Chapter 52
Movement.
The mattress shifted, and Stefan caught his breath. A hand slid over his hip and pushed him lightly down onto his front. It was hot, the fingers searing on his skin, and Stefan fumbled at his blindfold. He wanted to see. He wanted-
His wrists were caught and placed on the bed. Weight pressed down on them. Bare hips slid over his arse, and a chest pressed into his back. The air rushed out of him in a shaking whimper as teeth bit down on his earlobe, neck, shoulder. They slid lower. The hands crept away from his wrists after a warning squeeze, and Stefan fisted his fingers into the sheets.
"Please," he whispered when his cheeks were spread.
Something hot and wet rubbed down the cleft of his arse. Thick. Demanding.
Stefan pushed his hips back against the hands.
"Please," he repeated. "Ple-oh."
He was still loose and slick from the test-but this was an altogether different type of use. The pressure was slow, yet inescapable. The heat was an all-consuming burn; a searing mixture of pleasure and pain that washed through his bloodstream and left him clinging to the sheets and shivering before even the head had breached him. And it didn't stop it wasn't a brutal entry, was gentler than any of the toys, but it was relentless all the same, a branding iron of raw, slick fire pushing deeper, deeper, deeper, until Stefan could feel hips behind his own.
Then, finally, stillness.
Weight settled over his back. Hands slid over his wrists again and squeezed.
And Stefan dragged gulps of air into his lungs, and shuddered.
This-
He had never felt anything like this. He had never dreamed of anything like this.
He could feel-skin. Hot, silk skin. A pulse was hammering beside his own. It held him fast, impaled. Pinned. He tried to squirm, only to sag breathless and weak when hips rolled into his arse and the cock inside began to move. He tried to squeeze, to stop it. To hold on, and simply bask. But it moved again. And again, and again—
They were not the long, brutal strokes of the toys. They were not the punishing thrusts of an owner training a slave. They were not to humiliate.
They were for pleasure.
But not his own. Hands held his to the mattress. The thrusts were short. The weight did not release enough to let Stefan rub himself against the sheets. They were for the man using him. And Stefan was played like an instrument for that purpose: when he tried to relax and take it loose, the hands around his wrists squeezed until it hurt and he tensed up. Tightened. And the drag of that hot dick burned and raked him until he shuddered and began to flex, tightening without wanting to, with every inward motion.
And it was everything he wanted.
God, but it felt good. Real skin instead of rubber and latex. Slickness that wasn't from a bottle. Movement of both of them. Two bodies, in sync-not Stefan and a hand. Not that distance. That separation. This. Unity. Connection. They were locked together. He could feel everything, and he didn't want it to end.
So when the thrusts got shorter, Stefan tried to relax. He wanted to draw it out. Stop the end. Wanted to be used the way he had before for hours on end, fucked raw and open until it hurt, only with flesh and blood instead of plastic and rubber.
But the hand that released his wrist and locked around his throat didn't agree.
It squeezed.
For a split second, air vanished. Choked off. The world snapped shut in the dark-and Stefan's instincts did what he didn't want to do.
His entire body stiffened.
He squeezed. The cock inside of him pressed deeper than before-and came. Slickness gave way to wetness. Hot liquid flooded him. Breath burst over his back in ragged gasps. The hands on his wrist and throat left bruises, bubbling hot under his skin and then Stefan was abandoned.
The hands were gone.
The cock was dragged free, hot cum leaking out and trickling down his skin.
Stefan lay gasping on the sheets, naked and chained by the ankles. A sheath for a spent cock. A toy. A doll now filled. Of no further use.
Empty.
Cold.
He sobbed, dizzy in the dark, and reached out. His hands grasped. He mumbled something, trying to plead and beg for more all at once. It wasn't enough. Stefan needed more, needed him to come back-and suddenly he didn't care if it had been Daz or Yannis or someone else entirely. He just needed more. Needed skin and flesh and weight. Needed to be used. To be filled. To have someone else buried inside of him, and be the source of someone else's pleasure.