“Don't make it weird,” Troy said into the pillow.
“Too late.” Rafael positioned himself again, one hand gripping Troy's hip hard enough to bruise, and pushed back in slow and deliberate and Troy arched up against the rope with a broken sound that he didn't bother swallowing. “You can't move your hands.”
“I know that.”
“So you can't do anything. Just have to take it.”
“Yeah.” Troy's voice had dropped to a raw stripped honest thing. “That's the point.”
That's the point. He wanted to be helpless. Wanted to give up control. Wanted someone else to take over completely while he just felt it.
Rafael started moving again, and the rhythm he built this time was slower than before, more deliberate, each thrust rolled out with intention, and the sounds it pulled out of Troy were different now. Deeper. Less controlled. The rope kept his wrists together and his arms extended and every time he pulled against it instinctively he made a sound that went straight through the door and straight through the wall of my chest.
I started stroking again without deciding to.
The pre-come made it slick and easy and I moved my hand slowly to match Rafael's rhythm without meaning to, synchronizing with what I had absolutely no right to be part of, watching Troy's face turn sideways on the pillow, watching his mouth stay open, watching him take everything Rafael gave him and push back for more even with his hands bound.
Every stroke of my hand felt like a betrayal and I couldn't stop. Couldn't look away. Couldn't do anything except stand there and watch my stepson get fucked and stroke myself to the rhythm of it.
Rafael's pace hadn't let up. Long rolling thrusts that had gotten steadily less controlled as the minutes stretched out, each one pulling a sound from Troy that was lower and more ruined than the last. The rope around Troy's wrists kept his arms extended and useless and every time he instinctively tried to move them, tried to get purchase or push back with his hands, he couldn't, and the sound that came out of him at that reminder was one I was going to carry for the rest of my life.
My fist was soaked. I could feel the slickness of it every time my hand moved, warm and obscene, and my cock had beenleaking so consistently and for so long that it had stopped feeling like an event and started feeling like just the baseline state of things. Like my body had made a decision I wasn't consulted about and wasn't going to reverse.
“You're so fucking tight,” Rafael said, his voice wrecked and low.
Troy turned his face into the pillow for a second and then turned it back out, needing air. “Then stop talking about it and do something about it.”
“Yeah?” Rafael pulled back slowly, almost all the way, and then drove forward hard enough that the headboard hit the wall with a crack that made me flinch. Troy's whole body lurched forward with it and he made a sound that wasn't a word, just a raw open noise that dissolved into the sheets.
“That,” Troy said breathlessly. “That. Keep going.”
Rafael kept going.
The pace he built was punishing. Not cruel, nothing like that, but genuine now, the careful deliberateness burned off by friction and want, his hips snapping forward in a rhythm that was all about chasing release. Troy's face was fully sideways on the pillow and I could see his expression clearly in the lamplight, could see the way his mouth stayed open and his brow pulled together and every muscle in his jaw went tight each time Rafael bottomed out.
He was beautiful. The thought arrived without invitation and I couldn't throw it out. My stepson with his wrists bound and his lace pushed to the side and his whole body moving with the force of another man fucking him, and he was the most beautiful thing I'd seen in years and I hated myself comprehensively for noticing.
I stroked myself slower than I wanted to because I didn't want this to end. Didn't want to finish and have to walk away and pretend this hadn't happened.
“Touch me,” Troy said, and there was an edge of desperation in it now. “Raf, come on, I need a hand.”
“Can't.” Rafael sounded pleased about it. “Your hands are tied.”
“Then you do it.”
Rafael reached around. Got his hand around Troy's cock, still in that awkward sideways angle with the lace gathered at his hip, and the sound Troy made when Rafael's fist closed around him was a bitten-off curse that he immediately tried to muffle and couldn't. His hips stuttered, caught between pushing back into Rafael and pushing forward into his hand, and he made a frustrated desperate noise at not being able to do both properly.
I wanted to be the one stroking him. Wanted my hand wrapped around his cock while I fucked him, wanted to feel him hard and leaking in my palm, wanted to hear those sounds directed at me.
“Stop thinking,” Rafael said against his shoulder. “Just feel it.”
“I'm trying, you're not making it easy.”
“Not trying to make it easy.”
Troy made a sound that was almost a laugh and turned into a moan halfway through, and Rafael's hand moved on him slowly and maddeningly while his hips kept up their pace, and I watched the point where those two rhythms met tear Troy apart incrementally. His thighs were shaking. I could see it from here, the fine tremor in his legs, the way his arms pulled against the rope not because he was trying to get free but because he needed pressure to pull against.
“I'm gonna—” Troy started then stopped.
