“Astaire, is it?” He pronounces it in a way that sounds almost French.
I try to nod without moving my body.
“Bloom is such a tender name. Don’t you think?” he continues to tease, “But you are not tender are you, Astaire?” His voice is so deep I can feel it reverberate in my core.
Before I can agree, Abas presses the thing inside me. I claw at the worn fabric of the armchair as he pushes deeper than expected. It feels impossibly long and impossibly thick. He lingers there for a moment, letting my body get used to the stretch before he starts to slowly move back out. Taking his time,every second feels multiplied. I’m overwhelmed, but at the same time, this isn’t enough. I want more. I want everything, but I say nothing, waiting for him to give it to me unasked.
In slow and smooth movements, Abas slides the thing inside of me until my breaths turn into pants. Just as I’m ready to beg for more, he quickens the pace, almost as if he knew exactly when I needed it the most. I feel almost dizzy, the way one does when you drop from the highest point of a roller coaster. The blood leaves my head, and the shallowness of my breaths only adds to the sensation.
Abas fucks me with whatever thing he’s holding, hitting the exact spot that’s urging me to moan with pleasure. I hold them in, every single one of them. I refuse to make a sound, refuse to show him how good this really feels.
He continues quickening the pace until the leaves twirling over the chair turn blurry and all that I hear are my pathetic little gasps. The pleasure builds further, my body tensing in anticipation. I come against the side of the chair, making a mess over the antique fabric. My cum drips down my legs and onto the floor.
I hear a muffled moan and wonder if it slipped out by accident. I’m too dazed and faint to place it, so I take a moment to let the world straighten itself out again. My body crumples as Abas pulls the thing slowly out of my ass. Suddenly, I feel self-conscious. I’m mortified that Abas would know that, without a single touch, I’d come so undone.
I hear him leave, followed by the rustling of sheets. I stay still. Caught in my shameful arousal, I’m unsure if I should revel in it or simply try to disappear. I wait for my breath to fully settle before turning around. Even through the dimness of the room, I see Abas sitting on the bed, a piece of grey stone in one hand, vaguely resembling an ancient dildo. Framed by the tattered velvet curtains of his large bed, he’s a debauched Renaissancepainting come to life. It’s hard to see much in detail, but from here, he looks slightly dishevelled, his chest moving just a touch quicker than it normally should.
“Get out,” he says flatly without a glance.
“What?” I ask.
“I will not repeat myself,” he replies.
Before I can say anything, the bedroom door opens wide. I startle, expecting Bayard, anyone, on the other side, but all I see is the dark corridor through the open maw. My thoughts race faster than my body can follow. I look back at Abas, who hasn’t moved a hair. Before I can question what just happened, I grab my clothes and leave the room. The door shuts loudly behind me, almost catching me by the heel. I’m certain that Abas hadn’t stood up to close it.
I pull my scratchy uniform back on while I hurry down the hallway.
VIII
As I slip back into my clothes, trying not to shiver to death in this godforsaken hallway, I wonder how many more times I’ll be standing here half-naked, confused, and aroused.
I mean, I can’t say I didn’t expect what would happen in Abas’ bedroom once I returned. A part of me knew exactly what would happen—provoked that very thing. But that doesn’t mean I enjoyed being treated like that. Well, at least, mostly.
I growl in frustration at my own behaviour. I need to get a hold of this.
Rushing back to my room, I slam the door behind me. Fuck this place and all its bloody rules. I crash onto my bed like a rebellious teenager, pull my Walkman out, and turn the volume up to max. I lie there, scowling at the ceiling for the entirety of side A. But the longer I lay there, the sillier I feel. What was I even so mad about? Didn’t I get exactly what I wanted? But everything was such a blur, the details a collection of smudged impressions.
Gleaming eyes, breath on my nape, soft lips whispering—fuck, not this again.
I switch the tape to the noisiest one I got, then I flip upside down, burying my face in the pillow. My hands push the headphones tightly against my skull until there are no more thoughts. Only music.
I must have fallen asleep because I startle at the sound of a groan, and I sit up, quickly looking around my room. But there’s no one here but myself. It’s still light out, but the sun has lost some of its earlier ulster.
But my cock—my cock is straining painfully hard against my trousers. Buttons press into my skin, confusing my nerves even more. I drop my Walkman onto the mattress and pace around my room until some of this pent up energy releases…until my cock stops pressing against the fabric. I feel determined, but determined to do what? Go to Abas and tell him not to treat me like this?
Yeah, that’s right. That’s absolutely what I’m going to do.
I brush my clothes off, clear my throat, and stride down the corridor, following this determination wherever it will take me.
But I can’t deny the eagerness I’m feeling right now is making me question what’s left of my already deficient morals. I know, I know, I’m nuts to eagerly return to this clearly unstable man. I’m aware no amount of determination can change the fact that he’ll likely shout at me. Or possibly punish me again. But the thrill of it… It’s sick, and yet, I can’t help but wish for it. Just a little.
What kind of a fool am I to crave such a thing?
When I reach his room, I find the door closed. I hesitate for a moment; maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. But then—a fist on aged wood. The thudding of a knock.
The door slams open. My body is yanked against the wall as if pulled by a wire, the force knocking the wind out of me.
“Who dares to…” Abas shouts as he spins around to face me.
