Rachel Haimowitz & Cat Grant - [Power Play 1] (36 page)

And if he
did
come? He’d never hear the end of it. Jonathan was

right about that too: he didn’t
want
to come like this. Not at al , even

if it really was the only way to stop the beating. Felt his face heat at

just the
thought
of it, and
fuck
Jonathan anyway for trying to force

this on him.

Another smack, and then another and another, and he shouted

again, tried to slide sideways off the bench or even just close his legs

or get Jonathan to
stop jacking him off
, but of course he couldn’t do

any
of those things. All he could do was sit there squirming and just

take
it, and he supposed that was the fucking point.

“You could enjoy this, Brandon, if you’d just let yourself,” Jonathan

whispered in his ear, lips brushing over the lobe so softly it made Bran

shiver.
Fucking hell.
It took every last shred of Bran’s willpower to

keep from head-butting Jonathan in the face
.
“You
do
enjoy it. Or

rather, your cock does.” Another long, slick stroke, followed by

another smack on his ass. The sting was starting to fade, replaced

by a lingering sensation of heat. Bran’s skin felt like an overinflated

balloon, thin and sensitized and ready to burst. Jonathan’s fingertips

skimmed over his left cheek, five red-hot matches fanning the flame

even higher. Worse than any cane.

A hundred times worse, because it’s his
hand.
Both hands. Exactly

where I
don’t
want them, no matter what he says.

His erection shriveled again, and again Jonathan stroked him

harder, got him to stand up in his fist. Slapped his ass again as he did

it, driving his hips forward. His knees ached, and so did his arms,

his wrists, his ankles. Those fucking cuffs were going to mark him

badly. How the hell could they feel so
cold
when the rest of him was

on fire? For a second, Bran flashed back to that horrible night in the

coffin, the electric shock buzzing through his body. Was this really

any better? At least the shock was over with in a second, but this . . .

this went on and on and
on
.

The next few blows came easier, thudding down on desensitized

skin. He breathed deep through his nose and closed his eyes, willing

himself to calmness. Which meant the following smack rained down

twice as hard as any before, hard enough to wrench a raw cry from his

throat, to leave him gasping.

“Can’t have you getting complacent, can we?” Jonathan said,

jerking him again. Sliding his hand back, sliding the tip of his thumb

into Bran’s ass. Wiggling it around until all Bran could do was groan.

Jonathan pulled his thumb out, rubbed it right over Bran’s hole.

“Maybe I should use a cane
right here
.”

Bran jolted out of his floaty little half-stupor as Jonathan got up

and moved toward the toy rack.
Oh fucking hell. Is he really going to

cane me on my
asshole? Too terrified even to squeak, he sucked in a

breath, squirming and struggling, hoping he could loosen one of the

straps.
Good luck with that
. He’d just end up hurting himself.

Jonathan’s fingers sank into his hair, stroking and petting. Trying

to soothe him, when there was no fucking way he was going to calm

down, not now. Not with the thought of what Jonathan was about to

do slicing through his brain like a fucking ax. Which, come to think

of it, would probably hurt less.

Jonathan circled back around, ran his gloved hand over Bran’s

flaming ass. Bran squeezed his eyes shut, bracing himself for the cane.

A whimper escaped his lips as Jonathan parted his ass cheeks . . .

Then pulled back his hand and smacked him again, right on his

asshole. The force of the blow sent Bran scraping along the top of the

bench, every inch of skin on his chest and belly as on fire as the rest

of him.

Before he even had a chance to recover, Jonathan had taken Bran’s

dick in his fist again. Freshly slicked—
so that’s what he was really

doing when he turned his back on me, the sneaky little fucker
—and so

warm
Bran nearly groaned at the sensation. Can’t have been regular

lube. That fancy shit that heated up. He had to stop himself from

thrusting forward into it. Not that he
wanted
it, just . . . the pleasure

was the only way to dull the pain.

Jonathan’s hand dipped down, stroked over his balls, rolled them

in slick, expert fingers. The heat was incredible. Dick, balls, ass, all

one red-hot, pulsing knot of
feeling
. He slumped against the bench,

let it take his weight. Fuck
let
; no choice at all as Jonathan’s lubed

hand worked Bran’s dick and balls and his gloved hand stroked up

and down Bran’s sweaty back, tugged gently at his hair, scraped back

down to the sensitized skin of his ass and kneaded gently, slipping a

thumb into his crack, rubbing at his hole before pressing inside. Bran

gasped, fought the urge to thrust into Jonathan’s fist. He didn’t want

to come. Not like this.

Except you’ll be stuck on this bench the whole fucking day
if you

don’t.
Jonathan did something absolutely spectacular with his hand,

and for one teetering second, it seemed Bran wouldn’t have any say in

the matter after al . His balls tightened, pulled up high as the muscles

in his ass clenched and the pleasure built and built and built until it

almost
hurt
—

Smack!
Jonathan’s gloved hand thwacked hard across his ass and

knocked Bran’s looming orgasm back two states. Hurt so much he

bit his tongue.

And a good thing for it, because if he hadn’t, he’d have cursed at

Jonathan for pul ing a stunt like that, the teasing little fuck.

Another smack, and another and another and another, and before

long that orgasm he absolutely didn’t want to have was starting to

look like a pretty fucking nice alternative to the thrashing he was

enduring now. Jonathan’s slicked-up fist was still around his dick, still

stroking and twisting and squeezing and pul ing, but he was losing

his hard-on despite that, the pain too big, his skin too smal , the heat

and thud and sting too strong, obliterating everything until all he

could do was shout and writhe and pull at his restraints, frantic to

make it stop, get away,
and those distant, faded flashes of pleasure

from Jonathan’s other hand had no hope of competing and he was

never going to come like this and this was never going to fucking
end

if Jonathan didn’t—

“Stop fucking hitting me! Please! I can’t . . . I
can’t . . .
”

There was some very important way to finish that sentence, he

was sure, but he couldn’t think of it for the life of him.

“Yes, you can,” Jonathan said, “and believe me, you will.” Another

smack, another brutal twist of his wrist, and he pushed two slippery

fingers inside Bran’s ass, found his prostate and
thrust
, and those

faded flashes leaped to the fore and lit his whole world in a shower of

sparks, raw electric (pain) pleasure erupting from his dick and balls

and ass and every last inch of his too-hot skin as he spurted so hard

his vision sheeted white.

The second it was over, he hurt again. Fucking everywhere.

Amazing how fast the buzz faded, how profoundly
un-
good he felt.

How jittery. How
furious.
How fucking
dirty.

Too exhausted to do a damn thing about it, though. Couldn’t

have taken his own weight if Jonathan had threatened him with the

shock coffin. And to think that until now, he’d thought that was the

worst thing Jonathan could ever do to him.

How wrong he’d been. How unbelievably fucking wrong.

Jonathan caught the cold, furious look Brandon threw him—

how could he not, when it was tantamount to having a brick hurled

in his face?—as he knelt to unfasten him from the bench. “Can you

stand?” he asked, holding out a hand to help Brandon up.

Of course Brandon shrugged him off. He swayed, stumbled, until

Jonathan caught him under the arm and hauled him up, dragged

him toward the back of the dungeon. To the door right beside the

bathroom.

Brandon didn’t put up a struggle until he realized they weren’t

going into the bathroom. When Jonathan reached for the other door,

Brandon started to squirm, but it was too late. He already had the

door open and was shoving Brandon inside.

Not that he thought Brandon would mind all that much once he

saw it. True the room was tiny—just four feet by eight—but whatever

dark terror Brandon had expected to find in there was supplanted by

the vision of a camping pad, a sleeping bag, and the two things he’d

brought with him from his apartment: a dog-eared old copy of
Huck

Finn
and a photo of his mother.

Brandon stood frozen just inside the doorway, lips parted slightly,

eyes wide, taking in the space. Jonathan might have laughed at the

man’s surprise if he weren’t feeling so irritable himself.

“This is where you go when I can’t be bothered with you.”

He could see the response writ large on Brandon’s face:
Well,

beats the sarcophagus cage.

“It’s not a punishment,
per se.
At least, not always. Today, though?

Consider it a time-out in the corner to think about what you’ve

done.” Jonathan shouldered past Brandon, giving him a hard knock

on the way, then bent down to scoop up the thin little air mattress, the

sleeping bag, the book and the picture. Brandon looked appropriately

crestfallen at seeing those luxuries taken away—exactly why Jonathan

had left them there for him to see in the first place.

He turned back to the door with a sharp, “Stay.” Brandon didn’t

try to follow; Jonathan hadn’t expected he would. Arms full with

bedding, Jonathan used his chin to point toward the grate in the

floor. “If you need to water the grass,” he said. The connecting door

to his left led to the bathroom, but Brandon didn’t know that, and

Jonathan meant to leave it locked today anyway. “I’ll come get you

when I think you’ve had enough time to ponder your
issues
.”

Brandon glared at him from where he’d propped himself against

a corner. He looked very, very tempted to say something, but held

his tongue. Fuming, but not enough to be stupid. He nodded at

Jonathan instead, a disrespectful little jerk of the chin, a silent
Fuck

off, and I won’t miss you for a second
. Jonathan turned back to the door,

grinning a little despite himself. Brandon might think that
now
, but

he’d be ready for Jonathan to rescue him by evening. Hunger, cold,

and boredom would see to that.

Jonathan left the cubby, stuffed the bedding and Brandon’s effects

in a nearby cabinet, and then locked the door from the outside.

Flipped off the light, plunging the windowless little closet into total

darkness. And then, for the final touch, pushed the air conditioner in

the cubby down to a nippy 60 degrees.

“What am I going to
do
with you?” he mumbled, shaking his

head as he left the dungeon.

He trudged upstairs to his office, started checking his email.

But after what’d just happened, it shouldn’t have come as a surprise

that he couldn’t keep his mind on work. Everything skated past his

eyeballs, barely making an impression. When he realized he’d just

read a sentence for the third time, he picked up his phone and dialed

the one man who might be able to help him, the man whose feet he

himself had trained at. Devon Turner, Dom extraordinaire.

“Hey, Waveboy, what’s up? Everything— Yeah, I know.” Devon’s

voice faded; talking to someone else? “I’m not messing it up, I promise.

I’ll be careful.” Speaker back to his mouth now. “Sorry Jonathan, they

just spent half an hour making today’s fake blood on the side of my

head match yesterday’s fake blood. Didn’t want me putting phone