I think I'm fucked.
He's done something to me, a spell of some kind, and now he's under my skin, in my blood. I can't stop thinking about his hand around my neck, the way he forced my face to the floor, the restrained menace in his voice.
I have never felt as humiliated as when I knelt before him, asking him to give me what was mine. But now my cock twitches when I remember, and when Leah kisses me, I close my eyes and pretend it's him.
"Next time," he said as I was leaving, "it will take more than just asking nicely."
He sounded amused. I hated him for it. Now his dry, detached amusement is what I think of when I jerk off. I come hard to the memory of his easy condescension.
I can't concentrate. My balls are aching, there's a fire in my guts, and everything's all about sex and sex, goddammit it, is all about him. If I knew the exact nature of his spell I'd know how to counter it. But I don't. And -- fuck, I've never wanted anything as bad as I want to get down on my knees in front of that smug, arrogant bastard and find out just what this 'more' of his entails.
***
It's not a room. It's a suite. He greets me with the assured, self-satisfied smile I can't stop seeing in my dreams, and offers me a seat, a glass of wine-
"What have you done to me?" My voice is harsh with rage and need.
He looks exquisite. I can't believe I've never seen it before. His delicate face, the dark eyes, the black, silky hair against pale skin. The flat chest and slender, toned arms, his firm thighs and calves, his cock -
No. I am not thinking about another man's cock. I am not. It's not visible through his clothes, and I'm not going to imagine what it might look like, thick and erect, pale and smooth like the rest of him, veins -
"Not a social call, then?" His dry voice snaps me out of my helpless fantasies. He sits back in the low couch, glass of wine in one hand. "If I tell you what I've done, what will you give me in return?"
"I'm not playing these games with you!"
"Suit yourself." He shrugs and sips his wine.
I should walk away. I should. But there's no conviction behind the knowledge, no desire to do what I know I should. I take a helpless step forward.
"I -- Fine. What do you want?"
He looks me right in the eyes. "Strip."
I don't know why I'm stunned. I should have expected it. I did expect it. But there's something about the way he said it that makes me hesitate.
"Please." His tone is weary. "Do you really think you have something I haven't seen before?"
I swallow a sharp retort and do as I'm told. My cock is semi-erect by the time I'm naked, but I refuse to let him see that it shames me. I keep my hands relaxed and loose at my sides, bite my jaws together and lock my gaze somewhere above his head.
"Now what?" I growl.
He stands and walks over to me. "Not the prettiest I've ever been with." He runs his fingers up my arm, leaving goosebumps in their wake. "But I think you've got enough thorny pride to make it worth my while for hours."
Is that a compliment or an insult? The sick thing is, I suddenly find myself wanting to please him. It's the spell. Just magic. If I play along for now, he'll answer my questions, and I can break his hold on me, be myself again. That's why I'm here. That's the only reason I'm here. I grit my teeth and stare at the wall as he walks around me, trailing his nails lightly across my skin.
He stops behind me.
"This is the deal," he says, in my ear. "You do as you're told. I get to have my fun with you. Afterwards, I tell you how to break the spell and teach you how to make sure this will never happen to you again."
I close my eyes, even though it does nothing against the hungry anticipation his words bring me. "Why?"
"Every time you look at me you'll remember what we did, and it will shame you." He reaches down and cups my balls in his cold hand, and I drive my nails into my palms and strangle a desperate moan in my throat.
He laughs softly. I want to kill him. I want to fuck him. I want his hands off me and I urgently want him to keep touching me, to kiss me hard and milk my cock until I come.
He moves back. I hear a clink of metal, a touch of something cold. He pulls my arms back, and before I realize what's happening, there's the click of a lock and my wrists are cuffed together behind my back. I begin to turn, to protest, and he places a finger across my lips.
I don't understand why the simple gesture turns me on so much.
***
My cock is hard, aching, exposed to his fingers and the cool air of the room, and my balls feel stretched to the point of bursting. I'm down on my knees, again, struggling to hold perfectly still, to give him nothing beyond what he takes from me, but I can't hold back the grunts and the moans when he touches me, the gasps when he pulls the chain with weights hanging from my nipples, the half-strangled whimpers when his fingers dance along the insides of my thighs, stroke the length of my cock, cup my balls and he closes his hand around them just enough to remind me of the power he has over me.
He has fitted a metal ring around the base of my cock and balls, making them engorged with blood and sensitive in a way I've never experienced. There's a leash attached to the ring, and he tugs at it periodically, presumably for the pleasure of seeing me jump. I keep thinking of how I will use that leash to strangle him when this is over. He pulls at it to make me move, leading me around by my cock, a gesture loaded with symbolism as ridiculous as it is heady.
I wish he'd hurt me. It would be easier to bear. Instead he just keeps me here, tethered on the edge between pleasure and pain, and every time I think it can't possibly get worse, he finds a new way to turn my body against me.
I keep my head high. I cling to my hate. I clench my jaws so hard that my teeth will be ground to dust by morning if we keep up at this rate. He just smiles and does something to my balls that sends a new wave of pleasure down my thighs and up my spine, making me jerk and choke back a scream.
"This isn't so bad," he says quietly. "Is it?"
