39. Chapter 32
Lorenzo
Once we’re in the bedroom, Dash stands near my bed, his breathing slightly unsteady.
Waiting for me.
I don’t make him wait long.
In just a few steps, I close the distance between us and do what I’ve wanted to do since I first saw him: take his face in my hands and kiss him.
It’s not a gentle kiss. I don’t even have “gentle” in me right now, not after all this time of self-denial, not after seeing all the filthy things on his checklist he wants me to do to him.
I force his head into the position I want and kiss him with all my power, our mouths crushed together, his soft lips parting beneath my tongue so that I can taste him.
He makes a surprised, relieved sound against my mouth, and then kisses me back fiercely. His hands fist in my shirt, pulling me closer, his small body pressing against mine.
I pull back only enough to speak. “You’ve been very patient. Very good, considering how you wanted to break every rule I gave you.”
“Thank you,” he pants.
I bring my mouth to his again, wanting to savor the sweet honey of his kiss forever. “Today, though,” I whisper, catching his lower lip in my teeth, “you don’t get to argue your way out of anything. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
Fuck, I think. He’s perfect. And I whisper the words that have so much delicious power over him: “Good boy.”
I take my time undressing him. It feels almost ceremonious, taking Dash’s clothes off for him. I want to savor every inch of his skin as it’s revealed. Any hurrying would rob me of that joy.
First, his shirt, pulling it over his head and then folding it neatly, placing it off to the side.
I take a moment just to look at him. Lean muscle built by labor and work, not vanity.
A body that’s hauled grown men like me out of burning buildings, but which somehow still trembles now under my arms. There’s that faint mark on his forearm from the attack last week.
Freckles scattered like dark scars on his shoulders.
I want to catalogue each of them, make my own star map of his skin.
I remove his belt next, then his jeans. And finally, his white underwear.
Fucking hell.
He stands before me, finally bare, flushed from throat to chest.
“Beautiful boy,” I murmur.
The words land on him like a physical touch, and his cock twitches against his stomach in response.
“So eager,” I murmur. “Already hard and I’ve barely touched you yet.”
He swallows. “It’s the staring.”
“Right. Someone likes being watched.” I point to the bed. “Now, sit.”
He sits obediently on the edge of my bed. I undress myself, then, and watch as his eyes track each of my movements. When I’m finished, I return to my drawer of toys and withdraw several lengths of slender rope.
“Is that for me?” Dash whispers.
“It is. But it won’t work if you’re on the bed.” I nod to the smooth wooden chair at my writing desk in the corner. “Get the chair.”
He fetches the chair and sets it at the foot of the bed, then sits in it when I nod to it.
My cock hardens as I look at him in the chair, ready for me to do whatever I want.
The time will come for me to fuck him, but today isn’t that day.
There are plenty of ways for me to dominate him, for him to submit to me, that don’t involve me filling him with my cock.
And I see it as only fair. Last night, I found my pleasure. Today, he’ll find his.
But only under my direction.
I start with his wrist, looping the rope over one, under, and around, drawing it snug against the chair’s arm while making sure that I don’t cut off any of his circulation.
I check that twist, sliding a finger beneath the binding to be sure.
He watches my hands work with the same lustful attention he gave my body a moment ago.
With his free hand, he reaches for my cock, but I gently push his hand away.
“Not today. Today’s about you.” To emphasize my point, I stroke his cock, just once. He sucks in a tight breath.
“Fuck,” he whispers.
“Feel good?”
“Very.”
I repeat the binding process with his other wrist, then his ankles, one to each leg of the chair, keeping him spread open, exposed, completely at my mercy.
Standing back, I admire my handiwork: his flushed body, his bound limbs, his cock hard and ready for me. “How do you like being tied up?”
“I like it a lot.”
“Good. Now let’s begin.”
I take a bottle of almond oil and warm a small amount of it in my hands, then use it to massage his body, chest to thigh, teasing his cock as I do so. Once he’s nice and slick, his body gleaming, I take his cock in one hand and squeeze.
“Mm,” he groans, his head tipping back.
“I’ve just started.”
I start working his cock with both hands. One strokes light and slow, while the other cradles his balls, massaging them with unhurried patience.
His thighs flex on either side of me, and he looks down, eyes heavy-lidded, lips parted, seemingly already gone to a place of distant, hazy lust. I intend to keep him there for a good long while.
He hardens fully in my grip. His beautiful cock is slick now, oil catching in the lamplight. I watch every twitch of him, noting what makes his breath catch, what makes him bite his lips, what makes his legs tremble uncontrollably.
I speed up. His hips shift against me, and I bring him close, his breathing ragged, his chest heaving. The second before he tips over, I stop.
“Lorenzo—”
I press a luscious, possessive kiss to his inner thigh, biting down, just slightly, enough to leave the whispery memory of teeth. “Yes?”
“This—fuck—this feels so fucking good.”
“Good. You like being daddy’s toy like this?”
“Yes,” he gasps.
I start again, slower this time. I take his balls in one hand, rolling them gently, pulling just enough to make him suck in a breath.
My other hand works the head of his cock, swirling, patient, thorough.
One finger drags back along his taint, and he bites down hard enough on his own lip to leave it white, groaning up at the ceiling.
“Please,” he breathes. His whole body has gone tight, wrists twisting in the ropes, chest heavy.
“Please what?”
“Please—oh fuck—please let me cum.”
“Is that what you want?”
His words sound like the breathless exhalation of a prayer. “Yes, sir.”
I bring him close—then closer—right to the edge.
And stop.
“Not yet.”
He writhes against the ropes, testing them, wrists chafing pink where they hold. I go back to work, slow and deep, unbothered by his struggle—even enjoying it.
“I like you like this.” I keep my voice low. “All tied up for me. Dripping. Begging to cum like a good little slut. Someone needs to remind you how to behave.”
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,” he chants in time with my strokes.
Again, I bring him close. I feel the exact moment his whole body tenses toward release and I stop. He lets out a broken sound that’s half a laugh and half a sob.
“Jesus fucking Christ, Lorenzo. This is amazing.”
It goes on like this for a long time. Close, stop. Close, stop. Each time, he gasps, moans, whimpers something filthy and desperate, promises that he’ll do anything if I just let him finish.
I don’t.
“You’re beautiful,” I murmur, when I’m letting him rest for a moment, his body slick with sweat and oil, his chest rising and falling rapidly. “So beautiful, so obedient, letting me use you exactly like this.”
“Fuck,” he wheezes.
“Too much?”
He swallows, his throat bobbing. “No, not at all. Please don’t stop.”
I keep going.
Quickening my pace, I pull back only when he cries out that he’s close. I barely give him a breath before I start again.
His head falls back against the chair. He gasps, whimpers, pleads, his body damp and hot, his thighs shaking, every muscle taut like a bow ready to release.
“Fuck—I’m—Jesus—I’m—oh fuck—I’m close,” he finally manages to say.
I pause, letting his beautiful cock twitch hot and full in my hand. “Not yet, baby. Hold it in for daddy.”
He moans, bites his lip, and holds it in. He shakes, strains, but is obedient even now, even here, even when he’s wrecked so completely, unfurled before me.
I let him hold it for three long, terrible seconds, then bring him right to the shattering edge of his orgasm with my hand.
“Now, Dash, cum for me.”
“Fuck!” he cries, primal and desperate. His whole body draws tight and then breaks open at once, his hips straining against the chair, wrists threatening to break their restraints, my name tearing loose from his lips along with a wordless, breathless groan.
Tears spill down his cheeks—not pain, I understand from his expression—but blissful, ecstatic, euphoric relief.
His body has been dangled at the edge of pleasure for so long, with nowhere to go, that the tears come as a beautiful release when he finally plunges into the sea of his orgasm.
I drink in every second of it, greedy, committing the overwhelmed expression of his face to my memory.
Cum shoots strong and wild from his cock, hitting me in my face, my beard, anointing me like holy water.
When it’s finally over, he sags in the chair, his breathing heavy and rapid, utterly spent. His wrists are red where he tested them against the ropes. His body is wet with sweat.
Carefully, I untie him, checking his wrists, pressing my thumbs against his marked skin to ease their tender aching before moving to his ankles. All the while I murmur soft, gentle praises about how good he was, how obedient, how he was so, so perfect.
Later, after I’ve carried him to the shower and washed us both luxuriously, after I’ve dried him with the softest towels, after I’ve laid him down in my bed and turned the lights off to let him nap, after I’ve gone out to the living room with a towel around my waist, I think about how perfectly he behaved.
And how dangerously perfect I think he is for me.