Horton drops the gag on the bed, nuzzles down next to me, and pets my cock. Not to make me needy – automatic fondling, I think. “What’s it you want to try?” he says.
“It’s just a hunch,” I say, “but I’ve been feeling better now than I have in a long time.”
“What do you mean ‘now’? Now now, or more generally now?”
“Generally. And now now. The more my need builds up, the better I function. Since our last try on Saturday, when I didn’t cum, I’ve been feeling – this is going to sounds trite – more alive. I felt blue after failing to cum – I felt awful – but I feel I’m regaining the grounds of normalcy. I’m no longer in a swamp.”
“You might be experiencing some closure,” he says.
“Perhaps,” I say, “but I think it’s more than that. I’ve been fighting against this worm’s addictive effect for years now – and while Sierpinski saved me from total madness, I had to do the fighting, without knowing the enemy. I flailed, naked. Shot rubbish arrows with a toy bow in the dark. What I feel now, I think, is that all this delayed cumming might be some key to recovery. An antidote. It was all forced before – the slow wanks, the supervision, I hated it. But as much as I hated it, I needed my orgasms – or so I thought. It was habit turned into obligation, for the sake of keeping the habit alive. This is something else. This feels like light in the dark – some footing in the swamp. A raft even. Wholesome.”
Horton chuckles. “Wholesome.” he says. He glides his hands up the straitjacket, squeezes my arms through the leather, presses them against me. The jacket is cold and damp in places. Metal rivets cool down specks of boiling skin. “Some people would disagree with that categorisation, wholesome. Heh.”
“Some people, yeah. The same ones, very likely, who frown upon condoms and non-procreative sex.” I say. “People are idiots. Never listen to people who think they are beacons of the moral high-ground.”
“No, Sir.” he says – I could eat his tentative smile – it shines through his voice. He rubs over the hood, presses the leather against my neck. I moan a bit. “So, what’s the plan then?” he says softly.
“Enough for today,” I say.
“No orgasm?”
“No orgasm.”
“Belt?”
“I’ll keep it close. I might need it.”
He’s back on my cock. “You sure you’ll manage?”
“Not if you continue like that, you bastard. But I’ve been through worse.”
“You are feeling closure.”
“Perhaps I am.”
He gives my still sucked-in balls a tap and hops off the bed. “I’ll make some tea,” he says. “I’ll get you loose in a minute.”
“Eh, Horton?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks.”
“My pleasure.”
“And, eh, would you mind putting the gag back in?”
“Of course not.”
He peels open my lips with a finger, bids the cold, slimy gag back into its lair, and buckles it in deep with hard tugs on the hood. He leans down between my legs, twirls his tongue over my cockhead until I beg, pops off of it like a lollipop, and hops down the stairs. Mugs, so very far away, chatter though the clinging leather of the hood. I sink into contented oblivion and hump a little. Always good to hump a little while waiting for tea.
When Horton gets me off the bed I feel giddy. The straitjacket comes off, the room feels cold, and I slip into my dressing gown, arranging my half-floppy cock in a comfortable sideways position. Horton goes downstairs, I follow. Tea – three pellets of gunpowder for me – waits on the counter-top.
“How do you feel?’
“Fine. Buzzing, but fine. Pleasant even.”
“That’s good.” Horton says. “What did you think of the session?”
“Session?”
“What we just did.”
“Oh. Interesting.”
“In a good or a bad way?”
“In a very good way. I wasn’t expecting much.”
“Neither was I. For a first encounter with, eh, this sort of thing, you did really well. I was afraid it was all going to be a bit over the top.”
“It was, and it wasn’t. It’s strange. On the other hand, I’ve been in fucking chastity and straitjackets for two years now. But this is the first time I’ve used them for pleasure. That surprised me.”
“You also surprised me, not wanting to cum. You’d have shot buckets.”
“I would. It’s not that I don’t want to cum – I still very much want to cum.” I hump in the dressing gown, looking at my crotch. My cock’s tenting is unmistakable. “I want to test my theory. It doesn’t make a lot of sense–”
“I wouldn't say that.”
I shrug. “It’s just a hunch. It can’t do any harm though.”
“What if you get addicted to these sessions?”
“No harm in that.”
Horton smiles. Don’t smile like that. I’m going to melt.
“So, what’s the plan now?” he says.
“I’ll see how it evolves. I’ll keep the belt close by – see how long I can stretch between cumming, if it all works out like I think it might. And I’m considering having more practice, as you said.”
“Practice?”
“More of that slow, torturous stuff. Getting used to it.”
Horton raises an eyebrow. “I’ll make sure you won’t get used to it.”
I huff, look down, and pat my cock. “You’re not helping this boy to relax,” I say. “But concretely, a few sessions a week, I’d say, no cum, until I think I could do with an orgasm.”
“Until you think you could do with an orgasm?”
“Well, yes.”
“Topping from the bottom, eh?”
“What?”
“Never mind.”
“I also thought of looking at the occasional bit of video before a session. I could work my way through the entire thing over a few weeks or months. I’m not sure though. Perhaps I don’t want to see more. And perhaps I do.”
“Try it out. If it doesn’t work, so be it. The trouble with that video is that I’m afraid it makes you too nervous. Like for that first wank I was supposed to give you. You weren’t at ease, and not just because a bloke was fondling you. I wasn’t at ease either. Perhaps the videos are a bit much.”
“They probably are.”
Eventually we agree that it all boils down to experimentation in the end, and practice. Proficiency doesn’t grow on trees. It doesn’t grow with time. I need to water it, to kindle it – or it withers and extinguishes. Horton agrees – though he thinks the whole idea is high-brow, speculative, wishful-thinking, antidote, voodoo stuff. Experimentation is called for. That’s what I said, I say.
On Wednesday Horton leaves for work for two days. He’s ill at ease. I haven’t cum yet, and he thinks it’s getting long. He thinks I may snap during his absence. There’s the belt, I let him know. He’ll hide the SD. Sure, I say.
He’s back on Friday. He’s called every day, more than once. ‘Mother,’ I call him. Over dinner, I tell Mother that I had an Earl Grey yesterday – the first one in two years – and that I’ve had only one. No sugar, no cream, no cravings. A splash of milk though. He’s amazed, and agrees that there might be something to the new cumming regimen.
“When do you want your wank? Orgasm?” he says.
“I thought of tomorrow. That would be two weeks from the last one. And I thought, perhaps, that we might have a little look at a video. Today, not tomorrow. I’m afraid you’re right when it comes to nervousness and the videos. Better avoid that.”
“Yeah. You don’t know what’s in the video anyway. Might be intense, but not very horny stuff.”
“Possibly, yes.”
In the evening, I slip into the belt, just out of precaution. Horton suggests the straitjacket too. Why not, I say. He gets the SD out, slides it into the slot, and clicks on the second video. I’m creaking in the settee, trying to find a comfortable position in the jacket and belt. I settle into a wide cross-legged, upright sit – a bit hard on the coccyx – and slump down. Horton sits next to me – I ask him to tell me what he sees – he’s better at this sort of thing than I am.
HH is wiping off his hands. Jim’s jerking up in strictly-paced time, a wire snaking from in between his legs.
“Electricity.” Horton says. “Up his bum.”
“Doesn’t that hurt?”
“It can. But at the right settings, at the right place, it can make you need to cum beyond belief.”
“I see.”
“You see, he’s fiddling with a dial. Tones it down, or selects a different setting. A whole art, electro.”
“I see.”
Jim jerks – in between jerks he’s starting to moan. HH can’t resist his cock, starts stroking it up again. Jim wails. HH is not concentrating. He glides up, looks away, glides up again. Starts talking to GV. ‘[smalltalk]’ appears under the screen. HH is teasing Jim into insanity while smalltalking. This strikes me as very inconsiderate. Borderline unprofessional. Guided by occasional glances, HH works Jim up to an ear-shattering scream, and lets go. GV enters the screen, pushes a wad of fabric – a sock? – into Jim’s mouth and tapes it shut. They continue talking, HH resumes his upstrokes. Another scream, HH fiddles with the dials. Jim jerks around. HH wanks him hard and fast.
- Careful, GV says.
- Electro is too high. He’s not going to cum. I know what I’m doing.
HH’s hand shoots off Jim’s cock. Unable to comprehend the new assault, Jim bucks, shrieks, and humps like a madman, jerking as the shocks pound into his arsehole and guts, depriving him of any pleasure that might have lead to release.
“Do you mind if I fast-forward?” Horton says.
“I don’t mind at all.”
He nudges the cursor away from the scene, into Jim still jerking up, HH still gliding up, banter, and wails. Two nudges further, HH wipes his hands off. He’s setting up the milker. The tube is slurping on Jim’s stomach. HH goes to the laptop and taps on the mousepad. Jim’s sweating, desperate face appears on the screen, colours flash over it. His eyes – terrified and mesmerised – are following things we can’t see.
HH picks up the tube, squirts some lube in it, and slides it over the desperate cock. Jim closes his eyes, groans in disbelief. After fiddling with knobs on the suction box and taping the tube down to stay on Jim’s cock, HH fiddles some more with the electro. The tube milks with second-long slurps. Watching Jim’s face on the laptop, HH adjusts the speed and – I assume – the depth of the strokes. Horton must have read my mind.
“Very shallow strokes. Very slow. He’s never going to cum like that. That’s evil.”
“And the electro?”
“Seems throbbing. I’m not an expert. His arsehole is twitching. Light, I think. Again, difficult to cum with this sort of stimulation. It’s the lazy man’s background-stimulation.” Horton says. “It can keep you in a state of perpetual need, but it’s difficult, if not impossible, to cum by it.”
With that last, expert observation, my belt tightens – to my surprise. HH runs a finger up Jim’s chest, lingers on a nipple. Tweaks it, glides over it, then down he goes, brushes over Jim’s balls, getting a long moan out of him. His reactions are all the same now – mellow humping, needy grunts, eyes flashing over the screen, playing the game with dejected addiction.
- I think I can leave him like that for a while now, HH says.
- You’re not leaving, GV says.
- I’m not going anywhere. You’re paranoid. What I said is that with those settings he’s good to go for a while. I can leave the settings as they are.
- I think you’re lazy.
- Do you want to work on him, perhaps, then?
- I do other things.
- Yeah, easy, turning a hand-crank, as if that isn’t lazy.
‘[smalltalk]’ appears when GV answers HH’s allegations. The translator must have given up. The tube sucks. Jim moans and humps. HH disappears from the screen and drags a chair around. More smalltalk. A wisp of blue smoke twirls over the lens, then exhaled streams dissipate into the room. They’re enjoying a cigarette while Jim is mechanically tortured. HH gets up, cigarette in hand, taps Jim’s balls, sits down, gets up to twiddle with the milking sleeve, nudges a knob on the suction machine, sits down, talks throughout.
- I’m going to have lunch, GV says.
Chairs move around. They’re talking further away. Jim is humping and moaning into the sock.
“I’ve had enough,” I say. Horton nods, gets up, and closes the window. “I’m not terminally hard.”
“There were some good bits.” Horton says.
“Yeah.” I look down to clarify a thought. “I don’t know,” I say. “I think I no longer care about Jim. It’s not that I no longer hold a grudge – I do. And I don’t. I don’t care any more. I think it may be better if I didn’t watch any more of the videos.”
“What are you going to do with them?”
“I don’t know. I might keep them, like old family photos you don’t particularly like but can’t get rid of. Keepsakes you hoard for old times sakes, of times that weren’t quite as good as you’d rather remember them. Nostalgia is an insidious thing. See what I mean? I’m starting to feel blue again. No, I’ve had it with this depressing sword of Damocles. I felt alive on Monday. I felt alive when I had my cup of Earl Grey. I don’t feel quite so alive now.” I shut up. We both shuffle on the settee. “Let’s get rid of it,” I say.
“Rid rid?”
“Rid rid rid.”
“You’ll regret that.”
“I know. I’ll just dump it somewhere, and forget about it.”
“Like old pictures and keepsakes?”
“Yeah. There’s no point in trying to improve on tradition, is there?”
I make myself a three-pellet cup of gunpowder, Horton has strong builder’s tea. After tea, I drop the SD in the obligatory desk mug full of stubby pencils, long dried-out ballpoint pens and markers, some marbles, rotten elastic bands, paper-clips, and a single yellow plastic pencil sharpener. I shake it all around, and switch the desk mug for an equally overflowing shelf mug, and that’s that. Jim’s gone. As irretrievable as rubbish at the bottom of a bin.
I read a short chapter, wish Horton goodnight, go to bed, and sleep right through both night and morning wood.
*
Horton’s parents have an emergency on Saturday and need their son for some murky reason to do with an urgent, life-threatening fridge reshuffle – he’s staying until Sunday. He’s effusively apologetic. I don’t mind, I say, and it’s true. The shelf-mug is still dawdling around the edge of my subconscious – I need time again. Some dust has to settle.
Time reaches me on Monday evening when, on my insistence, we go up to my room. The straitjacket hangs over the chair. The hood lies on the bed. A duffel bag waits at the foot end. He must have smelled that I would ask for a session.
“I’ve got a surprise for you.” he says.
“In the duffel bag, I assume?”
“Correct.”
“Shall I open it, or shall you do the honours?”
Horton shrugs, smiles. “Up to you,” he says.
I zip open the bag, and struggle to get some box-like thing out with tubes attached to it. “A milker?” I say.
“A milker indeed.”
Concern takes hold of my eyebrows. Next to the milker there’s something looking like the electro in the videos. Crammed on the bottom is a large piece of buckled, thick black leather. I struggle to get it out. Horton helps me by pulling the duffel bag away from the thing. “What on earth?”
“No idea?” Horton says.
I shake my head.
“It’s a leather sleepsack – well used, this one. Not mine. Unfortunately. Neither are the electro and the milker.”
“A sleepsack? Do you want me to sleep in it?”
“You could, of course, but no. The idea is to strap you into it for your wank.”
“And the milker?”
“I might use it too.”
I hold up the electro-box, my concern blatantly apparent.
He shrugs. “Thought you might want to give that a try.” I roll my eyes. “There’s more,” he says, almost ashamed. He dives into his backpack, gets out a plastic bag, and fishes out a handful of dildoes. It only takes him a blink to read my apprehension.
“Am I overdoing it, again?”
“I think we might say so, yes. Although, I have to begrudgingly admit that certain unmentionable parts of my anatomy seem to share your infectious ebullience.” I try to sound stern. I fail. He’s smiling. “Don’t smile like that, Horton.”
“Oh? Why? Don’t you like my smile?” He blinks, feigning sadness. Flirtatious bastard.
“I don’t. It’s too disarming. I can’t have that.”
He smiles again. His lips crack at the corner of his mouth. It’s too much.
“All right, all right! Get that bloody bag on the bed, stuff me with your dildoes, electrocute me, milk me, suck me, I don’t care, but make me fucking cum! It’s been over two weeks now! And stop smiling like that!” I even wag my finger at him.
“Yes, Sir!” he says, beaming now.
I grouch. “Is that what you call ‘topping from the bottom’?”
“Yes,” he says, “it’s exactly that. You’re a natural. Now strip.”
“Of course, Sir. Certainly, Sir.” I mumble.
“Hopeless.” he says.
He gets me out of the belt. In a wild bout of madness, I go for a small, metallic-purple buttplug, and bend over. Horton lubes me up and starts working on my sphincter. Suppositories from memories immemorial fleet back, but the initial discomfort melts away, to my surprise. It makes sense that those unexplored bits can feel good, with all the nerves living there. Horton goes in and out, each time a bit deeper. I’m huffing.
“Everything all right?” he asks.
I moan a little. “Strange, but – gasp – interesting.”
“Good.”
I startle when the plug sucks itself into place, and tense when it hits some sort of nerve. My arse clenches. The tingling is back. “What are you doing? Are you electrocuting me or what? It feels like you’re pushing against a nerve.”
“It’s your prostate.” he says. “Relax.”
I let go, wait for my sphincter to adapt. “Surprising. Nice, actually.”
“Of course,” he says. “Or I wouldn’t do it.”
“Thank god for the gays,” I mumble, “and for all their forbidden spelunking in territories uncharted. It’s unnatural.”
Horton chuckles. I stand straight. The plug shifts and presses in. I’ve started rocking my hips. I have the impression that I’m leaking at the tip of my cock. “After that pleasant surprise, I feel somewhat less reticent about the electro,” I say.
“We’ll see. Plug, sleepsack, perhaps a bit of the milker. Seems enough for today. Perhaps, if I really want to make you suffer, I might consider it.”
“You bastard.”
“Come on, get in the sleepsack now.”
“You’ll have to work on your assertiveness.”
He shrugs.
I nestle in, struggle my arms into the leather sleeves, trapped at either side. I close my eyes when he zips me in, and reach for my cock, untouchable now.
“Head.” he says.
The hood comes down. It’s cool and clingy as he adjusts it, sticks to my face when he zips it tight. It feels moist from previous use. The gag pushing in has me struggling. I grunt and groan, flop about. The leather sleepsack is still cold in places. He adjusts the zips, and gets my hard cock out. Lacing tightens folds of leather against every bit of my skin, except for my cock. It’s sticking out, defenceless against whatever he wants to subject it to. I’m a black bundle of helplessness. My arse twitches, homes my attention onto the buttplug – perhaps I can get it out. The last vestige of my control. I strain. It doesn’t budge. My bottom, itself wrapped in unforgiving leather, has sealed it in. He’s back on the collar of the hood. He forgot about it. He wraps around to close it and arranges it under the neck of the sleepsack. I’m vacuum-wrapped, my neck sealed in double leather. Three ratchets tighten me down into the mattress. When I fuck the air, a film of precum slithers under my foreskin.
“Right,” he says. “time to make you suffer.”
Without any warm-up, he starts twirling his tongue over my cockhead. I grit my teeth into the gag for ten, twelve twirls, then I break and start straining and struggling to get out of his grip. He has no trouble following me. “You really can’t stand this, can you?” he says.
“No.” I say, and moan.
“Well. I’ll be considerate. If you can take, say, fifty, no, too much, twenty twirls without groaning, humping, straining, or complaining, I’ll stop it. OK? Fair enough?”
Anything to make it stop – I nod and hm-hm.
I lose count at fifteen when he slows down, takes his time, slobbers more than licks. Unfair! I hump.
“Seventeen.” he says. “Not bad. Try again.”
If I could stare with open eyes under the hood I would, but the padded panel keeps them shut – even keeping my eyes closed seems to make my need worse. At twelve I hump. “It’s involuntary!” I say.
“Doesn’t matter.”
He starts again. After each failure, the twirls get more intense. Slower, deeper, harsher. The muscles at the base of my cock twitch – I can’t stop them – and force me to relieve their straining. Only a hump can end it. The plug burrows in at each twitch. Electrifies my prostate. Shots of need pile up in my cock. I break at – I don’t know, I stopped counting.
“This is getting nowhere. Again.”
“No, not again!”
“Suggestions?”
“Make me cum!”
“We’re five minutes in. You can’t be serious.”
“Anything but that!”
“Milker then?”
“I don’t care!”
“OK.”
Horton gets up – that too is a relief. This leather prison moulds itself to his presence, sinks into the bed where he sits, and I sink with it, sucked in by the leather. He glides my foreskin back. I gasp when the slurping tube latches itself onto my cock. I push up, hard, and groan – I need to get in deeper, I want the tube over my entire cock. And I need my foreskin up. My head is unprotected, my slit exposed to the burning sucking. I struggle to get out of the tube. All contradictions combined, it’s worse than his tongue.
“Right,” Horton says, “I set it to the slowest setting. Very slow and shallow, that should keep you from cumming for a while.” He presses down onto my pubic bone, rocks the sleepsack left and right, fiddles with the hood. The gag comes out. I suck in my lips. “Open up,” he says. A much bigger gag, wider, deeper, squishier, dry and tacky, and smelling of rubber bands gets worked in. It hisses and gets bigger. I shake my head. More pumps, more hissing, more pressure inside my mouth. “I don’t want to hear any complaining,” he says, strokes the hood over my cheek, massages the leather of the sleepsack against my chest. “Don’t worry if you can’t hear me,” he says. “I’m right here, reading a book. Waiting for the two hours to be over. Then I’ll make you cum.”
“Two hours?”
“Don’t bother speaking with that thing in.”
“Two hours? You can’t–” Pump, hiss. The pressure makes the hood much tighter.
I try to stay calm. I try not to give in to blind fucking. Horton moves the chair around. He uses me as a footrest, pushes against the sack, wobbles me around. The milker pumps – I decide to ignore it, calm down, breathe as slow as the milking. A tap of Horton’s foot against the pulsing tube shakes me out of my concentration. The milking is back, my cock starts straining and burning. Distractions, I need distractions. I feel for my hands, try to make fists – the leather is too tight around it, I can’t – I wiggle my fingers, squeeze my bum – the plug moves. A glob of precum crawls up my urethra, joins the sucking membrane slithering lube over my cock. My state of Zen is shattered. I slip in and out of it – beg Horton to switch it off, moan in half-conscious satisfaction, curse the gag, curse the hood, curse the sleepsack and the milker, let the leather gobble me up, the milker keep me hard, keep teasing out the precum, bind me in need.
Horton has a knack when it comes to disrupting my quiet suffering. A hand on my balls, a graze over the hood, a pump of the gag, a rub over the leather sack. He strokes my legs, undoes the lacing just under my cock and zips open the bag. I start humping, still half hypnotised. He fiddles with the plug. More precum oozes into the milker. My cock jerks and I gasp when he pops the plug out. That hurt. I groan into the gag, twist left and right, helpless. A cold plug glides between my thighs, up my arse. Horton zips up the bag, tightens it down. A tingle tasting of metal itches inside my sphincter. The tingling pulses. I clench and yelp. Pulses prod the plug against my prostate, more metallic tingling radiates away into my groin, more precum is pushed into the receiver. I’m being juiced.
“Electro, if you hadn’t guessed.” Horton says.
“I thought so.”
“Don’t bother talking. You’re incomprehensible.” He gives the gag a squeeze – point taken. “A little more than an hour left.”
He sits down again. Zen combines with blubbering need. The two mix like ink in water – meandering tendrils of concentrated need, diluted swirls of soft moans. The milker stirs frustration with pleasure, the gag blends in helplessness. The leather bottles it all up. Inside the sack, I sweat, swear, cry, and swallow.
The gag deflates. The buckles get loose. “How do you feel?” Horton says.
“Please let me cum.”
“Twenty minutes left.”
“I can’t take it anymore.”
“You need practice. This is practice. All you can do as long as you’re in the bag is to take it.”
“Fuck you.”
“You don’t sound very convincing.” He shoves the deflated gag back in, cinches it down, and fills my mouth with rubberised air – even that gets me, when I think about it. It’s just air, yet I can do fuck-all about it. He fondles my balls. Whatever he said about the bag is a lie. I cannot take it. If I don’t cum, I’m going to go mad.
The milker doesn’t allow me the luxury of madness and drags me through its slurping with crystal clarity. There’s no hiding under the cloak of insanity. The shocks in my groin keep me firmly anchored to reality.
The milker stops. It slides off so slowly that I feel my cock is being flayed.
“I’m gonna make you cum.” Horton says. “Unless you want to skip another orgasm?”
I shake my head.
I feel his breath. I knew he’d make it even worse. He twirls. After the milker, this is worse again. Everything is always worse. The grass is never greener. It’s cumulative. Misery heaped upon misery. I strain against it. I have to. He narrows down the twirls. They burn my slit to a crisp. He narrows down, lower. Just under the slit, where the pads meet. Single licks now. He’s not even touching my cock. The leather keeps it standing straight. If only I could count down, know when I am going to cum. He could stop at any moment. Keep me teetering on the edge of screaming relief. I have to strain. I fuck the sack. I fuck the plug. I fuck the gag, the hood, the sleeves of the bag. Everything is fuckable. Everything is erogenous when you’re desperate. The licks pile up; small, wooden blocks raise up into a tower searching for release. It wobbles. My feet tingle. I fight against the sack. My legs tingle, my arse tingles. I can count the licks. Four more. Three more. I tense everything. Two more. He licks. I fuck everything with my entire body.
I can’t strain any harder, wait for him, wait for him to lick me into fucking orbit – he licks. I feel every individual taste bud scrape over my cockhead. A wave builds up at my feet, up my crest, in the gag, the plug, the tips of my fingers trapped in the punishing sleeves, it builds at every bit of wet leather clinging to my skin, it piles upon my groin, and crashes together in a furious explosion of utter freedom. All restrains are gone, and smother me into pure bliss. I don’t need to open my eyes to see. I cum.
My muscles clench well into pain – each shot burns more than before. Horton licks my cock, that one spot, no faster than he did before, drags me back into the sack with each lick, licks long after I’m done shooting. I hump when he stops. My cock feels like it’s gushing.
The gag deflates, the electro fades out. I huff, not sure if I wanted it to stop, and fall back into the bed – a few inches feel like a mile-high free-fall.
I manage a hoarse, tentative ‘fuck’.
“How was that.”
I swallow first. “Fuuuck.”
“A fine answer.”
He starts fondling my cock – he likes automatic fondling. My cock takes its time to go soft, his rubbing makes it difficult.
“Tea?” he says.
“In a minute.”
“Of course. I’ll put the kettle on. Do you want anything else, in the meantime?”
“Eh, could you pop the gag back in?”
“I thought you might ask for that. Which one?”
“The pumpy one.”
Deep pumps stretch my jaw into the hood. I moan when the throbbing electro fades in, struggle and swear and curse when he slides the slurping milker on. Just the gag, I said! I jerk up to shake it off, feel him tie it down to the sleepsack. It’s latched on. I’m getting hard. This is torture.
“Don’t go away.” he says. “And don’t cum.” He pats me on the balls.
I don’t want to hear him hop down the stairs. I don’t want his tea. The rest is fine though, even though I hate it. I grit my teeth into the gag.
“Get it off!” I scream when after hours of loitering in the kitchen, he climbs up the stairs.
“I told you before,” he says, “don’t try to talk with that gag in.” He deflates it, fiddles on purpose with the valve, taking his time. I bite in it to speed up the deflation – it doesn’t work. The straps too feign recalcitrance. Finally it slides out.
“Fuck’s sake, turn that milker off.”
“Any reason?”
I moan. “I need to cum again. I’ve been holding it since you were in the kitchen.”
“That’s good.” he says. “That’s practice.”
“Fuck you and your practice!” He picks up the gag – “Don’t you dare, donf–” – and shoves it back in.
“Five more minutes. I’m sure you can hold it. Tea will be ready by then.”
I don’t want tea. I want to cum. The only thing I want now is to cum. The milker, the pulsing plug, the bloating gag – the leather of the sleepsack and the hood clinging and sticking to my sweaty skin. They’re all conniving to slosh need up my arse, down my cock, into my mouth. A few seconds of straining, and I’d cum in the sleeve. With each slurp, the effort I need to expend to cum melts down, becomes nil, turns negative – I have to strain to avert it. For now I can hold back – I control any contractions, squirm away from the sucking sleeve, jerk my arse down. Be calm. It slurps me deeper. Orgasm builds – I’m mere slurps away. Like Horton’s licks, it crawls up. I strain, scream for Horton through the gag.
The milker stops. If I breathe now, I cum. If a speck of dust lands onto the sleeve, I cum. One more throb up my arse, and I shoot, helplessly. The electro switches off. I don’t dare move. Please, Horton, get that thing off my cock. I can’t stay frozen forever. Horton doesn’t answer. The pain of crushing urgency mellows, leaks down my cock. My balls relax, tentatively. I dare breathe again. The gag deflates. He has to tease it out. I’m biting on it.
“God,” I say. “Get the sleeve off. Please.” I’m still immobile.
“You calm down.” Horton says. “The sleeve stays on. Taking it off now might cause an accidental spill. I don’t think you’d want that.”
I do want that. It’s all I want. I breathe only through my mouth – shallow, measured breaths. My cock follows my heartbeat – it throbs into the sleeve – each beat amounts to a fraction of friction and each fraction sends a jolt of need down to my spine. A few humps are still enough. Twitches spread apart. A major throb pulses out some precum, my cockhead shrinks. The sleeve loses some of its grip. I sink back into the sack. It’s over. It backs off, for good.
“Good boy,” Horton says.
I pant, and don’t react to the ‘boy’. He massages the leather again, presses the hood down over my face.
“Let’s do it again.” he says, half-quipping.
“I’ll cum.” I say.
“I know you would. This is enough. Let’s get you out. Tea’s getting cold.”
“There’s always the microwave.”
“True. Does that mean you want another go?”
“Heh.” I say, and keep it at that. I don’t know the answer.
He doesn’t get up from the bed. He’s still rubbing my chest. “You know,” he says, “I wouldn’t mind making you cum again. I know I can’t – I really shouldn’t. Not now. We don’t know enough about what might happen with this change of schedule. But I’d really like to make you cum.”
“I wouldn’t mind myself.”
He gets up.
“Horton?”
“Yes?”
“If you need to cum, feel free to. Don’t mind me.”
He’s silent. I’m not sure if he’s masturbating. “Do you mind,” he says, hesitantly, “if I do things to you while I wank?”
“Depends on which things.”
“More of the same.”
“I’m not sure I can take more.”
He’s silent again. “No problem.”
I shift in the sleepsack, feel a nagging hole grow. “Oh fuck it.” I say. “Go for it. But not the mil–”
The gag plops back in, and inflates. He leans over my legs, hooks my hard cock away from the leather sack, and twirls. Not that again, I moan into the gag. He’s understood me. He knows I hate it. Need rushes back. I start squirming. I need to cum. I’ve been rushed from no-gag to pressure-valve urgency with mere twirls of his tongue and it’s building, banging, crashing into my groin. I hump, squirm, groan, beg. Horton’s wanking. I’m twirls away. He’s wanking faster, twirling slower. I have to fight it. It’s there again, waiting to happen – my cock’s hating me for not allowing it to shoot. I’m hating it. He speeds up. If he doesn’t stop I’m going to–
He cums, groans over my cock, the twirls gone. I feel him jerk with infuriating pleasure. His huffs fan cool air over my cockhead. I’m teetering, fighting, biting through the bloody gag. Force myself from erupting. I want to rip the leather to shreds, tear off the fucking hood. They’re much stronger than me. I can only take it. He’s lying limp, stroking the leather, wanking the tail end of his orgasm, while I’m a string tuned seven octaves up.
He’s calmed down; I’m throbbing. He sighs. I moan and hump a little. Always good to hump a little with someone lying over your legs. He fondles my balls. As usual.
He’s made a fresh cup of tea when I come from under the shower.
“That was a dangerous game you played,” I say.
“Was it? I was sure you could hold it.”
I look into the cup to avoid his smile. “I could, indeed, but now I’m in that again.” I beat the metal through the bathrobe. “I don’t trust myself. I should have felt relief, after that orgasm. It had been more than two weeks since the last one, but no, you decided to get me all needy again.”
“Well, as your orgasms don’t bring you any relief, perhaps you should no longer have any.”
I nearly spray my tea out, manage not to choke on it. “That’s not what I meant! And stop smirking, you little twerp!” I wipe my mouth off. “We’ll see how it goes.”
“I certainly don’t mind the new arrangement. Much more entertaining than the previous affair.”
I nod. ‘Tis true.
We finish our tea, do some light reading, and, wishing each other good night, go off to bed. Back up in my room, I sigh. Ratchets, belts, sleepsack, milker, electro, hood. Lube all over the bedsheets. Cum too. Not only mine. The whole place smells of sex and leather. I push everything aside, get myself a tidy-ish spot to curl up in. More dampness. How did it get there? I go downstairs with a duvet over my shoulders, settle into the settee. I sigh, turn over, tangle with the duvet, groan.
“Are you all right?” Horton says in the middle of a fight with a cushion.
“Hmmm?”
“Why are you sleeping on the settee?”
“Bedroom’s a mess.”
“Oh shit. I’m so sorry. Completely forgot about that. Do you want a hand, tidying up?”
“No, it’s fine. I don’t feel like tidying up now. And the mattress needs drying and the bedsheets changing. Too much work. Not tonight.”
“There’s always my bed.” he says.
I follow him into his room, curl up under the duvet – somehow, it feels warmer. Just kick me if I’m loud, he says. I couldn’t.
*
Things have changed. The top bedroom is now the practice room. He’s arranged it to his taste – he’s the expert. The collection of gear that works on me is growing – he sources it, much of it well-used. It turns out I have a fetish for gear pre-soaked with suffering. Most nights I sleep with him. I’m sure I don’t kick him nearly as much as he kicks me, but I don’t tally our mutual kicking. When one of us is loud no matter the persistence of kicking, there’s always the bed upstairs, or the settee if the top bed is covered in stuff and neither of us can be arsed to sort it out that late at night, groggy with need for sleep. When I’m in the sleepsack or straitjacket, we both sleep upstairs – no more baby monitor. Direct interaction. He kicks me often then. Snoring comes with sleeping on my back, I say.
He’s getting better at edging, though he doesn’t like doing it; it makes him nervous. He says he’s crap at it, that there are much more proficient people than him around. He tried getting me into such other people, to expand my horizons, to sample different fingers and techniques, but I’m not adventurous enough for that. For now, I force him to practise. On me, quite unfortunately, but so be it.
Resisting orgasm is getting easier, but not less torturous. The sessions are self-regulating. Too many of them and I turn into an unmanageable knot of need, too few of them and one of us goes grumpy and craves his fix. I don’t think it’s an addiction. If it is, we’re both equally affected, and we don’t care.
The more I think about it, the more our arrangement seems to be the natural extension of Jim’s worm. All I had to do was to learn to control my need to cum. It’s so simple. Now, in hindsight, it has all the clarity of a mathematical proof from The Book – obvious, elegant simplicity hiding years of tortured pondering. What is common knowledge for one generation was fantasy to their forebears.
The door slams. I’ve told him before not to slam it.
“Hellooo.”
“I’ve told you a hundred times not to slam that door.” I shout.
“What are you making?” he says. He gets behind me and leans his chin on my shoulder. I’m chopping up spring onions.
“Something light,” I say.
“And what, pray tell, does something light consist of?”
“Baked potatoes, greens, and poached egg.”
“Frugal.”
“Light. Frugal would be boiled potatoes, no egg, and no dressing.”
“Any reason for this unusual lightness? The usual reason, as usual?”
I chuckle. “Yeah. I think I might fancy a little session later.”
“Another one?”
“The last one was three days ago.” I say, with feigned indignance.
“When you had an orgasm.”
“Exactly!” I flip around and look at him with more than a glint in my eyes. “Which means I’m now in a state fit enough for you to practise your edging on. Just needy enough to make it difficult for you, and not nearly far enough from my previous orgasm to allow you any accidents. You’ll have to be very careful, Mr. Hunter. I’m not going to go easy on you. I’ll try to cum.”
“Will you?” He shows some concern.
“Yes. I have to be a harsh master, sometimes. It’s for your own good. It hurts me more than it hurts you and all that.”
“In this very specific case, that might actually be true.”
“And you’ll use the gag on me. No verbal communication this time. No way for me to say how close I am.”
“Oh no.”
“Oh yes. No more Mr. Nice Guy.”
He sits down at the dinner table, pensive.
“You’ll do fine,” I say.
“I’d better.” he says, looking away.
“Before you know it, I’ll be cursing you to hell, struggling, writhing, and imploring you to let me cum.”
“Which I won’t allow.”
He just can’t get the stern look right. I smile, and finish the salad.
Dinner is, perhaps, a bit frugal – I meant to whisk up some Hollandaise at the last moment, by which time the potatoes were done. Horton throws together some pudding – he needs his pudding – and we both have a digestive espresso, black. No cream, no sugar.
Then some reading, the session, and bed. Which bed, no one knows. It might be the sleepsack. Depends on which state I’m in.
(I 2021)