Chapter 14
Surrendered
He sighed with pure bliss as something cool pushed between his cheeks and entered him. The end felt narrow as a finger, but widened instantly, like a cone. He remembered what Adam had said, knew it was likely something clear, something designed to test his endurance.
A hand gripped his hip, steadying him as the pressure spiked. It had barely begun entering him and he already felt stretched to his limit, couldn’t take any more. Adam rubbed Jackson’s stretched rim where it hugged the toy, smearing lube around, holding the toy in place. He kept the pressure constant, and oh-so-gradually, it moved deeper into him. Jackson panted, fists clenched, picturing what he must look like—ass up, hole spread around a clear monstrous toy, the pink of his sphincter as Adam stared, looking deeply into him.
Jackson fucked air, getting off on the vision, so Adam pushed harder to fill him. That drove Jackson forward, the Humbler stretching his balls, so Adam’s hand on his hip drew him back onto the toy.
“Good. Show me you want it. Open wide for me. If you obey, I promise to fuck you. I might even take the rod out of your cock while I do it. Watch you squirt. Watch you lick it all up.”
A wave of heat moved through him and the toy inched deeper, just enough that a ridge passed through his outer ring of muscle, locking the toy in place as it narrowed dramatically after. He wanted to thrust against something and get off, get relief, but was terrified to move. His cock jumped and he convulsed a little. Adam caressed Jackson’s trapped balls. The heat of him lingering there behind Jackson moved, shifted. Hands came to rest on the backs of Jackson’s thighs. A wet, soft muscle petted his sac. Adam hummed, sucked a kiss to the spot, then licked some more. He took most of Jackson’s balls into his mouth and sucked on them.
Jackson almost couldn’t process the pleasure of that, and moaned.
He cursed through gritted teeth. Adam pulled off. Jackson braced for the surge, growled as it barraged him, bearing down on the toy in his ass.
It stopped.
Everything grew still again. Silent. Adam wasn’t touching him, but was there… somewhere.
He heard the whir of a camera’s lens, the click of the shutter. The sounds were right behind him, as if Adam aimed the focus right at Jackson’s spread ass, which he probably did.
“Don’t pretend you don’t get off on it,” Adam said softly. “I didn’t think you’d take the whole thing like this. I tried it on a sub a few months ago, and he cried, used his safeword, and made me promise never to use it again. But you took it like a champ.” The camera clicked, its eye seeing into him. “I’ll have to show Olly, of course.”
He tried to track Adam by sound, but it was difficult. The longer he stayed perched there, stuffed in two ways, bound and pulled, the more desperate he became.
“I have missed you,” Adam said softly. “Been searching for someone like you. Haven’t found him yet.”
The wet, soft touch came back, but this time Adam licked Jackson’s stretched, stuffed hole. The tip of his tongue traced the rim, and Jackson yanked his wrists down to cut off his air, fearing a guttural moan. It worked, and he pushed back into the touch, craving it. Adam’s tongue moved restlessly, teasing, tasting, claiming. He reached between Jackson’s spread legs, wrapping the hand around Jackson’s stuffed cock. He stroked the shaft, fingered the head and the place where the end of the rod stuck out.
The most wanton whore, Jackson offered up his ass, prayed a silent thanks for each stroke, being still, being quiet, feeling strung tighter than he’d ever been.
“Deep breath, gorgeous. Hold it.”
There was massive pressure at his rim and he refused to exhale or let out sound as the yell bubbled up. The toy’s ridge passed, and the rest was an easy slide as it passed from him.
Without it, he felt gaping.
Adam massaged Jackson’s rim, and Jackson panted through it, grinding his forehead into the bed, the urge to plead immense.
“Speak. What do you want?”
“Please fuck me, Sir,” he begged, shamelessly, fervently. “Please. Please.”
Adam plunged into him, hard, deep.
“Fuck,” Jackson breathed. “Thank you. Fuck…”
Adam’s grip on Jackson’s hips was brutal, keeping him perfectly still as he was pounded from behind. Adam was going rough enough to bruise him in other places too. It drove the breath from Jackson’s lungs as he moaned and bore it. Adam fucked him like he was angry, like he was trying to drive Jackson right through the bed.
Adam came, sighing, slowing.
He released the chain connecting Jackson’s wrists to his collar.
He pulled out, removed the Humbler, massaged Jackson’s sac.
All Jackson could do was moan and savor it.
Adam pushed him onto his side, pushed at Jackson’s hip to expose his sore cock.
Something lightly covered him there then. He felt Adam suck at the ridge of Jackson’s cockhead, tonguing the edge, tracing his slit. The light touch of plastic peeled away. A soaking wet hand began to jack him off, each pull a loud squelch. Jackson rode it, welcoming the painful pressure of the sound stuffing him, shamelessly humping Adam’s fist. Jackson felt exhausted and unable to move in any other way except that steady rolling of his hips.
His movements got sharper, more desperate, and he began to whimper.
“Easy. Slow down. Enjoy it.”
He forced himself to control the movements, to go slower, but the need to come was intense, inescapable. He convulsed, tugged at his cuffs for comfort, breathed with his head turned to the side.
“Better. Beautiful.”
He stayed curled up like that for an eternity, almost in the fetal position, arms bound, collared, stuffed with metal, gently fucking Adam’s soaking wet fist like it was the sweetest pussy in the world. He couldn’t orgasm with the rod in him, but he kept getting close, and would whimper softly, fighting through it, and keep rolling his hips.
When Adam pushed the blindfold back, then reached for the end of the rod, Jackson begged, his voice breaking, “Please don’t. Please. Not yet.”
“I’m not leaving you, Jackson. I swear it. Be still. Obey me.”
“Yes, sir.”
Breathing hard, Jackson lay there as Adam slowly eased the rod free, watching as his pale hand coaxed it gradually out of Jackson’s thick, dark, glistening cock. The end slipped free and Jackson moaned.
Adam set the rod aside and reached for Jackson again, touching so lightly. He gently rubbed the sore slit, and Jackson flinched, but bore it. When Jackson began to rock against the touch, Adam shifted to wrap his cock instead, tugging it. He fell back into the easy rhythm, panting, jittery with anticipation.
“Squirt for me, Jay. You close?”
Delirious, he couldn’t respond, but just chased the edge, rocking into the fist as if nothing else in the world mattered. In that moment, it didn’t. He was peaceful. Consumed.
He shot his load, gasping. It splattered over the bed covers, kept pumping from him with the coaxing of Adam’s fist. Jackson got one glimpse of the cold fire in Adam’s blue eyes, fervently trying to capture each sight, taking it. Claiming it. Then Jackson closed his eyes and gave over again, in perfect submission.
He stopped moving, spent.
Adam’s fist kept tugging, stroking Jackson’s oversensitive cock. It was unbearable. He loved it.
The discomfort climbed and he began to writhe.
“No, be still. Obey me. Ride it. Ride the pain. Stay very still.”
Curled there, he began to cry out as Adam kept stroking, the squelch, squelch, squelch obscene, but he obeyed. He endured, shaking, his voice breaking.
It went on and on, past pain, into a deeper delirium. Ten minutes became twenty and still Adam pet him, coaxed him, throbbing, swelling, aching.
The sensations overwhelmed, but he pushed down on his discomfort, down right between his legs, letting it fill his cock, then pushing the pain into Adam’s restless hand.
“That’s it,” Adam urged. “Don’t stop.”
He released the chain on the cuffs, rolled a condom on Jackson, rolled him over to his over side, sunk down and swallowed him to the root, cupping his ass with both hands. Moaning, Adam sucked him. Making soft desperate pleas, Jackson held Adam’s head and rode his mouth. Adam’s fingers pushed into him, found his gland, pressed at it from inside and out, milking him.
“Oh fuck… Oh fuck… Adam, please… Please…”
When he came again, everything faded to black.
He woke with a redhead in his arms, sleeping naked, warm, and comfortable. Jackson smiled, wondered about Oliver, about Rune, and drifted peacefully back to sleep.
The story—the whole thing—lay on the nightstand, in alternating script styles. Oliver’s tight, slanted hand appeared in shorter bursts, mostly questions, between Rune’s sprawling, softer, wild penmanship.
It had been the easiest, quickest way. They’d laid in bed, Rune on his stomach, up on his elbows as he wrote away on the tablet of paper. Oliver lay half atop him, unable to stop touching him or kissing his flushed skin, damp from the shower, smelling of woodsy soap, watching each word form as the pen skated across the paper.
The lack of eye contact helped speed the process. Oliver had noticed how Rune clammed up and receded into himself when faced with explaining via sign or in a confrontational way. So he hadn’t seen Oliver’s reactions to each secret about how he’d come out as gay to The Born Soldiers, or how they’d agreed to help him, or why he’d snuck out the back to scope out the other crew by himself, dumb as it had been. He’d only felt Oliver’s kisses and touches, which opened Rune in more than one way.
Halfway down the third page, the word ‘careful’ trailed off in a long swooping line that slashed the white from end to end. That was when Oliver had entered him. On the line below this, the words were unsteady, barely legible. He’d closed Rune’s hand up around the pen, set it back on the line and showed him what was expected. After that, there were shaky phrases, dashed words. The lines fell away in all directions, often, as Rune had struggled to keep control of it.
When Oliver had gotten enough out of him, he’d set the pad aside, flipped it over to keep it sacred, and pulled Rune against him.
That had been nine hours ago.
He’d awoken to Rune weaving his fingers through Oliver’s, pulling their linked hands against the warmth of Rune’s bare chest. Through that hand, and where his chest was flush to Rune’s back, Oliver felt Rune’s ribs expand with each breath, and the steady flutter of his heartbeat.
He’d brushed a drowsy kiss to the back of Rune’s ear.
He didn’t know how to explain in words scribbled over paper, or shaped in the air by fingers, how terrified he was. How he needed Rune to be careful. That he couldn’t take chances like he used to.
He knew some of these urgencies were expressed through the bright glare his eyes and the tense set of his jaw. Couldn’t help it. But it was in the way their shared body heat only drew Rune closer, in the tuck of his chin over Rune’s shoulder, in the clasp of his palm to Oliver’s neck and the weave of his fingers through Oliver’s hair, playing with the strands, that Oliver really pleaded with him.
There was no reconciling it—the stupid, deaf kid that drove off on a motorcycle, dodging and weaving through traffic with a truck full of drunken, knife-wielding bigots on his tail, getting near enough to slash through his coat and open up his arm, and the shy, sweet lover who cuddled so close and didn’t dare let go once all night long.
It was killing him.
Rune’s quest was noble, understandable, rash, and dangerous. For someone with nothing to lose, it made sense. But Oliver was too proud to tell him he no longer existed free of ties. Because if Rune couldn’t feel it on his own, there was really nothing to say.
The smell of him, the soft feel of his body tucked so close as if trying to get every possible point of contact, began intoxicating Oliver. He bit gently at the side of Rune’s neck, the inked skin. Rune undulated in his hold, sighing. Oliver’s cock had been swelling steadily and fit snugly between Rune’s cheeks, riding the crease. He rolled his hips, grinding back against it, then let go of Oliver’s hand, reached behind himself, between them. Taking hold of Oliver’s cock, Rune aligned it with his hole and pressed back to take it in. Oliver moaned, thrust and felt the head pop through. Rune let go, his arm coming up to hook behind Oliver’s head, fingers carding roughly through his hair. Grabbing a handful, he pulled Oliver in, purred a soft plea as Oliver pressed kisses behind his ear.
“Fuck,” Oliver lamented, frowning. There was pain in his chest. A tightness that wouldn’t let go. His palm flattened over Rune’s heart, savoring each beat. He kept imagining the beautiful body in his arms sprawled on concrete, broken, or kneeling before the barrel of a loaded gun, or crushed under tires. He kept feeling it get away from him, over and over again. As the fear swelled, his hand shook, just a little.
There was someone in the doorway, but he didn’t glance over. Didn’t care. Rune was all that mattered.
Rune tensed in his hold, clenching up on Oliver’s cock, growing perfectly still.
The figure moved, vanished, but came back a moment later.
A shock of red in Oliver’s peripheral vision told him enough. The soft whirr of a camera lens focusing told him more.
Rune was wide-eyed, gaze locked on the intruder like a cat stalking prey. His body was strung tight in the curled pose. The hand in Oliver’s hair held him tighter, protectively. Oliver groaned, moving within him, riding the tightness, burying his face against the side of Rune’s neck to mask some of his bare emotion. His hand held over Rune’s heart, shielding it.
The camera clicked again and again.
Rune was about to launch himself from the bed and attack with claws and teeth, so Oliver held him tighter, kissed along his jaw. His sleep-roughened voice asked uselessly, “Stay. Stay with me.” His voice broke. “Please.”
Adam moved around the bed without a sound. The soft click the only marker of his passage until he swore in a whisper, “God damn, Olly.”
Still, Rune tracked Adam, never looking away, barely blinking.
Exhaling into Rune’s dark hair, Oliver kept a steady rhythm, trembling slightly on each push.
Adam moved closer, facing them. The nearer he came, the more Rune dropped his arm, bracing it on the bed, like he was about to launch off of it, the warning clear in the hard set of his eyes, the flash of gritted teeth.
Adam dropped the camera, turned it around to reveal the screen on the back, held it out to show.
Finally, Rune’s gaze shifted, from Adam to his art.
Rune blinked, softened. The lowest moan slipped past his lips as Oliver tugged back, pushed to fill him once more. He reclaimed Oliver’s hand, wove their fingers together, pulled them against him. The tension eased and he was knocked forward on the next thrust.
Adam opened his right hand, facing Rune, the fingers spread, and moved it across his face in a swooping motion, as if clearing away cobwebs.
Beautiful.
Rune stared, smiled, just barely. Laughed soundlessly. Closed his eyes.
Adam sat on the bed, caressed Oliver’s arm, then the center of Rune’s chest, then gently brushed the dark hair back from Rune’s face.
Oliver came, quivering, gasping. Adam’s fingers combed back through his hair. Rune hummed contentedly. When Oliver pulled out, Rune shifted onto his back so he could see both of them, his gaze following their lips.
“The hell did you learn to sign?” Oliver rasped without letting Rune go, even a little.
“My phone. Just now.”
Oliver breathed out a chuckle, shook his head and kissed Rune hard, moaning into his mouth. The fear hadn’t let him go, though. For a moment, it wrapped even tighter, painfully.
“You okay?” Adam asked, the question concerned, tender as he gestured to Oliver and held up his hand with his index finger and thumb making a circle, the other fingers extended. He smoothed the hair at the nape of Oliver’s neck.
“I can’t lose you,” Oliver whispered, speaking the words urgently to Rune. “I can’t.”
“He knows,” Adam assured him. “Trust me, Olly. He knows.”
Tearing his gaze away, just barely, Oliver finally saw the camera’s screen. Rune’s gaze seared into the lens, daring the viewer to come closer, to even think to try. He held Oliver so protectively, powerfully. Though he was being actively violated, he was in total control. Confidence shone from him. Meanwhile, Oliver clung on with desperation, pouring emotion into the tattooed warrior in his arms, who soaked it in, greedily and didn’t intend to share.
Oliver couldn’t look any longer, but trailed kisses over the side of Rune’s jaw.
Rune released Oliver’s hand, just for a moment. His right hand rose, flattened, to his lips, the fingertips barely touching. He brought it forward and down slightly, in Adam’s direction.
Thank you.
Adam replied by moving his hand in a circle before him, as if tracing an invisible ball, or doing an old-fashioned bow while moving only his arm.
You’re welcome.