This is part 3 of a series. Part one, part two.
CN for play party, kink, consensual sex acts, group activity, genderqueer content.
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I’m backed against the wall, his hand soft around my throat and his thighs pressing into mine. Our eyes are locked, and he breathes “keep your gaze on me.”
I nod. There are people watching, gathered in a semi circle. We are lit in a dreamy golden haze, with our audience sitting in shadow just outside the illuminated area. They’re crouching on the floor or sitting in armchairs. People are sprawled all over each other, I can’t register any faces. Nothing really matters beyond the light. The quiet envelops me and it feels peaceful and safe.
His other hand reaches up to cup my chin, and I feel the soft leather glove I hadn’t anticipated. It’s smooth and cool against my cheek. I want it in my mouth. But he keeps caressing my face with long, rhythmic strokes. A flash of fire dancing in his eyes mirroring my desperation for more. At the same time I’m fading away from this place and becoming more keenly aware of my skin and the heat burning everywhere he’s making contact. I know to be still and wait for instruction. No matter my wants, no matter my urgency. Nothing is real but his instruction.
We are breathing in perfect synchronicity. He slips a gloved thumb into my mouth and I suck gently. His eyes flash in surprise, then he murmurs in a gravely voice that feels bright and true “Harder.”
I get to work. Sucking harder than I’ve ever sucked in my life. I’m flushed and panting, his gloved thumb shoving further with every thrust. I try to tell him with my eyes that I want his wrist reaching down inside me and his other wrist joining it as he fists me from both ends. And then he pulls out.
I gasp with the shock of it, I thought we’d do that forever. I’m mindful to keep my eyes on his as he reaches for a small silver bucket on a stool. Another thing I hadn’t registered. It doesn’t matter, I don’t care about the details. I gather my wits and breath as best I can in the time I have.
He takes a step toward me, and places an ice cube in his mouth, swirling it around. I wonder if I am that ice cube. If I am in that mouth, like being in the belly of a whale. We sync breath again. Slower, slower, slow. I am soft and ready. He leans in and tenderly kisses me, the ice cube large and sudden on my tongue. I have closed my eyes without realising. I have forgotten my only task: to obey.
A collective intake of breath. I forgot they were here… are they though? Really here? It doesn’t matter. I was not supposed to close my eyes.
He steps away, into shadow.
“I’m here. Don’t worry. I’m fetching some things I need.”
I blink under the bulbs, they feel warm. I feel warm. Bodies on the edges are writhing silently, they look like I feel. I don’t know what I look like and never have.
He returns into the semi circle and puts his mouth on my left ear. I’m still backed against the wall, and he inhales deeply, breathing my neck into his body.
“I’m going to see what a faggot looks like now. I’m going to remove all of your clothes, one by one, and I’m going to look at you. Take one step forward and then don’t move.”
I could dissolve onto the floor after what he said to me. How did he know? Does everyone know? It doesn’t matter. I do what I’m told.
After I’ve taken my shaky step, he comes close to me with his hands and rips my shirt open. Buttons fly everywhere and there’s a ripple of excitement traveling through the spectators. The slow and impossible decadence of it, the unspoken need for skin and bodies and hands and heat. He nods and I remove the shirt from my arms, letting it fall to the floor.
“Very good,” he growls. He’s so softly spoken and clear. I feel the honesty of it - that I’ve done a very good job of pleasing him.
He pulls me to him by my belt buckle and sheds the strap from its loops in one fluid motion.
He motions to a person in my periphery and they stand beside him, looking up into his face. A picture of ease in control.
“Boots” he says to this being I can’t really describe because I’m still looking at him. This man choreographing all of us. Someone kneels at my feet and unlaces me, and I step out of each boot with a gentle clunk. The person takes them away from the light.
“Jeans.” This time to me. I lower my black denim, leaving me only with socks. Surely he won’t make me stand here in my orange cactus socks… then I see the blade he’s pulled from his pocket. He cuts them off me, kneeling at my feet, looking up at me like nothing of note is happening. He looks like he’s queuing at the post office.
Then it’s just me, bathed in light. He steps into the shadows while speaking.
“I can see you. This miracle standing here before us, offering yourself to our collective mercy. A beautiful, dashing, darling faggot. A good boy who did a bad thing, who closed his eyes. Before he learns to obey, what do we think of this boy? Of his courage to submit?”
The spectators offer warm words that lash at me like honey. They sound excited and somehow reverent. That I’m someone to look at. I feel the truth in it, that he wanted to see me and knew that I should be seen.
A soft round of applause sounds, all having joined in with softness and grace. This man enters the space again and takes me by the hand, out of the light and through the kitchen and into a private room. He nods at the bed and I lay myself down while he closes and locks the door behind him, removing his shirt and gazing at my trembling form.
To be continued.
Gorgeous writing 🔥🔥🔥