Rachel Haimowitz & Cat Grant - [Power Play 1] (42 page)

headed downstairs. He heard a muffled bumping noise on the other

side of the cubby door as he opened it. Brandon was over in the far

corner, hunched down on his knees.

“Get up,” Jonathan snapped. It didn’t take more than a second for

Brandon to comply. It never ceased to amaze him how pliant continual

misery could make a man, even one as bul headed as Brandon. He

gave Brandon a push as he came through the door, shoving the man

ahead of him into the dungeon.

Then he gestured toward the leather sling over by the cross. One

of the few items in the dungeon Brandon hadn’t yet had the pleasure

of experiencing. Shame his first time in it would be so negative, but

alas, the Fun Ship Sex-Swing had sailed long ago.

“Climb in,” Jonathan said. Brandon just looked at it sideways,

likely trying to figure out how. “It’s just like a swing.” He patted the

thick rectangle of leather that would support Brandon’s back. “Hop

up here. Then lie back and lift your legs, feet in the stirrups.”

Brandon’s eyes narrowed, but he did as told, grabbing hold of the

chains supporting the lower end of the sling and boosting himself up.

He winced, swallowed back a gasp as his welted backside planted on

the leather, winced again as he laid back. Jonathan could physically

see him psyching himself up to put his feet in the stirrups. He had
to

be wondering what Jonathan was going to do to him, had to figure it

was sexual. Certainly figured—if his expression was anything to go

by—that he wasn’t going to enjoy it at al .

Yet still he lifted his legs into the stirrups. He knew by now: better

to do it himself than make Jonathan shock him into submission with

the stun gun.

“Scoot down,” Jonathan said, “so your ass is half off the sling.”

Brandon obeyed with hesitance but not hesitation, and Jonathan

clipped his ankle cuffs to the stirrups, then buckled leather straps

around his calves and thighs, keeping his knees raised and his legs

spread wide. Two more straps around Brandon’s hips and chest,

taking away his ability to squirm. Brandon’s arms, however, he left

slack, bent at the elbows, wrist cuffs snapped to the back support

chains. Plenty of room for him to struggle there, for all the good it

would do him.

Jonathan turned back to the toy rack, watching Brandon watching

him out of the corner of one eye as he reached for a bottle of lubricant

and a pair of latex gloves. Snapped the gloves on, one by one, while

panic chased the near-constant haze from Brandon’s wide green eyes.

He started squirming, setting the whole contraption to rattling, but

that thing could hold a ful -grown bear—no pun intended—and

Brandon was no match for it.

Still, it was a fun mind-fuck—and from the look on Brandon’s

face, it seemed to have done the trick. Start out with him frightened,

and it would only get more effective from there.

Brandon’s fear seemed to settle into apprehension as Jonathan

flipped open the cap on the lube and squeezed some into his hand.

More than he’d ever used when they’d fucked—enough to soak his

whole hand and drip-drip-drip onto the dungeon floor. Probably

more than he needed to begin with, since he’d taken to keeping

Brandon plugged more or less 24/7 these past days.

Sure enough, when he removed the cock-sized plug, his first two

fingers replaced it without any trouble. So he added a third, and got

a stifled groan—but was it pleasure, or pain?

Normally he would’ve worked his way in slowly, but today he

didn’t intend for this to be pleasurable in the slightest. So he brought

the tips of all four fingers together and
pushed
. They slid to the first

knuckle before he encountered resistance. Then he folded his thumb

in and pushed some more.

Brandon cried out, bit his lip, gripped the chains so hard the

entire swing shimmied.

“Relax,” Jonathan singsonged, “or this is really going to hurt.” He

punctuated his taunt with a hard thrust, working his fingers in to the

second knuckle. Brandon did the exact opposite, of course, bucking

up beneath him, trying—and failing—to get away from Jonathan’s

invading hand.

“This is going inside you one way or the other, so you might as

well stop fighting me.”

Brandon lifted his head just long enough to glare at Jonathan, but

he said nothing. Had gotten very, very good at saying nothing this

past week, in fact. Still, shame colored his cheeks, and pain tightened

the lines around his eyes and mouth. Such a pretty picture; too bad

Jonathan felt like too much of an ass to enjoy it.

But Brandon was ripe for the pushing, Jonathan was sure of

it. One more little fist-shaped nudge and he’d be out of here. He’d

safeword for the last time, and he’d leave.

Jonathan forced said fist in a little deeper, halfway to the third

knuckle, and smiled placidly at Brandon’s bared teeth.

“I think when I’ve got my whole fist in there, I’ll shove my cock

in beside it. Think you’d like that, Brandon?”

It was a direct question, and Brandon knew better than not to

answer those now. In fact, Jonathan knew how close to breaking

Brandon had come by his answer: a plaintive “Please don’t, Jonathan.”

No heat, no fury . . . and no safeword.

At least not yet.

Jonathan sighed and wedged his hand in further with a swift,

brutal thrust. Right up to the third knuckle, and Brandon’s own

knuckles went white around the swing’s chains, head rol ing back

against the leather to bare his sweaty throat. Tempting to bite it, but

he’d have to pull his hand out, and he wasn’t willing to give Brandon

the respite. He twisted his wrist instead, right and left and right

again, forcing his knuckles up against Brandon’s hole, making every

effort to keep his scrunched-up fingers away from Brandon’s prostate.

Brandon coughed out a cry, groaned deep in his chest, the ring of

muscle clamping tight around Jonathan’s fingers.

“You’re not doing yourself any favors,” Jonathan said, twisting his

hand back and forth again, again. He paused to squirt on more lube,

not that he thought he needed it, but still . . . Brandon was
fighting

him, and he didn’t want to tear the man.

He kept going, rocking his hand back and forth, trying to ease

in a bit further, but the base of his thumb proved tricky. And with

Brandon resisting him, getting in all the way was going to be tough.

Jonathan’s wrist and triceps already ached with the effort of holding

himself steady. He pulled out, removed his thumb from the equation

and pushed back in with four fingers. They slid in up to the third

knuckle, but Brandon still whimpered like he’d been rammed with a

mace. Was this as far as he could go? As far as Brandon would let
him

go? Was Brandon
ever
going to safeword, or did he need to switch

tacks?

He let his hand slide free, then turned to the toy rack. Picked

up his violet wand and an intimidatingly large attachable glass probe

with a bulbous head.

“Would you prefer this?” he asked, plugging in the wand and

waving it, sparking electric purple like a Tesla coil, in front of Brandon’s

face. He dipped the probe below Brandon’s navel, held it an inch or

so above the freshly shaved skin there and let the electricity arc in a

bright, noisy, tortuously painful spark. Brandon yelped, jerked, face

twisting with panic as the swing rocked and Jonathan lowered the

probe again. He didn’t let it arc this time, just took hold of the swing

to steady it, leaned into Brandon’s line of sight, and said, “Just for

clarity? This goes
inside
you.”

Brandon swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. Shivering

in the swing.

“So,” Jonathan said, “Would you prefer this inside you, or my

hand?”

Brandon licked his lips. “Y-your hand, Jonathan.”

“What
about
my hand?”

Yes, I really
am
going to make you say it. So
say it,
you mulish ass.

Brandon’s face went the color of rice paper, but for two hot

splotches of pink on his cheeks. “I . . . I want your hand inside me . . .

Jonathan.”

“There’s a good boy.” Jonathan unplugged the violet wand and laid

it aside, reached for the lube. Made a long, leisurely show of slicking

up his hand again, then slid it between Brandon’s cheeks. Went all

the way in, thumb included, up to the third knuckle before he met

serious resistance. The base of his thumb was still being stubborn, and

this time it wasn’t because of Brandon. Or at least, Brandon wasn’t

deliberately
fighting him anymore.

So he pushed again. And again. Brandon groaned and whimpered,

still grabbing the chains so hard Jonathan was surprised he hadn’t

taken all the skin off his palms. Another push, and he earned another

quarter inch, the base of his thumb now lodged halfway inside

Brandon. It looked exquisitely painful, clearly was by the sounds

Brandon was making, the rapid hitching of his shoulders and chest.

And would the man please hurry up and safeword before

Jonathan’s arm gave out?

“Just a little further,” Jonathan said, and then, lest Brandon think

the ordeal was nearly through, “And then I’ll work my cock up right

up next to it, fuck you
and my own fist at the same time.”

He had to admit, the idea held appeal. Except for the part where

he was fairly certain Brandon’s muscles would shear his cock clear off

if he tried to wedge it in there beside his hand.

Well, what he doesn’t know won’t soothe him.

He gave another hard shove, forced his hand in nearly to the

base of his thumb. Brandon cried out, arched up beneath him, arms

and legs spasming, chest pressing up against the strap that held him.

“Fuck!” he shouted, voice watery and cracked and so far past broken

Jonathan just wanted to wrap him in a blanket and feed him soup.

But he kept pushing, gave his hand a little twist, and Brandon cried

out again, rasped, “Stop! Fuck! You’re fucking ripping me in half!”

Not quite, no, but Jonathan could imagine how it might feel that

way. He grabbed the strap around Brandon’s hips with his free hand,

I realize now what you

used it to leverage Brandon forward onto his fist as he tried to muscle

it deeper, and the next fraction of an inch earned him a scream, and

finally,
at last
, “Red! Fuck, please,
red
!”

Jonathan slid his hand out as gently as he could, but still Brandon

choked back a sob. He thought about fucking that loosened hole,

but he’d lost his erection at some point in this whole mess and didn’t

much care to coax it back. Maybe he’d just leave Brandon in the swing

a while. Maybe he’d—

“Let me up,” Brandon said, his voice so rough it came out barely

audible. Jonathan met his eyes, and Brandon added, “I mean it. Let

me out of this thing.”

No
Jonathan
at the end of either of those demands. Dare he

hope . . .? “Are you ready to go home, then?”

Brandon held his gaze a long, weighted moment, the muscles in

his jaw clenching. “Yes.”

Thank. Fucking. God.

CHAPTER
20

randon trudged up the five flights of stairs to his apartment, his

legs screaming with each step. His whole body
screaming. There

wasn’t an inch of skin below the neck Jonathan hadn’t marked. Even

the soles of his feet were bruised. He couldn’t wait to take some

aspirin, sleep in his own bed, eat a meal with his own two hands. Even

cold ravioli out of a can sounded pretty fucking good right now.

He fumbled his keys out of his pocket with rubbery fingers. God,

was he ever gonna stop shaking? His wrists ached down to the bone,

deep purplish marks peeking out from the sleeve of his jacket.

He’d just managed to wrestle the key into the lock when the door

across the hall swung open. “Bran, where have you been?” Mrs. Chan’s

face lit up with a smile. “You left without saying a word, and—” Her

gaze dropped to his exposed wrist, and her eyes went wide. “Are you