Page 117 of The Sinner's Sanctuary

GIBSON

It takes two weeks of careful use for me to train Christian’s hole from going into full blown raw, angry, swollen mode whenever I fuck him. The night before he’s scheduled to leave for the Hamptons, I’m pleased to see that while we had sex the minute he walked into my office this morning, his asshole shows no lingering signs of abuse.

As it is in real estate—patience pays off, but sometimes time is short, and you have to know when it’s time to make a bold move.

I have him cuffed face down on my bed at the club, spread-eagled, with his cock aimed down. Presumably, he’ll be in a swimsuit this weekend, so I have to be judicious about this scene while still giving him what he needs—suffering. With a riding crop, I swat the soles of his feet.

He’s jumpy tonight. Overly responsive. He starts jerking before the crop even makes contact.

Christ, but he looks so good like this. His creamy skin against the dark bedding and leather restraints. His perfect pink hole and his rosy balls. His straw colored hair already damp at the roots with sweat. Fucking gorgeous. It’s almost hard to hurt him.

Almost.

It’s worth it.

Another spot that will be effective and yet subtle is his inner thighs. I surprise him there. He yelps—high pitched and so cute, I grin. I won’t be smiling soon, so I’ll enjoy what I can while it lasts. I alternate soft taps between his legs before snapping my wrist and making it sting.

“Oh—shit?—”

If he’s still talking, he’s nowhere close to where he needs to be, but I enjoy a challenge. He’ll invite me to the goddamn Hamptons by dawn if I have to choke the words out of him. Stubborn little shit.

“Hold still,” I say with some sarcasm.

The problem with Christian is—among myriad other issues—he truly requires raw flesh to get into the state he needs to be. Tuesday night, I didn’t make him cry, and he told me to forget the whole thing—that the scenes weren’t helping anymore. Which of course made me panic, but only for a moment, because then he started talking. And talking and talking.

He talked about Trinity and her parents and God and her death for so long he made us both cry, and then he climbed on top of me, started kissing my neck and begging me to fuck him.

Irresistible.

Needless to say, he has not started seeing a therapist. He has no time. I blame myself for that, and I’m doing my best to give him what he needs without triggering something in him I’m not deft enough to handle.

“I don’t care if you leave marks,” he says again.

“I’m sorry—are you in charge here?”

Of course, we both know he is, but the illusion is the point.

“Sorry,” he whispers.

I’ve done my research, and too many male sex toys—especially the more brutal ones—I don’t trust myself with. The worst thing I can imagine is damaging some fragile internal structure inside him and accidentally sterilizing him or something. Therisk/reward ratio is far too high. Clamps, shock devices—any sort of testicular stretching device—I won’t do. Hot wax would probably only annoy him, and he’s increasingly difficult to humiliate. I’ve had to step up my Dom game, and the opportunity to do so is welcome.

Christian is long-limbed, but the bed is large, and I have options for where I attach the restraints. He’s stretched taut, which means any movement will be uncomfortable. Sudden movements will be worse, and twisting movements will push him past his limits.

I open my newly stocked drawer and pull out a steel cock ring. I bought this one in person, so I know it will fit. I’m rough with him when I put it on. He’s got a flagging-semi, and the ring fits snugly around his cock and balls, bundling them together and preventing an easy orgasm, in case the rest of what I have planned actually works.

I’m jealous of the anal plug as soon as it breaches his hole. Watching the way his ass clenches around it—the way the four-inch toy sinks inside him, has me stiffening in my pants. His pelvis tilts, rocking against the mattress, and he groans as every muscle stretches—as his cock stretches. “What is this?” he murmurs.

“Are you going to use your safe word?”

“No.”

“Then stop asking questions.”

I press the button on my remote, and he jolts. “Fuck!”

As soon as he relaxes again and manages a deep breath, I push it again, holding it down for several seconds and making him squirm as the plug in his ass and its accompanying well-fitted cock ring vibrate. “Shit,” he gasps when I release the button.

I slap his feet with the crop again to confuse his attention, then go straight for his inner thighs. He doesn’t start breathing heavy, though, until I buzz him again.

---