Sunday, August 10, 2014

Parley Into Silence

Parley Into Silence

*Story contains M/M relations involving D/s, and graphic sexual situations.*

Romantically dismal, dampened with dew, and heavy with the odour of decaying leaves, the night watched. It blinked with the owl above and the roaming wildlife. It stared from behind the flashlight beam of the moon. It snapped still frames with the wink of every star - observing, while he smoked.

He smoked with the long, unhurried pull of a man wasting time. But with the flick of expression and the tension of back that bespoke of one who knew he was being studied. The arrogance of his pose, unrepentant; the clenching of his fists, anxious; the accused, standing in his own defence, yet facing himself as jury. Seeking understanding, yet begging forgiveness, for a charge he had not yet committed, for a crime that did not exist.

He fought against the conflict his conscience presented. Go – no, stay. Hesitate and remain lost – strive onward, and face… who knew what? Failure? Ridicule? Shame? All weapons that would scar, but that seemed completely out of his control. How did one stop oneself from failing at something yet untried? How did one prevent ridicule when one did not know the mind of one’s opponent? And how did one ensure against shame, when the mere thought of the act could prick at the nerves that warned, ‘Evil! Hide yourself!’?

“Who, you?” the owl turned to ask, great eyes wide in disbelief.

“Don’t judge me,” he told it and flicked the expiring butt of his cigarette towards the creature. Indignant, the bird took to flight and the brush of wings through branch and leaf disturbed the stillness.

He let the siren song of promise woo him to the doorway, yet he complied with the fear when it asked him to pause. He considered procrastination’s request to have another cigarette first, but pushed it aside when caution insisted he not be late. He summoned resolve and used it to swipe a passcard to open the door.

Dim lighting and deep silence met his entry. The hallway was empty, the doors all closed. A multitude of happenings could be taking place behind the heavy steel doors, but soundproofing trapped the sounds within. He wondered if there was intention, or mere coincidence, behind the fact the required door was at the far end of the hall. For every step he took caused his being to quake in anticipation; the loud echoes of his footfalls matched only by the pounding of his heart.

The door opened with another slash of plastic, he shut it behind him, walked inside, and turned to face the wall. He didn’t look at the bed. He didn’t try to decipher shape underneath the fabric draping the table beside it. That would only fan the coals of uncertainty simmering in his guts.

‘You don’t have to be here,’ his conscience told him. ‘No one is forcing you to stay.’

“Wrong,” he mumbled, and even though the word was whispered it felt loud. He looked around quickly and checked his watch. Three minutes. He still had time. There would be no reprimand. Not yet. The word was correct, though. His mind was fooling itself if it believed he didn’t have to be there. This was a fantasy that had, for far too long, been waiting, feeding, growing in the back of his brain. If he didn’t give it a chance to come out and play a little, he was more than sure the monster would find its own way to break out of its cage. Besides, he was more than intrigued by this man – this Master, this Sir, this Whatever-He-Was-Going-To-Decide-He-Was. And the man had been patient… far more patient than deserved, no doubt.

‘Hurry,’ his mind reminded, and he startled himself back into motion. Jacket, shirt, shoes, pants, socks, and briefs were all removed, folded quickly, and tucked into the locker. ‘Neatly,’ he thought, listing the directions presented to him. He tweaked the clothing on the metal shelf, adjusted the folds of his hanging shirt and set his shoes as straight as he could manage. He slipped off his watch, yanked the binding from his hair, and slid the ring off his finger. Metal met metal with a sharp clink, a bell to signal the start of the games – Gentlemen, start your engines.

He walked to the edge of the bed and knelt beside it, back to the door, face to the mattress, hands at his sides. He waited. He had no idea how long he would wait. Only that he would.

Cold seeped from bare floor to naked skin. He closed his eyes.

‘Stupid,’ the nasty inner voice began to mock him. ‘Already your knees grow sore. You are too old. You are too weak. You are too soft.’ And though the taunt was somewhat true – thirty-five was hardly twenty-one, he’d not done a day’s worth of manual labour in almost four years – he was in shape, and his soul was far tougher than his mind believed it to be.

The door opened soundlessly. There was no rush of air, no telltale clicks, squeaks or shuffling steps. It was merely the instinct of otherness that touched him, that told him – no – that warned him someone was in the room. He couldn’t confirm it was the man he expected; he wasn’t permitted to turn or ask. He just knew. He trusted it to be.

“Turn your head towards the foot of the bed and look at me,” the man said.

His body reacted instantly in twitches of ecstatic everything. Lust, need, desire, anguish, terror; overwhelmed. He was happy, grateful, terrified, and desperate. He turned his head.

Regal in pose, intoxicating in appearance – leather and chain, grace and beauty – the man was the epitome of his wildest fantasy. Everything but the desire to please vanished from his thoughts. “But for the glory of thee, go I.”

The rules had been laid on paper, discussed while he had remained spellbound and silent; fascinated into fear, shocked into speechlessness. It was that silence, the man had said, that would act as both cause and effect – the game to be played was the denial of communication – to prove its necessity through its removal.

“Before we begin, I would like to confirm our arrangements. And, as such, I give you permission to nod or shake your head in agreement or disagreement. You recall our previous conversation?” the man inquired.

He nodded.

“And you still agree to play by the rules we discussed?”

Another nod.

“You understand that you are not permitted to speak and, once I say so, you will be allowed no form of communication whatsoever. There will be no nodding, no sign language, and no sound of any kind unless you choose to speak your safe words. Is all of that still acceptable?”

Once again a nod implied his approval.

“Very well. I will continue as I see fit, then, barring any sudden and enlightening ideas that you may actually want to add to this game of ours. Is there anything you would like to tell me, anything you feel you need to? Perhaps something you would like to do?” The man caught and held his gaze. “I relinquish my rule momentarily and offer you permission to speak.”

A million things came to mind and were just as quickly tucked away. He was too embarrassed. He was more than happy to let the man take the scene and run with it. Whatever the man wanted, whatever the man needed, would be fine for him.

A heavy sigh filled the space. “Very well,” the man said. “Our game begins now. It continues until I am tired, you break a rule, or you speak your safe words. Yellow to pause, red to stop. Once you provide your acceptance of this, we begin without further communication. Understood?”

Bright eyes watched him intently, gazes locked, and lost in the man’s expression, he nodded a final time.

There was no confirmation. The man stood and walked behind him. His chin was grasped and faced forward, held for a moment – the unspoken command: ‘Stay.’

Relief flooded him. Good. He would be able to understand. He locked his chin in position.

The man found his wrists, placed them against corresponding thighs, pressing them there. There was a swish of shifting fabric, a pause, and the sound of… chain? being drawn against itself. His wrists were pressed more firmly in place, pulse against leg, and he fisted his fingers. Immediately his knuckles were smacked with the edge of something hard. He flinched, but wasted no time unclenching his hands.

‘See?’ he told himself. ‘I’ve got this.’

Leather straps were placed around each leg, then each arm, and a quick drop of his eyes confirmed they were affixed one to another – thigh to wrist, wrist to thigh. He tested the length, six inches tops, probably closer to four. He made a conscious effort to relax his shoulders and loosen his neck muscles.

He heard the slide of a shoe and the man’s foot nudged the insides of his knees. He waited, hesitant, before spreading them wider. Leather gloves found his hair and gently stroked through the length of it, once, twice, before entwining fingers through it and fisting. His eyes closed as pressure increased on his scalp. His head was directed back, his face lifting to the ceiling and he had a moment’s panic. There was no reprimand, however, for him moving his chin. ‘Ah,’ he thought. The previous hold must have meant ‘stay forward’ and not ‘stay, don’t move’. His mistake.

His spine arched as his hair was pulled further. Then he felt another stroke of leather glove, this one down his side to his hip, running along the curve presented by his body – pressure on his lower back followed, directing his ass out. A quick tug in his hair and a firm hold, and he swallowed, confused. Stay? His hair was released and he kept his head back, his spine bent, and hips tilted. Not a position he could hold long.

‘Definitely not’, his body agreed.

A wet, slick sound caught his attention and the hand on his lower back began to roam down, middle finger extended to press between his ass cheeks, while the fingers on each side held back flesh. A leather fingertip played with his asshole until greased silicone touched him. His eyes flew to the ceiling, nervously counting tiles, and that’s when he realised why his head was so far back. The man leaned over, now able to watch his eyes, as a plug was pushed into his unsuspecting body. His eyes widened at the stretch. He willed his body to open for it, holding back a grunt of discomfort, gritting his teeth until it fully seated. ‘Relax,’ he told himself. ‘You know this.’ But he didn’t, not really – not that kind of full, and certainly not through an unprepared muscle. The chill he’d been fighting morphed quickly into a flush of heat.

A hand at his belly, another at the back of his head, had him straightening until he was kneeling in an ‘L’ – a perfect ninety degree angle. The man slid the curtain of his hair over his shoulder, once again stroking before falling away. His knees ached. They were unaccustomed to pressure on such a hard surface. That concerned him. For surely they could expect far more abuse. The game had just started.

Another press against the small of his back and a yank on his hair snapped him straighter yet, elongating his spine, increasing the discomfort and waking sweat glands.

He felt a pinpoint of pressure: hard, rounded, a feeling he would associate with a pointer or pencil. It was dragged from shoulder to tailbone, and then back up. Anxious butterflies lifted in his stomach where they fluttered in a hoard of energetic distress. The end of… whatever it was… was removed and the man stepped back. A snap through the air, a test of the tool, and he tensed at the sound. A cane? A crop? Something that provoked a slash of air movement, that made an erotically intense swoosh, and met the palm of a leather glove with a solid, sharp snap. The pace of his breathing picked up, his heart matched it, and he waited.

The first strike wasn’t hard, a tap on his left buttock, but he wasn’t expecting metal. At least, he assumed it was metal – steel perhaps? carbon? – cold, hard, smooth. It made silent promises to be unforgiving, stubborn and potentially brutal. He flinched, and all nerves instantly dialled towards caution. His lower body was investigated with a series of light whacks – each cheek, across his ass, the back of each thigh. He couldn’t be sure, but it seemed as though each reaction was weighed, judged, and filed.

There was more than sting to the first real hit. Across the back of his thighs, and by no means what he would judge as the man’s full force, but the material gave it a nasty bite that made him pitch forward. His hair was fisted, yanked hard, and he was forced upright, back into position. He struggled to comply, knees angrily reminding him they were not impressed, and he was allowed no pause before the cane met his skin a second time. No harder, but only a hair’s breadth from where the first strike had impacted. Heat flashed in his legs, and he forced himself to stay in position, not to gasp or falter, and a third, fourth, and fifth found him.

He fumbled forward, losing his balance. He had expected pain, craved it in fact, but he hadn’t expected his body to try to pull away from it. He hadn’t expected his breath to become so difficult to find. He slid down, his body subconsciously retreating his thighs and ass from reach and without hesitation his hair was yanked harshly. His knees shrieked as he scrabbled to straighten his body, and they rapped over floorboards. He was fighting too hard – couldn’t keep himself straight when every hit seemed meant to push him forward, when he couldn’t use his arms to balance himself, when his body was forcing him to fail. His mind screamed a tune akin to the one of rod meeting flesh, and he tensed every muscle in an attempt to remain in place. Hot pain lanced through him as the swipe landed across his ass. His thighs trembled at the exertion, his entire being insisted he beg for mercy, and his jaw clamped down on teeth so tightly he worried for his fillings.

He saw the cane get placed on the bed before him and took a moment to study it: long, slim, a tool of beauty. Like its owner. He let his gaze get caught by it, fascinated for a brief moment, until both gloves found his hips and dragged his body away from the bed. Skin bounced angrily over an unforgiving plain, bumping, bouncing, smashing sensitive bone on unapologetic flooring. The man’s hand pressed him forward, and he bent in compliance. Blood rushed to his face, stomach muscles tightened to hold him at an awkward angle, and his knees threatened to let him down completely.

‘Call,’ his mind told him.

‘No,’ he thought right back. ‘This is what I want. This is what I need. I just… I can’t… get comfortable… get right!’ And he tried to reposition his knees, to ease some pressure, but he was pulled back into the same spot the instant he tried to move.

He didn’t fight the man as he was returned to position, but pitched face forward into the mattress when his thighs were struck again. He choked on a holler of frustration when he was pulled back by his hair.

“God, wait!” he said, before he could stop himself.

Failure, disgust and disappointment flooded him. All this time he’d waited. All this need. And now it would all be gone, taken from him, because he was unable to be strong enough.

“Ethan,” the man said, and it was the first time he’d ever heard his name leave the man’s lips. He was lifted, back straightened first, then pulled up to stand. His knees praised the movement even as his legs threatened to buckle. “You see? Do you understand now?” the man spoke into his hair, both arms snaking around his chest to hold him. “Why I need to hear you say what you need to say? Why I need you to tell me what you need?” Lips pressed into his scalp. “How am I to stop you from falling if I don’t know you need me to catch you?”

He stifled a sob, tried to reach up and failed, already forgetting the restraints that bound him.

“You have this need,” the man continued. “Something that will make you a more complete person – a hole to be filled by what I can give you. And I have a need too, Ethan. Something I need to be taken from me, that you relieve by receiving it. But I need to know what you want so I know how to give it to you.”

The man paused, waiting, Ethan was sure, for Ethan’s heartbeat to settle underneath the gloved palm. “Did you like the cane?” the man asked.

He nodded, and bristled at the sigh from the man behind him. “Yes,” he said quickly. “I did. I even… well, I think it even turned me…” his voice trailed. He swallowed. “Turned me on. I just couldn’t find a way to get in place.”

“Hmm,” the man purred, and the sound was enough to drive him to distraction. “So, don’t you think I would prefer to hear you say, ‘Yellow’, and try to find a new position rather than stop altogether? Better still, to know immediately that you were uncomfortable and adjust before we began.”

“I…” he looked over his shoulder. “I don’t know? I guess so? I just don’t want to fail. And I get embarrassed.” He lowered his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

The man took a step to the side, moved closer, and reached for his hand, pressing it against the front of the man's leather pants. “You do not need to be embarrassed by the things you like to do. I love that you like it. I think it’s awesome that you want it.”

He didn’t mean to, he didn’t have permission to – but he squeezed the man's cock. “I-I don’t like to be on my knees,” he said. He reconsidered, and added, “At least not on the floor.”

The man made a pleased sound. “Anything else?”

“I, err… I liked the cane but… it was a lot.”

Leather snapped in the silent room as the gloves were removed. Seconds later, the man lifted warm fingers to his side and dragged fingernails down his torso. Each finger left its own slowly reddening trail. The heat that came with them blossomed from point of contact and travelled into Ethan’s chest. “I like that,” he whispered.

The man’s mouth began to slide over the exposed back of his neck. It sought out the flesh where neck met shoulder. Teeth found him.

“Ah!” he gasped. “Damn!” The man ground teeth tighter. “Fuck!”

The man released his skin, sucking it, licking it, before chuckling. “I do so love to hear you speak, Ethan. So much nicer than the alternative.”

The man drew fingernails across his stomach, leaving their own burning paths behind. “I assume, Ethan, that you will not mind getting on the mattress then? Would that cause any discomfort for you?” the man asked.

“No, S-sir?” He looked up expectantly and was caught by the man’s smile. “That would be fine.”

“Do you like that term, Ethan? Do you think it suits me?”

"Yes, Sir," he said.

The man smiled and motioned towards the bed. “If you would be so kind then?”

He moved forward, quickly, looking back over his shoulder.

“On your back please. Neck over the edge, head down. You are free to use your arms as you see fit or to lift your knees for balance if you choose.” The man stepped closer, undoing button and zipper while he, in turn, scrambled to take his position on the bed. His back met sheets that should have felt cool and smooth but took on the likeness of sandpaper against the welts that had formed. He squirmed against them, not in an entirely unpleasant way either. And that newfound knowledge both pleased and fascinated him.

He laid his head back as instructed, and came face to face with the man’s hard cock. A low sound tumbled from his throat. Fingers traced the bumps and ridges of his extended neck. “Ethan, if at any time you need air to the point you are feeling distress, I want you to tap my hip. Either one is fine.”

It took only a nudge for him to open his lips and take the man into his mouth. And the angle provided the perfect chasm. The man did not play nice; the man fucked his mouth completely and fully. Every stroke went tip to root, every thrust an effort to take. But take it he did, putting everything he had into swallowing instead of gagging, breathing when he had the opportunity, and purring vibratory praise against the organ that felt like it was spearing him clear to his core.

The sounds escalated quickly to true moaning, however, when his own thickening cock was touched. “Very nice, Ethan,” the man said. “You do that very well.” The man traced his throat again, leaning forward, pressing body parts deep inside, and he choked, fought for air, as the man's cock was held past the point of allowing breath… waiting, waiting, and a long groan tumbled from the man’s throat. He swallowed several times, his hand flitted towards the man’s hip, and just when he thought he’d have to tap, the man pulled back.

Fingers wandered from his neck to his nipple. He sucked back air around the man’s cock, tears slipping from the corners of both eyes, and gasped when his nipple was pinched hard. The hand on his cock tightened, began to stroke, “Lovely, Ethan. Yes. Just like that.”

The words did more for his body than the manipulations. The tightness in the man’s voice encouraged him, and he did his best to wrap his tongue when he could, to use every trick he knew, and with every extra attempt, he was rewarded with another tug on sensitive skin from both hands. One in an effort to seduce, the other to drive him into stimulus overload. The sounds against the man’s cock became whimpers. “I’d really appreciate it,” the man said, and he could hear the soft panting behind the words. A sharp intake of breath, and the movement of the man’s hips became sharp and quick. The man started over, “I’d really appreciate it if you would come for me, Ethan.”

He couldn’t believe the reaction the simple words had on his body. The man matched the movement of hands with the drilling of mouth, and he called out against hard skin, arching his back off the sheets until the advancing ecstasy peaked, and the world behind his eyes became fireworks and rockets.

“Yes, fuck Ethan, beautiful!” the man croaked and his throat was drenched with the musky headiness of the man’s cum.

He choked, gagged, fighting to swallow at an angle not intended for the purpose of consumption. The man pulled away slowly, but quickly grabbed for his head the moment the man was free. His neck was supported as he was nudged on to the mattress. Tender hands helped him find a comfortable way to lie before grabbing for a towel from the table. The man touched soft terry to soiled skin and all traces of release were wiped away. Several seconds passed while he did nothing but breathe. Lie, and centre, and breathe.

“Feel all right?” the man asked, gently stroking fingers over the abused flesh of his left nipple.

“Yes,” he said. “Feel good.” He opened his eyes, sought out the other man’s gaze. “I did okay?”

Fingers lifted to touch his cheek, his jaw, his mouth. “You did excellent.” Perfect silence filled the room. It didn’t seem strained. It didn’t seem forced. It just was. “I’d like to do it again sometime if you’re so inclined.”

His chest both tightened and soared. “Yes,” he whispered.

The man sank to the mattress alongside him. “We talk first though.”

“Yes,” he smiled, fighting to keep his eyelids from closing. “We’ll talk first.”

The End

Copyright © 2011 AF Henley

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