“Knew you were a freak the second I saw you.”
The rope jerks hard. It lashes up against my thigh, biting into the skin with a raw burn that makes me hiss through my teeth. My leg trembles, wide open now, as he ties it down and out, making me vulnerable and displayed.
But he’s smiling.
“Always the quiet ones,” I mutter. “You fuckers are the worst.”
He pulls a rope and my body drops into a horizontal position—suspended perfectly parallel to the floor, like a puppet held mid-air. My face is tilted slightly down. My ass raised, centered at the perfect height for someone to step in behind and fuck me. I feel the air kiss my hole.
Naoya-san circles me, then stops in front of my face.
“Open.”
I do. Mouth slack, tongue flat, and let him push the ring gag in. It stretches my jaw, makes my eyes sting for a second withhow much it fucking hurts. My lips strain around the metal, spit already dripping out the corner of my mouth.
Then he takes out two little bells, delicate and silver, and loops them around my wrists. I hear the softtinkleas he fastens them. He wraps my hand closed around them.
“These are your safeword now. You can’t speak, so if you want it to stop,open your fist. Make the bells ring.”
He steps away and I don’t know where he goes at first, if things will already start or if he will stay close. But then he’s back in my periphery, holding long, shimmering strips of condoms—maybe five, maybe six of them, each lined with a dozen small silver packets. A fucking ammo belt made for fucking.
He starts tucking the strips into the rope web spread over my thighs. One hangs against the outside of my leg, another he slips under a tight band running close to my groin. My heart kicks hard, the same way it does when I fight, when I kill, when I’m on the edge of going too far. But this isn’t a knife in my hand. It’smebeing handed over, dressed up in rope and shame and the sound of bells that will never come.
“No excuses,” he says to me.
He touches my face once, gently, thumb caressing my cheek, and then he steps back, sitting on the chair in the corner of our platform, one leg crossed over the other like he’s watching a fucking opera or some shit.
That’s when I feel the hands.
Everywhere.
I can’t even tell how many, where they come from, who they belong to. I don’t fucking care. They’re warm, eager, greedy, gliding over every part of me like I’m not human—just a body, a toy, a gift. Fingers dig into the meat of my thighs, spread mewider, palm the curve of my ass, stroke the rope-sheathed length of my cock with hunger.
Fingers part my ass and a mouth—fucking holy shit—presses down there. I can’t see who it is, but I feel the tongue contouring the rim of my hole. It licks slow circles, then pushes in shallow, wiggling as it works me open and then the mouthsucks.My brain blanks out for a second, just white noise and breath and heat. There’s a smirk in that mouth, and whoever it is, they’re having a fucking feast down there.
Another person steps in front of me, cock already hard and wrapped in latex. He grips my hair and angles himself to my mouth. I can’t move, can’t turn my head, can’t even protest—not that I fucking would, honestly. My jaw is locked open, saliva dripping already, the ring gag holding me wide.
I gag when he shoves his cock in my throat without care. My eyes water.
I look at Naoya-san while my mouth is being fucked by someone else. He’s watching from his chair, legs still crossed, one finger tapping against his thigh slowly.Counting, maybe.Judging. Deciding if those people are worthy of putting their hands—or mouths—or cocks—onhisthing.
The person at my ass is stretching me open now, fingers digging in, spreading lube, nails scraping a little too hard. I moan and the cock in my mouth slides deeper, making me drool all over it, spit stringing down my chin to the floor. Fingers circle my bound cock, teasing, and it pulses, already aching under the tight red rope. I can’t come. No one can make me come. I only now realize what I agreed to.
Someone else joins. Another body. A slap to my thigh. Nails dragging over my ribs. More mouths. I don’t know how many there are now. Three? Four? Does it matter? My body is open territory.
Someone clamps their hands over my hips and licks a stripe up my inner thigh, right beside where the rope’s digging in deep. It burns and tingles. And then they bite, hard enough to make my back jolt in the suspension.
A different set of hands cups my ass and spreads me wider, like I wasn’t already completely fucking exposed. My skin’s slick now, sweat clinging in patches, spit smeared everywhere. One of them dips something cold against my hole—ice?—and the sudden jolt of it makes my muscles seize up. They push it in slowly, melting as it goes, burning and numbing.
Fuck.
What the fuck.
The cock that was using my mouth leaves with a pop, and another hand is already yanking my hair in the opposite direction, pulling me hard to the left. With my neck screaming, eyes tearing, spit flying, I’m dragged face-first onto another cock, thicker and longer. This one rubs rough over my tongue, and they fuck my mouth in lazy thrusts like they got all the time in the world.
Someone’s licking my toes. Another is tracing their tongue up my spine, where it curves between the rope harness. I feel something trail across my chest, something feathery. Soft ends teasing, flicking my nipples. Someone else pinches one between their fingers and twists, and I try to yell, but it’s impossible with a cock down my throat, drool gushing down my chin.
The man with the ice fingers presses in deeper, curling them in just the right spot, rubbing the ice inside me and fuck—yeah, it makes me jerk forward in the ropes, makes me grunt around the thick cock stuffed halfway down my throat. The ice fuckinghurts, stabs cold into nerves that weren’t made for that kind of thing.
