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The two would never be poetic philosophers, but they did know their kink. Powerplay was a lesser-known kink, sure, but it was something even he’d heard of.
The two Masters were there, staring him down, making him feel submissive without saying a word. “Oh, my.”
Brett broke in, “We told them to take it easy on you, and your limits.”
“What limits?”
“All of them,” Brett groaned. “Hopefully, you’ll expand your horizon a little after this.”
Each arm was taken by a Master, and he was led to a room down yet another corridor he’d never seen. There was a room that was mostly empty except for a bed and a chain with cuffs that hung from the ceiling.
That’s where he was taken. As he stood with his arms above his head, one of the Masters cuffing him while the other took a huge pair of scissors to start cutting away his clothes.
“Tell me a safeword, boy,” the African American Master commanded, while cutting up the muscle shirt.
“I’m…I never had one.”
“A word you would never use during sex, and one that you’ll easily remember.”
The first thing that came to mind was ridiculous, but he blurted it out anyway, “Kallipolis!”
One Master looked at the other, and the one cutting his clothes off said, “Whatever that means.”
“Well, in Plato’s The Republic, it’s actually a city?”
The other Master, who was shaved bald and had the squarest jaw he’d ever seen, had slapped a hand over his mouth. “We don’t give a fuck, slave.”
Slave?He was their slave? As much as a part of him was repulsed by the word and all its derogatory meanings, there was a small part of him that shivered and grew exceedingly hot at once.
It was a philosophy, of course, laying down one’s earthly self for another, to better them and fulfil your own need to self-deprive. If he could place it in that perspective, it just may work.
The chaps weren’t cut but they were taken from him, and the straps on the jock snipped quickly, the material falling to his feet.
“There, now,” the bald, square Master started. “Now we can do this pretty boy up nice.”
“He is a pretty boy, isn’t he? He’s pretty enough to keep around here.” To Eli, he moved close and whispered roughly, “You want to be a good slave for us here?”
“N-no, Sir!”
“Call me Master, you pretty fuck.” As he said it, his hand swung down and grabbed Eli’s cock and balls, surprising him more than it hurt. “Stay quiet, pretty fuck,” he said as he squeezed a little harder on his junk.
“Serg,” The African American Master said to the other one. “This one may be too shy for the place. How would he ever be a good slave when he doesn’t believe he’s one.”
They were obviously goading him, but it was working. He suddenly wanted them to see that he could be as good or better than any of the other slaves. Pushing his confidence aside, he found himself looking for that submissive side of him and found it surprisingly easy.
Biting his tongue, literally, he kept lectures and smart-assed comments from flowing from his lips and let them take charge.
Being strung up, naked, that helped too.
He watched the Master named Serg get a small bottle of lube from his pocket, and he squirted it all over his hand, then slicked them both up as he said, “Chaney, I say we edge the fucker until he’s in tears.”
“I like your style.”
Edging. He knew what they meant, and thought they were taking it easy on him, since Brett told them he had no experience. Then he found out that he truly knew nothing about the lifestyle.
Easy was not what he’d call being edged again, ever. Like the slaves that had their mouths and hands all over him, so did the Masters. Serg was on his knees, sucking Eli’s balls while Cheney had his mouth on Eli’s nipples, hands moving all over his skin.
He was hard and aching, balls filling and tight as hell. Fingers touched the rim of his ass, but never went inside, a tongue pierced the hole in his cock, teeth scraped over flesh, moans were competing with deep growls of sensuality.
The time flew or maybe it crawled. He didn’t know. Every time he’d get close to a climax, they’d pull back, and he’d get a few light slaps to his ass, or one to his chest and they’d watch him, panting, sweating and ready to beg.
Then he did beg. He didn’t know how long it went, but he heard himself begging the men to let him come, to fuck him, to let him suck them off, anything to end the torture. Not once using the word that would stop it, however, because as much as it drove him nuts, he loved it.
Edge. It was the perfect word for it. He was on the edge of a cliff, and they held him back, though barely. He could see down the cliff face, see the bottom clearly, flat with boulder that would break his body if he fell, but that was the thing. He wanted to fall. He wanted the men to break him, to let him fly free and fall through that heated air.
Waxing philosophical over falling off a cliff, he knew he was losing it, but it was the best way of losing his mind he could think of.
Those men and all their hands, giving him, taking, giving, it was amazing. He begged through words that had little meaning. He pleaded with a voice that cracked with emotion and exhaustion. It may have been the best time he’d ever had, and suddenly, through the cloud of sexual fog, he could see clearer than ever.
