Bonds of Love

by Snyder, J. M.

  Excruciating minutes rolled into long, painful hours. Matt’s conscious mind retreated deep into itself, leaving his body to bend as it would beneath Jordan’s will. His senses burned like guttering ashes still smoldering after a bonfire; no part of him didn’t tingle or hurt. Each orgasm was another searing stab at his psyche, which retreated from the pain and the sex to hide deep inside.

  More than once, he felt Vic’s presence fill him, though he knew that was impossible—his lover had no idea where he was, and Matt couldn’t gather enough of himself together to make a concentrated effort to connect with Vic’s mind. Still, there were times throughout the day when he felt a strength flood his body, and for brief, shining moments, he no longer felt the sordid things Jordan was doing to him to get him off. Almost as if they weren’t happening to him so much as happening through him, as if Vic were there somehow, buffering the sexual torture and taking the brunt of it with his own body. At those times, Matt dropped behind the veil of Vic’s mind, too exhausted to connect with his lover but simply happy to be released from Jordan for however short a period.

  At first Matt thought perhaps these flashes of Vic stemmed from the close proximity of Kyle’s house to Broad Street—Richmond’s main street ran parallel to Kyle’s, maybe four blocks over. The city bus had to go right past the subdivision where Kyle lived. But was it Vic’s route? Matt didn’t know. He hoped so, God, he did.

  But as the day progressed and Vic didn’t come barreling through the door to save him, Matt began to suspect that the quick snatches he thought had been his lover’s mind were simply a self-defense mechanism of his own brain, triggered at Jordan’s relentless attention. Matt needed a place to hide away from the things his body was forced to do—when he was cognizant of his surroundings, his swollen cock felt three times its normal size, the tender head burning as if flames danced around its crown, his balls overstretched and huge between his legs. His dick grew so hard, so thick, so brittle, he thought the slightest touch might shatter it into a million shards of pain, yet Jordan kept stroking it, rubbing lotion into it, teasing it toward release. The first few times he came, Matt let out a tiny gasp, “No.” Half-whispered, lost in the rush, “No.”

  By the end of a long, long afternoon, Matt was screaming the word, his voice torn from his throat with the same powerful yank Jordan used to milk the semen from his overworked cock.

  Sometime during the late afternoon, Jordan gagged him with an old necktie. A little while later, without warning, he knocked Matt off the stool; he landed hard, hitting the floor with a thud that reverberated through him, rattling his teeth. Pain flared in his nuts as the weight of his body crushed them. Before he could recover, Jordan grabbed the rope that bound his arms and dragged him to the open closet door. His shoulders screamed in their sockets, his wrists burned with the pain, his fingers cold and unfeeling. Matt found himself shoved into the closet as if he were nothing more than another of Kyle’s heavy coats. Black trash bags full of winter clothing pressed in around him, suffocating in their closeness, and his ass butted up against the wall behind him. “You keep quiet in here,” Jordan warned. “What Kyle doesn’t know won’t get back to your boytoy, and we’ll be able to play again later. Just to show you how much I appreciate your cooperation…”

  Yanking down the front of his shorts, Jordan unsheathed his short, fat cock and squatted in front of Matt. With hard, quick jerks, he masturbated, once or twice reaching out to fondle Matt’s still exposed genitals as he got off. When he came, he aimed for Matt’s bare chest, and his hot juices seemed to sizzle on Matt’s oversensitive skin, like water dropped on a blazing griddle. For an added measure, he smeared his jism like lotion into Matt’s skin, which crawled beneath Jordan’s touch.

  Then came the baggie, and the rubber band caught in Matt’s kinked pubic hair, and the vibrating cock ring that threatened to shatter what remained of his sanity. The closet door shut, locking him in a darkness broken only by his own tuneless humming and the constant buzz between his legs. Sometime later, he heard Kyle’s voice through the wall behind him, so far away, so unaware of who hid just mere feet away. The two bedrooms must’ve been side by side—Matt could hear the creak of bed springs, then Jordan’s teasing laugh, then a bump as Jordan leaned against the wall for a fuck, against Matt’s back, directly behind him and separated only by the thinnest drywall and a layer or two of paint.

  Kyle stood behind Jordan, Matt could imagine it easily enough—he heard Kyle’s every whispered dirty word, the nonsense he muttered into Jordan’s ear as they fucked, each word boring through the wall to burn in Matt’s head. He heard Jordan’s nails scrape the wall, the little breathless sounds he made during sex, the knocking of his hand against the wall as he jerked off again. “Fuck me,” he cried, louder, louder, until Matt couldn’t drown out the words and they threatened to tattoo themselves onto his brain.

  Suddenly Vic was there again—real or imagined, Matt didn’t know. He didn’t care. His lover seemed to fill every crevice of Matt’s mind, as if his entire being had taken up residence behind Matt’s eyes. Vic overshadowed the vibrator, the noisy fucking, the steady weep of his cock; Matt felt nothing but love, a strong, overpowering emotion that allowed him a reprieve, no matter how small. Matt seized the moment, folding into himself like a battered rose closing its petals off from the rest of the world.

  ::Matty?:: his lover called, seeking him.

  It was an illusion; it had to be. But Matt was grateful for whatever relief he could get. At least his own battered soul knew enough to throw out the one sure defense that would be able to keep Jordan at bay.

  If Kyle were home already, that must mean Vic was off from work, too. The thought of his lover coming home to an empty house hurt Matt’s heart in a way nothing Jordan could do to him ever would. Sudden sadness clenched in his chest like a fist, squeezing away his breath. An image of Vic sleeping alone in their bed brought sharp tears to his eyes, and he choked back a sob. ::Please,:: he thought, thrusting his consciousness out into the world as far as it dared to go. ::Find me, Vic. Soon. Please.::

  Around him, the darkness continued its ceaseless, painful buzz.

  * * * *

  There was nothing to mark the passing of time, nothing to separate one indignity from the next. The minutes ran like watercolors in the rain, a muck of colors mixing into a sordid shade of gray. Matt heard the slamming of the front door—Vic going to work? Without a kiss goodbye?

  No. Kyle. Vic had no clue where Matt was, and even Matt himself had grown a little fuzzy on the details.

  Kyle. Which meant that it must be morning, if he just left for work. And the footsteps heading down the hall to the bedroom, that stopped just outside the closet, those must still belong to Jordan.

  A crack of light split the darkness, giving Matt a peek at the room beyond. Jordan stood in an old bathrobe, loosely cinched at the waist, the start of an erection already pushing through the terry cloth. In one hand he held a blue sports bottle that looked empty; in the other, a plate that smelled like it might hold something to eat. For the first time in hours, Matt’s stomach woke with a grumble, and his throat dried up from sudden thirst.

  Opening the closet door, Jordan squatted in the doorway, knees parting the bathrobe so his blunt cock could point in Matt’s direction. “Morning, glory,” Jordan purred. He set the plate down—it contained a few pieces of buttered toast, and two sausage links that still sizzled with hot fat. Matt’s stomach growled, eliciting a laugh from Jordan. When he set down the bottle, Matt saw it wasn’t empty—condensation dripped where Jordan had touched the plastic, and water sloshed just beneath the cap. “Happy to see me?”

  Rough fingers loosened the necktie that silenced him. As it fell aside, Matt gulped in a deep, unsteady breath. His voice sounded parched to his own ears when he gasped, “Please.”

  “Good boy,” Jordan cooed.

  Matt didn’t even have the strength to shake off the hand that stroked his curls—he opened his mouth, helpless, pleading. With another
chuckle, Jordan stuck the bottle’s open pull-top between Matt’s lips. The water was cold and delicious, and carved a frigid path down Matt’s scorched throat all the way to his noisy stomach. He suckled greedily, drinking too fast; a sliver of ice stabbed behind his eye but he ignored it as he worked the water from the bottle. His eyes watched Jordan’s hand, the one that held the bottle for him, sure at any moment the glorious liquid would disappear.

  But Jordan let him drink his fill. When he downed the last sip, Jordan set the bottle aside and pushed the plate closer. “Hungry?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Matt sighed. He lay on his side, the plate at eye-level, and wondered how this was going to work. Did he have to snort through the food like a pig, eating with his hands still behind him? Or did Jordan plan to feed him? It would be too much to hope he was untied. Matt almost hoped his captor would try to feed him—he would’ve liked a chance to bite at those grubby fingers, draw blood if he could…

  Picking up a piece of toast, Jordan held it close enough for Matt to snap at, but before Matt’s mouth could close over the bread, it was pulled out of reach. “First,” Jordan said, a greasy grin sliding across his face, “tell me something, Matthew.”

  He waited. Matt held his breath, wondering what was coming next. He didn’t take his gaze off the toast, and the smell of the sausages was growing overwhelming. Finally, when it became obvious Jordan wasn’t going to continue without being prompted, Matt grunted, “What.”

  “These…powers of yours.” Jordan picked up a sausage, set it on the toast, and proceeded to wrap the bread around the meat, watching his own fingers work as if he wasn’t very interested in anything Matt might have to say. His voice was casual, betraying nothing, as he spoke. “Back in high school, they made me the fastest runner on the track team. I had thought that was all they did. But that newspaper article? The one where your thug-lover got shot and walked away without a scratch?”

  His gaze shifted to Matt, who nodded to show he was listening. He wanted that toast and sausage, no matter what he had to say or do to get it. Please…

  “How’d he do that?” Jordan wanted to know. “And the fireball, at the cookout? Those flames in his hand? How—”

  “It depends,” Matt admitted. He leaned forward, tongue stretching out toward the food. “Can I—”

  Jordan pulled the toast out of reach. “Depends on what, Matthew?”

  “Please,” Matt sighed. His stomach rumbled, begging for something to eat. “Jordan, please, it depends on a lot of things, okay? What we’re thinking or talking about sometimes, or what we’re wearing, what we aren’t.”

  Confusion flickered across Jordan’s face. “What do you mean? When?”

  “When we make love.” Matt craned his neck, reaching for the food that dangled almost forgotten in Jordan’s hand. “How we do it, even. That plays a big part in it. Please, just—”

  “How you do what?” Jordan asked. “I don’t get it.”

  Matt’s mouth salivated, and he had to swallow to choke back his hunger. I’m so sorry, Vic; he felt like a sellout, telling Jordan this, but he was famished. “How we have sex. Like if we’re standing up, he gets one power. If he’s on his back, he gets another. Doggy style, spooning, whatever we do, each position gives him a different ability.”

  “Does he get anything from a blowjob?” Jordan asked.

  “Please,” Matt sobbed. “Sometimes, okay? Jordan, I’m starving here. Please…”

  Jordan’s mouth twisted into an annoyed frown. With brusque hands, he shoved the toast into Matt’s mouth, hard. The strong, sweet taste of the sausage filled his senses like ambrosia. Matt rolled back, jaws working at the food, savoring the meaty juices that flooded him, the crunch of the toast beneath his teeth. His eyes closed in utter satisfaction, and he heard but didn’t see Jordan storm from the bedroom, slamming the door in his wake.

  * * * *

  Chapter 27

  It was only later that Matt began to wonder why Jordan had asked about the powers. He lay where Jordan had left him, in the doorway of the open closet, his sweaty skin cooled by the air vent in the floor of the bedroom, his hands wrestling with the knots that bound his wrists. Jordan had stormed off to another part of the house—why, Matt couldn’t begin to imagine, but he was grateful for the lack of sexual activity. Whatever Jordan fumed about kept him to himself and away from Matt. He couldn’t even seem to be bothered to talk with the rest of the world—when the phone rang, Matt heard Jordan’s curse as he ripped the answering machine plug from the wall. The phone rang and rang, Matt lost count of how many times, but Jordan never answered and eventually whoever it was on the other end of the line gave up.

  With the incessant ringing, an almost imperceptible thought rose unbidden to Matt’s mind. He tried to tamp it down, tried to ignore it, wouldn’t let his mind dare give him the hope that maybe, just maybe, it was Vic calling.

  He stared into Kyle’s guest bedroom, his consciousness picking up on one word as if it were a talisman that would summon a vengeful god, worrying his lover’s name over and over again as he struggled against his bonds. ::Vic,:: he cried out with all the mental ability he could muster, the word worn smooth like a rock beneath his constant care. He timed his thoughts with the pulse of the phone, and when it stopped ringing, he continued in the same rhythm already set. ::Vic. Vic.::

  Deeper in his subconscious, it bothered him that he’d told Jordan the positions were what gave Vic his wide array of powers. But he’d been hungry; his lover would understand. After Jordan left, Matt had snarfed down the rest of the food, eating it off the plate and then licking the butter and grease left behind. Why did Jordan want to know how the different powers worked? He must have some inkling of them already. Matt couldn’t remember how often he’d come the day before—he could recall being hard most of the time with a painful, endless erection, but Jordan had gotten something from him. It had to have given him some powers, right? What more did he want? Surely he wasn’t planning…

  Matt shook the thought away, no. He wouldn’t let himself think that, he wouldn’t go there.

  ::Vic. Vic. Vic.::

  * * * *

  He began to hum again, a tuneless sound more for something to do than anything else. The noise was a comfort of some sort, a constant murmur in the back of his throat, that fell into the rhythm of his thoughts. He found his upper body beginning to rock ever so slightly, just rolling back and forth, another comforting gesture. All the while, his mind broadcast like a radio signal, calling out into the city. Or no, more like the Bat Signal, calling out to his superhero lover to rescue him. ::Here,:: he added to his internal monologue. If Vic were at work, and drove the route that ran near Kyle’s subdivision, Matt knew he’d pick up the signal. He just had to. ::At Kyle’s, Vic. Here. At Kyle’s.::

  ::Vic.::

  Without warning, the door to the bedroom flew open so hard, it hit the corner of the dresser and bounced back. Jordan kicked it out of his way as he entered the room, eyes wild, mouth drawn into a harsh frown, hair mussed and standing on end. He looked like he’d just stuck his finger in an electrical socket; his short bleached bangs enforced that image. But the glare he turned on Matt was frightening. Had he heard Matt’s mental plea for help? Had the powers given him some sort of sick mental connection that mimicked the one Matt shared with Vic? God no, Matt prayed. Cowering into the closet, trying to distance himself from this…this maniac, he mumbled, “What?”

  Jordan didn’t bother to answer. In two quick strides he crossed the room to where Matt huddled and grabbed Matt’s upper arm. With a yank, he hauled Matt to his feet; his flesh was hot to the touch, scalding almost, and Matt was so weakened that he stumbled over himself at Jordan’s powerful tug. Then whatever strength filled Jordan vanished; Matt fell to the floor, on his back now, his hands crushed beneath him. Jordan grabbed his other arm and dragged him from the closet.

  As he was pulled across the floor to the bed, Matt’s shorts rode down to his ankles, where they caught on the ties that h
eld his feet together. The bedroom carpet burned Matt’s ass. Then Jordan released him, and Matt struck the side of the mattress. “Get up,” Jordan snapped.

  For one futile moment, Matt struggled to get his legs beneath him, but his shorts hindered his bound feet. “I can’t–”

  “Get up,” Jordan said again. One bare foot lashed out, catching Matt in the hip.

  The contact seemed to goad Jordan into action; the next thing Matt knew, fists rained down on him, feet kicked out, fingers scratching his face and chest, toes connecting with his already throbbing balls. Matt rolled away, trying to hide his face and genitals from the onslaught, as Jordan raged above him. “Get up, you hear me? Get up, get up. Up on the bed, now. Motherfucker, get up.”

  Matt managed to crouch down, pull into himself, grow smaller, something—he bent double and fell onto his side, then rolled onto his stomach and stretched his head and torso into the safety under the bed. Like an inch worm, he tried to push himself farther into that cool, sweet darkness, out of reach. His eyes and mouth and nose filled with dust as his back and hands took the brunt of Jordan’s attack.

  Then a rough grip caught him around the hips and hauled him back into the light.

  Matt cringed as Jordan rolled him over, but the blows that had struck him just moments before were gone, replaced with soothing hands that stroked his face, his hair, his chest. “Matthew, I’m sorry,” Jordan cooed. Funny, Matt thought—how softly the guy could speak when it suited him. “I didn’t mean—it’s just so frustrating for me, you have to understand.”

  With a grunt, Matt turned his face from Jordan’s. He would not be won over by this. His thoughts turned to his distress signal again—::Vic. Vic. Vic.:: Like a stimulated pulse, the word grew louder, faster, until it filled Matt’s head and tumbled over itself to be heard. ::VIC VIC VICVICVIC::

  The hands on his face were so damn gentle. They smoothed down the stubble on Matt’s chin, over his throat, across his collar bone with the slightest of touches. The fingers that found one dark nipple felt almost loving as they circled it, plucked the tender bud erect, tweaked it to life, then did the same to the other one. One strong hand trailed down the flat plane of Matt’s stomach, strumming through the line of faint hair that led to the dark curls pooled at his crotch. One thumb traced the length of his dick—softly, oh God, so soft—then teased the bulbous cockhead into standing. Like an eager pup, Matt’s shaft twitched, then rose to present its underside, as if looking for a belly rub. Jordan complied, stroking one finger down Matt’s length, then up again, down, down, burrowing in kinked curls to fondle his hairy balls. One nail scratched the skin below his nuts to poke at his trembling hole—