For the moment, though, I sat and watched the object lesson in front of me. Those weren't police issue shackles that secured that prisoner to that wall. They were kink issue. Black leather exterior. Plush fur lining. Even from here, I could see they were the kind of cuffs that allowed a man to be held a long time. They restrained without interfering with the circulation.
I shifted uneasily in place. Lane sat down next to me, his butt scooting around on the hard wood to make enough space. His leg hot against my leg. My cock stirred. For fuck's sake.
Control yourself. Down.
I had zero intention of giving him the satisfaction of seeing I was somewhat turned on. Anyway, it was only biology. Lane was the perv, not me.
If he noticed my reaction, he didn't show it. His hand was on his own leg, close enough that I could feel the warmth but far away enough that I could pretend I didn't.
It was like we were two men in a theater where the seats were too small. Two men here just to watch the show and to pretend we didn't even notice each other. The way it is sometimes when you're so close to somebody all you can do is pretend they're not even there at all.
Who was that older guy? I'd known that whisper. If he'd said a little more...
But he was silent as a ghost when he picked up a flogger of some kind with multiple soft kidskin tails. He started rubbing it up and down the length of the prisoner's back. A tease. He was deliberately trying to excite the guy. There was no discussion, no backchat. He just did what he wanted, and the guy on the wall tried not to whimper too much.
After a short while, the rubbing changed to a sort of slow, easy tapping. Still a tease rather than a punishment. A cruel tease, maybe. When the guy twisted around on his shackles, I could catch glimpses of his granite-hard cock, which was slick from the rivulet dripping from his tip.
I tried to say something to Lane but I couldn't get the word past the big fat rubber ball crammed in my mouth. He pretended not to see.
The tapping had become out and out slapping now, although it still wasn't especially hard. More a process of warming the skin and heating the blood. In the dim light, it wasn't easy to see the faint red stripes left by the repeated impact. It took time for the flush to develop in front of us.
He's getting off on this. Fuck, yeah, he's getting off.
He who? I didn't let myself think that far. Maybe the prisoner was getting off, maybe the captor, maybe Lane... maybe even me.
My cock was as hard as the one up against the wall. I refused to look down, but I could feel the throb of need in my balls and the tickle of the leakage oozing from the tip.
I squirmed where I sat. My buttocks flexed against the wooden bench.
The old guy dropped the flogger carelessly to the floor. Picked up something else. Hit a button. The buzz seemed louder than it should, making me aware of the country silence beyond this room. Where were we anyway? How far out? I'd lost track of time hooded in the van. We hadn't gone all the way to New Orleans, which is probably where I'd expected a twisted scene like this to go down. We were far out in the country. North or west, rather than east.
This vibrator was large enough to double as a club. To get around various local laws against the sale of sex devices, toys like this were often sold as massage units. Well, this elephant cock of a massage unit was roughly the size of a big man's lower arm and, for the time being, the old guy was actually using it for its advertised purpose. He buzzed shoulders and upper back, then the long backs of the thighs. And, finally, the buttocks. The prisoner squirmed and thrust his butt out to meet it.
Some punishment, I thought. The boy on the wall is having the time of his life. Even if it is torture. I'd thought his cock couldn't get any harder, but it did. Suddenly, I leaned forward, because I'd caught a glimpse of something buckled around the base of that purple, swollen shaft. Yep. Now I saw it clearly. A cock ring buckled a little too tight. A devious method for delaying—perhaps altogether preventing—the prisoner's climax.
Yes, there was a method to the madness. But I wasn't wearing any cock ring. I squirmed where I sat, hoping I wouldn't come in the fucking jumpsuit. I was a little old for that.
Control, I told myself. Breathe.
How long was it before the old guy switched off the vibrator and returned it to the bench? It felt like hours but could have been minutes.
The cock ring couldn't be enough. Not for much longer.
We all knew that.
With his left hand, the old guy felt between the prisoner's thighs to pull his balls low. Meanwhile, his right hand reached back and out to show us what he held.
It was the first time since he'd demanded the gag that he'd even acknowledged he had an audience.
I gulped and looked at Lane, but his face was expressionless. I looked back at the old guy's hand and what he held.
A steel clothespin.
Fuck, no.
I waited for the prisoner to give some signal. To call for mercy. His entire body jerked and twisted against the wall when his captor attached the first clamp to his right nut.
Ouch.
And yet the prisoner said nothing. No begging, no hand signal. Just a spread, shackled body trembling.
“It hurts more coming off than it does going on,” Lane said in a neutral tone. The fuck did that mean? How did Lane know what it felt like? Had he done this? Had he had this done to him?
I closed my eyes. My chin tickled. The hot drool running from my mouth shamed me, but I couldn't do much about it except swallow and swallow and swallow.
More jerking, thrashing sounds. A second clamp had locked onto the left nut.
I didn't want to look. I didn't even know why I was excited. I couldn't be excited.
What if they wanted to do this to me?
Footsteps coming back to the bench and then away. OK, so I peeked. One eye open. Squinting, maybe.
The captor was squeezing almost an entire bottle of lube between the prisoner's ass cheeks and into his hole. His fingers dug in one, two, three, and his hand spun around.
I wasn't about to wimp out and call for mercy. I mean, fuck it. All I was doing was sitting here watching. Still, it was intense. I squirmed in my seat.
Lane, next to me, let the shadow of a smile play across his face.
Fucker. My discomfort amused him.
The captor had popped his fingers out of his prisoner's hole in order to smear the lube up and down the length of his own shaft.
I closed my eyes. I couldn't watch this. Yet somehow my eyes blinked open again.
Is that what Lane wanted to do to me? Fuck me in front of a live audience?
I didn't know whether to be horrified or aroused.
Did the prisoner even know we were here? He couldn't see us, but maybe he'd heard us.
His ass bucked greedily back in the direction of his captor. The long spike of the older man's cock began to poke boldly into the dilated opening. They'd done this before, perhaps many times. It had the look of a choreographed dance.
My cock was hard again.
Again?
Had it ever gone soft in the first place?
This wasn't me. I side-eyed Lane. Was this him?
I felt as if he were a stranger to me now. Twisting where I sat, I tried to nudge into his leg with the head of my cock. Lane, without looking down, scooted away. Not far. But far enough.
Fucking tease.
Fuck it. Didn't want it anyway. Watching something this twisted was not a turn-on. It wasn't. No fucking way.
The older guy was standing on a low platform. I hadn't noticed that before, but now I did. I noticed everything, including the way his hand went around at the strategic moment to feel for the clothespin. The prisoner bucked violently when he pinched off the first one.
When he pinched off the second, they both bucked. Spasmed, really.
They were coming together, the prisoner against the wall, the captor deep in the prisoner's tunnel.
Obscene, I thought. A live action sex show. Nothing I wanted to b
e involved with.
And yet. And yet.
I remembered the signal. If I'd wanted out, I could have shaped my hand into that fist with my thumb and pinky sticking out.
Lane was sitting closer to me again, leg to leg. My skin was sweaty, and I wondered if he could tell through his trousers. It felt shameful how hard I was. The juices were streaming down my shaft in clumps by this point.
The captor was cleaning up. The prisoner was slumped against the wall, his buttocks open a little to welcome the warm, wet cloth.
Not frustrated. Don't want this. Not me. Not me.
All of a sudden, Lane was grasping me by the arm to pull me to my feet. We were walking out of the dungeon room with its brick walls. I was still wearing the gag. Now we were in a dark courtyard where I could hear crickets singing.
Then we were back inside. So. I was dizzy but not so dizzy I couldn't make a mental map of the place.
It was a Spanish-style building complex. A square with a courtyard inside. One wing was the dungeon. This wing appeared to be a suite of small rooms. When Lane led me into one of them, the lights went on automatically.
It was a fucking office, complete with an old-fashioned computer in a tower. Out-of-date office equipment, police surplus probably. Yeah. A bank of green metal file cabinets, a cheap gray metal desk... the whole room could have been set up for less than a thousand dollars, even with the security monitoring system and the electronic eye.
I shouldn't be able to forget the gag in my mouth, as nasty as it tasted, especially mixed with the drool I had to swallow from time to time. Still, sometimes I forgot and tried to talk.
“Mmmmphf, mmmmm,” I said.
Lane smiled and took a seat behind the desk.
I had to sit on a hard metal chair. Cheap and cold against my ass. The thin fabric of the cheap jail jumpsuit was no protection. My hips swiveled, lifting my crotch a little, as I wriggled my buttocks to keep them from going numb.
His smile became a smirk.
Was it my fault I was hard? It was biology. I glared at him, defiant.
“I can see what you want but it isn't going to happen. The prisoner you just observed is an advanced student of our special program. Privileges are earned in this system.”
I shrugged, flexed my wrists, and let the cuffs fall with a clank to the floor. Reached up and boldly unbuckled the strap that held the ball gag in place.
Lane sat watching. Unmoving.
“You can keep me here exactly as long as I agree to be here.” I didn't mean to spit when I spoke. It was all the fucking drool accumulated behind the fucking gag. I swallowed hard and wiped my face with the sleeve of my jumpsuit.
All in all, it was a less dramatic moment than I'd hoped.
“That's true.” Infuriating how calm Lane was, like he'd expected nothing else and everything I did was all part of his plan. “There's no doubt about that. This is a voluntary program. Nobody's here against his will.”
I shook out my hands. They tingled, but it wasn't too much.
“You're going to prove a challenge,” he said. “It's entirely possible you would be better served by the traditional justice system.”
“What? That wasn't what I was trying to say.”
“I know what you were trying to say. You were trying to say you're smarter than I am. That you know how to free yourself from your restraints.” Lane shrugged. “It isn't necessarily an advantage. That could make your time here a lot harder. It could even disqualify you from this program altogether.”
“I just... a man has needs. I just watched what amounts to a live action porno, and I, um, well, you can see the results.”
Lane's lips twitched. “If you think I brought you here to fuck you, you have a lot to learn. I'm not rewarding you for your life of crime. I'm punishing you.”
“What. Wait. I can make you feel real good, you know.”
“I already feel just fine,” he said.
Fucker. The desk kept me from seeing whether he still had that painful bulge in his pants, but I had to believe he did. I wasn't all alone out here.
“There's nothing wrong with mixing business and pleasure,” I said. “If both people want it.”
“Exactly.” He sat back and made a steeple of his hands. The only thing worse would be if he twiddled his thumbs. Fucker. “Both people have to want it. And what I want from you right now is to reflect on all the things you've done wrong in your life to bring you here.”
This is some shit. Are you fucking kidding me?
This was mind games. This was Lane putting himself on top.
“But first there's paperwork,” he said.
The son of a bitch actually sounded happy about it. The fuck was the point of this whole extra-legal bullshit prison if there was paperwork?
He shoved a piece of paper in front of me.
“Read it,” he said. “If you consent to this special treatment, sign it.”
Lawyers. I skimmed, but I'm not going to pretend I bothered to comprehend every word. When he handed me a ballpoint pen, I signed on the dotted line with a flourish.
“I'm not scared of your special treatment,” I said. “Do your worst. If you think you can break me, break me.”
Chapter Nine
LANE
Clothes were a privilege that could be granted or taken away. Thorne hadn't yet earned that privilege. I sat in my private office, a steaming cup of coffee close at hand, my eyes on the monitor streaming from his cell. He woke suddenly, his long bare feet hitting the floor almost before his eyes came completely open.
There was a second camera in the tiny bath but it steamed up briefly. Hot showers were also a luxury that could be granted or taken away, but it pleased me to allow him to start his first morning clean.
When he emerged, he looked irritated. By now he'd figured out his clothes weren't hanging up in the bath. They weren't hanging up anywhere.
He turned and looked at the tiny lens high in his cell. “What the actual fuck?” he mouthed in my direction.
It was a decent show of outrage. He was pretending he'd just now noticed the cam. Of course, he'd probably realized it was there from the first moment last night when I shoved him into his cell from behind. He'd stumbled, and I'd locked him in alone and gone back to my office, and I barely had the stream up on the big monitor before he had the lights out.
Not a problem. I switched to the infrared video. He was feeling his way in the darkness. Undressing. Washing up. Touching himself. Squeezing.
His shoulders had made a sort of tent over the sink, but I knew damn good and well what he'd been doing.
I finished the coffee. There was a single glass of juice on the tray. Pomegranate. Chilled, pink, and expensive. I sipped it as slowly as I could.
Only when every drop was gone did I stroll across the hall to Thorne's cell. There's a staff but a small and discreet one. A silent and dedicated army that knows how to remain unseen.
Piling onto Thorne wouldn't change what was in his head. Only an intimate one-on-one experience would do that.
I had to dominate him absolutely, by force of character, not merely by threats and guards and weapons.
“The fuck are my clothes?” he asked when I unlocked the door and swung it open.
“We'll be discussing all that.” I gestured toward the hall.
“I'm butt-naked.”
“That will be a frequent occurrence if you agree to submit to my discipline,” I said. “When you're born, you come into the world without clothes. Same when you're reborn.”
“Fuck you.”
“If you need to vent with some language, do it now before you're gagged. Don't expect me to be impressed, though. You know perfectly well what you've signed up for.” I shrugged. “If you're too precious to handle it, princess, I can take you back to the parish jail right now.”
“Fuck you.” But he stepped into the hallway and started walking. His butt had a nice twitch in it. Flirtatious. He'd always known exactly what he was doing to me. Besides
, he wasn't exactly attached to that prison jumpsuit anyway. If he passed this training, he'd be allowed to burn it himself.
“Where do you think you're going?” I asked.
“I want to check the place out.”
“Damn, boy. You have no idea of your place, do you?”
He shrugged.
I took him by the arm and guided him back into my office. The coffee urn was full, and a silver tray offered sugar, honey, milk. A second tray offered a salmon platter wheel. An expensive source of protein but worth it.
“Breakfast,” I said.
He squinted at the tray, then carefully layered a bagel with salmon, capers, chopped eggs, red onion. He poked at the black caviar for a minute, a cheap brand, but still an upgrade from anything he'd be getting back in jail. “OK, I'm reasonably impressed.”
“Nobody gives a fuck if you're impressed. Bring me my breakfast.”
“I thought...”
“Yeah, I know what you thought.”
He put the plate down in front of me. “How do you like your coffee?”
“Heavy on the cream, two teaspoons sugar.”
“You wouldn't prefer honey, princess?”
I should have known the good attitude was just a fake-out.
I enjoyed my breakfast while Thorne glared at me. There were multiple pressure points you can apply to a prisoner—not just the denial of sex but the denial of decent food and caffeine. He looked at my coffee mug the way a grizzly bear looks at a picnic basket.
Good coffee and even better because I knew it was envied.
“So,” I said. “Today we're going to talk about your limits but you're going to need to understand that you are not in control of the situation. Your control is restricted to one area. You have the right to demand, at any time, that we end the program. At that point, you will be returned to your previous situation. Every man has the right to his day in court and, if you decide that's what you want, that's what you'll get.”
“Fuck that.” He'd been sitting with his arms folded over his hips, a self-protective gesture, but now he sat up straight, raising them to his chest.
I liked his spirit. Thorne didn't intend to cry uncle.
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