Rachel Haimowitz & Cat Grant - [Power Play 1] (32 page)

started it, after al —and murmured, “To savor, Jonathan.”

Jonathan almost,
almost
fooled himself into believing Brandon

had said,
To savor Jonathan.

After breakfast, Jonathan took Brandon back to his office and set

him to stuffing envelopes again. This time he gave Brandon a smal ,

low table to work from, with a cup of tea to wet his whistle after licking

all those envelopes. Which was possibly not the best idea, since he

couldn’t help stealing glances whenever Brandon took another sip,

cradling the hot cup in both long-fingered hands, liquid sliding down

that sleek, smooth throat. Couldn’t tear his eyes from that pink

tongue lapping at the envelope flaps. By mid-afternoon, Jonathan

had a hard bulge in his pants that wouldn’t go down no matter how

much he stared at the foundation’s latest grant proposals.

Part of today’s lesson was teaching Brandon to maintain his

posture and position while he worked. And, to Jonathan’s surprise

and delight, Brandon didn’t break form very often. Every now and

then his shoulders would move out of alignment, and Jonathan would

scoop up the crop from the edge of his desk and tap him with it, just

hard enough to make him wince and pay attention. He’d straighten

up without any coaching—or complaining or back-talk—which was

far better than he’d done a few days ago.

Around four, Jonathan had had enough. Standing up, he took

a long moment to stretch his cramped muscles, then gestured for

Brandon to do the same. “Why don’t we take a stroll downstairs?”

Brandon’s eyes went wide. “Uh . . . did I do something wrong,

Jonathan?”

Jonathan just smiled. “No, of course not. Did you hear me

counting up today?”

“N-no, Jonathan, but . . .”

“Come along. It’s time for another lesson.” A hand on the back

of Brandon’s neck again, rubbing and soothing. Shame he still tensed

at every touch. After all the orgasms, all the meals he’d fed Brandon

with his own hands . . . Surely by now Brandon should have realized

it wasn’t all about pain or humiliation or being shoved in a cage.

Brandon trailed him wordlessly down the staircase to the

dungeon, though he held the railing so tightly his fingers looked

about to shatter. Sabrina poked her head out as they walked by, her

gaze raking Brandon from head to toe. Curiously, Brandon didn’t

even seem to notice until she chirped, “Well, hello, you two. If you’re

off to play, I’ll be sure to make extra portions tonight.”

Jonathan stopped only just long enough to say, “Thank you,

Sabrina, that’d be lovely,” before guiding Brandon into the dungeon.

He didn’t want to risk Brandon fal ing out of the quiet headspace

he’d found today. Not with what they were about to do.

Brandon’s gaze zeroed right in on the two cages as they entered

the dungeon, and he started to shake.

“I’m not putting you in there today. In either of them, or any of

the others. You’ve done well the last two days—you’ve pleased me

tremendously. You deserve a reward.” Jonathan waved Brandon over

to the leather-covered St. Andrew’s cross along the far wal . Brandon’s

eyes widened again, his mouth dropping open. “Remember that

night I put you up on the suspension bar, and you came so hard you

nearly fainted?”

Brandon nodded slowly. “Yes, Jonathan. But I . . .”

“It’s not all about pain, or fear. Or being cold or uncomfortable.

In fact, it’s not even
mostly
about that—not unless you make it be. I

told you this room was a chamber of delights. It’s about time you saw

the truth in that.”

Brandon swallowed hard, but walked over to the cross and stood

in front of it.

“It’s all right to touch it if you want,” Jonathan said. “Feel the

textures, press yourself against it. Stretch your arms above your head

and feel the solidity of it beneath you. Don’t be afraid to put all your

weight on it.”

Or sniff it, drinking in the scent like it was his favorite leather

jacket. Brandon inhaled, rubbed his cheek against the smooth

upholstery. Let his fingertips drift along the length of one strut

until he touched the steel O-ring at the end of arm’s reach. Went

up on his tiptoes to curl his fingers into it, did the same with the

O-ring on the opposite strut, and pulled himself a few inches off his

feet. Strangely enthralled—like Jonathan was by the sudden play

of muscles in Brandon’s back, shoulders, and arms—or maybe just

trying to figure out how Jonathan might use a device right out of

some medieval torture chamber to tease out Brandon’s pleasure. Or

maybe he just appreciated the craftsmanship, fellow builder that he

was. It, like most everything else in this dungeon, had been retooled

just for Brandon, after al .

Jonathan went over to the nearest rack, picked up a pair of

suspension cuffs, then slowly walked over to the cross. Laid one hand

on the back of Brandon’s neck, felt the muscles there tense before

Brandon turned around.

“Hold out your hands,” Jonathan ordered.

Brandon bit his lip, but immediately obeyed, questions in his

gaze as Jonathan began to unlock the steel cuffs from his wrists.

“You’re not going to give me trouble when I go to put these back

on later, will you?”

Brandon shook his head. “No, Jonathan.”

“Because I want you to be comfortable tonight, and God knows

the leather’s much softer than the steel.”

Brandon looked a bit confused by Jonathan’s statement, but

seemed sincere enough when he said, “I promise I won’t give you

trouble, Jonathan.”

It’d been over two days since Jonathan had used the cuffs around

Brandon’s wrists as actual restraints, but still the skin beneath them

was a mass of bruising. Too much struggling in cuffs that simply

weren’t kind enough for that. Jonathan winced at the sight of it, lifted

Brandon’s left hand and brushed lips across the skin there. Maybe he

shouldn’t rush to put the steel cuffs back on, after al . Brandon had

been so pliant these past two days, leather would suffice. And give

him a little time to heal. Only the most hardcore masochists among

his prior subs would have appreciated this kind of constant pain.

He buckled on the leather suspension cuffs, first onto Brandon’s

right wrist, then his left. “Turn back around. Face the cross,” he said.

“Lift your arms.”

Brandon did as ordered, and Jonathan snapped the end of the

cuffs to the steel O-rings on either strut. Poor Brandon was already

trembling, and not from the cold this time. Jonathan pressed his

lips to the nape of Brandon’s neck, smoothed a hand down his back.

“Have I
ever
lied to you, Brandon?”

A pause, then, softly, “No, Jonathan.”

“Do you trust me, then?”

Another pause, much longer than the first. And, even softer than

before, “I don’t know, Jonathan.”

Jonathan stroked circles across Brandon’s back, letting him know

he wasn’t mad at that answer. Disappointed, maybe, but even he had

to admit he’d expected a
no
. “Do you trust me at least not to hurt you

tonight if I promise you I won’t?”

This time the pause went on so long Jonathan nearly had to

prompt him. “I’m afraid your definition of ‘hurt’ is not the same as

mine. Jonathan.”

He stroked another circle across Brandon’s back, leaned in close

enough to brush a kiss across his shoulder. “Your definition, then. I

promise I won’t hurt you. Trust me.”

It wasn’t a question, exactly, and Brandon didn’t answer. But nor

did he protest. Good enough.

Jonathan went to fetch a set of padded leather ankle cuffs, then

knelt to fasten them. Brandon gave a tiny jerk when the first one went

on, then went perfectly still. Almost
too
still. “Relax,” Jonathan said.

“I’m just going to secure you to the bottom struts. No electricity, I

promise. Okay?”

A hitch in his breath, then, “Could . . . um, could you loosen the

cuff a little? My ankles really hurt, Jonathan.”

Not surprising; they were in worse shape than his wrists. All that

time raging in the Plexiglas cage. “Of course.” They were mostly for

insurance tonight anyway. He doubted he’d really need them.

He straightened up once he was done, then rubbed his hands

over Brandon’s shoulders, down his arms. Brandon really was cold.

Jonathan murmured, “I’ll turn the heat up,” then went over to the

thermostat to do just that.

After a few seconds, the heater clicked on, blowing warm air

into the dungeon. Almost uncomfortably warm. Might as well take

advantage. He stripped out of his clothes, folded them and placed

them on the nearby table, then ambled over to the toy rack to pick

out his implement of choice for the evening.

Didn’t take him long to select the perfect flogger—that soft,

supple suede one he’d noticed Brandon fingering the night he’d left

him alone down here. Sensual enough to bring a nun to tears. It didn’t

escape Jonathan’s notice, either, that Brandon was ever-so-unsubtly

watching him from the corner of his eye, trembling a bit. Even after

all that soothing and reassuring, Brandon still didn’t believe him.

Well, it wasn’t as if Jonathan had given him much reason to—at least,

not before tonight. Time to correct that.

He let the soft tresses pour through his fingers, savoring the

weight and the texture as he approached Brandon. “I told you I

wouldn’t hurt you, and I meant it.” He draped the falls over Brandon’s

shoulder, let them trail down his back. This time Brandon’s shiver

was most definitely
not
from the room’s temperature. In fact, it was

positively decadent.

The lesson was off to a good start. “Does this feel like something

that will hurt you, Brandon?”

Another shiver. “No, Jonathan.”

“Good.” With a smile, Jonathan trailed the falls over Brandon’s

other shoulder, along his arm, down his back, to the base of his spine.

Brandon gave a little ticklish start, then settled. “See? I told you this

wasn’t all about pain.” A hand on the nape of his neck again, waiting

for Brandon to steady, to stop shivering. The room was certainly warm

enough by now. Jonathan was already sweating, and he hadn’t taken a

single swing yet. “Let yourself go, just like this morning. Let yourself

revel, savor, drift. No thinking. Let your senses be your world.”

Then he stood back and gently swung the flogger. It landed on

Brandon’s left shoulder with a soft thump, the falls slithering down

to the center of his back. Brandon lurched, landing against the front

of the cross, let out a surprised whoosh of breath.

“See?” Jonathan asked. “No pain, right?”

Brandon shook his head. “No, Jonathan.”

“Actually feels kind of nice, doesn’t it?”

Interesting that Brandon could manage to shrug with his hands

cuffed above his head. “Feels . . . okay,” Brandon conceded.

It’d feel a lot better than okay once Jonathan got going. He pulled

back his arm and landed a firmer but still gentle blow on Brandon’s

right shoulder. Not even enough to turn his skin pink. Brandon gave

another start, then let out a breath, his hands tightening around the

tongue of leather running up his palm.

Jonathan came over, skimming a hand up Brandon’s arm. “Did

that hurt? You seem to be bracing yourself.”

“N-no, it didn’t hurt, Jonathan. But . . .”

But he was still waiting for it to. What could Jonathan do to

convince him otherwise? Nothing, except carrying through with

what he’d promised.

He retook his position, drew the flogger back, landed another soft

stroke on Brandon’s shoulder. And another, and another. Over and

over with the same light touch, the same gentle pace, until Brandon

finally stopped flinching, stopped holding the cuffs in a death grip.

Started to slump against the cross’s soft leather upholstery, head

bowed, finally letting himself enjoy the massage-by-flogger. Relaxing

at last.

Jonathan slowly worked his way down Brandon’s back, pinking

up the skin from shoulder blades to ass cheeks. The sounds Brandon

made deepened from whuffs of air to bone-deep sighs and groans

of pleasure. The way he’d sounded that first night they’d fucked in

Jonathan’s bed. No doubt he was enjoying it just as much now.

He continued on, all broad strokes, avoiding using the tips of the

flogger. Brandon was already bruised, and Jonathan truly didn’t want

him to feel an ounce of pain tonight.

Sweat was pouring off of Jonathan by the time he stopped, every

inch of Brandon’s shoulders, back, and ass a lovely pink. He sidled

up to Brandon, laid a hand on his shoulder. Brandon’s skin radiated

heat, and he moaned and shuddered as Jonathan ran his fingertips

along his back. “That doesn’t hurt, does it?” Jonathan asked gently.

Brandon just moaned again, then, “Feels . . . good. I-I like it.” A

puffed breath. “Jonathan.”