Wooil’s fear evaporates for a second, replaced by pure, unadulterated fury directed at me. He glares, his boyish face sharp with anger. “Itoldyou not to bring your mess here!” he shouts, his voice finally finding its strength. “I told you playing games with him was stupid! This is what you get!”
Suha lets out a short, humorless laugh. He strides back across the broken glass, his shoes making definitive cracks with each step. He doesn’t look at Wooil again. His focus is entirely on me.
He stops in front of me, and for a second, I think he might hit me right here in front of everyone. Instead, his hand shoots out and closes around my throat. His grip isn’t crushing, but it’s firm, possessive, a brand of ownership. His thumb presses against my pulse point, feeling the rabbit-fast beat there. He uses that hold to steer me, walking me backward out of the shattered doorway and onto the sidewalk.
A long, black car is idling at the curb, its engine a quiet purr. The afternoon street is weirdly normal. A couple across the street pauses, staring at the destroyed shop front, at the suited men, at Suha manhandling me. One of Suha’s other men takes a single step in their direction, and they quickly hurry away, heads down.
Suha yanks open the car’s rear door.
“You didn’t have to destroy the store,” I say, my voice slightly constricted by his grip on my throat. It comes out more sullen than defiant.
He leans in close then, his face inches from mine. I can smell his cologne, and beneath it, the clean, sharp scent of his skin. His eyes are dark pits, full of a promise that makes my stomach do a slow, unwilling flip.
“Then come when you’re called,” he says, his voice a low, intimate rumble that feels like it’s vibrating in my own chest. “Like a good dog.”
I curl my lip.
“Now,” he says, the word crisp and clear in the quiet. “Let’s go have a conversation about consequences.”
He shoves me inside.
The bedroom is quiet now, the only sound is the faint, wet click I make when I try to swallow around the thick metal ring stretching my mouth wide open.
My jaw has been screaming at me for what feels like days. The ache has settled deep into the hinges, a dull, persistent throb that radiates up into my temples. The ring gag is buckled tight behind my head, forcing my mouth into a permanent, humiliating ‘O’. Drool is a constant problem. A thin, warm trickle of it has been sliding down my chin for hours, dripping steadily onto my bare chest. My throat is dry and scratchy, but I can’t close my mouth to wet it properly.
I’m on my knees on the plush carpet beside the bed, my hands cuffed behind my back with cold metal. My face is a sticky, disgusting mess. Come has dried in flaky streaks across my cheekbones and the bridge of my nose. More of it is caked in my eyelashes, making my vision slightly gummy. The worst of it is pooled in the hollow of my throat and crusted along my jawline. I can smell it, a sour, salty scent that’s become as familiar as my own sweat.
Every other part of me hurts, too. My cock and balls are trapped in a tight silicone ring that’s been on so long the skin underneath feels numb and hot at the same time. I’m painfully hard, have been for hours, but the ring makes any kind of relief impossible. It’s just a constant, aching pressure that makes my stomach clench.
My ass is plugged with something thick and hard, keeping me stretched and uncomfortably full. It’s not moving, just sitting there, a solid, alien presence. But the real agony is my thighs. Whip marks and cane welts stripe the backs of my legs in angry, raised lines. They’ve turned a vicious shade of red-purple, each one a precise, burning memory. Sitting back on my heels like this is torture. Every time my weight settles, the welts press into my calves and the pain flares, sharp and bright, forcing me toshift minutely to find a slightly less awful position. There isn’t one.
Then there are my nipples. The pain there is a different animal—a sharp, focused, throbbing ache. The silver bars he put through them a few hours ago are still there, the metal cold against the fever-hot, swollen flesh around the fresh piercings. Every slight movement of my chest, every shuddering breath, sends a fresh jolt through them. They feel huge and tender, like two raw, exposed nerve endings.
I’ve lost track of how long he left me here. Long enough for the sunlight through the tall windows to fade into the deep blue of evening, then into the flat black of night. Long enough for my knees to go from sore to numb to a pins-and-needles nightmare. Long enough for the initial burn of humiliation to settle into a weary, gritty acceptance.
The door opens.
I don’t look up. I keep my eyes on the carpet between my knees. I know the sound of his footsteps.
He stops in front of me. I can see the perfect crease of his suit pants.
“Look at me.”
His voice is calm. He doesn’t have to speak loudly for me to get the command.
I lift my head. The movement pulls at the muscles in my sore neck and makes the drool on my chin stretch into a new, shiny string. My eyes travel up the immaculate lines of his suit, past the silver tie clip, to his face.
Suha looks down at me, his expression unreadable. He’s just come back from somewhere—his hair is perfectly in place, his suit jacket is still on. He surveys the scene: me on my knees, covered in filth, marked and bound. He gives a single, slow nod. A satisfied acknowledgement. I am where he left me. I have not moved.
“Good,” he says, the word simple and final.
Then he steps closer. “Open wider.”
I can’t. The ring gag is already stretching my jaw to its limit. A pathetic, wet sound escapes me.
He doesn’t wait. His hands come up, fingers tangling brutally in the hair at the back of my head, gripping so tight my scalp stings. He uses that hold to tilt my head back further, arching my throat. With his other hand, he makes quick work of his belt and zipper.
He doesn’t take his cock out gently. He frees himself, already half-hard, and without any preamble, he shoves the head past the ring and into my mouth.
