Throughout Saturday evening and Sunday morning, Master Jeff's boys had been redecorating the main playroom. Günther had complained about the Saturday setting: too fluffy, too goody-goody, too weekend-amateur-baking-party. Typically English (though fundamentally unsurprising, coming form a culture that worshipped the tea cosy). It lacked torches, vaulting, chains, racks, braziers, red-hot irons (amongst other, untranslatable German things), trembling victims terrified of unspeakable things to come, wailing in the background, the odd splatter of blood, whiff of piss, and the putrid smell of fear. (Jeff was getting worried at that point.) Günther wanted it to be oppressive. Atmosphere, for fuck's sake! Jeff had said that some decoration ("decoration?" Günther had fumed) was fine, but the fire he could not do. Contrary to Günther's master playroom - a proper 14th century cellar - his was a modern affair, quite a bit more flammable than damp stones. Not to mention what nuisance the smoke and fire alarms would be. So the boys had hauled in some heavy, wood-and-metal playroom-dressing, hung ringed and hooked chains from the beams (Master Jeff did not allow the use of plastic skeletons), tweaked the lights, and installed stocks (far too comfortable to Günther's taste) to display the unlucky, waiting candidates on Sunday.
Of those candidates, only four remained. The Caribbean boy had been withdrawn by his Master, Camille, who had insisted that the contest was rigged, that Lucian had used some voodoo, and that at least one other contestant had used countermeasures. He knew, he'd seen it before. Technically, going by the rules, this was fine, he said, but he didn't want his boy to go on. Jeff had shrugged, feeling once again defeated, and said he understood his gripes, but would he please stay? Voodoo, magic, or party tricks, all would be useless on Sunday.
On Sunday, Lucian - wearing his now censored leathers (James had had a boy take care of it after a Güntherian outburst) - kept to the shadows as the spectators trickled in. Master Jeff, Günther, James, and Eddie were waiting in the observation room. No drinks were being had. Günther and James were chatting in German, Jeff paced round. At 2PM sharp Eddie (now wearing an executioner's mask) went into the playroom and rang the gong. A hush of anticipation fell. The four candidates, hooded, were led into the playroom by a procession of Mansion staff and locked into the stocks. Then James, Jeff, and Günther came in, and took place at a large, heavily chiselled table facing the stage. Behind them, those in the audience who could or were allowed to sit down sat down.
Jeff had decided against addressing the audience. The rules had been written, in sloppy calligraphy, on a large parchment-like piece of paper, framed and placed on the table bearing the prizes. In short it stated that Lucian had free reign and that whether a candidate passed was the jury's decision. The audience could challenge the jury's decision, in which case the torture of the contested contestant would continue until resolution. Peter, a boy of Master Jeff from years ago now turned top, was their spokesperson. In the unlikely event of a persistent deadlock, Lucian and Eddie (being both, more or less, neutral parties) would decide.
The first candidate was the Goth. Lucian considered him warming-up material: a gooey boy who'd take about twenty minutes to break down into a wet, desperate mess blubbering to cum. He had him double-strapped fully clothed into the hip-stocks, the straps of which had been adjusted to allow full access to the goth's thighs. His hands were cuffed behind his back, allowing lots of movement (except for his genitals), and he was muzzled with a simple red ball-gag harness. It made a wonderful bright accent on the boy's otherwise black and spiky appearance. He circled the boy, and gently traced a finger from his inner thigh to his armpit, feeling the PVC the goth was wearing glide under his finger. The boy closed his eyes, he'd felt the beginning of an erection. Lucian teased him through the PVC at first, squeezing the base of the boy's cock, tickling his balls. He would take his time, he'd lose patience soon enough. Crouching in front of the boy, he placed his hand flat on the pubic bone, pressing the cock down, and started massaging the boy's perineum. The goth's cock, now hard and laying flat against his leg, started pulsing.
"Don't play viz your food, Lucian." said Günther.
So much for his losing patience. Oh well. Another one to bring to the edge and to keep there. More going through the bloody motions. Lucian kept the boy's cock in his PVCs, and teased only the tip while inching up between his thighs. The boy let out a series of short gasps, then froze. Then he moaned, squirmed, gasped, and froze again. Scratching the tip was all that was needed. Lucian seemed to do nothing. After every freeze the moaning got louder, until the boy tried to struggle and stomp. The straps and cuffs kept him in his place. He got angry. Lucian sat there, his hands still in the same spots. The boy got desperate. Lucian continued. There was no sequence of edges like there had been the day before: the goth was kept on the plateau, left there soak up the urgency, then pushed closer, making the edge worse. At first, Lucian's victims were hopeful. He wouldn't be able to keep them on the edge. It had to be a fluke. They'd will themselves either over or away from it, in time. Then, when nothing they tried to alleviate the sheer need worked, incredulity set in. Eventually, when their bodies were denied the normal, conditioned consequence of his fondling, came anger, then despair. Lucian lived for that despair to show on their faces or seep through the sounds he made them make. The goth showed it. He humped when he could think of humping, the rest of the time he was trying, and failing, to take the edge. Some screamed at that point; very few bargained, being too deep into their world of strange, unthinking suffering; some broke down. So did the goth. Wailing into the gag, blubbering, begging, and weeping alternated. His eyes were red, angry, and confused. Still Lucian sat there. A sharp, persistent edge could only be handled for so long. The goth still had some fight in him, but he was lost, and he knew it. It was a matter of time and technique. Lucian soaked up his despair - it felt invigorating. The goth slipped down into idle humping and a mumbling begging to be allowed to cum, the occasional guttural gasp and wretched sobbing reminding the onlookers of the torture he was being dragged through. He'd glazed over, staring only into his own suffering. All Lucian did was scratching the tip of his cock. It had taken just twelve minutes.
A ring on a glass brought an end to it. Jeff stood up.
"Thank you Lucian, you may make him cum," he said. "We believe he's failed." He turned to the onlookers. "Any objections?" Some people shook their heads. "Right. Lucian, go ahead."
Lucian positioned himself behind the sobbing boy, wrapped his arms around him, and started working in the same way from the other side of the frame. He brought him to the edge. The boy fought, he couldn't bear to take another one. Had Lucian been allowed to work on him, he'd start over, several times. He could just nip in another edge. It was a tempting thought. It didn't take long to get the boy to scream again. His scream changed. The pitch rose. His humping became bucking (which, in the stocks, made no difference). The notion of possible relief started showing though his despair. Lucian no longer touched the boy's cock. He pushed down on the goth's pubic bone again. So close. He touched the boy's balls, then released, the boy screamed. The PVCs, slick with precum, rubbing over his cock, was all he needed. He gargled, came, wheezed, and collapsed. Lucian massaged him, teasing out the last spasms of a monumental, hands-free orgasm. The boy smiled around the gag, giggled even.
"Sank you." said Günther, who made a dismissive gesture, "Nechst." Giggling boys were not his cup of tea. Eddie helped the boy off the stage. Joined by an equally spiky friend, he collapsed into a happy heap in one of the low comfy chairs in the back of the room. ("Best fucking thing ever. We should try it some time.") Cute and cuddly mumbling arose from the audience.
"Next!" shouted Günther, hitting the table with his fist. He was not going to allow more fluffiness. "Dreiundvierzig! Schnell!"
Lucian knew slave No–43 well. He'd worked on his cock most days to hone his skills, driving the poor slave ever deeper into the foetid maw of despair. The man hadn't cum in over a year. He'd been made to leak some semen, but an orgasm, even ruined, was yet another pleasure that his Master had taken away from him. Two of Jeff's stronger boys had to drag him to the bench. On Saturday a gloating Günther had informed his slave that he'd be milked (which would be his only release for that year) and thereafter tortured with more edging, no matter if the audience screamed for it to stop. It was more than the slave was willing to take (which was also, deep down, why he was in Günther's stable). Even though shackled and hooded, he fought in earnest when the boys got him strapped to the bench. He knew he'd be punished for the fuss he made, but he also knew that this sort of spectacle was exactly what made Günther hard. He couldn't win.
Günther's butler, appearing from behind Eddie, changed 43's hood for a Günther-issued one. 43 begged him not to. The hood looked more like a straitjacket than a hood by the sheer number of straps, buckles, and rivets on it. The neck was a multi-ringed, lockable, stiff leather collar, the mouth-pad had a fierce, deep gag attached, adjustable with more straps. 43 gagged when the butler pushed it in. When the butler tightened it deeper, he no longer dared move. The hood had no eyes, and only two grommets under the nose. On its own, wearing it had to be torture. The butler handed Lucian a key. With a thick squelch, the monstrous chastity belt came off. Lucian adjusted the pads around 43's hardening cock and set the belt aside.
The man was hard and dripping, as anyone who's been edged and denied for months would be. Lucian peeled back the foreskin, and blew on 43's cock. A fierce moan of horror pierced the hood. The man pulled at the straps, twisted, retched, and kept still again. Lucian dried his cockhead with a tissue (more retching), and tapped it to test whether it was still tacky. He took a small piece of soft fabric, and dabbed the cockhead with circular, repetitive movements. 43, coughing and gagging notwithstanding, tried to rip himself from the bench. He couldn't see what Lucian was doing, but on him, the dry rubbing of his cockhead was unbearable. It made his need to cum soar, yet he found it impossible, no matter what he tried, to cum by the rubbing alone. It also made him far more sensitive to the fondling that would follow. Lucian would use that bit of fleece on and off, as necessity dictated, to resensitise otherwise dampened spots.
When the slave was sensitive enough, Lucian started tapping his frenulum. He tapped it with one finger, in circles, concentrating on the pads of the cockhead, then going to the root of the cock, following the urethra. In between coughs, 43 was moaning. His cock had no more secrets. Lucian knew what he could do to make the edge as acute as possible, and how he could stretch out the edging as long as possible. He motioned the butler, who opened a silk-lined case. Lucian took out a curved, metal probe, lubed it up, and let it slide into 43's arse. Then he unscrewed a cigar-tube and took out a pointed feather. Holding the probe with one hand, and pointing the feather at the slave's cock, Lucian leaned in. He steadied his right arm on his knee, dipped the tip of the feather in precum, and applied it to 43's frenulum and slit.
To the audience it was magic, to Lucian it was craft. How the tip of a feather could made a strong, adult male shriek and retch was a mystery. To a strong man who's been edged every day for years, such a feather had no more mysteries. It turned his flesh, his biological need, into a nightmare. Lucian had decided on the feather for effect. He could have used a paintbrush, his fingers, or his mouth. The effect, in the end, was the same: abject suffering. The entire crowd became hypnotised by the twirling and flicking of the feather, the gentle taps on the probe, and the incongruous retching and simpering of the victim.
They were shaken out of their torpor by a sudden clatter of buckles. The bench bucked. 43's entire body was trembling. Lucian retracted the feather, tapped the probe once. With a scream, a retch, and a languid moan that came out as a gurgle, 43 drooled a sudden, clear string of precum. Eddie, unsure of what had happened, had a look. He hadn't cum. Eddie shook his head. Lucian pointed the feather back and tapped. Wringing a haunting cry - and more precum - from the slave, he strapped the crowd back in their trance.
"Zis can go on for quite a vile," said Günther to Jeff. "Shall ve say zis is enough?"
Jeff wasn't sure. Neither was James. Jeff threw a glance at the onlookers, but couldn't decide what to think. And so 43's suffering continued. The jury at the table knew his ordeal wouldn't be over once the verdict fell. Jeff would have preferred to, but he didn't want to ruffle Günther. After a nasty retch followed by outright crying, Jeff decided it had been enough. He rang his glass.
"Thank you, Lucian." he said, knowing the worst was to come. "He's failed. You may, as per his Master's instructions, milk him." He felt an inkling of unease.
The milking too mesmerised by mere repetition. Lucian leaned in, tapped, feathered, released. The slave froze, howled, gagged, and leaked. One drop of cum would collect at the tip of his cock, then he would sob. Every repetition Lucian slowed down, 43 got more violent. And each time, only one drop collected at the tip. Günther, used to the show, looked behind him and saw deer caught in headlights, an audience petrified by something too terrifying to comprehend. He massaged his cock and smiled when he saw his cousin-somewhat-removed do the same. Jeff kept his hands to himself. Stiff upper lip and all that, thought Günther. Undoubtedly to compensate for tea-cosies.
A persistent scream of chilling depth notified Günther of the milking's end. Lucian had started to edge his slave again. With no drop of cum left in the slave and the responsiveness of his cock as raw as a blistered nerve, Lucian could push his edging into the territory of dark magic. Günther wondered when Jeff would thank the boy and call an end to the abomination. Too bad about the dry acoustics. Delectable retching and screams like the ones 43 was making now echoed much longer under the damp, vaulted arches of a proper dungeon. He'd enjoy being back in Germany.
Jeff startled when he felt his shoulder gripped.
"Oh, eh, Peter!" he said, "Sorry, I was, eh, somewhere else... Is there something?"
"I believe you've made your point Jeff. Other people think so too."
"Right. I'll have a word." said Jeff.
James and Günther agreed to end 43's session. Jeff rang the glass.
"Lucian, thank you again. You may leave the poor man alone now."
Lucian too was startled. He froze for a fraction, still holding 43's cock, then rolled his shoulders back and let go. Once the spell had dissipated, Eddie jumped up to get the hood off 43, but the butler, with a simple gesture, told him not to bother. He picked up the slave's belt, and fitted it back on the shuddering victim. Günther, looking at the butler, snapped his fingers and pointed to the exit. The butler unstrapped 43 while shackling him, never allowing him any freedom. Still wearing the punishing hood and back in the belt, he lead him, crawling and gagging, out of the grumbling playroom. Günther squashed the muttering of discontent with a foul glare in the audience's direction.
"Next please!" said Jeff.
"Could I have a word with Master Jeff, please?" said Eric to the boy leading him to the gallows.
"Eh? I'll ask..." said the flustered boy.
Jeff agreed. The boy took off Eric's hood. He stretched his jaw and went to the jury table.
"Master Jeff, gentlemen," said Eric, "I apologise for my impertinence, but I'd like, respectfully, to hand over my resignation, so to speak. There's not much point in my trying to continue, I believe. Not after witnessing, if only in sound, that last scene..."
Master Jeff sighed. "I understand," he said, trying to hide a wry face. "Still, you put me in a bit of a delicate situation. You see, you'd be the second candidate to drop out. The other one was retracted by his master, over allegations of foul play. I'd rather not fuel the evil tongues, leave some oil in the open to pour on the embers of gossip. Still..." Master Jeff smiled, "I can understand your eagerness to give up quite well." Jeff sighed again. "It's your call."
Eric kept silent for a while. "OK," he said, "I'll take the session. Sorry to have bothered you. Don't make me suffer too much." he said, cracking a smile.
"I think we'll decide on that." said Jeff, grinning in response.
Lucian went straight for his prostate. That had worked yesterday, and it worked even better now. With Eric strapped to the bench, access to his arsehole was far more comfortable and stimulation easy to dose. Lucian had had Eric hooded again, no point in seeing his face - his breathing was all he needed - and it would muffle his protesting. Lucian would do the bare minimum to the slave's cock, he'd edge him by prostate stimulation. It took longer, felt more frustrating, and in the end, if he was allowed orgasm, it would be feeble and unsatisfying.
Long after Eric had lost his control over his breathing (he'd started simpering just a few minutes in), Lucian swapped his fingers probing Eric's arse for a hefty dildo, large enough to pound the man's prostate, no matter the angle of attack. Eric, it turned out, liked being pounded. Combined with rapid bursts of short, trembling tugs on his cock, Lucian rushed him up the edge, backed off, and rushed him up again. His breathing copied the urgency, then started creaking, then broke. Only so many edges, iterating closer, could be taken. Eric - when not being ordered by a Master not to cum - had the occasional orgasm. He was not on a strict denial regimen. He could not conceive what tortures the fat German Master's slaves had to endure. At every edge, as long as his imagination permitted, he saw himself in the hands of the fat Master, in his dungeon, being tortured, denied, and locked away, waiting for more torture and denial. He felt a twitch - oh fuck, so close, he gasped - and then the crash. No, not the crash. He strained. The burning realisation that there was no crash. It consumed him. The image of the German dungeon shimmered, the burning got worse. He could no longer take it. He screamed and tried to rip himself from the straps - it had to stop. The scream got no further than the hood, the straps held, and the torture continued. His world, already confined to clinging leather darkness, had collapsed into pure need. No water to quench, no air to breathe. He was strapped into the cell, far from the comfort of the fat German's soothing, damp (and quite fictitious) dungeon. Please let it stop. Please...
Eric, begging and wailing away, tried to think of what Lucian was doing, to will himself out of the confines of the torture. He couldn't - everything burned in an oversampled excess of pleasure. When does pleasure become too sweet? He could not keep up with the metaphysics. Was he drifting? No, he was locked in need. All he could do was strain and beg and weep - humping had long proved to be ineffectual - not that any straining or begging helped him cope. His body burned away and only his mind straining against the torture remained. And still he suffered.
The crystal ring of Jeff's glass pierced Eric's cocoon of despair. The world outside reassembled itself.
"Thank you Lucian. I think you may stop. Fainting twice is enough for everyone." Jeff turned to the audience. "Any objections? No?" Some people shook their heads. "I thought so." Eric relaxed.
"Now, Eric the Brave," said Master Jeff, "all this impertinence of yours... I believe, and my colleagues agree, deserves some punishment. Your session isn't over. Lucian is going to continue - no edging this time - you'll be able to cum, if you try to, but you won't let yourself cum unless we grant you permission. Is that understood?"
Eric hesitated.
"Did you hear me boy? Is that understood? " said Jeff, chopping his syllables.
"Yes Sir."
"Good. Lucian, all yours again. And take it slowly. Make him suffer. He's earned it."
Lucian obliged. In Eric's mind, the difference was night and day. He didn't have to fight orgasm. It required just a lazy, languorous stretching to reach it. Then it rushed to him.
"Permission to cum Sir?" he blurted out.
"Denied."
The current was dragging him in the opposite direction. He now had to create the burning himself. He had to hold. He lost footing. Orgasm sucked him in.
"Please Sir, permission to cum?"
"No."
"Please?"
"Look, it's no use asking the same question every five seconds. Either you wait an appropriate stretch of time - I'll leave the measure of appropriateness to your own good taste - or you'll be edged, milked, and edged again, no mercy, German style. And if you cum without permission, you might have to suffer something even worse. Is that clear?"
Eric gurgled some semblance of a desperate yes. Gurgling was all he could do. He was on the edge. Leaning one way, he'd fall into orgasm - if Lucian backed off, he'd be back in the cell. If Lucian pushed, Eric would have to fight against cumming. The finesse of it all - if it weren't so torturous - was a thing of crisp beauty. Lucian pushed. Eric felt a dangerous twitch. After fighting so long and hard to get over the edge, it felt wretched to fight against the abyss beckoning him, sirens et al. singing in the distance, taunting him with promises of unspeakable bliss. He was creating his own torture to avoid the German treatment.
Lucian massaged his prostate with the large dildo, stroked his cock, and gave it the rapid tugs he needed. It was he ultimate combination to blast him right into inexorable orgasm - but he wasn't allowed to cum. It was there, pushed right under his nose, and he had to fight not to grab it, to fend it off. He felt like screaming. Instead he let out a sad gasp, and broke, again, into begging.
"Please Sir? Permission to cum? Please?"
Jeff didn't answer.
"Please?" he tried, a feeble whisper.
Jeff sighed. "Sure, go ahead." he said.
Eric started humping.
"Lucian? Don't let him enjoy it." said Jeff.
Lucian slowed down.
"No! Please... don't..." Eric cried. He was on the threshold of the cell's door, on the edge of the edge. Was it enough to cum? Would it degenerate into torture again? Eric's grunts turned into pleading. He felt his skin prickle all over. He wasn't sure he could take the effort, yet he had to cum. He was too close. Lucian's motions trickled to a halt. Eric could no longer feel anything touching his cock. He contracted everything around his arse and pelvis (thank god the dildo was still there), and humped and humped (not that he felt the bench yield). He didn't know if he could make it. Straining against every strap, trying to get anything to move around his erogenous zones, he rattled on the bench, squirming, flopping and twisting. Everything moved, except his cock. All he needed was - "Pleeease!" - something, anything... The slightest tap on his perineum, a shot in the dark. He felt the subtlest twitch, the first trickle. His muscles nudged his prostate against the motionless dildo. Another trickle - he held his breath, his arsehole contracted, oh fuck, it was there! - and he deflated and leaked. He knew he was cumming, but he felt nothing apart from the edge receding. "No, no, no..." he cried, feeling his balls rise and ooze with undefined finality. He bled for an eternity.
He was a tube of Frustration Concentrate squeezed empty, as if no orgasm had occurred. Hit by a blank, foul mood that materialised out of nothing, he could only think of coffee, chocolate, and being left alone. The hands returned. His cock startled awake, complaining, triggering his mind into overdrive, and he felt a pang of hope disguised as lust gone mad. In a fraction of a second it became unbearable. The cell door slammed shut. All his burning need was back, stinking straitjacket, smeared concrete cell and all. No escape, no hope, not even the shimmer of the end of his suffering in sight. He'd go mad. He fought against every strap. He shrieked and begged...
"Sank you Lucian." said James, in an un-German sing-song voice. "Ve know you're enjoying yourself, but zere's more to do."
A boy took care of Eric's hood. He blinked. Lucian slid out the dildo and pushed the cock-pads out of the way. Eric felt another glob of thick cum drop off. He couldn't speak. Two boys held the staring man steady, guiding him to a comfy chair in the back. A small crowd assembled around him. A rubber slave, held by a leash, started sucking him off on his Master's accord. At first he winced. With a weak, strangled grunt, Eric came. He looked half-content.
James shook his head. "All veaklings." he said. "Last van, please."
Hiko was Lucian's. Jeff the Vindictive had had his rumours publicly annihilated, Günther the Exhibitionist had prostituted the suffering of his no-limit slave, and James the Freeloader had enjoyed the free ride. Now he was to indulge himself. He would take no directions from the jury table. If they wanted it to stop, they'd have to drag him away from the boy. With all the silly Saturday rules lifted, he could edge Hiko with his chastity on, tease him with his mouth, and drive him deep into the blockades that Damien had raised. Damien had tried to bargain with Lucian on Saturday not to push his boy too far. Did he want the triggers to unblock the no-cum suggestions on the boy? Edging him with the block on would be too much, reckoned Damien. Lucian had refused. He'd break the blockade. He'd done it with slaves of Günther's, much to their distress.
On Saturday evening, Lucian had rooted around in a pile of forgotten gear. It was still where it had been when he'd left the Mansion. The old straitjacket he'd always fancied lay on the bottom of the pile. Made out of heavy oiled leather, it had wide straps to allow suspension and enough industrially riveted D-rings to tether it from any direction. With all the straps, buckles, rings, and padding added over the years, it weighed as much as one of the lighter Mansion boys. Its mass alone made it an effective piece of restraint. In the same pile of untouched stuff he'd found a pair of leather cammos - a rare piece of gear that had always turned him on for some reason. He'd never understood why Master Jeff had left all that gear there to die. The man had too much money. It was well used, perhaps even tatty, but that had its own charms. He had some boys clean and condition both items.
When Hiko was wrapped and suspended in the straitjacket, muzzled and blindfolded, wearing the cammo leathers and heavy boots, he looked familiar. Lucian was lost in all the leather creaking in front of him. There was as much leather as there was boy. Hiko huffed and adjusted himself. He jerked and tried to push his arms down, but all he did was making the leather creak. The thin boy was no match for the straitjacket, no-one was. Its comfortable oily leather looked stretchy, like rubber, but it was unyielding, functional gear. Hiko's boyish sighs straining against the rustling leather perfected the setting for unctuous edging. Lucian took out the boy's chastity cage. The suspension straps were in the way. He'd preferred to have access to Hiko's thighs, but he couldn't have everything. He wanted the sight of the dangling boy writhing in leather more than perfect access. Hiko's pubes had been shaved, as per his instructions. His balls retracted when he tickled them. The chastity ring kept them vulnerable, they couldn't escape. A muffled, stifled moan made Lucian smile. He'd soon soak those sounds loose. He'd start light. Impossible to ignore.
All he was doing was teasing the boy's balls. With a frustrated sigh, the fat glob of precum that he'd had to forgo on Saturday oozed out of his chastity. His cock jerked up, caught by the metal device, and another drop formed. He'd unshackled the boy's frustration. Moans, some urgent, some drawn out, mingled with sustained creaking of leather restraints. The metal device bobbed. Lucian steadied himself, cupped Hiko's balls and locked cock with both hands, leaned in, and poked his tongue through the slit in the metal tube. Hiko yelped. His cock, already straining against the metal, was pushed back, deeper into his body by Lucian's tonguing, as if the device had shrunk and become slithering and alive. He cried for an erection. His need had to go somewhere. Pushed into the root of his cock, his cockhead unable to engorge, his need became stifling. The encapsulation was too much.
Lucian teased out moans that had even Günther mumble in appreciation. James shushed him. Before them hung a boy clad in heavy leather, his cock bent down and unable to grow, being teased to realms of need that had become palpable to all looking on. When Lucian unlocked Hiko's cock, the sigh that followed sent waves of relief through the playroom.
Lucian adjusted the straps around the boy's cock to point it forwards, pushed lower than where the boy's free erection would have stood. He leaned in, crossed his hands behind his back, and took Hiko in his mouth. Had Hiko not been party tricked he'd have cum there and then. Lucian could edge him without concentrating. The boy moaned, gasped, and winced. He fought against the straps, even managed to hump a little. Lucian got up and with some pieces of rope tethered the boy to rings in the platform. There would be no more humping. His cock was now immobilised by the same straitjacket he was stuck in. Lucian wanted to see the boy's pleading eyes. He took off the blindfold and continued sucking. The moans returned, their urgency increased. Hiko's eyes drowned him in their despair. Time to breach the blockade.
Lucian, still sucking, was now tickling and stroking the boy's balls, squeezing the base of his cock. Without the block the stiff licks over the boy's frenulum would have made him cum. When the licks didn't stop, Hiko had to scream. He thrashed in the leather. Some rings rattled, the leather didn't move much. He fought against every strap. All it did was make the heavy leather creak. Lucian, for his own benefit, stroked the boy's leather jeans. Where it touched Hiko it was warm - the folds were cool. He pressed these against Hiko's thighs. He didn't know whether the boy would like it - he didn't know whether the boy could appreciate it, caught in the torture of desperate need - and he didn't care. It made him horny.
Hiko's self-aborting, partial begging lengthened. Lucian felt small cracks in the dam. He burrowed deeper. Licking the boy, squeezing his cock, he worked him to a soaring, artificial edge. He'd keep him there, tone down his fondling as the cracks would spread. Hiko was a wet mess of droning, sobbing, and shrieking need. His begging got consistent, then insistent. Lucian pushed him deeper. With a scream, the boy's eyes shot open. He looked down, furious, and tore at the leather straitjacket. He'd popped the barricades. Lucian blindfolded the protesting boy again. He'd seen the clean break. Rid of his induced trance, he could now suffer the furious edge. Lucian sat down, took Hiko into his mouth and slobbered, smiling. Hiko was a shrieking, struggling knot of need. He would tire soon enough. Jeff tapped his glass. Lucian didn't react. He sucked hard, nibbling and rubbing all the places that triggered unstoppable orgasm. The boy froze. Lucian backed off, let Hiko's cockhead rest on his tongue, moving it from left to right. All that touched it were the pads of the boy's frenulum. He started stroking the boy's leather jeans, working his fingers in the creases, going up to his inner thighs (damn those suspension straps). Cupping his bottom, his arms between Hiko's pumping legs, Lucian rocked him back and forth over his tongue. The boy let out a soft, high-pitched, muzzled ‘please'. Lucian smiled. Time, he thought, was inconsiderate for not freezing now. He should be allowed to continue this forever. Pleases and rings on Jeff's glass later, he removed Hiko's muzzle and blindfold. The boy was teary. He had the same desperate, melting eyes. Lucian wanted to be strapped down in leather, edged by a Mansion senior, and wheeled onto the boy to suck him off. Even the preposterous thought to kiss him fleeted through his mind.
"Do you want to cum?" he said. He felt like he was flirting.
"Please..." was all Hiko could say.
Hiko wailed when Lucian took him back in his mouth. One more edge. (Lucian could not help himself.) Hiko started keening. Lucian could feel the cockhead pulse and quiver on his tongue. "Pleeease!" screamed Hiko. "No more! Please, it's too much!"
Lucian gave in. ("Veakling." he imagined James saying. "Too much boy in too much leather!" he answered, "You know I can't resist!") He pushed Hiko's cockead into his palate, slobbered, and squeezed the pads of the boy's cock with his tongue while massaging his shaft and tickling his balls. The boy screamed, thrashed, humped, and shot. Lucian screwed his eyes, spat out the cum into his hands, and continued stroking the orgasming, laughing and huffing boy with a handful of cum. "Thank you." he said, humping, "Oh fuck, thank you."
"My pleasure." said Lucian, drooling. "Any time."
When Hiko was done cumming Lucian stroked his balls and softening shaft. He looked behind him, raising his eyebrows at Jeff.
"Righ..." mumbled Jeff, and rang the glass. Why did he ring the glass? "Right." he said again, looking at Eddie. Eddie gave the gong a crash. Two boys started unstrapping a wincing Hiko. He'd wish Lucian would stop fondling him. When the boy touched ground, Lucian retreated to the side of the stage.
Jeff prattled again. What should have been the culmination of his great triumph was watered down by another ambling, ad-libbed speech. He cleared his throat. Perhaps he wasn't made for speeches - at least he'd had his rumours squashed, so he hoped. Those who could stay were invited for a nibble in the garden, although the weather wasn't quite as nice as yesterday. As a matter of fact, he invited people to stay where they were, as it had started raining. Günther, longing for damp dungeons and to flex his whipping muscles, left that same afternoon. Oh the perks of having a private jet.
Lucian stayed in England for another few days, then returned to Germany (where Günther had forced him into uni).
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