Sex in C Major

The hand rubbed down.

Belly.

Hip.

Thigh.

Cock. Stefan gasped when it rubbed over his cock, then whimpered as it stayed. Rubbed harder. Faster. Not a jerk or a wank, but a rub. A dirty, filthy rub, not meant for him, not meant for men...

"You're soaking."

Stefan closed his eyes and shuddered. His cunt flexed. Empty. Aching.

"I bet you could ejaculate like that."

That would be-filthy. Filthy.

"Go on."

The rubbing was fast. Hard. Daz's hand was hot and slick. Slick with with Stefan, maybe? It wasn't lube. Wasn't cum. Wasn't even the catch and rapid dryness of spit. But it was slick all the same. Wet. Disgusting.

But its pleasure...its sensation...

Stefan whimpered, wriggling on the leather. A hand caught at his throat again. Held him in place.

"No," Daz said quietly. "Just feel. And come for me. On me."

Friction. Fast. The blood burning hot in his dick. The catch and swipe. Rapid. The static on his nerves. The spark-

Spark.

Hours at the piano. Empty orgasms. Touchless fucks from a keyboard. It was all too much. And now this hand. This voice. The cotton holding him helpless, and the fingers on his throat.

Stefan-

Came.

He shuddered and shook, clamping his knees around Daz's ribs as he did. Thrusting up into that hand. Grinding it out there. And-

Felt it as he ejaculated. Felt it. Felt the disgusting spurt. Heard the crush of his own cunt force it out.

His face burned.

And his master laughed.

"Very nice. Very good. Now, your reward."

Stefan whimpered, tears brewing at the vile sensation.

And then-

Hands smeared it over his thighs. Pushed them wider. A wet cock dragged down over his dick. Against his lips.

And in.

Stefan breathed out in one long, luxurious sigh as he was finally filled. Even as he clenched down as hard as he could, clutching greedily for every inch of dick, he relaxed. Felt it. Basked in it. Felt his own body arch under the relentless entry, and welcomed it. Felt his master's weight settle over his chest. Hair against his breasts. A mouth in his neck. Teeth.

Buried.

He was buried. Pressed down into the sofa by his owner's weight. His legs were free, but he locked them over Daz's back. His arms were tied, and it left him exposed to his master's hands. One stroked up his ribs. Caught at his breast again. Pushed higher. Worried at his throat.

Then held his hair, and pulled his head up. Exposed more neck.

Teeth bit down, so hard Stefan whimpered and shuddered, another orgasm threatening on the pure power of that bite alone.

And then he was being fucked.

Caught on cock, trapped in teeth, the fucking began there. Relentless. Short, powerful thrusts. A piston punching into a hole. The leather scraped at his back, wet with his own sweat. Hair and muscle dragged on his chest and shoulders. There were no hands. Only a mouth, sucking on his neck until he could barely breathe, and the slick slide of a cock inside of him, getting deeper with every movement.

Stefan began to cry.

He didn't know why. He didn't know how. He just felt tears on his face. He was pinned. Held down. Used. Under siege. And he felt so utterly safe there. So completely perfect. There was no dysphoria. No insanity. No shards of a broken life stabbing him in the chest.

It was all gone.

Because

Of this. Of the man who wanted to use him, and not love him. Of the man who wanted to test and twist him, but never touch him. Of both of these men, who had so effortlessly swallowed him into their existence, their partnership, and consumed him.

Who owned him?

Both of them.

Stefan found his voice, and begged for more.

More of everything. More of this. More time. He wanted all of it.

"More, please, more-more-"

****

The thing under his cheek was rough and soft all at once.

It was also warm, and when Stefan sleepily flexed his fingers to touch it, he could feel the faintest drum of blood under the fabric.

Blinking into the gloom, past the fog in his head, Stefan slowly took in his surroundings.

He was still on the sofa. Still in their living room. And the cushion was a thigh-Daz's, going by the large feet in mismatched socks that Stefan could see on the carpet. A candle had been lit on the mantelpiece. Yannis was nowhere to be seen.

Stefan stretched, the burn of exhaustion and heavy sleep dragging at his muscles. His wrists and ankles had been bound again, but in soft cloth strips. He had been plugged, but the pressure was small and comforting, rather than huge and dizzying. The metal pinch of the chastity belt was a sudden comfort, and the cuff high on his thigh was warm and welcoming.