Blindfolded by nothing more than his will
“So you’re seeing him again?” On the other end of the phone, Colton sounds dubious.
“I’ve been seeing him,” I remind him.
“I know.” He sighs. “I just worry about you.”
“I promise you it’s all good.”
That’s a lie. It’s better than good. I’ve been seeing Ronan every Saturday for the past two months and I’ve never been happier or more sexually satisfied than I am when I come from his hand.
“I’m not going to call you when I get home tonight,” I say, hoping he doesn’t freak out, “because I’m staying the night.”
There’s silence, and then, “, Kevin.”
“Don’t be that way,” I beg.
“Will you call me in the morning?”
“Always.”
“Just be safe Kevin,” he sighs. “And have fun.”
I hang up the phone and grab my overnight bag. There’s no way I’m going to be late. I like when Ronan punishes me, but not because I’ve done actual wrong.
I get to his house with time to spare. It’s the first time I’ve been over, and I am a bit nervous. We’ve been playing at Rapture every weekend, but when he proposed I spend the night, I couldn’t tell him no. I mean, I could have, but I didn’t want to. The idea of being at his mercy for an entire night was too good to pass up.
Ronan answers the door wearing a pair of low hanging jeans, the button already open, and nothing else. His muscles bulge and a fine dusting of hair coats his chest, fading to thin wisps down his arms and into his tattoo. I fucking love Ronan’s body, and I’m certain I’d love being fucked by his body, too, but we haven’t done that yet.
Maybe tonight.
“Ready?” he asks, taking my bag and tossing it onto the floor.
“Yes, Ronan,” I answer, and he pulls me inside.
“First door on the right. Present yourself.” He points down a hallway, and with a nod, I head that way. I have to walk through his living room and past his kitchen to get there. It all looks nice enough, simple and comfortable and not at all how I’d pictured his house looking.Though, I don’t know what I really expected. Whips and chains on the mantle or something, perhaps.
I push open the door he indicated and close it behind me. The room is as simple as the rest of the house, and I strip out of my clothes. I fold them neatly and set everything beside the door, then I walk to the center of the room and go to my knees. This is how he likes me, with my thighs spread so far apart the muscles ache and my palms resting, facing upward. He’s caned my hands before, and if I close my eyes and think about it, I can still remember the pain of it.
So I do.
Time passes, and then Ronan is there. I don’t hear the door, but I can feel him in the space, smell him.
“Raise your arms and stretch them out,” he says.
I do as I’m told, keeping my palms facing toward the ceiling. I want to look at him, to see what he’s doing, but I know better. Ronan approaches me and touches my forearm, then pushes down. My elbow bows under the pressure, and he removes his hand, but I keep my arm in the position he’s put it.
“Good boy.” He taps the underside of my arm and I lift it back level with the other.
He walks to the corner of the room and opens a cabinet, then returns and drapes something over my arm. I glance from the corner of my eye. It’s a coil of rope and an interconnected pair of black leather cuffs.
“Hold these. We don’t need them yet, but we will soon.”
Ronan walks behind me and squats down. His fingers reach between the cheeks of my ass and swirl around my asshole. He pushes one thick and un-lubed finger into me. There’s resistance and stretch, and I bite my lip to stop from protesting. The burn between my cheeks lights up every nerve in my body, and I’m suddenly aware of the strain in my shoulders and arms from holding them out. My left arm especially, with the weight of his restraints there.
Ronan pushes another finger against my pucker and I whimper as he forces his way inside. It’s not the worst pain I’ve ever felt. He’s put far more inside of me with far less prep, because that’s the kind of pain I like, but I’m so aware of it like this, with every muscle in my body protesting and fighting against him.
He abruptly withdraws his fingers and stands, and my hole gapes at the loss of him. He returns to his cabinet and comes back, setting things down behind me, and I have no idea what he’s got. It’s like I’m blindfolded by nothing more than his will, or my will, I suppose. He hasn’t told me I can’t look. I just know better.
