Chapter 9

CHAPTER 9

He saws in and out of my body, using his cock the way he used the belt before, and the knife before that. To claim me, mark me, prove to me that I belong to him.

And I take all of it. Everything he has to give me.

It feels a little selfish and greedy, to want more and more and more from him.

But his hands are equally greedy on my skin, clutching my sides, hooking his fingers around my hipbones so he can pull me onto his cock, dragging his blunt nails down my back.

His thumbs spread my cheeks wide and his voice is low and wrecked when he says, "Look at that. I'll never get enough of fucking your tight hole, boy."

It's easier now, with our combined sweat and his pre-come slicking the way, but he's still battering at me like a medieval army trying to break through a castle portcullis. His clothes chafe at the welts his belt left and the cuts on my chest sting every time his thrusts jolt me on the bench.

"Stop," I plead. It's not enough yet, though I might be getting close.

"No," he growls.

Not close to orgasm, because the cage keeps all the blood and come that would otherwise fill my dick pooled at the base of my pelvis. But close to a breaking point in my head that I can almost taste .

"Please," I beg. I'm not begging him to stop. I'm not even sure what I'm begging him for. There's something just out of reach and if he keeps using me like this, I might get there.

Even if I'm not sure I want to get there.

"I'm. Not. Done. With. You. Yet." He punctuates each word with a brutal thrust. His cock drags over my prostate every freaking time. I'm overloaded with sensation and emotion and everything I've ever wanted and been afraid to want and never dreamed I could have.

He slaps my ass, hard, right on a particularly tender spot, and I literally howl. There are tears falling from my eyes, along with saliva from my open, gasping mouth, and a pool of fluid collects on the floor beneath the bench.

Two pools, actually, because I'm dripping pre-come despite the constriction of the cage.

"You fight me all you want, boy." He spanks me again, on the other cheek, and that side is only slightly less tender. "But I have you now and I am keeping you."

Oh, thank god. All the fight suddenly drains out of me. I melt into the support of the bench and the security of the straps holding me down.

And he keeps thrusting and shoving and pushing. In and out of me, grinding over my prostate, sanding over all the weaknesses and rough spots in my body and mind and psyche.

"That's it," he says. He drags his big hands down my back and sides, a heavy weight along either side of my spine, and slows down a little. "Just take it, boy. Give in and take all of me."

So, I do. There's nowhere else to go and I can't do anything else.

Something inside my head explodes and my vision whites out completely. I'm quivering in my restraints and he's still pounding into me. My hole is sore and inflamed and it hurts so good , like a bone-deep itch that he's scratching in just the right way.

His thrusts increase in speed and intensity and his hands are everywhere, holding me down, pulling my cheeks farther apart. He cups my caged cock and finally stiffens, his hips flush against my sore ass.

He groans, loud and long, and I can feel his cock pulse inside me. "That's it, boy. I'm done with you now."

Which is when I tip over into the longest, most intense, drawn-out orgasm of my entire life. I'm coming for hours, it seems, or days, maybe, and I'm vaguely aware of a whining sound that I guess is me because Sir is whispering in my ear. I can't make out what he's saying, but it sounds approving and that's what I want more than anything—to be whatever he wants me to be.

When I think it's over, there's a cool puff of air at my spread open hole and warm fingers caressing my cock and balls. He's unlocked the cage and is gently removing it.

All the blood in my body rushes to my cock. "No, please," I whimper. It's too sensitive.

"Yes," he says, implacable.

There's lube and come dribbling out of my hole and I think he swipes his fingers through the mess because when he wraps his hand around my dick, it's wet and slippery, and if I weren't already lying down, tied to this bench, I'd fall over and faint from the lack of blood anywhere but filling my cock.

He jacks me with one hand, fast and brutal, and the fingertips of his other hand trail lightly over my balls. He tugs on them, not enough to hurt, but enough for me to feel it. And then he scoops up the wetness leaking over my taint and shoves two fingers inside my hole.

I come again, hard enough that the straps holding me down dig into my skin. This one is short but intense, sparks flickering behind my closed eyes.

He lets go of my dick as soon as it stops pulsing but cups his open hand over my hole. The aftershocks eventually fizzle out and my breathing gradually returns to normal.

I don't know how long he lets me lie there. I've totally lost track of time. It could be next week, for all I know. There are soft sounds around me—footsteps around the bench I'm strapped to, running water in the distance, a rustling sound like he's digging through the duffel bag he brought with us into the cabin, an ominous metallic clinking noise.

At some point, I feel him squat next to me at the head of the bench. Through my half-open eyes, I can see his spread knees. He's still wearing the same nice slacks he was wearing when he picked me up at the side of the road. I wonder how he managed to fuck me so hard without getting lube and come all over the expensive fabric.

He brings his face next to my ear. "How are you doing there, boy? Ready for more?"

I shake my head. "Red," I murmur without thinking of the consequences.