“You ever been edged before?” I ask.
He shakes his head, tears on his cheeks.
I grip his cock with one hand and slap his ass with the other, setting up a rhythm: stroke, slap, stroke, slap. He’s moaning now, loud, not even trying to be quiet.
I bring him right to the edge, then stop. He screams, a wordless frustration.
“That’s how it works,” I say, stepping back. “I decide when you come. I decide when you breathe.”
I circle again, my own breathing heavy now. I grab his jaw, force him to look at me. “Understand?”
He nods, desperate.
My cock is hard and throbbing. Dropping my pants, I pull his head up by his hair and make him suck my cock. His mouth is sweet and hot, working me until I want to cum. I hold back, because I want to unload deep inside him.
Every sixty seconds, I stop and lean over to touch his cock, just enough to keep him on the brink. His whole body trembles, sweat running down his sides, the marks on his back blooming dark red.
I pet his hair, slow, methodical, and let the lesson settle in.
“Good boy,” I murmur, loving the tears that fall from his eyes as he looks at me in lustful relief.
Because in the end, that’s what he wants.
And I’m the only one who’ll ever give it to him.
He thinks it’s over. That’s the best part.
Stepping back, I admire my handiwork. He’s beautiful. Perfect. Strung out on the high that pain and submission can give.
He lies across the bench, tears streaking down his face. Every line of his body says submission, but the set of his jaw is pure, beautiful defiance.
I slide my hand up the back of his neck, feel the pulse fluttering there. “Don’t move,” I say, and his body goes rigid again, arms extended along the bench, hands fisted so tight the knuckles are white.
I collect what I need: a bottle of lube, the black-glass tray of dildos. I choose the one that’s thick, but not as long as me, wanting to save the stretch for my own cock. Then I kneel behind him and rest my palm between his shoulder blades, feeling him flinch even at that touch.
“You’re not afraid of pain,” I smile as I pull the bigger plug out, watching his hole gape before closing slowly. “That’s not what scares you.”
He sniffs, trying to clear his head. “I’m not scared at all.”
I chuckle, coat two fingers in lube, and press to his hole. The new plug left him open, but not enough. He clenches, tries to resist, but I push past the ring of muscle and slide my fingers in to the first knuckle, then the second.
He gasps, not pain but surprise, his hips jerking away from me.
I hold him steady, work him in slow, then pump in and out. The slick makes it easier, but he’s still tight, still fighting. I feel every spasm, every involuntary clench.
“You’re afraid of losing control,” I whisper. “That’s the only thing that matters to you.”
He doesn’t respond, jaw locked, but his body answers for him. His cock twitches, throbs, spills another drop of clear fluid on the floor. I curl my fingers inside him, hunt for the spot that will make him moan, and when I find it, he does.
“Say it,” I order.
He shakes his head, hair sticking to his wet cheek.
I withdraw, grab the first dildo, and lube it up. The head is round and blunt, the shaft curved just enough. I press it to his hole and watch as he tenses, then relaxes, then tries to tense again.
Not waiting for him to accept this, I push the toy all the way in. His back arches, a sharp, silent scream in his chest, but he takes it. I leave it there, impaled, and walk around to the front of the bench.
I run my hand through his hair, grip tight, and force his head up to meet my eyes. His face is red, tears and snot mixing on his lips.
