Sex in C Major

"You'll stay in here, like that, until you learn your lesson. Next time you fuck someone I don't tell you to fuck, I'll brand you for real. That's just a hot spoon. It won't even blister. It can get a lot worse than that."

Blood and snot running down his face, and a leather strap holding his broken tongue down, Stefan didn't want to imagine worse.

"Stay."

Daz let go. Got up. Moved around the bed. Stefan shifted forwards onto his knees, and bowed his head. He watched the blood dribble in long strings to the carpet.

The collar closing around his neck was no surprise. The pull, dragging him up onto the bed when Daz shortened the chain, was.

"You stay on the bed," Daz said. "I'll let you have water every few hours, and see to your tongue. You safeword, everything ends. Everything. Got it?"

Stefan nodded.

"Good. Scream or try to get out, and I'll cut your feet and make you stand in the shed for the rest of it."

And then-that was it.

Daz left. The door was locked. And Stefan was kneeling naked on the bed, gagged by a bloody belt, and his entire mouth in pain.

Outside, the sun went down.

For a while, Stefan simply lay on his side, obsessing over the pulsing pain in his mouth. Eventually he probably dozed. He woke twice in the night when the toilet flushed and footsteps passed his door. And then there was light again, a watery sun streaming through the window, and he could hear voices downstairs.

But nobody came.

The house went about its business around him, like that very first time Daz had locked him in here, when Yannis had had no name and Stefan had been crawling out of his skin with the need to be fucked and dominated and owned-

And...

God help him, he felt it again. That same desperate anticipation. That same yearning for Daz to come back and fuck him. Hurt him. Use him.

Even now. With a bloody leather strap in his mouth and an aching tongue. He simply waited for his master, hoped it wouldn't be too long, and that he would be forgiven.

After an age, Yannis came with a bottle of water. The strap had been crusted into Stefan's mouth, and when Yannis wrenched it out, the scabs split and pain and blood began again.

"Ple"

"Drink."

The bottle was forced to his lips, and Stefan-thirsty, desperately thirsty-sucked on it like a child until it was drained. He tried to pull his face away when Yannis reached for the strap, only to be sharply slapped and the leather forced back inside, worse than before.

"If you misbehave," Yannis said calmly, "then it'll only last longer."

And then he was gone. The door was locked. And blood was running down Stefan's chin, and his chest was heaving with sobs.

It carried on for-forever. Yannis came twice more before the sun went down, and each time Stefan drained a water bottle and struggled against the strap. His tongue was swollen and agony by the third time, and the mattress spotted with rusty stains. The sun sank outside, darkness flooding the room, and Stefan must have slept, for the fourth visit was only announced by the tear of the strap coming away from bloody scabs, and the vile bitterness of an antiseptic wipe being smeared over the burn. When he tried to close his teeth, a hand closed around his neck. When he tried to speak, it only squeezed harder.

Then the water bottle. Tipped up until he tried to resist, and it spilled down his front. Another slap. Then the slam of the door, the slide of the bolt, and silence.

It was torture.

Torture and yet, not the pain.

The pain had dulled to a sluggish, inescapable ache. Worse was the tearing sensation in Stefan's chest. The cold, clinical way they handled him. The lack of mercy in Yannis' eyes. They no longer cared, while he was being punished. They didn't care for disobedience and disloyalty. He had serviced other men. And they had told him not to.

And it felt like abandonment. Felt cold and hostile. Felt wrong.

Felt like

Like being cheated on must feel.

It slotted into place. They might not be romantic partners. Stefan might have decided it was over. But they hadn't. As far as his master was concerned, Stefan had cheated.

He felt sick.

And sick in a way he hadn't before he'd known that Yannis had been aware.

He'd betrayed his master. And he'd betrayed Yannis. He'd been explicitly told that this was a closed situation, unless Daz dictated otherwise, and Stefan had opened it up. Without permission. And to people that Daz would never have permitted at all. He could have brought something back, some disease, into the household. Could have been damaged by the stranger with the fat cock, or by his drugs.