Sex in C Major

Stefan touched the cotton, and hesitated.

Was he...supposed to put it on?

But why? Daz had said he wasn't going to be allowed his clothes. Were they going out again later?

Stefan picked up the T-shirt and shuffled downstairs with it. The kitchen was empty. Daz's boots weren't in the hall. He paused before going into the living room, the combination of hunger and curiosity driving him to disturb the thunderstorm -but found, rather than a mood, Yannis was merely practising a set piece, and paused the crashing waves of notes when Stefan held out the T-shirt

"What?"

"This was left on the bed."

"It's yours, isn't it?"

"Well...yes, but I thought I wasn't allowed clothes."

"Darian felt you've earned them back. You can wear what you want."

"Anything I want?"

"Yes. Although of course he expects ready access whenever he wants so I wouldn't try to use them as a shield if I were you."

Stefan twisted the cotton, staring at it.

"I can just...wear it?"

"Yes."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"You're not trying to get me in trouble?"

"Why would I care if you're in trouble or not?" Yannis pointed out.

Stefan cracked a faint smile.

"I don't know...amusement?"

"The amount of fluids that get plastered around the place when you're in trouble is not funny," Yannis said waspishly and made a shooing motion with the bow. "He's had to pop into work to help with an order that's come in. Go and make yourself breakfast, I'm not your carer. Just wash up when you're done."

Stefan retreated to the kitchen. It was chilly, and had been scrubbed down recently. It smelled of antibacterial spray.

He shivered. Goosebumps rose on his naked skin and under the cool metal of the ankle cuffs.

He shoved the T-shirt over his head, and decided on eggs. 43

Slowly, Stefan settled into his new routine.

As winter turned into spring, and the bleak little back garden was punctured with gaudy daffodils and bright tulips, Stefan found the new edges to his world becoming a comfort, rather than a punishing restriction.

He was rarely allowed out, but for trips to the doctor's surgery and the Jobcentre, and was always strictly escorted. But within the house, as the days got longer and warmer, he was slowly allowed more freedoms and control.

And yet...he found he didn't want them.

After his clothes were returned to him, he found himself only wearing T-shirts to hide his breasts, and socks to keep his feet warm. Everything else, he left naked. The rub of cloth on his body felt alien after so long without, and he found an odd, sick peace when Daz would push open his thighs without warning and take him wherever and whenever he pleased. The interference-the delay, even of Daz having to remove clothes first felt wrong, and so Stefan left his jeans and underwear abandoned, despite the permission to use them again.

He was still locked into rooms or his cage when they went out, but being chained to the mantelpiece or bedposts during the day began to cease as well...and yet Stefan found himself staying in place anyway, habitually kneeling on the rug when they had no use for him, and waiting to be wanted again. He felt calmest there. Purposeful. Required.

The music experiments got more intense, and oddly worse. Those bars from the shed were played at the beginning of every time now, until Stefan could come on the noise alone. He was attached to the keyboard twice more to play himself into exhaustion, and then dragged to the floor and fucked until he blacked out on his master's dick. One weekend at the end of February, Daz even set up a toy to fuck Stefan for him, and left Stefan there all night, being drilled by a dildo with one of Haydn's symphonies in C major playing on loop to surround him and drive him mad.

And yet Stefan-liked it.

He felt calm, locked in that house and with a narrowly-defined purpose. He knew what was expected of him. He knew that to obey meant to enjoy it.

And he did enjoy it.

God, but he did. He felt calmer. More grounded. And not just mentally, but physically, too. He felt better. He didn't feel so exhausted all the time, or so wrung-out. He started to really enjoy things again, and only when the shards of light poked in did Stefan realise just how dark it had all been before.

He was almost-almost-happy.

But the dysphoria dogged at his heels, lingering. It was the question mark that threw a shadow over the whole sentence. When he was on his knees and being fucked from behind, dysphoria slithered around the shaking of his breasts and told him he was disgusting. When Daz bit his nipples through his T-shirt, the fatty lump beneath the spike of lust made him cringe back when it was over. When his ankles were locked to the bedposts, and he was held down and fucked into like a living sex doll, the wet slide of arousal and cum inside him made his skin crawl as Daz fell asleep beside him, spent and sated.