He unraveled at the praise. It was a physical thing, a tension snapping in his chest like a guitar string breaking. I rode him hard, demanding eye contact, demanding he verbalize every sensation, turning his loud, chaotic mind into a single channel of focus.
"Tell me," I commanded. "What does the signal feel like?"
"You feel like... fuck, Z, you feel like everything," he sobbed, bucking under me, his head thrown back. "I'm yours. I'm so fucking yours. In every way. Boundaries are punk, but I don't have any right now. Take it all."
I leaned down, brushing my lips against his ear, smelling the sweat and the sugar and the trust. I felt him getting close, his breath hitching in jagged spikes.
"Closer or quieter?" I whispered the prompt, our check-in.
"Closer," he moaned, abandoning all pretense of cool.
I tightened my grip on his wrists and drove down, forcing the climax out of him. He came with a shattered, beautiful cry, thanking me through the entire aftershock, a litany of gratitude for the permission to let go.
Lab Note: Subject A responds to 'Good Boy' with complete surrender. Post-session aftercare requirement: High. Vital signs normalized.
Wednesday: The Control Study
Euan was different. Euan was terrifyingly precise. If Alfie was an analog pedal board, Euan was a digital rack unit, expensive, exacting, and merciless.
I engaged "Dominance Inversion" mode. I sat in the high-backed chair screwed into the floor of the lounge, legs crossed, a literal clipboard in my hand.
"Strip," I said, not looking up from the paper.
Euan removed his clothes in efficient, measured movements. He folded his black jeans. He placed his shirt on top. He stood before me in the cool, recycled air of the lounge, his erectionaching and heavy, vibrating with the effort of standing perfectly still.
"Kneel. Hands behind your back. Interlocked."
He knelt. His slate eyes locked onto mine, cold and calculating, waiting for the data input.
"We are testing reaction times," I said, clicking my pen. The sound was unreasonably loud in the silence. "Confirm parameters?"
"Confirmed," he replied, his voice devoid of tremor.
"I'm going to touch you. You are not allowed to make a sound above a whisper. If you vocalize, I stop. If you move without authorization, I stop."
"Understood," he rasped.
I used a feather from a costume boa first. Then an ice cube from his whisky glass. Then the warmth of my palm. I mapped his body like a circuit board, tracing signal paths from his neck to his hip.
"Heart rate 130," I noted aloud, writing absolutely nothing on the paper. "Breath control failing at diaphragm level."
"Correcting," he hissed through his teeth, squeezing his eyes shut as I ran my thumb over the head of his cock. A bead of pre-cum wept from the slit; I smeared it slowly.
"Look at the clipboard, Euan."
He forced his eyes open. The grey in them was stormy now, swirling with the struggle.
"I want you to come," I said, "but only on my count. Two. Three. Five. Seven. Prime numbers only. If I say four, you hold."
"That is... sadistic," he whispered, a bead of sweat rolling down his temple to his jaw.
"It's calibration," I corrected. "Do you trust me?"
"Implicitly."
I stroked him, my hand confident and firm. "One. Two."
His hips jerked, a microscopic breach of protocol.
