JUSTIN'S POV

It takes about three minutes, three minutes until you're able to produce enough liquid to satisfy Brian, three minutes of riding a ghostly roller coaster of ecstasy, feeling like you're almost there over and over until you've finally and pathetically arrived.  He's not impressed with your donation, but he knows why.  "You're dry," he says, "Maybe it took a week and a pyramid of cum offerings, but you're tapped out."  Unwarranted as it is, you feel inadequate, disappointed in yourself, too ashamed to even ask him to hold up his end of the deal and release your cock from its prison.  You lie in silence as he cleans everything up, including you, like you're just a dresser he's dusting or something.  He gets up to dispose of everything, grabbing something out of the mini-fridge when he comes back to bed.

"What's that?" you ask, pointing to his hand.

He opens his hand and shows you...a tiny bottle of poppers with a little metal key taped to it.  "You take a hit, and you're free."

"I thought I was free after your fist," you say.

He shakes his head, resting the cold bottle on your stomach, his hand guarding it, "You didn't come for me.  You oozed a little--"

"Brian--"

"Don't interrupt me, Justin. Ever. You spent a week down here pleasing yourself, and because of that, you couldn't please me."

There's no use arguing with him; there never is.

BRIAN'S POV

He knows you're jones-ing to punish him; he knows that you set up impossible situations and then blame him for the failure.  He knows that in the end, you'll get what you want from him, even if you have to steal it.  His hand bumps into yours, reaching for the bottle, but you pull it away, "I'll do it.  Sit up a little."  He props himself up on his elbows, takes a deep breath and waits for you to waft the bottle under his nose. "Just once," you tell him as he breathes it in.  His eyes go wide; his mouth opens; he sort of smiles and falls back on the bed.  You work on getting the key off the bottle and then on fitting it into the tiny padlock in the darkened room.  A click and the lock is history, tossed on the floor.  The sound he makes when you uncage him falls somewhere between pain and undeserved relief.  You encourage him to touch himself, "After all, you've gotten really good at it."

JUSTIN'S POV

The room isn't dark anymore; it's glowing and getting warmer and warmer, flames surfing on the tail of every nerve-ending in your body.  Your eyes feel like they're closing but they're not.  This won't last long, you think, and it feels like you're trapped in a silent movie where everything feels loud.

"Over, Justin," Brian says, rolling you over himself because you're not moving fast enough.  You can't do anything he's asking because the hard rush between your legs urgently wants your full attention, but then somehow you taste cotton sheets in your mouth, and the slap of Brian's hand on your ass.

BRIAN'S POV

All you want is to fuck him when he's high and helpless, when his bottom is warm from your hand, when all he can do is lie there and beg you to stop while his body shuffles back and forth in the sheets because it hurts now.  It's an internal soreness that just gets worse and worse and worse with every thrust; you can feel how much pain he's in; you can feel him resisting you, hear him resisting you....  Fuck, you can taste it, and you're sweating and your connection to him gets all slippery...and it's all magic, holding onto that tenuous place and all you hear when you come inside him is, "No...more...please....fuck..."

The groan he makes when you pull out, it satisfies you.  "What the fuck was that?" he asks, his voice raspy from the evening's activities.  "That was me taking what I want," you tell him, "And punishing you for making it so fucking difficult."  He rolls onto his back...sort of...and brushes his damp hair off his forehead as he answers you, "Yeah.  That's kind of what I thought it was."

Clearly, the boy's a genius.