Once a slight redness coated his body, I secured my grip on both floggers. “This is going to get intense.”
Zion widened his stance. “Just do?—”
The swoosh of the two instruments cut him off. A sharpcrackpierced the hush as the leather connected with his back, and his throaty grunt forever carved itself into my memory.
One after another, the leather strips drew arches in the air and landed in rhythmic strikes against the fleshy areas of his body. I swung both floggers in an endless loop, a pattern that created a flurry of sharp, surface-level hits.
The method was supposed to cause a burning sensation, set your target’s nerves aflame, and based on how Zion’s shoulders rose and fell in prolonged breaths, it was doing exactly that. The endorphins’ release induced a high of sorts.
Soon, red lines crisscrossed his back and ran all the way to his upper thighs. The streaks of color blended, transforming him into a painting of pain and bliss.
Some compared this to meditation.
Soreness set in my arms from the continuous exertion, but the heat slithered down to my abdomen in tandem with Zion’s gasps.
“I—Fuck,” he hissed.
I slowed the flow until the leather skimmed his flesh instead of walloping it.
Veins popped out in his forearms. “Please.”
“Yes?” Gathering both floggers in my left hand, I mapped out his spine with the other, his skin slightly sticky from sweat, his flesh warm. “Is there something you want, Zion?”
He puffed out an exhale. “I want…”
Dropping the floggers onto the dresser, I brushed up the inside of his thighs, taunting him by avoiding his groin. He rocked back, in search of what I refused to grant him.
The power I held over him grew dark as the need to grip his hips and rail him until he lost his speech ability overtook me.
Steeling myself, I massaged his ass, firm from a lifetime of training, and spread it apart to press a forefinger to his rim.
He lurched forward and then backward, half-grinding, half-fleeing my touch, in turn feeding my desire to brand him in all the ways imaginable.
Rubbing his tight ring, I asked, “Have you ever been fucked?”
He clenched. “I always did the fucking.”
A deep chuckle rumbled out of me. “That is going to change. But I like knowing I will be the first and the last to take you.” I pushed my finger inside him up to the first knuckle, a mere inch of intrusion. “Only I will not tell you when, Zion. I will not give you a clue. I will employ the same tactics you did with me. I will tease you, provoke you, rouse you, until you can’t think about anything else but me inside of you.”
My free hand drifted down his side, increment by increment, trailing to his groin.
His pelvis twitched and fists curled—a sign that he was torturously in need of release.
Gripping him, I leisurely stroked upward, twisting around the head, collecting the wetness and tightening my grasp. “That night at Vice, when I said I was taking you for myself, I meant all of you, Zion. I will not settle for less than everything.”
I pumped up and down, relishing how he struggled to keep upright, teetering and leaning into me for balance.
“Your mouth.” I exhaled below his ear, earning a shiver. “Your groans.” Sinking my canines into the side of his neck, certainly leaving a bruise, I licked the traces of my teeth.
There was something about branding your chosen ones in the most primitive way. Claiming them savagely, like a predator. Marking them for all to see. Drowning in the whimpers of your prey.
“Your scars.” Keeping my digit inside him, curling it, I simultaneously stroked him in a way I knew would drive him mad. “And your ass.”
I bit his shoulder to leave another mark, and he thrusted into my fist, once, twice?—
He stilled, trembling as spurts of his cum painted the dresser, the pearly liquid complimenting the gray color of the furniture we had desecrated.
Now, whenever I would enter this bedroom and notice the dresser, the memory of Zion falling apart in my arms was going to surface.
