by R. J. Moray
Or for Nate to claim him first.
The Club was quiet, not a lot of people so close to Christmas. Ewan inclined his head politely to Mistress Diana but kept moving, scanning the thin crowd for a familiar set of shoulders.
He spotted Nate by the juice bar. He was wearing fucking thigh-high boots, over leather pants that had pushed past pretentious into somewhere undeniably hot, or at least according to Ewan’s questionable taste. His shoulders were bare, pale under the spot lighting, and just the shape of him, how he held himself, sent a shiver through Ewan’s body. That was Nate. Nate was here for him. All he had to do was go take him.
He walked over, feeling light and fragile, and Nate turned to meet him. “Hey!” He reached out, slipping his arm around Ewan’s waist and tugging him up, bending to kiss his mouth in a way that left nothing unambiguous. His mouth was cool with mint and melon. Ewan felt the strength go out of his knees as Nate took his weight, tilting him off his axis.
Then Nate let him come down to earth again and Ewan had to remember to breathe.
“You look fuckable,” Nate said, his eyes roaming Ewan’s face. “Nervous?”
“No,” Ewan lied.
“Ewan,” Nate chided, and Ewan shook his head, his heart racing.
“It’s Mac, here.”
Nate blinked. “Sure. Sorry. Mac.” He arched an eyebrow. “You’re still not allowed to lie to me.”
“Okay, so I’m nervous, but not…it’s not a problem.”
“You sure?” He smiled, tracing a fingertip up Ewan’s jaw and down again to tap his mouth. “You wanted intense. Is that still what you want?”
Ewan shuddered. “Yes. Please?” And after, take me home.
“You’re going to have to call me Sir when I’m flogging you,” Nate said gently, crooking his knuckles under Ewan’s chin.
“I can do that.”
Nate smiled. “I’m going to be rough with you, the way I think you like.”
“I want that. Sir.”
Nate closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them there was something cruel in the curve of his smile, something dangerous. “And if you want me to stop?”
“Red,” Ewan said quickly, leaning into Nate’s chest. “I won’t, though.”
“You might have to.”
It sounded like a promise, and then Nate was leading him out the back, to a room he’d obviously booked for tonight. It was large enough for a whipping, all the furniture centered around the St Andrew’s cross against the far wall. Ewan shuddered, looking at it, but stripped when Nate told him to, dropping his clothes in a heap on a bench.
“If you don’t fold them, they’ll crease,” Nate said.
His tone was even, neither annoyed nor commanding, and Ewan hesitated. Should he fold them? Nate hadn’t ordered him to. But.
“Better,” Nate said, when Ewan had folded his clothes and stacked them neatly, tucking his boots under the bench. “Come here.”
Ewan went. The grip Nate wrapped around his wrists was rough and tenderless, like the look on his face as he cuffed Ewan to the cross. Ewan let himself be yanked into place, felt the harsh treatment strip away a layer of himself, the cocky layer of bullshit he tried to spread over everything so no-one could see what was inside.
People were in the doorway, watching. Ewan ignored them, ignored the fact that he was stripped to a jock in public, cuffed to this cross.
Nate tied a scarf over his eyes. It was silk, folded over, blocking out the light and making every sound sharper. He could smell leather, Nate’s cologne, the sherbert-like musk of the smoke machine they used sometimes out the back, soaked into the furniture here. He could hear the music next door, the heavy tread of Nate’s boots, voices murmuring to one another.
The sound of leather impacting on leather jerked him out of himself. Nate was testing things—a crop? a flogger? a single tail? Definitely a cane. Ewan shivered and tried to breathe easy and slow, just letting go. It didn’t matter what happened next. It didn’t matter that people could see. It didn’t matter that Nate was going to do this to him in front of a crowd. Ewan could take it. He wanted it. He wanted Nate to peel him part, just dig into him and see what kind of terrible thing he’d bought with his concern and his care, what he was now responsible for.
Would Nate still want him, once he knew?
There was only one way to find out.
A hand in his hair, fingers twisting into it, and the heat of breath on his cheek. “Ready?”
“Yeah.” The hand tightened painfully, and Ewan sucked in a hiss. “Yes, Sir.”
“Better. I hope you are ready for this. So many people watching you right now, wanting to see how much you can take before you break down. They want to see you cry, baby boy. So the only way you’re getting off that cross is if you cry for me, or give me a color.”
Ewan flinched. Nate was going to make him cry in front of strangers. Fuck that. “I’m green, Sir,” he said, and Nate yanked at his hair.
“You know that’s not the color I mean.” He stroked Ewan’s scalp. “You know what I want. If you give it to me, then maybe I’ll let you come later. Or I won’t, I’ll just fuck you.”
It made him yank against his cuffs, because Nate was going to fuck him and he wanted that so badly, just Nate in him, taking him and using him and coming inside him like marking him as territory, and Ewan whimpered, a high, needy sound. “You’d better,” he muttered, and Nate smacked him sharply on the ass, a real sting, to let him know he’d been bad.
“Don’t sass me, baby boy. You know I’ll hurt you if you do.”
Ewan wanted it. He didn’t want the censure in Nate’s voice, though, so he licked his lips. “Yes, Sir,” he said, squeezing his eyes shut beneath the blindfold. “I’ll be good.”
“I don’t believe you,” Nate said, and he was grinning, Ewan could tell, but then he let go of Ewan’s hair and stepped off, and then—
It was nothing at first, just the light stroke of tresses down his shoulders, his sides. They kissed light and flickery over the exposed halves of his ass, his thighs and calves, all the way to his ankles. It was like the kiss of a hundred butterfly wings. It felt nice, though, making his skin shiver and goose-pimple in response. It was a warning, a warm up, and then there was the first gentle sweep of tresses across his shoulders in a broad arc. Nate was double-handing, Ewan thought, and tried to imagine him, shirtless under the warm dungeon light, his torso exposed and golden, shoulders bunching as he swung the floggers together in an arc. It was delicate, stingy, all those thin leather tresses playing over Ewan’s skin like sharp little kisses, like every lash was Nate’s hand on him, touching him, owning him. Hurting him, because he was Nate’s to hurt, Nate’s to tease, Nate’s to claim.
The tresses stung across his shoulders, clipping his ass on both sides, painting his thighs in warmth. It was slow, painfully so. Between strokes Nate rubbed over his skin and his palm was rough, scouring his marks. Ewan felt his blood rise to the surface, and writhed away from the touch. Nate patted him, chuckling as if it was all very amusing, which Ewan supposed it must be, to him.
Then the lashes came faster. Dual wielding now, Ewan thought, one flogger in each hand. The familiar rhythm of florentine danced over his skin, painful as Nate lashed harder strokes in amongst the gentler. He was working Ewan up to it, preparing him to take something brutal. Ewan breathed out, breathed in, shuddered and gasped.
“Baby boy?”
“I’m green, Sir,” Ewan stuttered, and Nate hummed, stinging him hard again, again, again.
The snap of leather jerked the breath from his throat, but Ewan took it, bracing himself against the cuffs on his wrists, gasping as the cadence of the harder strokes increased like a rising drum beat, thudding into him mercilessly. It came hard and fast, almost too hard to bear, and Ewan felt his lungs heave, his breath shuddering through his chest in heavy gusts. It dragged a moan from his throat and he writhed, trying to get away from the onslaught, crying out with every stroke until Nate shushed him.
“Shhhh, it’s okay,” Nate said. He draped the floggers over Ewan’s shoulders, letting them hang there, tresses tickling his chest as he caught his breath. Nate rubbed him down soothingly, but those rough gloves dragged painfully on Ewan’s skin until Nate curled his hands to trail the backs of his fingers down Ewan’s spine. “Hey, hey…give me a color.”
“Green,” Ewan breathed. Nate hummed with pleasure, and his mouth kissed along Ewan’s shoulder, the scrape of his beard rough as he scuffed down Ewan’s back, nuzzling him affectionately.
“You’re so fucking beautiful like this,” Nate sighed. “God, I love hurting you.”
“Love it when you hurt me, Sir,” Ewan mumbled, and then he clamped his mouth shut, not daring to say anything else unless he gave too much away.
The first snap of the single-tail made Ewan gasp out loud. The second made him yelp, high up in the back of his throat. Nate laid down welts and Ewan clamped his mouth shut, jerking against his bonds and trying not to scream.
“Let it go. Don’t hold out on me.” Nate stung him again, a hard crack across his ass. Ewan bowed his head, shaking, and Nate let him have it. “Come on, baby boy, let it go.”
He wanted to snap something about not being a Disney princess but Nate belted him, and again, and Ewan had to breathe, all he could do was breathe and try not to flinch, and grind his back teeth against the whimpers threatening to spill out of him. It was worse when Nate paused, giving him a breather, because Nate was tender then, rubbing over his welts and nuzzling him. Worse because it wasn’t over—Nate came back to cut him to ribbons, holy shit, was he bleeding? Nate wouldn’t make him bleed, would he?
Ewan felt like his lungs were on fire, his throat burning, and he couldn’t stop whimpering, couldn’t keep the sound down, so he leaned into it, moaning out loud, giving Nate what he wanted.
But that wasn’t what Nate wanted, of course it wasn’t.
“Come on, baby,” Nate crooned, his fingers stroking through Ewan’s hair and yanking gently. “Come on, I know you can do better than that. Am I not hurting you enough?”
Ewan grit his teeth. “No.”
“No?” There was a warning in his voice, and Ewan swallowed hard, trying to find his tongue.
“No Sir, you’re not hurting me enough.”
“Aww. I’m sorry.” He didn’t sound it, not at all. “I’ll make it up to you, I promise.” If anything it sounded like a threat.
And then. Ewan felt the single-tail slice across his skin and he screamed. It was like fire, lancing through him, a single hot cut on his ass, and then another, and another, spreading across his skin in an explosion of agony. The cuts came steadily, perfectly spaced, and Ewan wailed, unable to stop himself from writhing away from it.
“Please!” he gasped. “Sir, please!
“No.”
“Sir,” Ewan whined, humiliation rising in his throat. “Please, please don’t. I’ll be good, just don’t—Ah!”
“You’ll be what?”
“Good, Sir, I’ll…anything you w—AH!” Another cut, and Nate’s palm, smooth and bare and rubbing over the sore flesh of his ass cheek, squeezing him until Ewan thought he might choke. “Please, I’ll…whatever you want, I’ll do it, I’ll be furniture, I’ll…I’ll lick your boots, I’ll worship you, I—”
Nate sighed. “Oh, baby, I know,” he said. He sounded apologetic, almost. He wasn’t, though, and Ewan knew it with a terrifying clarity. “I’m so sorry. But you know you need this. This is what you need, isn’t it?”
It was. And there was no way to stop it now they’d begun.
Distantly, Ewan knew he could give the right color, could make Nate stop if he really had to. He could just give him ‘yellow’ and get some respite, could take it down a notch. But he’d know, always, that he could have taken more, that this was so close to what he wanted, to the complete mind-blankness of letting go, that fog threatening to engulf him. He really would do anything Nate wanted then. He’d cry and gibber and moan, and suck Nate’s cock in front of the crowd, slobber all over him. Let Nate use him in public, give him away to anyone. He’d let Nate cuff him to the wall with a sign around his neck saying ‘slut for use’ and open his mouth for every cock and cunt and strap-on in the place. If he let Nate take him down he’d be powerless, and Nate could do whatever he wanted with him.
Now Nate stroked along a welt, and it shivered all the way to Ewan’s aching, needy cock.
“Do you need me to keep going? You gotta tell me, baby boy. You know I’m doing this for you.”
Ewan breathed in, and out, his ears ringing. “I need it.”
“You sure? I don’t know if you can take any more.”
But he needed it. “No, I…please.”
Nate kissed his shoulder, soft and tender. “Okay. But you asked for this, don’t forget.”
He pulled away. Ewan braced himself, ready for the cuts.
Except it wasn’t the sharp single cut of whatever Nate had used on him just now, it was the multi-layered lash of a flogger again, only swung with such an intensity to it that Ewan cried out immediately. It was thuddy, weighty, and hit hard on his welts, hard enough to leave bruises. Ewan cried out. He couldn’t help the words that spilled from his throat. “Sir! Please! Please, stop, plea-AH! Sir, Sir,” he sobbed, “don’t, please…fuck! God, Sir, I…I can’t…please stop, Sir, please!”
But Nate didn’t stop, and Ewan felt it all breaking down in his head, every barrier he had. Ego. Fear. Everything stripped back by pain and determination until there was nothing left. No more Ewan. No Mac. Just this aching loneliness, this pain, and Nate’s voice.
“Shhh. Baby boy. You asked for it. I promised you. There’s only one way out of this, and you know it.”
He made Ewan scream until his throat was raw, until Ewan had nothing left, until he couldn’t speak. He was gone. He rose through it to a place where it didn’t matter, where none of it mattered anymore.
He stayed there for a while, dimly aware of the world shifting around him. His brain was out to lunch, and his body just a mess. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except…
When his brain came back on line nothing made sense at first. His body was unresponsive. He couldn’t feel things properly, could only really process the warm firmness he was braced against, and something soft beneath him. Someone was whispering to him, soft soothing things that made him feel better. Nate. It had to be Nate.
The body was sobbing. Ewan didn’t know how to stop it so he let it go, let it shake. Nate had him. It would be fine.
His arms felt like noodles. They didn’t want to obey him. And he couldn’t speak, couldn’t make the connection between his brain and his body. He clung there, wallowing in the warmth and comfort of Nate’s arms. Nate had wrapped him a blanket so soft it was like being hugged by a cloud, and he was murmuring soft things— “Hey, baby, you did so good. I’m so proud of you.” Nate nuzzled him and he leaned into it, accepting the affection, delighting in it. “You’re okay, just let it out. You’ll feel better.”
And he did. There was a wonderful clarity in his thoughts (it was an endorphin high, Ewan knew it, but it didn’t make him feel it any less) something sharp and crystalline, as if he’d achieved enlightenment. Everything made sense.
He wasn’t worthless. He belonged to Nate. Nate wanted him, wanted to take care of him. He wanted Nate. It was so simple, so easy to belong to someone and just be theirs. He could make Nate happy if he tried. And if he failed, Nate would correct him, and punish him, and absolve him, and he wouldn’t have to feel guilty anymore.
“I’ve got you,” Nate said.
Yeah, you do.
There was water. And then…blueberries? Ewan ate them, drank the water, leaned his face into Nate’s throat, humming happily.
“You’ve gone soft as a kitten, baby.” Nate sounded pleased, and his hands were gentle as they stroked over Ewan’s shoulders. “Tell me if you need anything.”
But Ewan felt like words were too hard, so he just
looped his arms around Nate’s neck and leaned into him. You, I need you.
Nate held him. It was perfect.
Finally, Ewan cleared his throat. “I’m okay,” he croaked.
“Yeah?” Nate kissed his temple. “You wanna stay here for a little bit?”
Ewan blinked, taking in his surroundings. He was in Nate’s lap, wrapped up in his arms and a blanket, on a couch in one of the quiet rooms. Nate looked sweaty and exhausted, and also deeply pleased, like he’d got exactly what he wanted from Ewan tonight. Ewan wriggled a little, wondering when the feeling of discomfort would set in, that nagging feeling like he’d done something wrong, something bad. Like he was bad, and deserved to be treated like it.
“I can get up,” Ewan said.
“You don’t have to.” Nate smiled, his eyes half-lidded. “We could stay here.” He trailed his fingers through Ewan’s hair, watching his face with lazy focus, as if there was nothing else in the world but them.
Ewan shuddered, rubbing up against him. “I’m good. I can.”
“Or just lie still for a bit longer,” Nate encouraged, but Ewan was determined. He untangled himself and stood up, his knees wobbly, and scrubbed at his face. Nate sighed and stretched, and pushed himself up off the couch.
“Aren’t you going to try and talk me into more aftercare?” Ewan demanded, but Nate just tucked the blanket around Ewan’s shoulders, smiling peaceably.
“You’re fine. Right?”
Ewan felt…incredible. Light-headed and loose, like something was gone, like stripping out of a suit on a hot day. Which… okay, he was basically naked. He hugged the blanket around himself, and Nate chuckled.
“Your pants are right here,” he said fondly, indicating the pile he must have brought with him. “Need a hand?”
Ewan allowed Nate to dress him, even when Nate knelt down to get his laces. Ewan watched him do it, this strange thickening in his throat. Nate was so nice to him. He should be nicer to Nate. He needed Nate to keep him, after all, so he had to be good.
“There.” Nate patted Ewan’s hip, straightening. “All good?”
“Yeah.”
