else.
“Get some rest,” Vale said, moving toward the door. “Tomorrow you need to be perfect. Eliza can’t see anything but an artist who’s found his voice.”
The door closed. The collar rested against Kieran’s throat like a brand, not a gift.
He tried to imagine standing in front of a stranger tomorrow, singing about temples that betrayed themselves while pretending he’d built his own collapse willingly. Tried to imagine smiling, answering questions about his creative process, acting like Vale was a mentor instead of—
Instead of what? What do I even call this anymore?
Kieran curled onto his side on the mattress, fingers still touching the collar, and tried to remember what wanting to fight back felt like.