Out of the Dungeon (19 page)

Just saying the name out loud brought all the
training right back.

Thomas's hand touched the top of Roman's
head, traced the tattoo across his skull and down the left side of
his face, then went still, cupping Roman's cheek. A comforting
gesture.

"You need this," Thomas said.

"Yes," Roman agreed. After months of holding
himself together, of not allowing emotion to seep out, of being
terrified he might break apart, he needed this.

He stared at the black boots and bowed his
head. "Yes," he said again, and "please," pressing the curve of his
cheek into Thomas's palm, because it didn't matter if the boots
belonged to Thomas or Paul or even the terrifying Graham.

"Come into the dungeon," Thomas said. "Let go
for a while."

Roman followed Thomas on hands and knees. The
irony of crawling into his own dungeon didn't escape him, but he,
of all people, knew that letting someone else take control could
bring immeasurable relief.

"Do you put your slaves into service with a
ritual?" Thomas asked.

"Yes," Roman said.

"Show me." The words were a command, and
Roman suddenly realized that because he had judged Thomas by his
youth, he had misjudged the young man's skill.

It was a brilliant command – how better to
have a dominant-turned-slave demonstrate his own brand of
dominance? How better to discover quickly something to use against
him, to deepen his submission in the first minute?

Roman took a deep breath. Going to his knees
before Thomas in the first place implied some promise of obedience,
an unspoken agreement that if Roman needed this, this
opportunity
to let go and be safe – then he would give to
Thomas what Thomas wanted, even if it meant giving up his
pride.

Thomas waited in patient silence.

Roman, still on all fours, raised his head
and pressed his lips to the denim at Thomas's crotch. "I submit
myself for service," he said, then came up on his knees to his own
preferred "ready" position.

Thomas floated his fingers over Roman's scalp
again, and said, "Very nice."

Roman preened under Thomas's touch, and the
distant part of his consciousness laughed at how close the
underlying slave can be to the master.

"I'll give you two minutes to use the
bathroom, and bring me a phallic toy and a condom. Stay on your
hands and knees from place to place. Go."

Roman went, glad for a brief opportunity to
mentally collect himself. He coached himself to crawl fast and piss
faster, and was relieved to find a plug designed for opening the
anus in the locker room cabinet. It probably wasn't ideal, but most
of the smaller toys had been boxed up and moved to Jeff's old
bedroom for storage, so it would have to do. The cabinet also
contained a box of condoms.

He held the toy in his mouth and tucked the
box of condoms into the waistband of his chaps and returned to
Thomas.

Thomas took the toy and the condoms, looked
at his wrist, and said, "Two minutes and thirteen seconds."

It didn't matter that Thomas wasn't wearing a
watch. Roman felt the dread of failure, the curious and fatalistic
question of what would happen to him now.

"Give me the flogger attached to your belt,"
Thomas ordered.

The flogger with half-inch tails was one of
Roman's favorite instruments. He unclipped it from his belt-loop
and presented it to Thomas with a bow. Thomas pointed to the wall.
"Take off your vest and put yourself on display."

"Front or back, Sir?" Roman asked.

"I'll warm your back first."

Roman stood, shrugged out of his leather
vest, and leaned toward the wall, holding himself away from it with
his hands.

Thomas kicked Roman's feet apart.

In the right hands a wide-tailed flogger is a
magical tool that can soothe and massage as well as burn and leave
welts.

Thomas started out with a slow, firm rhythm.
Minutes went by and Roman felt almost drowsy, the muscles of his
upper thighs and back warming up and feeling loose. Then, almost
imperceptibly, Thomas increased the speed and intensity. Every
third or fourth lash landed between his legs.

The relaxed feeling bled away and tension
started to build.

Roman had no idea when the massage turned
into a rather sound beating, but suddenly groans and exclamations
were escaping his throat without his intent: "Oomph," and "Ahh."
Thomas was making noise, too, his voice thick with pleasure as he
murmured things like, "Very nice," and "Yes, you do this
beautifully."

The thud of flogger tails slowed, and finally
stopped altogether.

Roman folded his arms against the wall and
leaned his head against them, and the only sounds for several
minutes were his pants as he worked to catch his breath.

"Turn around," Thomas said. "Lean your
shoulders against the wall. Push your hips out toward me."

The position forced Roman's head against the
wall, too. It was so awkward to maintain that the first red marks
appeared on Roman's chest before he was even paying attention. This
time there would be no slow, sweet start.

Thomas was apparently warmed up, and the
flogger no longer hit with a dull thud. Some flick of the wrist
pulled the tails back at the last possible second, so just the tips
nipped at Roman's flesh. The technique made it feel like a smaller,
meaner instrument, like a cat-o-nine-tails made of chainmail.
Shocking.

Roman could hear himself grunting, and he was
infinitely glad that his cock and balls were, at the moment,
protected from Thomas's ministrations. Distant-Roman watched
Thomas's technique, filing away for future exploration Thomas's
ability to make a comforting instrument sting like a scary one.

Thomas kept on until they were both soaked
with sweat, and Roman's chest, belly and sides were covered with
bright red marks resembling heat rash. Then Thomas ordered Roman to
hands and knees and sent him to fetch water.

When Roman returned, Thomas took a long
drink. Roman tilted his face up, hoping that Thomas would share.
Thomas bent toward Roman, put a firm hand at the base of his skull,
and devoured his waiting mouth with salty lips. Roman enjoyed the
kiss, but every fiber of his being longed for the water.

Thomas grinned down at him. "Would you like
some water?"

Roman nodded.

Thomas cocked one eyebrow and waited.

Roman cleared his throat. "Please, Sir."

Thomas smoothed his fingers across Roman's
cheeks, lips, and brow, then assented. He held the next few swigs
of water in his mouth and fed them to Roman, kiss by kiss.

"What punishment did you dread most?" Thomas
asked, once they were both cooled off.

He was bound to ask, because a good dominant
always should.

"The single-tail."

It was a no-brainer. Roman hated the
single-tail so much that he'd been driven to master the instrument.
He'd practiced with pillows, balloons, and empty soda cans,
spending thousands of hours whipping inanimate objects before he
ever tried the whip on a sub.

"Hmm," Thomas hummed, and led Roman to the
base of the St. Andrews cross.

"You know what to do," Thomas said.

Roman stepped up to the cross and put himself
in position. Thomas secured Roman's wrists into the cuffs that
waited high on the crossbeams.

"I've heard horror stories about Graham,"
Thomas said, tracing trails down Roman's back with his fingertips.
"The scars are faint, but I can see them. Here. And here."

A shiver ran down Roman's spine.

"Where do I find a whip?" Thomas asked.

Roman bowed his head, took a deep breath, and
whispered, "My right boot."

He felt Thomas kneel behind him, felt the
zipper on the inside of his boot relax, and heard Thomas's soft
exclamation of, "I love it," as he found the whip handle and saw
the tail wrapped around Roman's ankle.

Roman pressed his cuffed hands against the
wood and let his fingers slide over the beams of the cross. It was
well-made and well-used, its edges like silk beneath his fingers.
He leaned his forehead against his upper arm, waiting. He didn't
know if he should laugh or cry. Oh, how the mighty have fallen.

When Thomas stood up again, his voice came
with sharp command. "Be ready, Boy."

Roman thought he was ready.
I remember
this,
he told himself,
it's amazing and good.

The first harsh bite of the whip tore a
scream out of him.

It was shocking, more shocking than the first
line of a new tattoo. And Roman then remembered that there was no
escape; the pain would be the same whether he relaxed into it or
tensed up against it. All he could do was endure.

He clenched his teeth and held his
breath.

When the second bite came, he made no sound
at all.

Roman didn't allow silent suffering from his
subs.

The tail of the whip flicked painfully at
Roman's ear lobe. He shook his head, like shaking off a mosquito.
The next one touched the very nape of his neck. The next his
armpit. Little stinging things, infinitely annoying. "Stop it,"
Roman said, without thinking.

Thomas laughed. "Twenty lashes for lack of
respect," he said. "And I want to hear you scream, so if you choke
it back, it doesn't count."

Distant Roman agreed completely.

The rest of him cringed at the indignity of
it. Stoic suffering was so much more… dominant.

Roman loosened his jaw and let his mouth drop
open, allowing himself to pant. The lash came and he groaned.
Another came and he groaned again. The next came meaner, and struck
a more sensitive place, and the sound that came out of him was
louder.

It went on. Roman didn't count them, so when
Thomas paused and asked, "How many was that?" Roman had to say, "I
don't know, Sir."

And when Thomas said, "Fine, we'll start
over," Roman felt a little desperate.

Thomas came close and pressed himself against
Roman's back. "You're warm," he said. "Are you okay?"

"Yes," Roman said, although he could have
answered differently and probably talked Thomas into releasing him.
After all, the point was proven, right?

"Good," Thomas said, and Roman felt hands at
the front of his chaps, heard the clink as the belt released.
Thomas tugged at the leg, and there came the popping of snaps. "I
don't know why we don't dress our subs in chaps more often. They
are convenient."

Roman smiled a little at that.

Thomas let him keep the leather jock he wore
under the chaps. Small favors.

"You should count this time. "

Roman grunted, groaned, yelled, and kept
count. It wasn't hard to make noise. The whip was painful on his
legs, stunningly so between his thighs. He might have gone into
subspace but for the counting, which tethered him to Thomas, the
whip, and the moment.

After twenty Thomas pressed his body against
Roman's back again, his leather vest cool against Roman's
sweat-soaked skin. "How much more can you take?" he asked.

"Probably more than you think," Roman said,
although his chest was heaving and he was gulping at the air. He
was baiting Thomas, and he couldn't have said why.

"Hmm," Thomas murmured, and Roman felt the
other man's lips pressed against the back of his neck. "Dominant
sweat tastes good."

Roman had tied up a few Doms in his time, and
he agreed with Thomas. Sometimes he thought it was the degree of
separation from one's preferred role to this. Because Doms liked to
hold the power, they perhaps gave up more than a submissive did
when they bottomed.

Or not. He was thinking too much. The point
of taking this role was to avoid thinking altogether. "Are we
done?" he asked Thomas.

Thomas cuffed the side of Roman's head. "No.
If Sir Paul trained you, then you know you aren't supposed to speak
unless asked a direct question." Thomas walked around the cross
until he was on the other side of it. He took Roman's head between
his hands and kissed him. Something happened in Roman's belly then,
a twist, or a flutter, and it continued until Thomas stopped
kissing him.

"Open your mouth," Thomas said, pulling away,
and Roman obeyed.

"This is the experience you give your subs,
isn't it?" Thomas asked, and held the anal toy to Roman's lips.
Thomas fucked his mouth with the toy for a couple of minutes.

Thomas left the plug in Roman's mouth, then
walked around the cross until he was once again behind Roman.

Nothing happened for what felt like a long
time.

Roman took a deep shuddering breath.

Thomas's hands traced Roman's spine from the
nape of his neck to his tail bone. Then his fingers curled around
Roman's hips and popped the snaps of the leather jock.

Roman shivered as it fell away.

Ah, yes. He knew nakedness created a sense of
vulnerability, but he had half forgotten how thoroughly it did
so.

Thomas's hand snaked past Roman's cheek and
tugged at the plug, and for a moment Roman held it tight between
his teeth, but then closed his eyes and let it go.

Thomas spread Roman's ass cheeks apart and
exposed him completely to the cool air. The plug pressed against
his pucker, and Roman took in a breath, then consciously relaxed.
The toy cracked him open, and again came the shock of new-old
sensation.

The opening. Gentle this time, but it wasn't
always.

And the filling, a slow pressure, the
interminable glide of an object that seated itself deep. The
pulsing sensation of his insides pressing against it, just pressing
at the moment, exploring, with no attempt to expel.

"Hold it," Thomas whispered.

Roman smiled at the sudden remembrance of
that double edge sword. If one clenched too tightly, the plug
forced itself out. If one didn't clench, the plug would slowly ease
itself out. It was a no-win situation, unless the object narrowed
considerably at the base. This one didn't.