Out of the corner of his eye he caught the flick of lashes as Warrick's eyes opened. Good — that had surprised him. He pushed harder, stretching Warrick against the chains. "Tell me what happened. I want to know you're paying attention to me."
Silence, nothing but Warrick moving against him as he struggled reflexively to brace his feet, finding no purchase in his light contact with the smooth wood.
"You'll have to do it, eventually. So tell me."
"No. I — ah!"
"Tell me."
"You fucked her. While he watched you." His voice was cold, edged with pain.
Toreth laughed, and released the pressure. "No, I didn't. They bought me a drink, and we talked for a while, and then I said I wasn't interested."
Warrick craned his neck round further, trying to see his face.
"They gave me a number, in case I changed my mind, but I deleted it after they'd gone off to talk to someone else. And after that I went home and spent the whole night thinking about this evening. In fact, I woke up once and nearly came round here, but it was some Godforsaken hour of the night and you don't like those, do you?"
"I wouldn't . . . have minded."
"I'll remember you said that, next time. Tell me how it feels."
"It's hard to breathe properly. And it hurts. They hurt." He tugged at the chains on his wrists and gasped softly. "I didn't think they'd hurt so much."
"Too much?"
"No. God, no."
"Enough?"
"No."
Toreth coiled the belt around his hand, getting the strap to precisely the right length.
"And?"
Warrick hung his head, the chains twisting as his shoulders tensed in anticipation, his breathing rapid. God, but he looked incredible like this.
"You know you have to ask for it. Don't make me remind you about things like that."
"Hit me."
"How hard?"
Warrick didn't reply for a moment. Then he said, "As hard . . . as you want to."
"Good. Very, very
good
." And he brought the strap down.
Toreth had dreamed about this, about having Warrick like this, hanging in chains. Except he remembered that in the dream he'd hurt him, genuinely hurt him, beyond the game. Now, here, it would be as perfect as he could make it.
In his pile of essentials — towels, gel, straps, gag, hip flask — he'd forgotten a clock. He could just see the one by the bed, although he found himself begrudging looking away from Warrick long enough to read it. He'd set himself a goal of half an hour and an absolute maximum limit of an hour, because this was something new, and he didn't want it to end up with another trip to Accident and Emergency. A very boring way to spend the evening, unless someone from Justice took an interest in the injuries, in which case it would be an awkward evening.
He left himself plenty of time for the wrap-up.
Stepping away, he undressed. Looking at Warrick, listening to him, trying to shut out everything else in the room. It didn't take much effort. It had become a ritual part of the game — a pause before he finished it. There was a thought that went with it.
Mine. He's mine. He'll never walk away — not as long as he wants this. Not as long as he needs it this badly. I can make him stay. He'll never leave me.
It was the only time he could think it. The only time he could almost believe it.
Then it was over, and he stepped up close. Hands on Warrick's shoulders, back where they'd started. The touch was also part of it, and it pulled Warrick back from wherever he'd been.
"Yes," he said. "Please."
"Please, what? Tell me what you want."
"Fuck me. Please. I want — " A fine shiver ran through him. "I need you to fuck me."
Not yet. Not quite yet.
He put his hand to Warrick's mouth, fingers pressing against his lips.
"Lick them."
Warrick opened his mouth eagerly, taking him in, and his other hand tightened on Warrick's shoulder. God, he loved that. Wet mouth around him, sucking. Tongue against his fingertips. It was an effort to take his hand away.
Just spit wasn't going to be enough, but it was fun to start with. Making Warrick do it to himself, although they'd gone beyond any pretence of force today. He knelt behind him and licked him a few times, enough to cause a sharp gasp, then slid a finger into him.
He'd thought that the chains might make it more difficult, but they didn't. Warrick was already relaxed, open to him, enough not to need this. But he didn't stop.
As he kept working, he could hear Warrick starting to whimper. It gave him a dizzying feeling of power: trust, vulnerability, the heat of Warrick's body in the tightness around his fingers and the sweat-damp skin against his mouth. Kisses interspersed with hard bites, each drawing out another soft, pleading sound of surrender.
Mine. He's mine.
All his fingers and finally his whole hand buried inside. Being careful how he touched him, he slid his other hand slowly up Warrick's thigh. Warrick tried to squirm away, desperate movements, desperately constrained.
"Please, no. Not like that. I don't . . . I want you to . . . I want — "
Toreth dropped his hand away, even though 'Not like that' didn't last long, as he'd known it wouldn't. He moved his arm, fucking him slowly and deeply, listening to Warrick falling apart above him. He could hear the sob in his voice now, between heaving breaths. "More. Yes, more. Please. Please, Toreth. Please."
A few more thrusts, then he pulled his hand out, wiped it on the towel and stood up. Warrick panted, twisting weakly in the chains, still whispering, "Please."
He twined his fingers in Warrick's hair and turned his head, kissing salty tears from his cheek and eyelashes. "Now," he whispered, although Warrick probably couldn't hear him. "I'm going to do it now."
Wrapping his arm around Warrick's waist, he slid in, all the way in one smooth movement. He always promised himself he was going to go slowly, to make it last at least for a little while, but he usually waited too long. So that it was usually like this, struggling for control for a while before letting go and just fucking him, too hard and too fast because it felt so fucking good he couldn't bear it.
Now, Warrick was relatively quiet, only moaning deep in his throat as his hips jerked helplessly against him. A few more thrusts and Toreth was nearly there, pulling back just enough from the edge to reach down with perfect, practised precision for Warrick's cock.
Warrick screamed. Contained and reflected back by the cabinet, it was deafening. His head went back, fast and far enough to have broken Toreth's nose if he hadn't been expecting it, and he screamed again, and came, every muscle tightening against the chains.
Muscles tightening around him, and often that was enough to tip him over. Not this time, not even with Warrick shuddering in his arms, and the smell of fresh sweat from his neck. Toreth counted strokes, unable to believe it wasn't yet, wasn't quite yet.
He knew that he often cried out as he came, but afterwards he rarely remembered exactly what he'd said. Warrick's name, other things. He didn't care. Nothing mattered except that he was going to —
"Mine. Oh, God, yes, Warrick.
Mine
."
He had no idea how long it was before he opened his eyes, but it surely couldn't have been more than a couple of minutes. When he did, he realised that he had almost his full weight on Warrick, and that his ears were still ringing faintly. He stood up on the second try. Warrick hung limp in the chains, and his fingers were taking on a distinct and alarming bluish tinge. When Toreth knelt and unfastened the ankle restraints, he didn't react.
"Warrick?" He stood up and shook him gently.
"Mm." He stirred and lifted his head a fraction. "Mm?"
"Can you take some weight on your feet, please?"
"Mm. I . . . yes. Can try."
He did try, although the efforts didn't seem likely to have much immediate effect. In the end, Toreth supported him with an arm round his waist and undid the manacles one-handed. Nice easy design, he thought vaguely.
By the time he'd done it, Warrick was sufficiently with it to make it as far as the bed without actually needing to be carried. He collapsed onto it bonelessly and went out like a light. He was smiling.
Toreth shoved him into something approximating a comfortable position, then sat on the edge of the bed. The sight of Warrick sprawled there had a muted version of the kick he'd got earlier. He'd done this to Warrick — he came like that for and because of him. No one else would ever be able to make it that good. No one but him.
Nice for his ego, anyway, although the thought didn't have the same certainty now. The feeling was slipping away, as it always did, try as he might to hold on to it. So after a few minutes he decided on a shower to help wash the last of it away quickly. He thought about waking Warrick, then decided that nothing short of a shock stick would do the job. Warrick could have a shower later. It wasn't Toreth's sheets that were going to suffer this time.
By the time Toreth had had his own shower, he felt surprisingly awake — far too awake to even think about going back to bed. He cleaned up the cabinet, with Warrick still unmoving on the bed. Then he raided the fridge for juice and went into the sitting room. He sprawled on the sofa, feeling generally extremely pleased with his life — high, almost. So much so that it took nearly three minutes for boredom to set in. After that, it took him another couple of minutes to find the remote for the large screen. Warrick rarely watched the thing and sometimes Toreth wondered why he bothered to have one at all.
"Housekeeping — screen on."
With the sound turned low (not that Warrick would wake up if he turned it to full volume), he found the porn feeds and flicked through them, pausing from time to time to heckle. Watching other people fucking bored him, even live. It was a turn-on, in a reflexive way, from the sounds more than anything else. Overall it was too plastic and unreal, though. Nothing at all to do with him. Still, it beat watching the news.
He thought back to the couple he'd met last night, both of them calm on the surface, but him so keen underneath, her so reluctant. Weird. He'd have done it with them anyway, and enjoyed it, but even so it was weird. He couldn't begin to imagine wanting to watch anyone else fucking Warrick. He could hardly bear to think of it happening at all.
That line of thought led somewhere he didn't want to go. Warrick had fucked away from home once, that was all. Once since they'd . . . known each other. Once outside work in the sim. But he'd never do it again. Warrick had said so himself and Toreth believed him. He didn't have to think about it any more.
About Warrick wanting someone else, about what they might have done.
Wanting a distraction from the unwelcome thought, he flicked back and forth through channels until the image went away, buried under other people, other bodies.
Dull, most of it. A recording of himself and Warrick, though, that would be a different question. Warrick would never let him do it, unfortunately. He'd be terrified that the tape would escape, which was weird in itself when you thought about how much there must be from the sim of him doing God knows what with God knows who. Warrick would still say flat no, though.
On the other hand, there was no law saying that he had to tell Warrick he was going to do it. What he didn't know couldn't hurt him. It would be easier to set it up in Toreth's own flat. He could have a word with the surveillance techs at work. They'd be able to come up with something nice and discreet.
How long would it take to watch Warrick come, a frame at a time?
"Oh, you found it. Well done. I haven't seen it for weeks." Warrick's voice came from right above him. Toreth craned his neck back to look up at him, his cheek brushing silk dressing gown. He hadn't noticed the shower running, but Warrick's hair was tousled and he smelt warm and clean.
"I didn't think you'd wake up," Toreth said.
"I . . . noticed you weren't there." Warrick held his arms out, turning his wrists round for inspection. "Look."
The skin was red, which would fade by tomorrow, but there was an interrupted ring of bruising coming up around each wrist that wouldn't. Toreth took his hands and examined them with professional attention. Just bruises as far as he could tell like this, and the skin over the distal heads of the ulna and radius had been abraded.
"Can you feel your fingers?"
"They were a little numb when I woke up. The hot shower seems to have sorted them out."
"Clench your fists. Hm. Looks okay. It's the edge of the cuffs. They'll do it every time, unless you put more padding on. Or I could get them changed. Fran said it was no problem."
"Mm." Warrick took his hands away and came round to sit on the sofa. "I'll see how it looks in the morning."
Which probably translated as 'no'. He remembered Warrick's voice, twisted with pain. "Felt good?"
"Yes. Or rather, it hurt. It was very clear and very specific. I could feel it until quite near the end."
"And then?"
"Then I lost it." Warrick sounded almost as analytical and cool as he did in the sim. "When you fucked me — when you had your hand inside me — I lost everything, except you. I always do when it's that good."
Toreth imagined Bastard, sitting in Sara's lap and purring like a road drill. If Toreth had the vocal cords for it himself, he'd sound exactly the same right now.
Warrick looked at the screen and frowned. "Isn't that illegal?"
With an effort, Toreth managed to tear his eyes away from Warrick and check. "Yeah. But only doing it, not showing it. They do it all with computers, you should know that. It's hardly going to be a real dog, is it?"
"No, I suppose not. I'm not thinking straight yet." He smiled. "You may have irreversibly melted some synapses. Is she real, do you think?"
Toreth paid more attention to the screen. "Hard to tell. She could be. The CGI ones are usually a less convincing shape."