JUSTIN’S POV

Next, he says he wants to talk to you, so you close your eyes and try to concentrate on what he’s saying which isn’t easy because he’s unbuttoning his shirt and pressing against you, trying to steal the heat he just drummed up on your skin. He releases your hands and doesn’t reprimand you when you pull the tail of his shirt out of his pants and run your hands underneath it. His hand is on your face, the side not laying against his chest. “I’m going to mark you tonight,” he says, “So you’ll have something to concentrate on when I’m not here.” You moan, and he whispers, ”You’re a good boy,” into your hair. “You like when I say that to you, don’t you?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“Is that what you think about when you’re jerking off down here all by yourself?”

“Partly.”

“You feel special…,” he says softly.

“You called me a good boy the night you met me, in the back of your Jeep. You probably don’t remember.”

He laughs a little, “Not really, but I’ll take your word for it.”

BRIAN’S POV

Now, he’s lying back on the end of your bed, the long lengths of rope that were tying his hands to the bedpost are now running through rings on the wrist and ankle cuffs he’s wearing. His legs are bent and spread, each wrist attached to each ankle. They fall apart. It chokes him a bit when they do, but he can’t move them; you’ve got him strung up like a spider in a web.

You pull a bench up to the end of the bed and sit down; your hands wrapping around his thighs. You rub your face up and down the inside of his legs, going back and forth over the rope still running up between his legs and twisted around his cock and balls. This is no lily white soft cotton rope. It’s the kind that rubs you raw and leaves dust behind. His fingers reach for you, trying to grasp your shirt, anything to touch you while you’re still close.

You stand up and pick up the cane propped against the end of the bed. You let him feel it, running it up and down his leg just like your face did seconds ago. He tenses up when you push his left thigh down toward the bed. “You’re afraid?” you ask him, and he nods. You put the cane down, reach into your pocket and pull out a tiny pump with a small glass tube. “Pain is a state of mind,” you tell him as you lick the end of the tube and place it over his nipple. His eyes water as you squeeze the ball on the end of the pump; his nipple starts to swell and rise in the tube. You pop the glass tube off and produce a small clamp from your other pocket, staring at him as you open it and then close it on his engorged nipple. ”Process it,” you whisper to him, and then you kiss him; you can feel the pain pulse through him; you can taste it on his tongue. The second nipple goes much quicker, and when you rise up and pick up the cane again, you see determination in his eyes and a lust lingering right behind it.

You tell him that there’s a reason for this when the cane comes down on his thigh; you tell him that each welt that rises up brings a flood of endorphins with it, that you want him to hurt when you fuck him. You tell him that his only release is about an hour away. Four welts stinging on each leg, and the pain is a promise to him that you’ll take care of him when it’s over.