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In
Medias Res by
Kim Gasper
Your life seems to be, strangely, nothing more than the middle anymore. As if it's unfinished, and never will be anything but unfinished. You don't like to remember how this started, and of course you can't know how it will end. All you can do is follow the path, hovering here for however long fate chooses to keep you captive, waiting for the next thing in your life beyond what seems to be the whole.
It could be days from now; it could be minutes. You have no way to gauge Iason's actions, nothing by which to judge, to plan. Nothing from which to draw hope. According to Iason, you belong to him now, though you fight it every step of the way. Each time he calls you pet, each time he chains you, each time he takes you, sends your soul soaring until you crash down, lower than the time before. How can you hate him this much and still want him as badly as you do? How can you give in to him, time after time after time? Questions, questions and you have no answers. Nor do you think you ever will. You can hate him, can hate yourself, but you still give in. You still long for the release, however brief and at whatever cost, that opening to him creates for you. He's asleep right now and you're unchained; you could leave, could run away. Perhaps he'd find you, but perhaps he wouldn't. Find another place, be your own man again. Somewhere to hide away forever...never have to submit, never have to betray yourself. Never have to admit to yourself what you want. Why you stay above all else.
He let you sleep this time until you weren't tired any longer. He's fed you well, and seen to a bath for you. And now is when your nightmare will begin once again. Asleep it's easy to escape; awake is like facing the boogeyman in the closet: your own personal demon is Iason. You shift slowly, eyes tracking around the room, searching the corners, the walls, trying to see beyond the shadows that stop and start just a handful of paces beyond you. Your chains clink gently, the sound both rousing and numbing. He likes to see the chains on you, manacles around your wrists, long leads attached to whatever's handy. Sometimes to bolts on the walls or the floor, sometimes attached to furniture. Tonight you're chained to the wall, though he was generous and used the lower bolts. You can sit...he expects you to. To kneel, actually, your legs spread wide so he can see all evidence of your pleasure at his demand. So you might perform better for him. "Touch yourself, pet. I want to watch you. I want to see that pretty skin flush." Your eyes strain toward the shadows...was there movement there? A sound? A quickly indrawn breath, as someone sees you in your shame? Your face burns but your body burns as well, heat stuck in your chest like a small sun, spreading outward, warming your limbs. Hate and love, humiliation and arousal, pride and need. They live together within you like warring relatives; none content to leave the others alone. Iason stands before you like ice coming to cool the burn, all long flowing hair and pale, pale skin, his eyes the color of winter skies, blue and gray and shaded with clouds--and even though he's icy cold, he is the cause of your burn. Someone told you once that ice can scald worse than fire, can freeze your skin to the point where you feel nothing but throbbing, thrumming heat that intensifies tenfold, a hundredfold when warmth is actually applied. You never believed them until Iason. You never believed them until you tasted him, until you lost your soul to him. Until you became his pet. Now you believe. And you're damned for that. He's still standing before you, watching you, waiting for you to respond. You plead silently with him, not wanting to do this again, please no more, but he hears your silent pleas no better than your verbal ones. His eyes do strange things to your stomach when he caresses you with a long look; there is so much power within him and you want to drink deeply from it even while you choke on it. Your mouth works, your throat moving, and the word comes out as a whimper, scarcely a sound in the loud silence of the room. "Please--" "Touch yourself. Now." You whimper once more, softer than before, and sigh. There is no fighting it; why do you bother? His will prevails, no matter what. The chains clink again when you move your arms, one hand going to fondle your cock, the other rubbing lightly over your chest. He touches you like this sometimes, caresses you when you're not expecting it. He isn't supposed to; pets are to have, to show off, to play with...but not to touch. Not to caress. Not to fuck. Iason does it all; he doesn't care about what he shouldn't do. It's spoiled you, made you want more...made you fidget restlessly when you don't get it. Like now. "Please, Iason--" "You will do this." His fingers--gloved tonight, winter-white satin slicker than ice--glide up your inner thigh, pinch lightly, and then travel on. He takes your hand and strokes the palm, then wraps it around your cock and squeezes. "You're so lovely when you're pleasuring yourself, pet. Make it pretty for me. I like to see you grow erect, flushed, to hear your soft moans." He makes love to you and torments you all in the same breath. It's maddening. You can feel his eyes boring into you and shudder, moving your arm slowly. The chains clink again, softly and he smiles. "That's a good pet. Stroke slow, feel it...touch yourself, pleasure yourself, lose yourself in it...." You're so cold and so hot all at the same time. There are soft sounds from beyond the shadows; you can hear them over the clink of your chains. People there watching you masturbate, watching someone exert their will over your own. Your humiliation is complete, or so you believe. But if you truly believe that...why does it still feel so good? Why does your skin shiver like winter is sliding over you? Why does your cock burn and your bottom ache with emptiness? Why do you feel his hands superimposed over yours, fingers squeezing you until you can no longer catch your breath? Your cock stands proudly now, erect and thick, the embodiment of all you are, all you've become. You're no longer yourself, you're pet -- you're someone's plaything. A cock, a mouth, a hand, an ass. A vessel to receive and give pleasure, nothing more. "Taste yourself, pet." Iason's voice, disembodied, floating in from the shadows. When did he move away? Did you lose yourself so completely in the pleasure you didn't notice? Your free hand trembles as you move it from where it rested on your thigh. You tease one finger over your leaking slit, then raise it to your mouth. More soft noises: whispers and low gasps, perhaps a moan? Is there someone out there watching you, perhaps feeling the way you do, now? Your seed is bitter, harsh tasting on your tongue. It tastes of passion and need, of hate and discontent. You won't hold back much longer but you must hold back until his voice releases you, gives you leave to spend. You moisten your fingers in your mouth, suckling, feeling each tug of your mouth on those digits amplified lower in your body. "Beautiful..." Iason's voice? Or your imagination? You slide your wet fingers from your mouth and circle your left nipple, groaning softly when it contracts, hardens, the coolness of the room splashing across the moist trail you've left. And it feels so good, a feeling you could consider dying for, the building in your loins, your cock pulsing and throbbing in your hand, your sac so full and heavy and ready to release its seed. "Please," you whimper, beyond humiliation now. All that matters is release, to feel the heat spread throughout your body rather than gathered in this one spot. Your arm moves faster, clinking the chains more loudly. It's soul music now, the rhythmic sound of metal against metal, like flesh against flesh. Your breathing is harsh, rough, adding its own chime to the percussion playing in your head and on your body. Another whimper when you pinch your nipple and you arch your back, body aching, needing, wanting, presented in supplication for his pleasure... always for his pleasure. And he accepts it, takes it as his due, grants you what you need in a voice as soft as eiderdown, softer than the cloak of night and brighter than the lights shining through it. "Come for me, pet. Come now." Your cry echoes through the silence, bouncing off the walls in odd corners, not loud, not soft, just there, and you can feel the heat and the slippery stickiness coating your fingers, your palm, smoothing the way as you strip yourself of passion, of pride, of a bit more of yourself. When you slump back against the wall the chains jangle loudly, reminding you of what you've done and who you've done it for. And you're not finished yet; once the shadows clear there will be him and there will be you and it will begin again because it's never completely finished. ~Finis~ © May 2001
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