10. Lucas
TEN
Lucas
I don’t really understand what happened in the shower. He was fine, then he wasn’t.
But … he wasn’t really fine, was he?
He was upset before we left the cell. I think it was the collar, or at least that was part of it. I don’t blame him for hating that. I hated it too. I hate everything about this situation.
Except … I kind of don’t.
In some weird, unexpected way, I’m actually the happiest I’ve ever been in my life.
Even though I still don’t know his name or anything about his past, I feel a closeness to him that I’ve never experienced. There’s something incredibly honest and real in the wordlessness of our connection. I have to trust my intuition, and I’m finding it to be a good guide, like when I reached out to him while he was angry after the shower. It was scary to do that, but I could tell that what he was feeling wasn’t really anger. It was pain. And it didn’t really matter whether I had an explanation for it, only that I saw it and reached out—and that he accepted my gesture.
I don’t think words could make a deeper connection than that.
That doesn’t mean I don’t have questions, but there’s something pure in knowing him like this, through observation and touch.
I almost feel like I’m getting to know myself as well. Here, with him, I feel free of my identity and history. I’m evolving into something else, some one else, and it feels like a truer version of me, like what I was supposed to be all along.
It’s so freeing.
Some of that comes from the bareness of this space, the absence of social clutter, but most of it comes from him. His primality helps me access my own.
My intuition.
My sexuality.
I’ve never known desire before, and now I love it. I’ve never known surrender before, and now I crave it, constantly.
With him so often lying behind me, his body against mine, his heat bleeding into me, his arms around me, I’m hard all the time. I want him inside me all the time. I want the rhythm of his body fucking mine. I want him to take me to that place again where I can let go so completely.
Maybe the way I’m breathing gives me away, but he murmurs against the back of my head, and his hand wanders down from my belly to my groin. He hums softly in my ear when he finds my hard cock and starts stroking it.
I sigh in relief. For a while, I just let him stroke me idly. There’s no rush. We have nothing but time, and I can float in the warm, luxurious space of my arousal. But as his cock hardens behind me, I get restless. It’s impossible not to with his erection prodding the back of my leg near my ass.
He releases me to reach between our bodies. He grips his own cock and guides it between my legs. I open for him.
“Ohhh,” I breathe at the sensation of his hard shaft snugged up against my taint and his broad cockhead pressing against my swollen balls. I shudder and clamp my legs together to intensify the sensation. He makes a breathy sound and rolls his hips. His hand wraps around my cock again and resumes stroking.
I start to writhe and whine because it’s both too much and not enough. This is what he does to me. He makes me so hungry, so needy, so sexual. He makes it okay for me to be those things.
He rumbles as I get more restless. Drawing himself up, he rolls me onto my back and repositions himself over me. Settling on his elbows, he rests his cock against mine and starts to frot me with the slickness of our precum.
My cock throbs and pulses against his as he rocks. What is it about this rhythm? I love it, and for a while I just enjoy it, but there’s something I want.
I’m hesitant to ask, however, because I don’t know how he’ll react. I think he likes when I touch him, but I think it’s a little difficult for him too. I start slow, testing things out by putting my hands on his sides.
Not much light reaches this corner, but my eyes are well adjusted, so I can see that his jaw is relaxed, that he’s accepting the touch.
I let my hands drift down to his hips then around to his ass. That makes him pause. But though he goes still, he doesn’t growl at me. He’s not upset; he’s just surprised. Though there’s no movement, his cock and mine continue to throb against each other as I explore the firm contours of his ass.
God, I love his body. The power of it. The maleness.
“I want to touch you,” I whisper in the small, dark space we’re sharing between our bodies.
His breath hitches. He knows what I mean. I want to touch his cock.
My heart pounds as the seconds pass. I don’t usually ask for things, but I resist the urge to retract my statement. I really do want to touch him. If he’ll let me, I’m going to.
As his hips lift from mine, disappointment crashes through me. He’s pulling away.
But, no, he’s not. He’s making space. He’s saying yes. He holds himself off me, waiting until I realize that and slide my hand from his ass around to his cock.
“Oh my god,” I murmur, fresh arousal spilling through me as I finally touch his cock. He’s slick with the precum we’ve both leaked, and I fucking love the way my hand glides up and down the hard, hot length of him. He groans and drops his face against my neck.
Oh, I like that.
My other hand lifts to his head and neck, resting there while he moans against me as I stroke his cock. It’s shocking to think how much pleasure this part of him has given me, how it’s changed everything I know about myself.
I reach down to find the heavy weight of his balls. They’re full and firm. His teeth rake gently against my shoulder as I tug and massage him. I lose myself in it, loving that it feels good to him.
I go back to stroking his shaft, enjoying the hard length of it then marveling at the broad, flared tip. He starts pushing down on me, thrusting into my grip. It has the back of my hand rubbing my own cock.
It feels so good and I’m so lost in the rhythm and the power of his body that I lift against him and cry out as my cock releases hotly between us.
I’m embarrassed. I come so easily with him. I didn’t mean to. But he nibbles at my neck and rumbles out a pleased sound like it’s okay, like he’s happy, like it was right for me to come. Then he lifts from me, pulling his cock from my loosened grip, and settles on his knees between my spread legs.
His dick juts up hard and thick, threaded with veins, the tip flaring. I can’t get over how much I like looking at it. I don’t know if I would be attracted to other men or not, but I am, undeniably, deeply attracted to him.
I arch when his hand sweeps across my stomach, gathering up my cum. He slicks his cock with it.
Oh my god, he’s going to fuck me with my own cum. I murmur wordlessly, writhing on the bed as fresh arousal stirs. It’s still bizarre to me that after a lifetime of barely any sexual reaction, I can get hard again within seconds of coming. It’s happened more than once with him.
I’m loose and unthinking as he rolls me onto my front and tugs my hips up.
“Yessss,” I breathe into the blankets as he sets his cock to my hole and starts to push inside. I’m already stretched from our last session, ready to take him. My cock stiffens and lifts as he glides in deeper and deeper. It’s half physical, because it feels good, but it’s half mental too. It’s the thought of being filled, the anticipation of what’s coming.
When he’s all the way inside me, I moan and grip the blankets.
He starts to fuck me. With every deep thrust, I’m half tempted to stroke myself, but there’s something incredible about being able to simply bury my face in the blankets and yield full control of my body. I know he’ll make me come. I don’t have to do anything.
So I give myself to the erotic rhythm. I listen to his grunts and the smack of his pelvis against my ass. I focus on the feel of his balls slapping against me and the way his cock tunnels into me.
As I arch harder into it, he starts hitting my prostate. I shout and spasm as my cock jerks up to slap my abdomen. He grunts and starts pounding into me, into my sweet spot, holding me firmly so I can thrash and buck against him as I start to come. I’m already out of control before he punches forward with a shout, but I lose it entirely when his cock starts kicking inside me, filling me with his hot cum. I scream and buck and spasm. I bite the blankets and strain through the last of my release.
Then I start to drift.
I’m barely coherent as he maneuvers me onto my back and cleans me up. I’m loose and pliant as he settles us both onto our sides. It’s almost right, almost perfect.
Then he glides his cock back into my cum-filled hole. I push back against him, claiming every possible inch of contact. As I sigh in relief, he rumbles contentedly against me.
***
He’s showing me how to use the punching bag properly. He corrects my stance by nudging my feet with his and tilting my hips. Then he straightens my wrist and guides my arm precisely through the motion.
“Okay,” I say.
He steps back to watch.
For the past few days, we’ve been dividing our time between sex, sleep, and calisthenics. I thought I was in decent shape. I’ve been cleaning at the gym for about a year now. Since the owner lets me use the equipment, I’ve recovered some of my lost conditioning from my high school wrestling days, but not as much as I thought, apparently. I’m sore everywhere.
Of course, he sets an impossibly high standard. He almost killed me with the pushups.
That’s all in my mind, I know. He’s just doing his thing. I’m the one trying to keep up with him. He keeps telling me to stop. Figuratively speaking, of course. He’s still not actually speaking.
When I got all shaky and loud during the pushups, he snorted and switched to one hand so he could use his other to push me over. When I collapsed, he shook his head like I was ridiculous and went back to work.
What’s weird is that when he teases me, I don’t feel shitty. I feel like he’s teasing me because he enjoys me.
I enjoy him too.
I punch the bag a few times before he corrects me again. He touches me a lot as he does it. He pets me. Is it bad that I like that? Every time he does it, I just fucking melt.
After a while, I stop hitting the bag to flex my fingers. He steps in and takes my hands in his, inspecting my knuckles. He nudges me away from the bag, telling me I’m done for now.
He points at the pullup bar, suggesting it instead.
I make a face. “Oh hell no. I’m still sore from yesterday.”
He snorts and grabs onto the bar. He has to keep his legs drawn up to use it because he’s so tall.
“Are you sure you should be doing that?” I ask. “Your shoulder isn’t healed.”
He pauses mid-hang to give me an annoyed look, maybe because I said the same thing yesterday. He sure can communicate a lot without words.
And I like that. I really do. There’s something kind of pure about the way he communicates. Without words, there are no lies, deflections, distractions. Everything is true and real.
And yet … I want words anyway.
Sometimes, I think he does too. There are moments when he goes really still and there’s this inward look in his eyes, like there’s some question he’s asking himself. Like he’s thinking about speaking.
He obviously can, physically at least. I don’t know what’s stopping him. I don’t know what words mean to him.
When he’s done with the pullup bar, he comes back to the punching bag where I’m hovering. I step back so he can use it.
I watch him for a while. I enjoy it like I always do, but I eventually get bored. I sigh and sit on the floor. He pauses, stilling the bag. He looks a question at me.
“I wish we had a book or something.”
He frowns.
“You know, to read.”
That earns me a very annoyed look. I redden at what I just implied. Of course he knows what a book is for. I was just filling the silence because it felt awkward.
I say defensively, “It’s hard having a conversation by my—” I cut off before I can say myself . It sounds bitchy, and it’s not really what I meant.
As he frowns again, I see that stillness in him, that inwardness of his eyes, like maybe he does want to talk to me. It emboldens me to push.
“It’s just … it would be nice to talk to you. To talk with you.”
His frown deepens. I can tell he’s not going to speak, and it’s so disappointing that I grumble, “I wish I at least knew your name.”
That shuts him down completely.
I watch it happen. I see the way he withdraws, goes cold, blocks me out as he starts hitting the bag again.
Fuck.
I don’t like being shut out. It makes me feel like I used to feel in Frank’s house, simultaneously invisible and in the way.
It’s a feeling that was so much a part of my life that it basically became my identity. It’s been so fucking nice to not feel that way that I’m not prepared for it to sweep back in. Even though I’m sure I look like a total brat, I get up from the floor and go to lie down on the mattress, facing the wall. I know I’m overreacting, but I can’t help it.
His fists keep thudding against the punching bag, but there are pauses. Brief at first then longer. Then his bare feet start moving toward me.
He stops at the edge of the mattress. For a while he just stands there, then he lets out a huff. The mattress shifts. I feel contact with my lower back but that’s all. I look over my shoulder. He’s sitting on the edge of the mattress with his back to me. His knees are drawn up with his elbows resting on them. One hand is scrubbing the back of his head. He’s frustrated.
Guilt has me rolling his way. This wasn’t about me. He’s not trying to make me invisible. I know that. He’s just struggling.
My body half curls around him. His deep inhalation tells me that he’s acknowledging that I’m there, accepting it.
I almost tell him that I’m sorry, but he’s gone still in that way of his, like he’s thinking. I don’t want to intrude. After a while, he says, “I’m …”
He’s silent for so long that I start to think my mind was playing tricks on me. Maybe he didn’t speak? I thought he said—
“I’m … fuck .” His hands scrub roughly at his face. I can feel him shaking. I curl my hand around his hip, aching for him, not sure what to do.
I don’t get a chance to decide, and neither does he—because a door opens noisily. It’s not the guardroom door. It’s farther off. Up. It’s the door at the top of the stairwell, the one I first descended from the balcony when Frank tried to sell me to the man who owns this place.
As several sets of footsteps come down the stairs, my fingers curl around the waistband of his sweats. I want him to stay here, to stay with me. I want this to not be happening because I’m sure it’s not good.
But he knows better than to pretend. He pulls out of my grip and gets up. He gives me a warning look to stay.
He’s on his feet and waiting at the bars when the owner, Oscar Crowley, enters the basement with Briggs and O’Neil on his heels.
Crowley is wearing a suit jacket over his t-shirt. His hands are in his jeans pockets, his jacket open and parted around them, like he’s tough and cool. Easy to be that on the other side of the bars. He stops well back from them and looks through.
“Well, Beast? Ready for another fight?”
I sit halfway up. Is he fucking serious? His wounds from the last fight aren’t healed yet.
He looks back at Crowley through the bars. I see it then. I understand it then.
The shift in his demeanor is subtle. It’s the stillness of him. The readiness. The alertness.
He becomes, again, a predator.
He becomes, again, not quite human.
I see him accept it. I see him comfortable in it, almost relieved by it.
This, I realize abruptly, is why he doesn’t speak.
He’s spent so long not being treated as human that he’s embraced it. He’s survived, maybe, because of it.
I mean, what could he possibly say to the people who’ve caged him, tortured him, forced him to fight like … a beast?
And with me, he’s becoming human again. It’s been happening so slowly, so naturally, that I didn’t notice it. But I see it as it vanishes.
Crowley takes a step forward and is met with a growl. He stops.
Briggs says, “He’s fine. Definitely doesn’t need his fucking nursemaid.”
Crowley’s eyes flick to me, which earns him another growl.
O’Neil puts in, “He’s been far easier to manage with the kid.”
Crowley looks thoughtfully through the bars. “You like your toy, Beastie? Will you behave to keep him?”
That’s met with a flare of his nostrils. His predatory gaze never wavers from Crowley. Crowley, safe on the other side of the bars, remains impassive. He wouldn’t, if the fighter were loose. He would be dead. They all would be, everyone here. Everyone except me.
Because I’m his toy? Is that what I am? I don’t like that idea, but I can see it. From the outside.
“He won’t behave,” Briggs argues, “not long term. He’ll get ideas, start thinking he’s something. We should take the kid away, get back to how things were.”
The statement is met with another growl.
“Maybe,” Crowley admits, “but it would cause trouble. I don’t want that right now. He’s just starting to be profitable. He cost me a goddamn fortune.”
Crowley looks thoughtfully through the bars. “Did you know that, Beast? How much I paid for you? My cousin Liam said I was crazy, but you’ve been a real asset to my reputation. Reputation is everything. But a dumb beast wouldn’t know anything about that, I guess.”
“He’ll turn,” Briggs argues. “He’ll snap over the kid. I’m telling you—”
Crowley holds up a hand. Briggs falls silent.
“Here’s how we’ll do it,” Crowley says, sounding pleased with himself. “The Beastie will give me exactly what I want tonight: real bloodshed. Carnage. Throats ripped out. Limbs snapped. I want it all. I want you to show everyone what you really are, just like you showed me in that last fight of yours in the arena. Do you remember stomping that guy’s head into mush? That’s why I spent a fortune on you, and that’s what I want tonight. Real entertainment, the kind that nobody will ever see except at Oscar Crowley’s venue.”
Jesus Christ—
“You give me that, Beast, and you can come back here to your cozy little nest with your pretty little toy. And if you break him when you return, that’s on you.”