By His Rules

by J. A. Rock

  up. That was the beauty of Scott, that he didn’t expect

  Aiden to lie—or stand, or kneel, or crouch—passively

  and take it. He expected active participation, honest

  reactions. True obedience.

  He held the door for Hera, and the two of them

  entered the dim, red-white-and-wood guts of Joe’s

  Steakhouse. Immediately Hera was sent to the tables,

  and Aiden was told to roll silverware and refill ketchup

  bottles. All he could think about was Monday night. And

  Scott.

  Except that thinking about Scott made his cock stir.

  And there was nothing he could do about it. He couldn’t

  touch himself for one week. Even if he made it through

  the week, there was no guarantee Scott would allow him

  release Monday night. Scott had said he didn’t care at all

  about Aiden’s dick.

  How would Scott possibly know? If Aiden jacked off

  tonight, he could go the next six days without it and be

  convincingly hungry and desperate by the time he got to

  Scott’s on Monday.

  It can’t be healthy, after being blue balled all night, to not

  get release.

  He grew angrier at the injustice of it.

  Who is Scott to try to run my life even when he’s not

  around? He’s a bossy prick, no different from those doms he was

  talking about who just want to feel powerful. What the hell right

  does he have to call me Shithead or tell me I don’t know how to

  suck dick?

  Aiden was sure he was going to listen to the devil

  on his shoulder and go home and jack off.

  Then the angel started making its case. I promised

  him. He gave me an order, and I said I’d obey. He is a good top.

  I’d never find anyone else like him around here in a million

  years. He doesn’t baby me. He’s going to let me find out what

  I’m really made of.

  “Aiden?”

  Rima’s voice startled him. He was grateful for the

  apron he wore that covered his crotch.

  “Section four. Now.”

  He watched her hurry away. If you had any idea what

  I’m thinking about. What I do. Who I am. I’m not your little

  slave boy. I am somebody’s slave boy, though. I’m so much more

  than Joe’s, so much more than this town. I want to see more, do

  more, experience more than anyone else. I want to know what it

  means to be alive.

  And I have someone who’s going to teach me.

  * * * *

  When Aiden got home, he unbuttoned his black

  shirt and tossed it over a chair. He looked at the pile of

  grad school applications on his desk. He’d been thinking

  about getting his MFA in Theater for a while now. If he

  got into a good program, like UC Irvine or Case Western,

  he wouldn’t even have to pay for school—they’d cover

  his tuition and give him a stipend. Plus he’d receive his

  Actor’s Equity card as part of the degree. Pursuing a

  master’s was a good move, one that would get him far

  away from this dump of a town. He just couldn’t seem to

  find the motivation to complete the applications.

  Personal statements? CVs? Auditions, interviews? At

  least most of the applications weren’t due until the end

  of December. He still had three months.

  He undid his belt, and the act sent a rush of heat to

  his groin as he remembered Scott’s belt whistling

  through the loops in his pants, then doubled in Scott’s

  hand, then slamming against Aiden’s ass. If he stayed in

  tonight, there was no way he’d be able to keep from

  touching himself. The solution was to get out, stay busy.

  He changed and headed for the gym, where he lifted

  weights for over an hour. You want me to bulk up, Scott?

  All right. At home, he showered with the water as cold as

  he could stand it, then put on clean underwear and

  climbed into bed.

  Don’t think about Scott, don’t think about Scott, don’t

  think about Scott…

  Baseball. Howler monkeys. Rima Wells’s camel toe.

  Don’t touch your dick, don’t touch your dick, don’t touch

  your dick…

  Rent due in a week. The Dow. Steve Buscemi in a

  speedo.

  Don’t think about…don’t touch…don’t want…

  Buscemi in a G-string. Roadkill puppies. Linear

  equations.

  Don’t, don’t, don’t…

  It was useless. His mind was strewed with Scott.

  There’s no way he could know. No way. Unless you tell

  him. So just do it. Just jerk off and don’t tell him.

  He reached down and gave his dick an

  experimental stroke.

  He let out the breath he’d been holding for what felt

  like all day. Scott, Scott, Scott… He stroked again, and the

  tension left his neck and shoulders, his head. He

  wrapped his fist around his dick and tugged, teasing the

  head with his fingertips, thinking about the pulsing

  veins in Scott’s cock, about tongue fucking Scott’s slit.

  Scott’s deep voice ordering him to sit, stand, bend

  over…

  It only took a few seconds. He lay back on the bed,

  relaxed and already half-asleep.

  Scott never needed to know.

  Chapter Four

  On Monday, Aiden woke at six a.m. even though he

  didn’t have to be at work until ten. His cock was half-

  hard. He didn’t touch it—hadn’t touched since that first

  night.

  It’s not like I really did anything wrong.

  So why couldn’t he shake the guilt gnawing at him?

  The fear that Scott really would be able to tell?

  He dressed and went running. He liked what

  running did for his mind, as well as for his ass and legs.

  The world seemed to open up for him out here in the

  chilly morning. His breath burst into the clear air in brief

  clouds, and his footsteps echoed in the silent

  neighborhood.

  One application. That’s what he’d do before work,

  complete one grad school application. It would help take

  his mind off tonight.

  Tonight.

  His first night of training.

  What would Scott do to him? What did “training”

  entail?

  I am a good sub, he thought. I do what I’m told. I

  make my doms happy. I just… have never been pushed.

  Never had to do anything difficult or unpleasant. I’ve

  played the role of a submissive, but I’ve never truly

  surrendered.

  Aiden had had an acting professor at State

  University who’d said an audience couldn’t tell on a

  conscious level when you were phoning in a

  performance. If you did everything technically right, the

  audience would leave thinking you were a good actor.

  But if you had what the professor had called “the

  transcendent experience” of inhabiting your character,

  totally immersing yourself in the story, living every

  moment onstage as though it was a moment of your own

  life—the audience would absorb that on a subconscious

  level and leave the theater understanding that they’d

  witnessed something divine.

>   Most tops couldn’t tell that Aiden was phoning it

  in. They didn’t realize that, far from trusting them

  enough to hand them his soul, Aiden held back his true

  submissive self, offering instead a caricature of a sub

  who knew his manners, who could assume all the

  necessary positions, who was familiar with the requisite

  toys and equipment. Scott knew Aiden was used to

  faking. Scott knew, and he wasn’t going to allow it. Scott

  made Aiden want to be more, to immerse himself in

  submission. To create something divine.

  Work passed in a daze. Aiden couldn’t eat anything

  all day; his stomach was jumpy. He did as Scott had

  ordered and drove straight to Scott’s house without

  changing or showering—though he smelled like steak

  sauce and felt oddly self-conscious in the tight black

  work trousers that showcased his butt (he and Hera had

  an ongoing argument over whose ass earned more tips),

  and a black button-down shirt stained here and there

  with horseradish sauce and barbecue.

  He stood on Scott’s small, tidy porch and knocked

  —then remembered Scott had told him to let himself in.

  He turned the knob. Unlocked. He entered the unlit hall,

  shutting the door behind him.

  It was colder in the house than outside. He

  shivered. No way could he take his clothes off—he’d

  freeze. He stood for a moment in the dark, listening to

  the hums and clicks of the house. A light was on in the

  kitchen, but otherwise there was no sign that anyone was

  home.

  He started to call Scott’s name but stopped. Scott’s

  instructions had been clear. He was to undress. Kneel.

  And wait.

  He removed his shoes and socks and placed them

  by the door, then unbuttoned his shirt with trembling

  fingers. He clenched his teeth, trying not to let them

  chatter. Why would Scott have the AC on? Aiden’s

  nipples stiffened as the cold air slammed his skin. He

  folded his shirt and put it on a nearby table. He undid

  his fly and slid his pants down, stepping out of them and

  folding them. Even though he was alone, he hesitated

  before pulling down his briefs. Once he took his

  underwear off, he would be totally naked.

  He closed his eyes and slid his briefs off. Put the

  folded clothes with his shoes. Knelt.

  After several minutes, the chill grew unbearable.

  His knees ached, both from cold and from holding his

  position. He shifted as much as he dared, trying to lessen

  the strain on his leg muscles. His stomach growled.

  He needed something else to concentrate on. The

  floorboards. Spotlessly clean—he could tell even in the

  dark; there was no grit under his feet.

  The chattering of his teeth seemed horribly loud in

  the silent house. He couldn’t stop digging at a hangnail

  on his thumb. God, if Scott didn’t show up soon… He

  thought about what Scott had said: A pretty boy who calls

  himself submissive, but only ever really thinks about his own

  desires. He couldn’t let that be true. He wanted nothing

  more than to please Scott.

  Kneeling with his legs spread made him aware of

  how vulnerable he was. He thought about Scott’s cock

  filling his opening, Scott’s body pressed against his,

  warming him. His cock, which had shriveled from the

  chill, hardened slightly.

  He stopped moving and bowed his head,

  surrendering both to his absent master and to the

  understanding that his own needs didn’t matter, didn’t

  exist. He stopped shivering and held his position, feeling

  neither discomfort nor resentment nor fear. After a few

  moments, he heard footsteps approaching.

  “Keep your eyes closed.” Scott’s voice was quiet

  and sent a shiver through Aiden that had nothing to do

  with the cold.

  He could smell Scott in front of him—cologne,

  soap, traces of sweat and arousal. Scott took his wrists

  and pulled him up, made him stand with his arms out

  like wings while he circled Aiden, silent, predatory.

  Aiden inhaled as Scott’s fingertips ghosted the area

  under his left armpit. Scott ran his fingers down Aiden’s

  side to his hip, then moved behind him and placed both

  palms under Aiden’s arms and rubbed firmly down his

  sides. He grabbed Aiden’s ass and squeezed until Aiden

  groaned.

  “Open your eyes and look at me.”

  Aiden did.

  “Did you touch yourself?” Scott whispered.

  For a second, Aiden couldn’t remember how to

  speak. “No, Sir.”

  Scott reached around and pinched Aiden’s nipples.

  Aiden arched his back.

  “You had to think about it.”

  Shit. Why had he hesitated? “No, Sir. I mean—no, I

  didn’t touch myself.”

  Scott let go of Aiden’s tits, took his wrist in one

  hand, and swatted his ass with the other. “Walk.”

  They went to the kitchen. The tiles under Aiden’s

  feet were even colder than the floorboards in the hall.

  The room smelled faintly of whatever Scott had eaten for

  dinner, and Aiden’s stomach growled again.

  Scott directed him to a wall and pushed his head

  forward until his lips touched a metal bar.

  “Open up,” Scott said.

  Aiden opened, and Scott pushed him forward

  another inch so that the bar was in his mouth.

  “Bite.”

  Aiden did. The bar was cold and copper tasting.

  Okay, we’re so not in Kansas anymore, Aiden thought.

  Scott grabbed his hips and pulled so that Aiden’s

  back sloped and his ass jutted out from the wall.

  Scott placed a silk mask over Aiden’s eyes, then

  cuffed his hands together behind his back. Now Aiden’s

  position was extremely awkward—bent at the waist, ass

  out, hands behind him, jaws around the bar.

  Scott grabbed his nipples again, rolling and

  squeezing them into stiff peaks. He put a clamp on the

  right one, screwing it slowly tighter until Aiden’s breath

  caught and he twisted involuntarily—then tighter still,

  until every muscle in Aiden’s body tensed against the

  pain.

  Scott clamped his left tit with the same agonizing

  slowness and flicked both clamps, sending shocks of

  pain through Aiden’s body. Aiden was grateful to have

  the bar to bite down on.

  Scott attached something to the right clamp—a

  chain, Aiden realized a moment later, when Scott let the

  series of metal links fall from his fingers. The weight of

  the chain jerked the clamp down, making Aiden gasp.

  Scott picked up the loose end and attached it to the left

  clamp, creating a slack arc that swung painfully if Aiden

  moved at all.

  Scott put his fingers in the U of chain and applied a

  steady downward pressure. Aiden whimpered as his

  nipples were stretched. He tried to move his torso

  downward to alleviate the pressure, but he couldn’t

  without releasing the bar. He moaned his frustra
tion. The

  pain stopped.

  He heard Scott’s footsteps move away, then the

  sound of the refrigerator opening. Plastic rustled. The

  fridge closed. Aiden shifted his weight, nervous. He

  heard a drawer open, and then the sound of Scott cutting

  something on a board. Then a—vegetable peeler? It

  sounded like Scott was peeling a potato. Again the knife

  slammed the cutting board; then there was a familiar

  smell in the air that Aiden couldn’t quite pinpoint.

  Aiden recognized the smell from the restaurant. It

  was something that went in the steak teriyaki. Scott

  approached him, taking a position just behind and to the

  left of Aiden. He placed a hand on Aiden’s hip. Aiden

  jumped.

  “Did you touch yourself?” Scott asked again. His

  voice was deceptively casual.

  Aiden couldn’t back down now. He’d already

  insisted twice that he hadn’t. If he stuck to his story, there

  was no way Scott could prove he’d broken the rule. He

  shook his head as best he could with the bar in his

  mouth.

  “Let go of the bar,” Scott said, “and answer me. Did

  you touch yourself, Shithead, between last Monday and

  tonight? Did you take hold of your worthless little cock

  and jerk yourself while you thought about me? Did you

  come?”

  Aiden let go of the bar. “No, Sir,” he said as firmly

  as he could manage.

  Scott removed his hand from Aiden’s hip. “Bite

  down on the bar again.”

  The smell of whatever Scott had cut was

  overwhelming, and Aiden wished he could figure out

  what it was. He didn’t have much time to wonder. Scott

  spread his cheeks with one hand and, with the other,

  forced something wet and cool into his entrance.

  For a second, Aiden felt nothing. Whatever the

  object was, it was small, and aside from its odd, moist

  texture, there was nothing uncomfortable about it. Then

  slowly a fire began in his asshole, spreading through his

  body, making him jerk and writhe. He pulled against the

  handcuffs and ground his teeth against the steel bar. The

  burning sensation grew so intense that he felt nauseated.

  He stamped, arched, twisted—anything to lessen the

  burn. Scott held the object in place, then began moving it

  in and out slightly.

  Tears sprang to Aiden’s eyes. Every time he moved

  to try to get away from the fire in his asshole, the chain