Sex in C Major

Daz's eyes narrowed.

Then he grabbed. His hand closed like a trap around Stefan's wrist. The chain that was twisted around it was heavy and brutal. A padlock caught the links tight. They bit into his skin, and Stefan was wrenched flat onto the mattress when another locked the chain to the headboard, barely two inches of length left to move with. The wind was knocked out of him when Daz straddled his chest to tie the other hand to the opposite bedpost, and then Stefan was stretched, uncomfortably wide and unable to so much as roll his shoulders across the mattress.

It had all happened in less than twenty seconds.

And Daz-his master-Daz, was straddling his chest. His knees were cupping Stefan's breasts through the dressing gown. If he rose up on his knees, he could-would-could fuck Stefan's mouth like that morning he'd kissed Yannis then rolled over and come in Stefan instead...

Stefan recoiled from the thoughts. No. No. They were that was-

"Next question?"

He swallowed. The weight lifted. Daz was gone.

And this was worse. Those scrutinising blue eyes from the end of the bed. Stretched out but clothed. Pinned down but not used, and no weight, no pain, nothing to ground him.

Stefan twisted his wrists in the chains until the links scraped his skin raw, and breathed.

What number question were they on?

"W-wh-what weren't you okay with? About-about slaves and things?"

Daz shrugged.

"What you'd expect," he said calmly. "I thought it made me a rapist. Thought if I got off to violent sex and hurting people, it made me sick in the head."

Sick. Sick in the head.

"But it doesn't. I'm not like that. And my partners aren't victims of that. And it's Yannis that made me figure that out. If I were a violent rapist, I would have raped him. I wouldn't have put up with a partner who refused to sleep with me. I'd have made him. But I've never so much as asked twice. And I enjoy the gentler side, I guess, with him. I like having a cuddle on the sofa, or just holding hands sometimes. I'm more than okay with not sleeping with him at all, never mind violently, so that kind of made me realise it's just play to me. That I'm fine."

Stefan's stomach twisted.

Because fuck.

It wasn't...Daz was just playing. But it wasn't just a game to Stefan. He didn't have a Yannis. He didn't even like the cuddles and the kisses and the affectionate touches. He didn't want those. He only wanted-wanted-

"True or false?"

He blinked.

"True."

Slowly, Daz shook his head.

"W-what?"

"I did think it made me a sicko," he said, shrugging again. "But it wasn't Yannis who helped me figure out I was fine."

"What was?"

"That's your next question?"

"Yes."

"My first sub, I guess, she wasn't a slave. First-other other half, if that makes sense. First person since Yannis and I decided to be open about our relationship. She was submissive, but very selectively. She'd have had my balls for sending taxis for her, or making her crawl around in the garden. But she begged me for months to break into her house and pretend to rape her. Months. Bought me books, took me to clubs, went out of her way to prove it was just pretending. So it was her that made me realise. Not Yannis."

Stefan licked his lips.

"True," he whispered.

And-again-Daz shook his head. Stefan's chest hitched. He felt-alone. The chains were hurting his wrists, but he needed to be hurt more. Elsewhere. He needed-needed his nipple ripping open again. Needed to be filled and torn. Something. He needed to be right.

"I'm not going to tell you who helped me realise," Daz said, "so I'd pick another question. Number six, now."

Stefan twisted at the chains. He needed something he knew. Needed-

"What's your first name?"

"Darren."

"False."

Daz's eyes narrowed, but then he smirked. "Fine. What do you want?"

Stefan felt sick even as he said it. "Bite my nipple. Hard. Make it hurt and bleed."

Daz shook his head. "It's already bleeding."

"The other one."

Daz glanced at his robed chest, then shrugged and crawled back over Stefan's body. The dressing gown was ripped open. Wet heat latched around the undamaged nipple.

Then teeth.

Hard.

Stefan yelled as the white-hot shards of pain sparked outwards from the wound. He shuddered and cried. He hauled at the chains. He kicked violently, struggling-both to escape, and to feel the agony of tearing his skin from between that awful grip. And it didn't work. He couldn't escape. He could feel the teeth sinking deeper and twisting, grinding, at his flesh. Could feel a trickle of something hot-spit, blood, something-oozing down the side of his breast.