Ronan glared at his phone screen and dropped it beside the discarded ointment.
“What kind of fun things?” He leaned back against the headboard and folded his hands together behind his head. “I can’t solicit Rich to watch me make you cry if we’re not in L.A. I can’t make Foster bleed for the inconveniences he’s caused us if we’re not in L.A.”
I swallowed, an unexplainable surge of arousal coursing through me.
“You’re a slut, Kevin.” Ronan laughed and stretched out his leg, kicking me just above the knee. “Get up. Stand at the foot of the bed and let me look at you.”
I scrambled off the bed, the ache in my ass a still very present reminder of our jaunt into the woods earlier in the morning. I wanted Ronan to fuck me, but I knew he wouldn’t until all the remnants of that ginger root were out of me. He was into causing pain, not receiving it.
I straightened, squaring my shoulders and holding my arms straight down at my sides. My cock thickened as Ronan dragged his stare over my body, growing even harder when he spun his finger in a circle, gesturing for me to turn around. He no doubt wanted to admire his handiwork. I turned, and Ronan made an appreciative sounding groan from behind me.
“Watching is the one thing we always come back to, isn’t it?” Ronan asked, but I wasn’t clear if he was asking me or only talking to himself so I didn’t answer.
But he was right—it was. Whether it was my brain coming back to Rich getting so aroused when Ronan had made me play coffee table, or thinking about being an observer while Ronan had his way with Foster, the idea of it was something that I enjoyed beyond measure. I didn’t know if I would like it in practice, especially the idea of watching him play with Foster.
But maybe as a punishment? If I had to watch while I was restrained and gagged? Or maybe listen while I was blindfolded. God, what Foster would sound like when Ronan hurt him, brought him pleasure. Would he sound like me or would he be quieter? Would his cries be rougher?
“Turn around,” Ronan said sharply, and I did, my arousal betraying my thoughts.
“Tell me what you were thinking about.”
“You and Foster,” I rasped.
“I never pinned you as an emotional masochist, Kevin. I’m surprised.”
“It turns me on.Youturn me on.”
“You just want to see what it looks like to be you,” he said. “I can just film you coming apart and let you watch it. You can be the voyeur and the exhibitionist all at the same time.”
My lips parted and I sucked in a desperate breath. Precum pooled at the slit of my cock, which bobbed toward the ceiling. I fisted my hands at my sides and tried to take a breath, but it caught in my throat, further betraying my want.
Ronan picked up his phone and swiped his finger across the screen. “Did you want to put on a show, Kevin?”
I swallowed. “Yes, Ronan.”
Ronan stood, smoothing down the rumpled blankets.“Get on the bed,” he said. “Hands and knees.”
He fiddled with his phone and set it on the dresser, so I faced that way, arranging myself like he’d asked. Ronan pulled out our suitcase and rifled around inside, tossing a blindfold, nipple clamps, and a collar on the bed, but nothing else. He walked around to my front and fitted the blindfold over my eyes and the collar around my neck. With little preamble, he clipped the metal clamps to my nipples. Alone the clamps were enough to boil my blood, and he pulled at the chain that connected the clamps with a laugh and then he was gone. I listened to him dig through the bag some more. I had no idea what he was planning, but my cock was ready to burst at the promise of it.
A rough hand around my balls sent all thoughts of this being easy flying out the window. Something thick and cool twisted closed around my sac, and then Ronan pulled backward until I cried out. That was when I felt the smooth strips of curved wood settle against the backs of my thighs.
Ronan had put my balls into a humbler.
I pumped my hips, unable to stop my body from gyrating and searching out friction. Even as the movements put strain on the most delicate parts of me, my cock leaked against the sheets, proof positive that I was the masochist Ronan had claimed me to be.
Next, something cold and hard and wet pushed against my hole, popping in with a quiet sucking sound. The room filled with familiar noises, a stretch of rope pulling through metal, and then there was pressure, and I realized what was inside of me. An anal hook, and before I could process its presence, there was a hand in my hair, yanking my face toward the ceiling. My throat curved in a sharp angle, and then rope slid through the ring on the collar. Ronan pulled it taut and released my hair. Reflexively, I tried to drop my head forward, relax my neck, but the hook pulled against my ass. When I tried to shift my weight to adjust to the position, the wood of the humbler restrained me, tugging at my balls until I settled against the sheets with a defeated whine.
“Look at you,” he said, voice gruff and words taking on that familiar and treacherous tone that had become synonymous with pain. “All trussed up and on display. For me and for whomever I decide to send this little video to.”
The bed depressed beside me, thrill spearing through my body at Ronan’s words. Something soft dragged across my ass, and I knew it was leather, but I didn’t know what kind until Ronan hit me.
It was a searing and bone-deep crack of cowhide against human flesh as the split and tapered ends of the tawse cracked against the slicked up bruises he’d already given me. I shouted, a desperate noise tumbling out of my mouth. Trying to drop my head and bow my back I was stilled on every front, the hook stretching at my hole, the humbler pulling at my balls.
“I bet you could come like this,” Ronan said, hitting me again.
The sound that left my mouth that time was barely more than a garbled plea for mercy, but whether mercy was more or none, I wasn’t sure.
Ronan was sure, though.
