Chapter 12 What He Saw #4
“I know what I'm doing.” Rafael came back to the bed with the rope in one hand and he reached for Troy's wrists, and Troy let him, tipped forward onto his face with his arms extended and let Rafael cross his wrists and start winding the rope around them in a figure eight that he tied off with practiced efficiency.
He pulled it taut once to test it and Troy made a sound that was almost a whimper, a sound I'd never heard him make before, the sound a man made when pressure hit exactly right.
I was leaking so steadily it was running down my knuckles.
I could feel it, this slow warm slip of pre-come over my fingers, and my cock was so hard it ached all the way up to my stomach, and I wasn't stroking anymore, just holding myself, just trying to keep quiet while the thing through the door dismantled me.
My stepson. My stepson with his wrists tied and his face pressed into my pillow and those black lace panties still twisted to one side, the rope against his skin catching the gold of the lamp, and Rafael running both hands down his arms like he was appreciating the image he'd created.
I wanted to be the one who'd tied those knots. Wanted my hands on the rope, my fingers checking the tension, my voice asking if it was too tight. Wanted Troy offering his wrists to me with that expression on his face, that open wanting trust that he was giving Rafael instead.
“Perfect,” Rafael said. Just that word. Quiet and certain.
“Don't make it weird,” Troy said into the pillow.
“Too late.” Rafael positioned himself again, one hand gripping Troy's hip hard enough to bruise, and pushed back in slow and deliberate and Troy arched up against the rope with a broken sound that he didn't bother swallowing. “You can't move your hands.”
“I know that.”
“So you can't do anything. Just have to take it.”
“Yeah.” Troy's voice had dropped to a raw stripped honest thing. “That's the point.”
That's the point. He wanted to be helpless. Wanted to give up control. Wanted someone else to take over completely while he just felt it.
Rafael started moving again, and the rhythm he built this time was slower than before, more deliberate, each thrust rolled out with intention, and the sounds it pulled out of Troy were different now.
Deeper. Less controlled. The rope kept his wrists together and his arms extended and every time he pulled against it instinctively he made a sound that went straight through the door and straight through the wall of my chest.
I started stroking again without deciding to.
The pre-come made it slick and easy and I moved my hand slowly to match Rafael's rhythm without meaning to, synchronizing with what I had absolutely no right to be part of, watching Troy's face turn sideways on the pillow, watching his mouth stay open, watching him take everything Rafael gave him and push back for more even with his hands bound.
Every stroke of my hand felt like a betrayal and I couldn't stop. Couldn't look away. Couldn't do anything except stand there and watch my stepson get fucked and stroke myself to the rhythm of it.
Rafael's pace hadn't let up. Long rolling thrusts that had gotten steadily less controlled as the minutes stretched out, each one pulling a sound from Troy that was lower and more ruined than the last. The rope around Troy's wrists kept his arms extended and useless and every time he instinctively tried to move them, tried to get purchase or push back with his hands, he couldn't, and the sound that came out of him at that reminder was one I was going to carry for the rest of my life.
My fist was soaked. I could feel the slickness of it every time my hand moved, warm and obscene, and my cock had been leaking so consistently and for so long that it had stopped feeling like an event and started feeling like just the baseline state of things.
Like my body had made a decision I wasn't consulted about and wasn't going to reverse.
“You're so fucking tight,” Rafael said, his voice wrecked and low.
Troy turned his face into the pillow for a second and then turned it back out, needing air. “Then stop talking about it and do something about it.”
“Yeah?” Rafael pulled back slowly, almost all the way, and then drove forward hard enough that the headboard hit the wall with a crack that made me flinch. Troy's whole body lurched forward with it and he made a sound that wasn't a word, just a raw open noise that dissolved into the sheets.
“That,” Troy said breathlessly. “That. Keep going.”
Rafael kept going.
The pace he built was punishing. Not cruel, nothing like that, but genuine now, the careful deliberateness burned off by friction and want, his hips snapping forward in a rhythm that was all about chasing release.
Troy's face was fully sideways on the pillow and I could see his expression clearly in the lamplight, could see the way his mouth stayed open and his brow pulled together and every muscle in his jaw went tight each time Rafael bottomed out.
He was beautiful. The thought arrived without invitation and I couldn't throw it out.
My stepson with his wrists bound and his lace pushed to the side and his whole body moving with the force of another man fucking him, and he was the most beautiful thing I'd seen in years and I hated myself comprehensively for noticing.
I stroked myself slower than I wanted to because I didn't want this to end. Didn't want to finish and have to walk away and pretend this hadn't happened.
“Touch me,” Troy said, and there was an edge of desperation in it now. “Raf, come on, I need a hand.”
“Can't.” Rafael sounded pleased about it. “Your hands are tied.”
“Then you do it.”
Rafael reached around. Got his hand around Troy's cock, still in that awkward sideways angle with the lace gathered at his hip, and the sound Troy made when Rafael's fist closed around him was a bitten-off curse that he immediately tried to muffle and couldn't. His hips stuttered, caught between pushing back into Rafael and pushing forward into his hand, and he made a frustrated desperate noise at not being able to do both properly.
I wanted to be the one stroking him. Wanted my hand wrapped around his cock while I fucked him, wanted to feel him hard and leaking in my palm, wanted to hear those sounds directed at me.
“Stop thinking,” Rafael said against his shoulder. “Just feel it.”
“I'm trying, you're not making it easy.”
“Not trying to make it easy.”
Troy made a sound that was almost a laugh and turned into a moan halfway through, and Rafael's hand moved on him slowly and maddeningly while his hips kept up their pace, and I watched the point where those two rhythms met tear Troy apart incrementally.
His thighs were shaking. I could see it from here, the fine tremor in his legs, the way his arms pulled against the rope not because he was trying to get free but because he needed pressure to pull against.
“I'm gonna—” Troy started then stopped.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, don't stop, don't you dare slow down, Raf, I swear to god.”
I tightened my fist and moved my hand faster and told myself I was just trying to get this over with, just trying to end this, and knew that was a lie.
My cock was pulsing with my heartbeat, slick and aching, and the pre-come had gone cold on my knuckles and I didn't care, couldn't care, was too far gone to care about anything except the scene through that door.
Troy's spine curved. His head came up off the pillow, neck arched back.
“Fuck, fuck, yeah, right there, don't stop, don't—”
He came with a sound that bounced off the walls of that small room, loud and open and completely unguarded, his whole body going rigid against the rope while Rafael worked him through it.
I watched the shudder roll through him from hips to shoulders, watched his mouth stay open and his eyes squeeze shut, watched his hands flex and pull uselessly against the rope while he spilled over Rafael's fist and onto the sheets.
“There it is,” Rafael said, low and rough. “Good. Stay with me.”
Troy made a wrecked sound against the pillow. “Still going?”
“Yeah.” Rafael's rhythm hadn't faltered, still driving into Troy's oversensitive body. “Almost there. You can take it.”
“I know I can take it,” Troy said, which would have sounded more defiant if his voice hadn't completely come apart. “Come on then. Do it.”
Rafael let go of Troy's cock and put both hands on his hips and the change in grip, in angle, in intent was visible even from the hallway.
He drove forward three times in quick succession that rattled the entire bed frame and then ground in deep and stayed there, and the sound that came out of him was low and guttural and genuine, the sound of a man completely undone, and I could see him shuddering through it just from watching.
I came.
It hit me with no warning and no grace, just a wave that started at the base of my spine and crashed through everything, and I drove my teeth into the back of my wrist hard enough to bruise and came over my own hand in the hallway outside my stepson's door, shaking, vision gone white and useless at the edges, completely and irreversibly lost.
The orgasm lasted longer than it had any right to.
I stood there biting my own wrist and leaking through my fingers and trying not to make a sound while the thing inside me that had been wound tight for days and weeks and maybe longer than that finally, brutally let go.
Wave after wave of it, my cock pulsing in my hand, come running down my knuckles and dripping onto the floor, and I couldn't stop, couldn't control it, could only ride it out while my body took what it wanted.
When I could see again, Rafael had his forehead pressed between Troy's shoulder blades. Troy's arms had gone slack in the rope. Neither of them was moving, both of them breathing hard.
“Untie me,” Troy said finally. His voice had gone soft and raw, almost unrecognizable.
Rafael reached up and pulled the knot loose with practiced hands, unwound the rope with care, ran his thumbs along Troy's wrists where it had sat and left red marks.
Troy turned over slowly and looked up at him and passed between them that I had no right to witness, quiet and unguarded, and I pushed off the wall before I could see what it was.
I walked to my room on shaking legs. Sat on the edge of my bed in the dark with my ruined hand in my lap and the sound of Troy's voice still lodged somewhere behind my sternum, still hearing those desperate broken sounds he'd made, still seeing the way he'd looked with his wrists bound and his face pressed into the pillow.
I sat there for a long time. Just breathing. Just existing in the aftermath. Just trying to figure out how the fuck I was supposed to look at him tomorrow morning and pretend this hadn't happened.