Sex in C Major

Either way, he was certain it was going to hurt.

They got off the bus on a main road, but he was quickly led into a housing estate, then across a dark park and into a network of long, wide avenues lined with trees, great houses stood imperiously back from the road and frowning down at the slave and its master as they walked by. Eventually, Daz checked his phone, then led Stefan up a driveway and to a white front door. Number nine, of...whatever road they were on.

Daz didn't knock. Didn't ring the bell.

He simply opened it.

The door opened into a cool porch, floored with blood-red tiles. It was bare but for a cardboard box on the floor. It had no lid. Inside was a white fold of fabric and a chain.

"Strip," Daz said, closing the door behind them.

Stefan fumbled with his clothes, stepping out of them. He was pushed to his knees, and his head shoved forward.

"Arms."

The cloth was a straitjacket, and Stefan felt his heart picking up with more than a little fear as his arms were pushed into the sleeves and the jacket tied tightly around his torso. On the one hand, the grip around his breasts was a comfort, and it felt oddly safe in the same way his cuffs did. On the other, the merciless exposure of his naked lower half felt dangerous, and he knew he would be utterly helpless to whatever Daz and Jack wanted.

"You won't be gagged," Daz said calmly as he fastened the last buckle. "You'll always be able to say your safeword. But if I were you, I wouldn't get too happy with the screaming."

Stefan wanted to ask why, but sensed a trap. So he said nothing, and didn't resist when his head was shoved forward, and the chain looped around his neck. It was loose-too tight to slip off, but loose enough that it hung rather than gripped -and he felt the weight ease as Daz lifted the other end.

And jerked.

Choking, Stefan hauled himself to his knees. He stumbled, and dangled for one terrifying moment, airless, on the end of the chain, before he forced his shaking legs under himself and pushed himself up.

"Clumsy."

"Sorry, Sir."

"Did I say you could speak?"

"N-no, Sir."

"Then don't. I don't keep you for your conversation."

The inner door was opened. The warm carpet was a blessed relief to Stefan's cold toes, but he kept his head down and followed Daz blindly through the hall and into a cavernous kitchen. The tiles were again cold, brown, and rust-coloured, and he could feel eyes on the top of his head.

"Like what you see?"

Daz's voice was smooth and deep.

"It's clothed."

Stefan swallowed, throat drying as he realised he didn't recognise the voice. It wasn't Jack's coarse drawl. It was a harsh, biting voice. Cleaner. Well-educated and almost posh. Oh, fuck. There was a third man?

"It has a habit of trying to touch itself," Daz replied. "This is a two birds with one stone situation. It remembers its place, and I treat good friends to a good fuck."

"It is a good fuck, then?" the stranger asked.

"Very satisfying," Daz said coolly. "Nice and tight around your cock. Likes to cry and wriggle as well. I'm not a fan of the lie back and think of England types."

"Does it scream?"

"Sometimes."

"I want to inspect it first."

"Go ahead."

A chair scraped on the tiles. Stefan shivered, keeping his head firmly down as footsteps approached. Smart dress shoes came into his line of sight, then circled his feet. A hand groped obscenely at his cock. Fingers brushed his cunt, then pushed inside. Demanding. Searching.

"It is tight. How long have you had it?"

"Couple of months."

"Use it regularly?"

"Very."

The hand was removed. Stefan's ankles were kicked slightly apart, and he staggered, wobbling on unsure legs.

"It's clumsy."

"I tend to drag them around, I don't catch them for their grace."

Fingers probed at his arse, and Stefan whimpered as a dry digit pierced him, pushing back on it.

"It's going to be noisy, isn't it?"

"Probably."

"Does it talk?"

The atmosphere shifted slightly in the room.

"It has a word," came the cryptic reply, and there was a rustle. A crinkle of paper being unfolded.

"Good," the stranger said. The shoes clicked away across the floor. "It'll do."

The chain was jerked.

"Kneel," Daz said.

Stefan knelt awkwardly on the cold floor, his legs instinctively trying to twitch away from it. Without his hands to support himself, the weight on his shins hurt, and then the chain was pulled and he was forced to shuffle on his knees around the table. Feet came into his view. Workman's boots. Dress shoes.