2

-NORTH-

WHEN MALsaid he wanted to control all aspects of my life, I didn't think he meant healthy eating and morning exercise. I was thinking more along the lines of, I don't know, hot sex at all hours of the day. Serving him with my body at the drop of a hat. The idea had been scary in a kinky way.

Not practical stuff. Not healthy stuff. This is torture, but not the fun sexy kind. What the hell have I done to deserve this?

I groan as I run a few paces away from him. Dressed in expensive-looking track clothes, his ass sways as he runs in front of me, his built arms pumping. But even that view can't cheer me up. The sun has just started to peek over the horizon, and it's a glorious fucking morning. One that I shouldn't have to see because I should still be asleep.

It's not like I don't exercise, of course I do, I'm the star of the football team and I'm fit as hell. I just don't do it at stupid o'clock in the morning.

"Why are we doing this again?" I ask. The dew-soaked grass soaks my socks and the bottom of my sweatpants.

"Because it's good for you," he says.

That's the second time this morning he's said that. What exactly is his plan here? How does being my personal trainer feed into his sexual gratification? Does he just get off on tormenting me?

I huff out a breath. Actually yeah, what am I saying? Of course he does. That's definitely it.

"How long are we gonna do this for?" Maybe I can go back to bed once we've wrapped this up.

"For as long as I say so," he snaps. He's starting to sound more irritated than usual.

I grumble.

We run across an open field of grass toward a densely packed forest. When we reach the edge of the trees, I slow, expecting him to say it's time to turn back, but he carries right on, finding a path that snakes through the trees. He must run here often. He probably does it every morning.

After a while, though, he weaves off the path entirely, heading into the packed trunks and undergrowth. I follow him, grumbling inside my head. What is this, all-terrain running? I haven't got the right shoes for this. It's not until we're completely out of sight from the path that he stops.

"Come here," he says.

Now what? I obey, expecting him to make me drink some other healthy sludge, or drop and give him twenty. Instead, he backs me up against a tree and fits his hand around my throat. I gulp, my blood suddenly rushing in my ears.

"I've had just about enough of your bratty whining. If I say run, you shut up and run." His face is inches from mine, his eyes hot. His breath brushes against my cheek, minty and fresh. "I'm this close to bending you over and spanking your ass raw right here, but I'll give you one more chance to impress me. We're going to play a little game; you run, as fast as you can, and if I catch you . . ." he moves against me, and I can feel the hard length of his erection against my hip suggestively. "Understand?"

Holy Jesus Christ, this is more like it. He pauses, waiting for my response, and I gulp again and nod.

He lets go. "Run."

I take off at the speed of light, kicking up dirt and leaves behind me. As I put some distance between us, my pulse racing, I glance behind. He's just standing there watching me with those dark predator eyes, giving me a head start, and it sends a thrill through me that grounds in my caged cock. That look tells me everything I need to know; no matter how fast I run he's going to catch me, and then he's going to do whatever he wants to me.

Then he comes after me, arms pumping, long powerful legs a blur of motion. His body moving like a well-oiled machine. Fuck, he's hot.

I run as fast as I can. I want him to catch me, but I also want the chase, the thrill of being hunted, of giving it my all and still being beaten.

As we play a game of cat and mouse through the trees, I actually feel the thrill of fear, like I'm a rabbit running from a wolf. But this wolf already owns me, and I know it.

I'm fast, but his legs are longer than mine, and it isn't long before I can hear him only a pace behind me, nipping at my heels. I risk a glance over my shoulder, and he's there, almost on top of me, teeth bared in a silent growl. He's so close he could reach out and grab me now, but he doesn't, drawing the hunt out, toying with me.

I try to dodge to the side and then backstep around him, like I do in football when I'm trying to lose an opponent, but the unfamiliar rough ground trips me and he throws an arm out and catches me around the waist. I lose my feet, and then he barrels me into a tree. Before I know what's happening, I'm against the trunk, my arms are pulled up over my head, and cold metal clicks around my wrists, holding them in place. I gasp and look up. He's got me handcuffed to a thin branch above my head.

He brought the handcuffs? I look at him, my mouth open. He was planning this all along.

"That's right," he hisses in my ear and his fingers tangle in my hair, pulling my head back. "You're mine, any place, any time. And I'm going to remind you of that."

He tugs the neck of my top to one side and closes his mouth on the sensitive spot where my neck meets my shoulder. He sucks the flesh between his lips and bites down, working and rolling my skin as he fumbles my sweatpants down with his other hand. Then I'm bare, the cool breeze brushing my cock and balls as I moan at the feel of his possessive mouth marking me.

He sticks two fingers into my mouth, getting me to suck on them briefly, and then rubs the spit between my cheeks on the tight circle of my asshole. I move my hips, trying to get the digits inside, and he spanks my ass hard.

"Keep still."

I bite down on my lip and try to hold my groan in. Fuck, I love it a bit too much when he disciplines me, but I don't want him to know. Knowing him, he'd probably stop doing it.

He returns his fingers to my ass and then works them inside me, stretching me out one digit at a time, until I'm breathing heavily with my eyes squeezed shut.

He spits into his hands and then holds it under my mouth. I look at him, confused.

"Spit," he says.

Thank fuck for that, for a moment there I thought he was going to make me lick it up. Which actually, oh no, is kinda hot.

I spit a wad of saliva into his hand, where it mixes with his.

"Good boy."

A tingle ripples through me, from the top of my head to my sack. Why do I get such a visceral reaction to any kind of praise from him? Probably because it's so rare.

He sticks his hand down the front of his joggers, and takes his cock out, slicking it with our spit. He pumps his stiff length a few times, then rubs the head of his cock at the crease of my leg between my crotch and thigh. I grit my teeth as my cock tries to harden in its cage, only to strain against the metal and soften again.

He slides his dick up and down and I groan in my throat. Then he crouches and hooks his hands around my knees, hoists my legs up onto his shoulders, so my sweatpants and boxers are hooked over the back of his neck, and I'm hanging, back pressed against the tree, half my weight supported by the rough bark, my other half braced against his front.

Gripping my hips hard, he pumps his dick up and down a few times slowly, then spits again into his other hand and starts to finger my asshole.

He picks up the pace, rubbing his cock against my own caged dick, and sliding his fingers in and out of my hole until I jerk against the tree with every thrust, the bark rough against my back and my hair sticking to my face.

The fact that I can't come, or even get hard, is so fucking hot. He's using me for his pleasure, taunting me with my inability to release, and I get nothing in return. I'm just a hole for him to use and tease. A walking fucktoy. His finger slides against my sweet spot and I whine and rut against him.

The bumping of his cock on the bars of my cage is a pathetic amount of stimulation, but it feels so fucking good.

He fucks into me, his long finger repeatedly sliding on my prostate until I'm gasping.

"This is what you get when you're a brat," he says through clenched teeth. "Do you want to come?"

I nod. God, I want to come so bad.

"Well, I'm not going to let you. You haven't earned it yet. You only get to come when I say so."

The pure humiliation of being denied, while being finger fucked up against a tree where anyone passing by can see me, is enough to almost make me come anyway. The pressure in my balls is immense as my cock strains.

He speeds up, sliding his cock against my cage in a frenzy, fucking his fingers in deep and hard. His hips stammer, then he stiffens, hunches, and releases up my stomach, moaning, and mouths at the hickey mark on my neck. The noises he makes when he loses control, on the wave of orgasm, sound so good. I want more of them, I want to see that control slip for good.

It doesn't last long though. His body melts, then he visibly collects himself again and tucks himself away. He lowers my legs and pulls my sweatpants up, leaving his cum marking me under my clothes, and releases me from the handcuffs. I fall back against the tree, achingly aroused, as he checks my wrists. My skin tingles where he touches my half-numb hands. His pale skin is flushed, his eyelashes lowered against his cheeks. My heart is hammering far too fast and it's making me feel reckless.

He's had his fun, now it's my turn. I was going to save it up for the best moment, but fuck it, I want it now.

Mal drops my hands, slipping the cuffs back into his pocket.

"Now, the next time I tell you to—"

I grab him by the front of his top, cutting him off, and push him against the tree, switching our positions.

His eyes, still heavy with his orgasm, widen as I kiss him hard.