Of Being Yours[another way 2] (2 page)

I knelt at his feet where he’d stopped, and resumed my previous position. When I was once again still and silent, he moved to the wall and selected several lengths of red climbing rope. I rose to my feet when he snapped his fingers at me, and he walked around me to begin enclosing my body in the ropes. I braced my feet so I wouldn’t stumble.

Master had a collection of different ropes, mostly either red or black, which complemented my softly tanned skin and blond hair. Sometimes he used plain hemp, which seemed to blend into my skin tone but itched and left red marks where it chafed against me. Sometimes that was the point.

It took a while for Master to work the rope in a diamond pattern across my torso and knot it in various places. When my upper body was enclosed, he threaded the long ends through the D rings attached to my cuffs. With sure hands he helped me lean back into the sling that had replaced nearly all uses of our old padded table. I settled into it comfortably, knowing where to position my weight so that I was evenly balanced as he suspended me from a beam in the ceiling. As soon as I was settled, he tied off the ropes behind my back, ensuring I couldn’t move.

There were a few positions I could be manipulated into while lying in the swing; the main straps supported my spine, but my shoulders, arms, and legs could be tied off in different ways. Tonight Master pushed my knees almost to my shoulders and tied them to one of the support ropes.

Positions like this made me uncomfortable and he knew it. I could handle having my body stretched out, but being curled in on myself increased my sense of claustrophobia. I felt aggrieved for a moment, that he would choose this position when he knew I didn’t like it.

I shut those thoughts down.

This was what serving him meant.

It wasn’t what I wanted, but it was what he wanted of me.

Like this, I was spread for him, my legs obscenely wide and the backs of my thighs presented to his touch. I expected the whip and was pleasantly surprised when he chose a soft leather multitailed flogger instead. He trailed it over the curve of my ass, gently stroking my balls with the falls, then whipping my thighs and calves.

I caught his eye and he gave me an extra-hard smack for that. I cried out and grasped at the ropes at my wrists as I writhed away from the pain.

“Relax,” he told me as he returned the flogger to the wall. “It’s going to hurt a lot more in a moment.”

I believed him and shut my eyes, taking long, deep breaths while pulling experimentally on each of my bonds in turn. I couldn’t break free, of course, but this testing of my restraints and relearning of my own limitations helped me absorb the pain in my ass and thighs. From the initial sting, the pain had dulled to a gentle, warm throb. It was just enough to keep me floating happily in my subspace.

The sound of a match striking made me jump. Fire play was definitely something in my Red zone—I wasn’t comfortable with that sort of stimulation at all. Both my Master and I had decided a long time ago that we weren’t going to leave permanent marks on my body, be that by needles or knives or fire. I forced myself to keep my eyes closed, even as my heart rate accelerated, and demanded that my rational mind remember that he would never do anything like that without my express permission beforehand.

“Good boy,” he murmured from between my legs. So he’d returned. “You can open your eyes.”

Master had turned down the overhead lights but was lit up by the soft glow of a white candle he held up to my line of sight. I swallowed.

“Do you know what I’m going to do with this?” he asked.

“I have a good idea, Sir,” I murmured.

“You’re a clever boy,” he said, smirking. “I’m sure you’ve figured it out.”

Several other candles were lit around the room, their hot wax melting slowly. Master ran his free hand up and down the inside of my thigh, slapping lightly in a few places to arouse me further. My cock was still half hard from his earlier flogging; now, with this new treat to look forward to, it was filling again.

“Different colors burn at different temperatures,” Master said softly. “I have a few to experiment with. These are BDSM candles, so they won’t burn you.”

I nodded and took another deep breath.

He didn’t ask if I was ready, just ran his hand down my flank and tipped the candle until a single drop of pearly white wax landed on the back of my thigh. I had braced myself to scream and was pleasantly surprised when the noise that my throat emitted was actually a long groan of pleasure.

The heat was concentrated for a moment, burning against my already reddened skin, but it soon cooled, setting hard and trapping the fine hair on my legs. Master let the next drop fall on the other leg, then trailed a long line from the sensitive skin on the inside of my knee to the equally sensitive skin on the inside of my thigh.

Then I did howl. The hot liquid ran for just an inch or so before solidifying, abstractly tickling the hairs on my legs and burning my skin at the same time, pain and softness and pleasure all rolling together.

Master had used all of the melted wax from the first candle and set it back down on the floor to burn down some more. He chose a red candle next. I was panting for breath, the sound loud in my ears as I watched with equal trepidation and anticipation for the next hot spill.

Red layered over white with little splashes no bigger than the size of a dime, each a little pinprick of hot pleasure that stung and warmed my skin. After red came black, then back to white as the natural color of my thighs was overlaid with layer on layer of soft wax.

I waited with a vaguely masochistic enthusiasm for the candles to be dripped over more sensitive areas of my body; by now Master had coated nearly all of my inner thighs but had yet to let the hot liquid touch my cock or balls.

When Master picked up the black candle again, I was reduced to a whimpering mess, tears streaming down my cheeks, although I wasn’t sure why—this was one of the best sessions we’d had together in a long while. My cock was leaking against my stomach, a sticky mess that was somehow more uncomfortable than the torture he was inflicting on my thighs.

“I should have gagged you,” Master said as he teased me with the edge of the candle, not letting the wax fall. “I knew you wouldn’t be able to keep quiet for this.”

“Please,” I begged. “Please.”

He sighed heavily. “Oh, all right.”

Master walked around the ropes to my left side and poured a large puddle of wax onto my nipple. I screamed then; the sensation was too much like pain for that brief moment before it solidified. He gave my other nipple the same treatment before resuming his place between my legs, looking down on me with an expression of mixed pride and disdain.

I waited, whimpering, for the next stage, wondering if he’d bring me to orgasm or leave me to messily jerk myself off in the corner once he was done. He’d done that the week before, leaving me feeling dirty and humiliated and loving him all the more for it.

For all of my begging for the wax on my cock or balls, I’d never got off on them being tortured, and Master knew this. He replaced the candles on the floor while I was still catching my breath, then opened his jeans and pushed them down off his hips far enough to release his cock.

He smirked at my desperate whimper, pushing my hips up toward him despite the fact that I was already aching. He reached for a pot of lube and smeared it over me, pushing a finger inside to work it around and stretch me a little before rubbing more on his cock and positioning it at my asshole.

“Tell me you want it,” he commanded.

“Please,” I begged. “Please. I want it.”

“Want what?”

Master rubbed the head of his cock over my hole, not pushing in but teasing me more.

“I want your cock. I want it inside me.”

“Good boy,” he said, took hold of my ankles, and pushed in with a hard thrust.

I had no idea I was so close to coming, but the entire session, the slow buildup from the ropes, the flogging and the wax—
oh fuck
, the wax—had brought me right to the edge already. Master noticed.

“Don’t you fucking dare come without permission, Jesse,” he said.

“Won’t, Sir,” I said through gritted teeth.

He pulled out and slammed back in again, grunting with the effort. I forced myself not to arch into his thrusts, knowing that this would only align my prostate with the end of his cock and make it even harder for me to ward off my orgasm.

Within moments his balls were slapping an insistent rhythm against my ass as he pounded into me, and I could feel the wax breaking up as he manipulated my body underneath him. I watched, because he hadn’t told me I wasn’t allowed to, the sweat shining on his torso from both the heat in the room and the physical exertion of fucking me.

“Please, Sir, I need to come,” I begged him again.

“Wait…,” he said. Then: “With me.”

That was the permission I was waiting for; I knew his face and his body well enough to be able to tell when he was right on the edge. When he gripped my ankles tighter and his thrusts grew faster, I allowed myself to arch into the sensation, and moments after he cried out, spilling inside me, I found my own release.

Blood was still pounding in my ears as I came down from the massive orgasm that had shaken me all over, leaving me to catalogue all of the delicious aches and pains that I was able to take away from the session. Within a minute or so, Master had untied my hands and helped me out of the sling.

I fell forward into his arms and found a patch of skin between his neck and shoulder to nuzzle into, then turned my head to find his kiss. He smiled as our lips met and stroked my hair and the back of my neck.

“Can you stand while I take the ropes off?” he asked. “Or do you want to kneel?”

“I can stand,” I told him.

My mind was still floating along the edge of my subspace, giving me lots of warm, fuzzy feelings of being loved and cared for. Master rubbed down my wrists and arms as the ropes fell free, then roughly rubbed at the now dried wax on my legs to break it up a little.

“Um, Will?” I asked in a small voice.

“Yeah?”

“How the hell do we get this stuff off?”

Chapter 2

I
T
WAS
a party for a good cause, academically I knew that, but I just couldn’t get my head around the theme.

One of Seattle’s underground gay icons had been the victim of a horrific homophobic attack that had left him with partial blindness in one eye and severe internal damage. Naturally the media had a field day with the story, and the gay scene rallied around to try to raise money for the hospital bills. By having a party.

A big drag queen-themed party.

“It’ll be fun,” Will insisted as we shopped for size fourteen stilettos.

I rolled my eyes and discarded a pink pair that he’d held up. “Fun. Right.”

“Oh, lighten up.” He laughed, shoving me in the shoulder good-naturedly.

“I’m light,” I insisted. “Positively breezy, in fact.”

Will grabbed my shoulders and pulled me around to face him. He was frowning. “If you have a problem with this, we don’t have to do it. I can write a nice check and send it on and we can spend the night alone in front of the TV with a pizza. If that’s what you want, then we’ll do it. Just stop sulking, you big fucking baby.”

I pouted. Then leaned forward and kissed him quickly. “I’ll do it. No pink.”

The shopping trip continued with a visit to Hefty Honeys for outrageous dresses, then to a costume rental place for wigs.

“I can’t believe you talked me into this,” I murmured as we headed back to the car to unload all of the bags before we went for dinner.

He just laughed. “I’m sure you don’t mind that much. I’ll buy dinner and make it up to you.”

In the years we’d been “official,” Will and I had definitely settled into a comfortable relationship where we bickered as much as we laughed—although both usually ended with us in bed together. He was my best friend and confidante, still my Master, my boyfriend to the outside world.

The trunk of our car was full of dresses, shoes, and makeup, which made it look like something belonging to a high school prom queen (no pun intended) instead of two men. Two butch, masculine men.

One of whom needed a beer.

We headed to our favorite bar without needing to discuss where we were going. Another benefit of a long relationship.

The waitress took us to a booth with a good view of the TV, and I held up a hand to stop Will from speaking.