It's Like This (20 page)

Rylan doesn’t need to tell me what to do next. I’m absolutely resolute on bestowing upon him the best blow job ever recorded in human history. After bathing his cock from every angle I can get at from my position at his feet, I suck him off, swallowing him whole and constricting my throat around him, allowing peristalsis to massage his prick, simultaneously trying my best to keep from audibly gagging. Hands providing leverage, I thrust my face as close into his body as I possibly can: holding and swallowing and holding and swallowing until I swear I’m going to pass out, and then releasing and diving back on. Saliva and pre-cum spill out over my chin, and I know I must look like a sloppy whore, but I don’t care. I’m getting what I want: Rylan’s groans are sounding in the back of his throat, and he’s growling at me, “Fuck, baby,” and, “That’s my dirty boy,” and, “You were made for sucking cock—a natural born cocksucker, aren’t you?” and he’s never called me that before, but somehow I like it, have craved it, even, without ever knowing. His hands grip my hair, and I almost regret requesting a break from the breath play because suddenly I want it. Wish he would hold me like this until I went under, and then wish he’d fuck my throat hoarse and my ass raw, me unconscious all the while. The thought makes me whine with need, desperate to be used in any way he sees fit.

He promised no choking though, and so he rips my mouth off of him, fist in my hair, catching me off-guard. Forcefully, he swivels and flings me forward over the ottoman. He catches my flailing arms and pins them to my back under his bony, threatening knee, and commences a vicious attack on my ass. Harsh, unveiled smacks are unleashed upon my naked skin. I can’t help myself. I cry out, unable to hold back as he hits me hard and fast, railing on the same spot several times before moving on, and then returning. My dick is trapped between my body and the scratchy fabric of the ottoman, but that doesn’t seem to subdue my raging hard-on. In fact, I find myself rutting unevenly against the furniture as Rylan’s punishment painfully continues.

“You dirty bitch.” His voice is incredulous and mocking. “You like this, don’t you?”

I grunt a nonsensical reply and thrust my ass upwards to receive the next round of blows. I’m not disappointed. He’s kneeling half on me and uses the leverage to his advantage: he does not hold back. “Answer me!” he demands.

“Yes. Yes, sir,” I whisper between gritted teeth. Of course I like it. He wouldn’t be doing it if I didn’t like it.

The assault ceases. He strokes my tender and inflamed ass with a graceful palm. “Sir. I like that,” he considers, softly. “Spread your legs.”

I do, until I’m poised on the balls of my feet, teetering awkwardly, with my torso pressed into the ottoman. He gives my inner thighs a couple of well-placed whacks, and squeezes my balls cruelly, reducing me to a desperation-spurred near-keening. Nevertheless, my erection flags: his obvious desired effect. For a moment there’s nothing, just waiting—terrible, traumatizing, waiting. Gently, he releases my hands from beneath his knee and gathers my wrists behind my head. The silky-smooth fabric of some kind of binding tightens around them. I should have known.

He kisses my shoulder blade and gives my ass one firm and final, loving swat, causing me to yelp miserably.

“Well, darling, let’s get you to bed,” he proposes. His voice is sweet and incongruous. I feel his eyes scour me. “Or maybe not quite just yet,” he remedies. “Turn over.”

I do so, clumsily rolling onto my back, still arched uncomfortably over the footstool. He casually straddles me, his cock bouncing in my face. He balances one knee on the ottoman beside me, before hooking a sure hand in my hair and dragging my face up towards his dick. A few choking stabs into the back of my throat, the zipper of those fucking pants he’s still wearing burning strips against my neck, and he’s coming messily, half in my mouth and half on my face. He drops my head and gives a satisfied groan, sitting unceremoniously upon my stomach.

With his eyes half-closed, he traces curlicues onto my chest with his fingertips, recuperating. I try surreptitiously to keep the sticky saliva/cum compound on my face from entering my nose and eyes, only semi-successfully. The delicious humiliation of it all causes my cock to regain hardness and I writhe beneath him, knowing he won’t give me any relief—not yet.

It only takes Rylan a couple of minutes to regain himself. He smiles wolfishly at me before running his hands over my triceps and forearms to take my hands in his, face inches away from mine.

His tongue emerges and he licks a stripe of slime off my chin before kissing me, passing the mixture from his mouth to mine, and then touching his lips to my throat to insist that I swallow.

“Open your mouth,” he instructs, and then he finishes sponging up my face with his tongue, licking up the remnants of his cum and then dripping it, now combined with his saliva, into my waiting mouth from varying heights. I feel cored: exhaustively and totally owned. The procedure seems highly entertaining to Rylan, however, and he goes about the task with a certain obscene diligence. When he considers the job done, he kisses me again in earnest. My balls ache and I don’t know how much longer I can wait.

He fists my bound wrists and manoeuvres me into standing, marching me in the direction of his bedroom. I can probably count the number of times we’ve actually had sex in his bed on one hand. We still don’t come here much.

I stumble a couple of times on the way over, but he doesn’t let me fall. “Knees,” he commands, motioning to the bed. I obey and watch as Rylan attaches the binding around my wrists to a pre-set binding on the headboard slats, a couple of feet from the mattress. Knowing that he consciously planned this for me, for us, sends a brilliant thrill through my guts. Displacing the pillows, he directs my head downwards, straining my arm sockets uncomfortably. He runs a hand over my vertebrae and kisses my lower back, patting my still-hot, still-sore, ass.

He stands and strips and takes his cock in his hand, scrutinizing my body as he slowly strokes himself hard. I groan out of either pain or want, I’m not sure, but my thighs part for him as he positions himself behind me and reaches for my cock for the first time since the proceedings began. He jacks me conscientiously for maybe a minute, before pausing to lube up his fingers and my ass. The cool solution contrasts addictively with the heat radiating from the thrashing I received—and that’s when it all kind of clicks. This is going to hurt like a son of a bitch.

He slaps my ass hard. Foreshadowing. “You want me to fuck you?” he demands, but there’s no real urgency in his voice. His fingers probe roughly at my asshole and he knows the answer.

“Fuck. Yes.”

He smacks me again. “Manners, Alberta.”

I grit my teeth, keeping myself from coming just yet, as he toys once more with my dick. The fingers in my asshole light over my prostate and I find myself gasping and squealing.

“Please, Rylan. Please fuck me, please. I’ll be so good for you, I’ll make you feel so good. Please just fuck me.” He makes a satisfied sound and holds me open and I realize that’s the first time I’ve said his name during sex.

He doesn’t ease into things, instead shoving inside me with less-than-optimal preparation, but that’s not the primary source of pain. No, it’s the smashing of his pelvis into my abused ass cheeks that really fucking kills. The rough hairs on his thighs irritate the tortured skin, adding to the burn, and his balls slap against me in what seems like a calculated attempt at degradation. With one hand, he forces my neck down, grinding my forehead and nose into the sheets, wrenching my shoulders in their sockets. He utilizes his newfound leverage to fuck me even deeper. The hackneyed fingernails of his free hand gouge into me. They scrape relentlessly over my inflamed flesh until I’m positive the skin will give way to blood, if it hasn’t already.

I thrust my ass towards him, urging him to go faster, to fuck me to completion, but instead he slaps my ass, reminding me, in case I miraculously forgot, just who is in charge here. Urgent noises escape out of my throat, and he staggers his thrusts maddeningly. Suddenly he pulls out of me fully, and slaps at my flank until I realize what he wants. I roll gracelessly over, my fresh-made wounds scraping against the duvet. He hikes my knees up to my aching shoulders, lines his cock head up with my hole and then drives into me. My cock leaks between our bodies and Rylan leans in and presses his mouth against mine, hungrily.

Every instance of pain that sparks inside of me hitches me closer and closer towards coming. He pulls back and his eyes catch mine for a moment before he sinks his teeth into my chest, angling his cock just so.

“Three,” he says, and there’s a smudge of blood on his lips from where he bit me. I can barely feel it, my ass is so on fire. His hips slam against me, and I scream as his dick glances over my prostate.

“Two.” He kisses me and I swear I can taste his cum, our saliva, my blood, separate entities combined between us. He pounds into me again, and my brain can’t decide which it wants to register more: my tortured ass cheeks or my rejoicing prostate.

His nose streaks a path to my ear, which he nips, then kisses. His hand wraps possessively around my cock, and he fucks me brutally, perfectly, beautifully, and he whispers, “And come.”

* * *

In my daze of afterglow, I barely register him continuing, fucking my pain-wracked, satisfied body. I only remember the moment of his completion and collapse: cum, sweat, spit, blood on the bed sheets, and I don’t care. This power, this intensity, this enormity: this is how I want to be wanted.

I’m a wreck when Rylan wakes me up. He’s showered and half-dressed, jeans that are more holes than denim ride low on his hips.

My ass is beyond killing me; it is throbbing with a perpetual, deep-reaching ache. My wrists are still tied behind my neck. My shoulders hate me as I slide up onto my lower back, pulling at my already exerted joints. There’s blood drying on my chest from where he bit me. It doesn’t look deep but it stings and is ragged and messy as hell.

“How you doing?” Rylan asks, a light smile playing on his lips. He reaches out and brushes a gentle hand over my cheek, and the gentleness of it does things to me. He stuffs some pillows between my back and the headboard, relieving some of the pressure on my shoulders, but my wrists still pulsate with displeasure.

He’s got a damp cloth that he’s using to dab at my various sex wounds. It’s obviously saturated with some kind of medical agent, because it stings like a bitch. I secretly love him when he’s like this, all nurturing and conscientious.

“Thanks,” I mumble, thickly. “You gonna untie me?”

He ignores me until he’s wiped up all the blood and cleaned out the bite marks.

“Not just yet,” he establishes.

“Rylan. My arms are fucking falling off.”

“I know. I’m sorry. Here.” He loosens the knot a little bit. Blood trickles back into my hands. The pins and needles are nauseating. “Roll over for a sec, baby boy. I’ll take care of your back.”

Willingly, I struggle onto my side, exposing my back to him. He applies the antiseptic or whatever to the eight or nine long scratches he bore into the skin on either side of my spine. The sting is brutal, but it fades quickly. His palm grazes my ass curiously and I can’t stop myself from hissing sharply.

He lets out a low whistle. “Shit,” he observes. “I look good on you.” Gently, he helps me roll back over, easing one arm under my neck and shoulders. “You think I took it a little overboard?” He slips his hand out from underneath me to cautiously touch my face.

“If by overboard you mean the hottest sex we’ve ever had?” I say, feeling a lightheaded goofiness temporarily fill me.

“I was hoping you would say that,” he replies, leaning in and taking my bottom lip between his and sucking on it gently. I kiss him back and he puts a hand in my hair and I want to just wrap an arm around his neck and lie half on top of him and go back to sleep. “Oh,” he whispers, dropping kisses all over my face, “just for the record, you’re not a slut. Or a bitch. Or a cocksucker. Or anything I may or may not remember calling you prior to or during fucking. Just in case you were on the verge of obsessing.”

“Fuck off,” I answer him, although given my history he makes a good point.

“I just wanted to make sure you knew.”

“Well, thanks for the concern. But I sort of
am
a cocksucker. In case you haven’t noticed.”

“Oh, I’ve noticed.” He presses his face into my chest and groans. “But you don’t possess any of the negative connotations.”

I roll my eyes and he kisses my neck. “You’re ridiculous. Seriously, though, untie me, would you? There’s no way I can handle another round right now.”

He pulls back until he’s sitting next to me. His face looks kind of pale and he’s suddenly nervous as hell. “Um,” he says, “I can’t do that.”

“What do you mean? Use scissors or something.”

“No, that’s not what I mean. I mean, I can undo it, but. I need to talk to you about something first, and I need you to hear me out. So I can’t untie you, because you’ll try to run and I need you to stay here.”

* * *

If time could freeze, it just did.

There’s an intense sinking feeling in my gut and I want to run already—run or throw up, or even tell him to maybe just not say anything instead, because maybe ignorance really is bliss. This absolutely cannot be any good. My imagination goes fucking insane with ideas. He’s going to…move away, or else he wants to see other people, or else he doesn’t want me, after all, or worse? He wants me to fuck someone else for his benefit, which I absolutely will not do, even if it means I’m tied up here forever. He thinks it’s better if we break up. He’s met someone else. He’s not gay after all. He can’t keep hiding his sexuality from his father. He’s chosen his dad over me. No, I try to calm myself, we just had sex. It can’t be that, unless, Jesus fuck, was that goodbye sex? Oh my fucking God, no. I’m going to hyperventilate.

I steel myself as best I can, which isn’t very well, and finally, just ask, “What exactly do you need to talk about?”

He bites his lip and stares me in the eye, his hand on my face, thumb stroking my cheekbone softly and I want to shake him off if he’s going to hurt me, but I want him to keep doing it if this is the last time.