Bound and Determined (27 page)

the tender spot where his neck met his shoulder. Within minutes Owen had

Sterling whimpering and twitching, all thought lost.

The rug was soft against his feet, the air in the room warm, purposely so,

because Owen never let him get chilled when he was naked. His ass was

cushioned nicely against the velvet—and sparks of pain were burning him,

fierce and sharp, making all the comforting sensations fade to nothingness.

He closed his eyes when Owen walked away with a murmured word, and

opened them again when he felt cool metal against his nipple. Oh, God, he

loved the clamps, but they hurt more than anything Owen had ever done to

him in that first moment when they sank their teeth into his skin. The agony

would ease, though, would settle into something he could handle, until the

time the clamps came off and left him panting through the rush of blood

forcing its way back into cramped, swollen flesh.

One nipple, then both—he controlled his breathing as best he could,

staring at Owen through a sparkle of tears, letting them fall because Owen

never minded him crying, from pain or joy. It got easier to let them spill over

every time. There was still a glint of metal in Owen's hand, though, and

Sterling blinked away the wetness to focus on it.

Owen held it up; a chain, with hooks on either end and tiny hooks

hanging from it.

“The chain itself is light; you'll barely notice it's there when I attach it to

the clamps, but if I add some weights to the other hooks, oh, that you'll notice.”

There was a flat box open on the table beside Owen, and he reached in and

took out a small piece of metal, a silver teardrop. “Just one tonight, I think.”

Sterling might have begged Owen not to if it hadn't been for the gag;

instead, he swallowed saliva, jaw aching, and pleaded with his gaze. Not that it

did him any good—next thing he knew, Owen was hooking the teardrop onto

the chain and letting it go. It pulled the chain tight, gravity working through

Owen's will, and Sterling's nipples shrieked with red-hot fire.

His muscles went to jelly, spine curling as he instinctively chased the

weight toward the floor, desperate for relief from the pain. He couldn't get low

enough, though, not sitting on the stool. The pain stayed at the same level, not

increasing, and Sterling panted shallowly, trying to stay as still as possible

because even a slight movement made it flare.

Owen reached out for him at once, his hand hovering an inch or so away

from Sterling's face, not touching him, giving Sterling the choice of leaning into

the known comfort of that cupped palm, skin on skin connection with Owen, or

staying still, fighting to balance pain and arousal, both equally unbearable

sensations right then.

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He wanted to do this, wanted to be strong for Owen, to take everything

Owen gave him, but God, this
hurt
. The irony was that Owen wasn't even all

that angry with him. This wasn't a true punishment, not really, and neither

was the gag; the worst that Owen could ever do was to send him away, and

they both knew it. This was just pain that Owen thought that he could handle,

pain on the lowest setting; the box on the table held more of these weights,

after all.

Struggling to take the intensity down a notch, Sterling leaned forward,

giving himself something other than the pain to focus his attention on—the feel

of Owen's hand against his cheek. Owen slid his thumb across Sterling's lower

lip where it was stretched wide by the ball gag, and Sterling whimpered in

gratitude. There were so many things he would have said if he'd been able to,

but instead he had to hope Owen could guess what he was thinking and feeling

by the expression on his face, the look in his eyes.

“Good,” Owen crooned. “That's right—you're doing so well.”

Sterling made a muffled sound, knowing that he
was
doing well, that this

wasn't so bad. He could take more. Unthinkingly, he looked toward the box of

weights again, then at Owen.

“No,” Owen said. “You don't need more just yet.” He wrapped his hand

around the teardrop and took its weight, the relief immediate, but not entirely

welcome. Sterling protested, the words caught in his throat, half dreading what

would happen if Owen let the weight fall and jerk. Instead, Owen beckoned him

up, helping him with a hand supporting his elbow, so that the chain didn't tug

at the clamps at all.

“Walk to the couch,” Owen instructed him. “I want you over my knee.”

The thought of what the weight and the chain would feel like in that

position made Sterling see why Owen hadn't bothered to hook any additional

teardrops to the chain. Over Owen's knee, with Owen's hands on his back and

ass, exploring his body with a calm possessiveness before starting to spank

him, making him squirm and writhe—and God, he couldn't move, not without

making the drag and tug at his tortured flesh agonizing.

If his mouth had been free, he would have been talking right now, but he

wasn't sure what he would have been saying: “please” or “no”?

It wasn't as hard a spanking as Owen had sometimes delivered, but it

seemed to go on forever. Sterling sank down into the pain. It was like the

opposite of an out-of-body experience—instead of rising above himself, feeling

nothing, Sterling was more inside his body than he'd ever been in his life, and

nothing else mattered but the pain.

His nipples burned, the tug of the weight on the chain with each strike of

Owen's palm on Sterling's bare ass like the most vicious pinch of clever,

torturous fingers. Sterling sobbed into the gag, the swelling in his nasal

passages as he cried making breathing a challenge—he had to monitor his

intake and outtake carefully, creating a rhythm that fit itself, interlaced with

the blows like clasped hands. He couldn't keep from crying, though, and he

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didn't try to stop it. His dick was swollen, clear fluid trailing from the tip, but

when he opened his eyes, he couldn't see a thing. The world had gone white,

condensed, and there was only Sterling's body and Owen's where they touched,

and he could feel a climax building, so strong and powerful that it scared him,

would wash over him like a tidal wave and leave him to drown.

Then he was rolled to his back, cradled against Owen's body, a strong arm

supporting him. The jolt of pain from the shifting chain was irrelevant, a drop

of water in a storm, but it was too much for him to take, even so. He arched,

thrusting up, vaguely aware that a hand was now clasped around the tight-

stretched length of his dick, giving substance and meaning to his action. He

wasn't fucking air but the hand that had just spanked his ass red and hot, and

with that realization, his climax was inevitable. Fluid spurted from his dick,

spattering his stomach and chest. He still couldn't see clearly, but he could feel

the pattern of wetness on his skin and hear the hammering of blood in his

ears.

Owen reached for the straps holding his gag in place, and then he

hesitated. Sterling's thoughts were too muzzy to permit questions, but he had

his answer a moment later when Owen quickly, decisively, removed the clamps

instead, gathering the tangle of metal in his hand and tossing it to the floor.

Sterling's teeth bit into the rubber ball, a secondary spasm racking his

body, pure pain, just as his climax had been pure pleasure—the two had

separated themselves again. Owen's free hand was working the bruised,

crushed flesh, his fingers massaging each nipple in turn with infinite

gentleness, his mouth shaping encouraging words of praise.

When Sterling could relax his jaw, could lie quiet in Owen's arms, the gag

was removed, eased out of his mouth with more murmured reassurances and

dropped to the floor.

He was a mess; tears, snot, spit were smeared over his face, and his head

felt fever light and heavy as lead at the same time. Owen leaned in and kissed

him anyway, a brush of his mouth over Sterling's forehead and then his lips.

“Don't say anything,” Owen warned him, a reminder that was as much an

act of kindness as the kisses had been.

Sterling nodded and gestured at a box of tissues on the nearest end table,

raising one eyebrow.

“Of course,” Owen said, but when Sterling started to sit up, added, “No,

don't move. Stay here.” Easing himself away, Owen stretched to reach the box,

then offered it to Sterling, who took three tissues in a row and wiped his eyes

before blowing his nose.

Gross.

Being able to breathe in enough oxygen felt amazing, though, and having

Owen's arms around him was the best thing of all. Sterling was filled with a

rush of love and admiration so powerful that he wanted to slide off the couch

onto the floor and babble nonsense to Owen, kiss Owen's feet, something,

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115

anything. If he'd had more strength, he might have. Instead, he turned in

Owen's embrace and kissed him full on the lips, pouring all of his affection into

Owen's mouth.

The response he got was an echo of everything that he was giving to

Owen—no, not an echo, because they were weaker than the source, and

Owen's kiss matched his in fervor and passion. Sterling moaned his

appreciation and pressed up against Owen, not caring that Owen's cotton shirt

felt like sandpaper against his nipples. It was worth it to feel so surrounded by

approval and so needed.

He became aware that if he'd come—and Owen's shirt was covered in the

proof that he had—Owen was still rock-hard. If he'd been permitted to speak,

he'd have begged to be allowed to go to his knees and let Owen use his mouth

to come in, hell, let Owen jerk off on him, whatever the man wanted. Sterling

just wanted to be a part of Owen's climax for once, even if he only got to watch

it.

Getting that over in mime wasn't going to work well, though, and he didn't

want to push Owen's buttons on the touchy subject of them having sex, not

after what had just happened. Because even if all Owen had done was touch

him, what they'd just done had come really close to Owen jerking him off.

“I'm going to get you a drink,” Owen said with a final kiss. “And then you

can shower, and I'll get changed.” He plucked at his smeared shirt, sticking to

him in places, and gave Sterling a rueful look. “Save me some hot water.”

As little as Sterling wanted to let Owen go, he knew that he had to. He

stayed there on the couch, more lying down than actually sitting in his

exhaustion, until Owen came back with a glass of water—no bottles permitted

tonight, not that he felt the slightest inclination to argue. He drank it

gratefully, too fast and too sloppily, but he was thirstier than he'd realized.

Sweat had dried on his bare skin, leaving the stiff crackle of salt behind.

“We could—we could shower together?” he suggested. “I mean, I'd keep my

hands to myself, I promise. But it would… I'd like to be with you.”

His suggestion got him the first disappointed look he'd had since they left

the club, and still wiped out from what they'd done, it took Owen's fingertips

pressing firmly against his lips for a second or two to remind him of what he'd

done. Shit. To make matters worse, an apology rose instinctively to his lips,

and the first syllable of “sorry” popped out.

Owen sighed. “I know that this is hard, harder than you thought it'd be

when I told you what your punishment was, but you
like
it when it's difficult

and a challenge, Sterling.” He nodded at the clamps and gag on the floor. “We

both just saw that.” He stood. “Shower. Don't get dressed again. You have

seven minutes exactly to be back here, kneeling in front of me. When I permit

you to speak again tomorrow, you can deliver that no doubt fervent apology

you were about to share with me, but tonight, I don't want to hear it.” He

glanced at his watch, his eyes cool. “Go.”

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Sterling scrambled to his feet, legs shaky underneath him, and went

quickly to the bathroom, where he took one of the fastest showers of his life,

scrubbing frantically to clean his dick and belly. He was counting seconds in

his head, trying to be as accurate as possible, but that meant he had less than

a minute to dry himself off and get back to Owen. Not wanting to take any