Sex in C Major

Because he should only be used by Sir, and those who Sir approved of. Nobody else. He belonged now. He was owned. And he would do better. But he had been allowed to come, too. And he was allowed to ride Jack at his own pace. Allowed to go slow. Allowed to let the water ease the aches and pains.

A hand touched his breast.

Stefan closed his eyes and whimpered as he was drawn off Jack's cock and towed back to his master. A head pushed at his broken arse.

"Sir-please-"

He was ignored. The cock burned as he was dragged down onto it. He shuddered, stiffening. He felt frozen in place-but was unlocked by force, hauled back to rest against his master's chest. His knees were opened. Another pressure. As the second cock pushed back into his cunt, Stefan sagged in the water, and tried to relax. Tried to simply-ebb. Tried to space again, and feel the thrusts from very far away.

Slave.

It.

It could-

Pain. Teeth.

Stefan cried out as Jack bit down on his nipple, and held on. Jerking with every thrust. Pulling. Near-tearing. And then began to roll it between his teeth, sucking and tugging all at once. Lust exploded down Stefan's spine. A hand pinched at the other. Twisted. And then another hand-Sir's, absolution, forgiveness-touched his cock.

That was all.

The world dissolved in white static and intense heat.

And Stefan simply drifted after, feeling water, feeling skin, feeling flesh inside.

Feeling everything, and nothing.

Then...

Simply nothing. 42

Stefan woke, stirring under the heavy weight of the duvet and an arm slung over his waist, when the mattress dipped. A door closed. The bathroom fan sounded dully through the walls.

He blinked sleepily, and turned over. The cuffs around his wrists and ankles were heavy, unwieldy, and comforting. He was naked, but he was home. Safe. And under his master's arm.

Master.

The word didn't feel so foreign on his tongue. Or so disturbing.

They had called him 'it'-and he had felt like it, too, like a doll. Like he wasn't entirely real. As though there was a safe cocoon, a barrier, between him and the bright lights of reality

He was a slave. And he liked it.

And he always had his word. If he needed the barrier to come down.

But...

His breasts shifted as he moved, and one of his nipples began to sting. Stefan frowned, licking his lips. Experimentally, he touched the nipple. The spark of pleasure was beautiful and intense; the flood of disgust, when he cupped the breast itself, was worse.

"S'matter..."

Daz's voice was sleepy, and Stefan stared at foggy blue eyes as they peered at him, barely visible in the light leaking in from the bathroom. Hazy.

Safe.

"I don't think I can let you loan me out anymore," Stefan whispered.

The eyes blinked. Sharpened.

"They they called me a bitch. Jack plays with my-my chest. And I...I like the nipples. I do. I really do. But the...the breast itself..." Stefan trailed off, then licked his lips. "It makes my dysphoria worse. To play with other men. So...not anymore. Please."

The blue scrutinised him for a little longer.

Then: "Alright."

Stefan blinked. "Just...yes? Just like that?"

"Yes. Just like that."

The hand on his waist smoothed, then tugged. Stefan was dragged, then turned over forcibly, and relaxed into the spoon that Daz formed behind him. His cock was soft and spent against Stefan's hip. A warm, familiar, and promising weight.

Yannis came back. Dropped into the sheets, barely awake.

Stefan lay awake a little longer, listening to the men around him breathe, and felt the pieces beginning to slot together.

****

The next time Stefan stirred, it was late in the morning. The sun was high above the back garden, and he could hear Yannis on the double bass downstairs. The boom was loud and shuddering through the floor-whatever he was playing, Stefan surmised, he wasn't in the best of moods.

Getting up was a laborious process. Everything had stiffened. Everything ached. Some of it-most of it-in that pleasant, luxurious way that Stefan was starting to associate with mornings and crave the most. Others, like the bitter sting of his nipple, not so much.

He wasn't tied to the bed, for once, but there were metal cuffs around his wrists and ankles, unconnected, like heavy bracelets. It took a little while for his sore thighs to allow him to stand. And only when they did, and when Stefan was debating the bathroom or to go straight downstairs and ask for something to eat, did he notice the clothes folded up on the end of the bed.

His clothes.

His jeans. Boxers. The white T-shirt that had been put in the wash that time Yannis had caught them having sex, and never returned to him.