Sex in C Major

He didn't want to be left.

Hands caught at his wrist, and returned it to its place.

And held on. Weight settled again. A different weight. It settled over his spread thighs, and the hands vanished to part his cheeks again. Stefan felt the slippery trickle of cum leaking free, and clenched down to keep it inside-only to sharply relax again when a second cock began to press inside.

Stefan opened his mouth to speak, but only a wordless cry emerged as, in one smooth thrust, he was filled again.

In a single, slick slide, he was filled. This cock was slimmer. Dry. He could feel a thin sheath, perhaps a condom. The vein underneath was thicker; the pulse less pronounced. It was harder than the first-perhaps they'd been watched. Dizzy, Stefan realised he could tell the difference, but who was who escaped him. Daz had never worn a condom before-but then, Yannis surely would be lighter than this, and had been too disdainful of the idea of joining them to just take his turn and fuck like this?

Then all thought was driven free.

Where the first had seated itself and fucked in short jerks to come, the second did not pause. It buried itself to the root-and then immediately began to draw back. Stefan's hips were gripped between two hard hands. Fingers dug bruises into the bones. He cried out as the cum was scraped out on the head with the withdrawal.

Then yelled as, with only the tip touching him, everything stopped-

And the thrust back inside was brutally hard.

The rhythm was fast. It was anonymous. Seedy. He was a hole to be fucked, and fucked hard. The cum was dragged out of him. He didn't have time to clench, to bask, to absorb, to feel. The thrusts were punches. Injections. Punctures. Sharp, perfunctory, uncaring. Demanding. He would be fucked, and his owner didn't care if he wanted it. Didn't care what he needed. His needs were incidental. He was here to serve.

And his servitude was naked, in chains, blindfolded, with an anonymous cock driving him into the sheets in brutal, punishing thrusts.

And God, Stefan wanted it. More of it. All of it. Wanted it like this, then to be turned over and fucked by the first again, so that he leaked from both holes. Wanted to be made to clean them both in his mouth. Wanted to be put to use fully, then locked back to the bed and left to dry. Wanted to be held down and held open, like a doll to be posed.

Then to fight, and be punished for fighting. To struggle, only to be chained in place. To beg, to be gagged. Wanted to be used, to satisfy twice over if he wanted any of his own.

Wanted to be owned.

He sagged in the sheets, two hands on his hips and two on his wrists, and limp between them. Yielding. Absorbing. His entire body moved with every movement. He could feel a new slickness now. Blood, perhaps. Precum, maybe. It scraped and stung against his arse. It hurt, and he wanted more of it. Every thrust shoved him against the sheets. Every strike dragged his cock against the cotton. He was fucked, and fucking the bed in turn. As the fire spread, Stefan began to clench. Begin to roll his own hips. Began to fuck himself on that insatiable dick, and fuck the messy sheets below him. He was a body, and had to find his own pleasure if he could. He was for use. He was an object. He was for them.

Owned by them.

He came by surprise, on the heels of the thought. And when he did, the bed lurched dizzyingly. He came fighting, wrenching at the hands holding him. He came desperate, wild, and unthinking. He came so hard it hurt, so sudden it surprised. He came in handprints and bruises, chained to his owner's bed, his arse dry and aching from skin and sex and his own handed-over slavery.

The blindfold was tugged free, but Stefan didn't open his eyes. 20

He was sent home at lunchtime.

Yannis was...Yannis. He ignored Stefan, acted like nothing had happened, and was playing his double bass in the living room when Daz called for the taxi.

Daz, on the other hand, was affectionate. He kissed, he cuddled, he stroked Stefan's hair.

And it felt...

Odd.

In the aftermath of spacing, Stefan had needed nothing more than for his master to touch him. To be held. But in the aftermath of lunch, with his cuff nice and tight around his thigh and a contentment humming in his blood only a truly good, deep fuck could leave behind...

It felt suddenly unsettling. He found himself sidestepping it a little, unsure of what to do when a cuddle wasn't accompanied by promises of sex, unsure of the point when kisses were gentle and affectionate instead of bruising and demanding.