It’s incredibly difficult to focus on a task when you’re chained half-naked to the floor of a stunningly attractive man’s study. The difficulty doubles when you’ve been chained long enough that your shoulders, hips, and knees have begun to ache steadily. Triples, when you’re not sure if he wants you to succeed at the task, or fail.
Ash stretched himself slowly, one muscle group at a time, releasing the tension, assuring himself he could hold the position a little longer without seizing up. The way he was bent—curved backward, wrists cuffed together, connected to cuffed ankles—was stable, but had become steadily less comfortable.
Now that he was alone, outside of the sphere of Mr. Prince’s influence—which made it impossible to focus on anything but the man himself—Ash was able to get a much more clear impression of the study. Like everything about Prince, the room was beautiful in an expensive, but understated way. The fireplace and mantle were slate grey stone that somehow didn’t clash with the warm colors of the rest of the room. The other furniture—an end table with long, round legs, a tall standing lamp with a cylindrical shade- almost reminded Ash of pieces in catalogs he’d seen labeled Mid-Century Modern, but not quite, somehow. Ash was certain there was a name for it. That Prince probably had a decorator on retainer, to seek out and obtain just the right end table or lamp without his having to think about it.
The only thing out of place was the armchair that Prince had occupied during the first part of their encounter. It looked like it had been expensive, when it was first purchased, but that original acquisition had been many years ago. Ash would have been pleased to have it in his home, of course, but compared to the rest of Prince’s decor, it seemed old. Shabby. With scuffed leather, and arms worn shiny and soft-looking from use. Ash found himself studying it, feeling like it, even more than anything else in this house, would tell him about the man who owned it.
He didn’t know how long it had been since Mr. Prince left him there, nor how long he’d spent studying a chair, of all things. Eventually, Ash became aware it had been long enough that the flush of adrenaline had faded, leaving him a little cold. Long enough that he’d begun to wonder what he’d wear when he did go home. Not long enough to complete the task he’d been given. Not long enough to find any words for the things he wanted Mr. Prince to do, much less to find ones that would be dirty enough. That would sound wanton, and desperate, and show Prince exactly how deep Ash’s needs went.
He didn’t know if there would ever be enough time for that.
It wasn’t that he had a problem with dirty words. They just didn’t come naturally to him. Everything he knew how to say sounded too demanding. Framed his own needs as paramount. And the words, the way people always wanted to hear them, they were inelegant. Messy. They lacked the beauty of so many other ways one could express oneself.
The handle of the door turned. Ash gasped. Straightened. He wasn’t ready. He wasn’t even close to ready.
But he didn’t want to wait any longer.
In the short time he’d known him in this way, Ash had learned the sound Mr. Prince made when he was pleased. It came from deep in his chest, up, through his throat. It was a warm sound, and it heated Ash from the inside. He heard it now, thrilled with it. Looked up, ready to drink in the man’s face again, his body.
God but he was handsome. Crisp line of grey shirt cuffs against dark skin. Angular face, strong, but not hard. Full lips, that could welcome or compress into a line of disapproval with equal ease. Dark eyes, deep, glowing like stars. Dark hair, just a hint of wave, brushed back from his forehead without a part. Shadow of stubble on his jaw. Ash wished his hands were free so he could touch. He whined, softly, just a little.
Prince chuckled, and tousled Ash’s own dark curls. “You’re being very impatient.”
Feeling suddenly mischievous, Ash grinned up at him. “Am I, Sir? I’m still exactly where you left me.”
The laugh grew. “There is that.”
Prince sat back down in the brown armchair, and it wrapped itself around him like a glove. Somehow, with the older man sitting in it, the chair became something more. Not at all shabby, simply a comfortable place from which Prince could command. Observe. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Well.” He said, his eyes raking over Ash. “I believe I left you with a request?”
Ash’s stomach dropped. He bit the inside of his lip, hard.
Prince shot him a look. “You were paying attention, I hope.”
“Yes, Sir. I was.”
“So you can tell me, then?”
Ash couldn’t help it. Some imp of the perverse seized him, and he felt his smile twist into teasing. “I can.”
Mr. Prince blinked. Drew back a little. Then, just as Ash’s mischief began to edge into dismay, Prince smiled. Leaned forward again, eyes searching Ash’s. The hunger in them was deeper now, predatory. Ash shivered delightfully under it.
“I see,” Prince drawled. “Why aren’t you, then?”
The delight grew. And the fear. The feeling that he was putting his hand just a little close to the fire. But he didn’t want to stop. Yet. “Because, Sir, you didn’t ask for it.”
Mr. Prince’s lazy smile grew, his eyes darkened. “Oh?”
Ash shrugged, as well as he was able, considering his position. Tried to keep his voice light, to stop from biting his lip. To play this new game. “I think that’s something you believe is important?”
“It is.” Prince said, leaning just a little farther forward. “For you.”
Trying to pretend it didn’t matter he was cuffed, exposed, Ash looked up into Prince’s face, eyes wide and innocent. “I don’t know why I should get such special treatment.”
The man in the chair barked a laugh. “Don’t you?” Then, so quickly Ash hardly had time to register the movement, Prince was on his knees, next to him. The man’s hand had wrapped itself around his throat, so gentle and so warm. So soft. Velvet over iron. A thrill shot down Ash’s spine. The promise of what Prince could do. If he wanted. What Ash couldn’t stop him from doing.
“Won’t you please tell me, Ash,” Prince murmured, directly in Ash’s ear, a parody of polite deference, “What you’re hoping I’ll do to you? Now that you have my complete attention?”
Ash felt the words from throat to stomach, and he shivered.
“You do need to breathe.”
The deep warm voice still so close to him made Ash jump. He inhaled hard, realizing that yes, he had stopped, hadn’t he?
Prince had that particular smile again. Gently amused, superior, predatory. Ash watched his eyes. Smiled, himself.
“You’re still speechless,” Prince mused, stroking Ash’s hair, smoothing it back. Ash made pleased sounds, pushed his head into the caress, and Prince laughed. “Those aren’t words either, Ash.” But his touch stayed gentle, and uninsistent. “After I asked you so nicely.”
He leaned back, took the hand away, and Ash whined, stretched as far as the chain would let him, trying to get the contact back.
Prince chuckled, watching the man on the floor strain. Ash saw the enjoyment in his eyes grow, blossom from pleasure to desire. Prince liked his partners to want him, even more than most. Liked more for them to push themselves to get to him.
And, Ash understood now, Prince liked to see it. To watch the emotions begin, and grow, and change. To be deprived of nothing.
So Ash let himself show even more of his want. His need. Let himself be transparent and vulnerable. Displaying his feelings on his face, the ones that Prince would enjoy being privy to. His head up, feeling strangely proud, Ash struggled forward, stretching the bonds, then his joints, to their limits. Knowing Prince would stay out of his reach. Enjoying it more, because of it.
He was rewarded with a slight smile, a tightening in Prince’s body that meant he was having trouble demonstrating restraint.
It made Ash feel warm. Wanted. He pulled forward again.
Prince sat back in his chair, impossibly far away. Ash murmured his disappointment.
That prompted the low laugh, the slight, supercilious smile. “I won’t ask you again.”
What had he…? Oh. Yes. That.
Ash sat back just enough to ease the pressure on his shoulders and forced himself to think. Want. What did he want, at the moment, except for anything? Everything? More?
And, of course, more importantly, what did Prince want him to want?
He looked around the room again. At the empty fireplace, the brass lamps. At the walls painted a deep burgundy. At the reds and blues of the rug under his knees. Then back up at the man in the chair again.
Then he knew. Cocked his head to the side, feeling the mischievous smile take over his lips, and the imp that had possessed him before return. Stretched his arms, easing the cramps, making the lock chime off the metal on the cuffs.
He could see Prince feel the change. See him shift in his seat. Lean forward just a little, his eyes brightening even in the low light of the room.
Ash waited. Let the moment stretch. Prince’s slight smile grew.
“I would like,” Ash said, finally, his own smile still playfully in place, “you to show me the other knives you have. The ones made for things other than fabric.”
Prince let out a hard breath, not quite a laugh, but close. Relaxed back into the armchair. “Yes,” he mused, “that would be the first thing.”
He stretched out his legs, crossing one ankle over the other, the picture of contented relaxation. Amused, calm, and completely without tension. Except that Ash could see through it now. Prince desired this as badly as he did. But wanted to make Ash want it even more. Wanted to see, to hear, him wanting it.
“In that case,” Prince said, still relaxed, “There’s simply the matter of consequences. Before I can give you what you’ve asked for.”
Oh. Yes. The room had gotten cold, hadn’t it? Ash shook his hair down over his face.
He felt the laugh as much as he heard it. “Did you think I’d forgotten? Hope I had?”
“No, Sir,” he said, low, through the curtain of his hair.
“Of course not.” Prince stood now, and his body language was different. Tighter. Like a spring, coiled and ready to be released. They were done waiting.
Ash’s stomach contracted. Fear and anticipation. He looked up, face tipped back, eyes clear, breathing even.
Prince had begun to circle him, pacing slowly, hands clasped at the small of his back. He wasn’t evaluating now, wasn’t studying Ash to see what was inside him, how he’d react. He had all the information he needed.
This kind of observation wasn’t nearly as comfortably uncomfortable. It was no longer an audition. Ash realized that whatever tests Prince had laid out for him, he’d passed them. He’d been accepted, or maybe he’d accepted something. He wasn’t sure, anymore, that that was what he wanted, to be claimed like this.
Except it was. God, it was.
The room felt even colder, and he knew his skin had broken out in goosebumps. Things had changed now, in Prince, in Ash’s place here, what was wanted of him. He was, again, off balance. Out of his depth, and wondering what he’d gotten himself into. Wondering just how different Mr. Prince might be from the people Ash had been with before. Or, he thought, as the shiver of anticipation cooled into something closer to fear, how similar he might be.
Ash had forgotten, for a while, the way that Prince made him feel. Forgotten it in the comfort of being bound, of things following the script he expected. Forgotten that Mr. Prince was different. That he was different in ways that were similar to other people, similar to bad choices. And as Ash remembered, as the world slipped into slanted confusion, he worried Mr. Prince might be too similar, to one particular bad choice. And if he was, what kind of condition Ash would be in, when he was allowed to leave.
As he was circled, Ash tried to follow the man with his eyes. Managed, till Prince passed out of his peripheral vision, moved fully behind him. Then his back prickled, till he could see the older man again. It felt marginally safer, to be able to see what was about to happen.
But then Prince stopped at his side. Ash, startled, drew himself up. Prince made a sound. It wasn’t amusement or interest or even disapproval. It was much more like concern. He didn’t resume his pacing. Instead, paused and rested his hand on Ash’s head. Stroked his hair.
It was like before, when he had been willing to simply touch Ash, like he was something precious. To touch him until the thing that was actually fear settled back into the kind that could be luxuriated in.
Ash breathed, felt the tension in Mr. Prince’s hand. The desire. And the willingness to wait. And the fear faded again into enjoyment.
Prince took his hand off Ash’s head, and moved around to the front of him.
“I find,” he began, “that generally, people expect punishment to…be enjoyable. An excuse for more play.” He reached out and touched Ash again, his shoulder this time. Rested his palm against it, fingers curled down along his shoulder blade, thumb at his collar bone. Ash gasped. Shivered.
“Isn’t that what you’ve experienced as well?” The hand tightened, fingers gripping, digging into his skin. Shook him, gently.
Ash relaxed, let himself be easily moved. “Yes, Sir.”
It was true, for the most part. Most people did expect that. Did find, or create misbehavior as a reason to play. Ash knew better. Would never make a mistake for attention. Would never make a mistake if he had any ability not to.
He was released, and Prince stepped away, looked down. He was so close that Ash needed to tip his neck back sharply to keep his face in view. But he needed to watch Prince’s expression. Needed to see what was under the words he said. “I, personally, don’t need to make excuses, to enjoy the people I play with.”
No, he wouldn’t need that. To make it a game. To create reasons to hurt people. To give himself plausible deniability—I don’t really enjoy this, not really. You bring this out of me. I only do it because you make me. It’s your fault.
Mr. Prince didn’t need it to be someone’s fault, because it was all right. To want. To want more.
He turned away from Ash, then, to the table where he’d gotten the cuffs. “Which means, of course, that with me, punishment is designed to be effective behavior modification.” Ash could hear him opening a drawer, taking things out. He waited.
“So, Ash.” The velvet voice again, and Ash’s eyes closed, the sound of his name too much. “What is it you are being reminded not to do?”
The answers came easily, with his eyes shut. “Not to lie, Sir. To remember…” he stumbled a little, then, even though he knew what he needed to say. “Not to forget your title.”
The approving sound. Ash bloomed.
“You must be sore.” Prince’s voice was next to him, in his ear. Ash’s eyes opened. “Being kept in that position for so long.”
The aches, forgotten in Prince’s voice, swept away under the force of his attention into a distant corner of Ash’s mind, lost completely in his desire to please and be pleasing, came flooding back at the reminder. Once again, the muscles in his shoulders burned, hs fingers prickled slightly, his hips and knees objected to how he’d asked them to hold his weight.
“I imagine you’re ready to move. Get some relief.”
Ash nodded. Remembered to verbalize, “Yes, Sir.”
There was a tugging at his wrists, ankles, the sound of metal on metal, a lock releasing. “Go on then.”
He hesitated for a second, then brought his arms around to the front. Shifted his legs as well. They didn’t like it, being asked to do something different. Didn’t like having their freedom. Ash didn’t think he liked it either, but rubbed at his wrists anyway, worked the circulation back into his fingers.
“Don’t worry.” Prince’s voice was at his other ear now. “You aren’t getting away that easily.”
Relief made him lightheaded.
“I won’t restrain you again tonight,” Prince said, and stood. Motioned for Ash to do the same.
The relief melted into disappointment.
“Because I will be expecting you to restrain yourself.”
Ash, halfway up, swayed. Because of his legs, still stiff, of course. He breathed, steadied himself.
“Less a punishment, than a reminder,” Prince continued, leading Ash across the room, to where a plain, brown wooden chair stood near the desk. Ash hadn’t noticed it before, and it now stood out. Its lines were different than the other furniture in the room—less sophisticated, rougher. It was a chair for a servant, not a guest. “Behavior modification. You will hold yourself still, because I want you to.” He directed Ash down into the chair, stradling it, its back in his chest, facing away from the older man. Gently pushed between Ash’s shoulder blades, till he was fully supported by the wood. “You will fight your desire to pull away. To hide. To let your body lie to me, and pretend it doesn’t want what’s happening.” The hand became more insistent, the edges of the chair’s slats cutting into Ash’s torso. “And hopefully, in future, you won’t feel the need to use your words to contribute to that lie.”
Ash felt him lean over him, felt the warmth of Prince’s skin, through the fine material of his shirt. Felt his body crying out to be touched.
And then it was. Prince’s chest, against his back. His arms covering him, enfolding him. Ash could feel the strength of him, the way his muscles tensed. Solid, and real, and so incredibly unforgiving. Against him, Ash felt his own softness, his flexibility. How easily he would bend and become what was needed.
Which, of course, was why he’d ended up in this position, in the first place.
For a long moment, Prince held him, and Ash enjoyed being held. Then the older man shifted, leaned in, murmured in Ash’s ear. “Do you understand me?”
Ash nodded, words all slightly out of his reach.
Prince pulled away, leaving Ash achingly cold. But he didn’t move, didn’t make a sound. Self restraint. Consequences. He understood.
“Now, then.” Prince continued. His voice was lighter now, but rather than make Ash relax, he found his muscles tightening, and he wasn’t sure why. “I believe you were interested in my knives?”
Prince’s voice was hungry.
Ash shivered. Wrapped his arms around the back of the chair, gripping the opposite side in each hand. Steadied himself. Whispered, “Yes, Sir. Please.”
“I usually only bring out the ones I intend to use,” Mr. Prince said, from slightly to Ash’s right. “But it is what you asked for, so–” On the desk in front of Ash, he began to lay things out.
There were fewer than Ash expected. Five. Similar in style, though clearly from different makers. Functional tools, but high quality. Nothing showy, nor silly—no gold hilts, overdone gothic filigree, nor inlaid dragons. Nothing even ostentatious. Just simple, quiet, clean lines, with the kind of understated beauty that marked everything that belonged to Prince. They lay in a row on the leather blotter on the otherwise empty surface, with nothing else for Ash to pretend he was looking at. Even if he had wanted, been able, to pretend.
His eyes drifted over each in turn, but kept coming back to a particular blade. Second from the left. About nine inches from end to end, curved with a slightly tapered point. Flat, black grip with a very slight sheen. It had been sharpened frequently. Held frequently. The handle had the softness that came from being in the palm. Ash tried not to stare too intently, to study the rest, given that they’d been laid out just for him. But his eyes kept drawing back.
Prince must have been watching him. He reached out and touched it. “This one?” Picked it up, turned it over in his hands. “You continue to have good taste. I prefer it as well.”
When he moved out of Ash’s line of sight again, everything became easier. Ash could breathe, not having to look at the man. He’d done this before. Done it recently, even. With Cat. Exploring the ways they could indulge, the various things they enjoyed, either for themselves or for each other. This wasn’t any different.
He felt the familiar, liquid heaviness come over him, just like it always did before things started. Felt thoughts go slow, and thick, and beautiful inside his head.
Prince was speaking. Ash fought to listen. “This goes on as long as I know you want it. Keep yourself still for me.”
Ash, still wordless, nodded, gripped the sides of the chair harder, laid his cheek against its back.
The hand wrenching his head back forced him to cry out, nearly made him let go. He remembered, just in time. Didn’t move his body. Just his neck, at an impossible angle, throat bared.
“I want,” Prince said, down into his face, words acid and hot, “You to show me everything.”
Ash stared up into the dark eyes, and promised.
His head was released, shoved forward as hard as it had been pulled backward. He wasn’t liquid now, and this wasn’t the same. He could hear himself panting, even over the frantic beating of his heart. This wasn’t Cat, no matter how much it felt like her. Prince didn’t know him, his body, his reactions. Prince wouldn’t be looking for the signs, like she did. He wouldn’t protect Ash, from himself, from going too far.
He thought about letting go. Standing up. Calling it all off. He could. He should. It would be the smart thing to do.
Then he felt the hand on his back, and he knew that being smart still wasn’t one of his skills.
Idiot.
There was no more preparation than that—the hand on his back, just between his shoulders. The heat of it, almost enough to burn. Then, the sound of fabric moving, a slight current of air, and perfect, wonderful, clean, pain. A line, drawn diagonal from just at the fingers pressed to his skin, down, to the bottom of his ribs, where his side curved.
The cut was long, felt deeper than Ash was used to. Mr. Prince was practiced at this, didn’t need to test, to see how it worked, or what would happen. And he wasn’t doing this for Ash.
As if satisfied that Ash would hold himself still and good, the hand moved. And the next cut came. It crossed the first, at the bottom. Where the first had ended. The next, another hash mark against his ribs. Prince made that same, approving sound, seeing some result he liked, drawn in fire on Ash’s skin, and Ash felt himself begin to drift. It didn’t hurt, now. Not really. Not like actual pain. It left him trembling, but not with the desire to protect himself, or to hide from the shame of it all.
His eyes closed, and his breathing went slow and rhythmic, like sleep. He didn’t have to clutch at the chair, to remind himself not to move. He couldn’t have, even if he’d wanted to. Not now. Not while everything was so perfect, while he held all of Prince’s attention, his body, its reactions. The only thing in the room that mattered.
It was different, he thought, distantly. To be attended to so expertly. His back glowed. He breathed. He felt.
At some point, it stopped. The sensations stayed, the heat, like the sun against his skin. He pulled his head up, lazily, and wondered what had happened.
When he got his eyes open and focused, Prince stood in front of him, watching. His expression was curious, like he was seeing something completely unexpected, and not entirely pleasing. He still held the black-hilted knife, the blade marked with small traces of blood.
Ash shook his head, tried to clear it. Had he done something wrong? He blinked, tried to form the question into words.
“No.” Prince stopped him. Set the knife down. “You don’t know when you’ve had enough.”
Ash tried to pull himself into alertness. To clear the last of the fog from his vision, the wonderful, weightless sensation from his head. He realized the glow, the sunshine on his back was, in fact, pain. Pain, and strange, itching sensations, like water drops on his skin.
“You’re bleeding rather badly.” Prince picked the knife up again, began wiping the blade on a cloth.
Oh. That’s what it was. That would make sense, Ash supposed. He managed to get his head up all the way, smile, get the words out. “Thank you.”
Prince’s head jerked this time, the disappointed expression more pronounced.
Ash tried again. “Thank you, Sir.”
It turned fully into a frown, a brusque nod. “Hold still. I need to take care of those.”
There were sounds—of movement, drawers opening. Ash felt a fist clench in his stomach.
Something had changed, between when Prince picked up the knife, and when he finished his work. Ash closed his eyes again, made himself breathe deeply into the bottom of his lungs, no matter how it pulled at the cuts that were, at the moment, quite uncomfortable. Breathed again, and tried to figure out what he’d done wrong.
Keeping his eyes closed tightly, he frantically re-ran his memory, checked his behavior against every code of conduct he could think of, every request, explicit or implied that Prince had made. Checked and checked again, as the older man swabbed and bandaged him.
He couldn’t find his misstep. He’d restrained himself as requested, stayed perfectly still. He hadn’t held anything back, hadn’t concentrated on putting on a show, but given Mr. Prince complete access to every part of himself. He’d let him see even the thing he was ashamed of. The thing that hadn’t been visible to anyone except Cat before.
He continued to concentrate on breathing through the pain, as alcohol bit into his cuts. The pile of bloody cotton pads that built up on the desk surprised him a little. He apparently had bled a lot. Maybe that’s why Prince was upset? Had he let him go too far, without noticing? He decided he’d ask tonight, at home, if anything particularly serious had been done, or had been about to be done. So he could be more responsible next time.
If there was a next time, after however he’d messed things up.
Finally, Prince tapped Ash on the shoulder. He opened his eyes, stood, turned. His investor’s face remained distant, though still a little curious. The half-smile was back, the one that made it clear to Ash exactly how hard he needed to try, to be worthy of this happening again.
It hurt, to put his hands behind his back. To cross his wrists, drawing his shoulder blades together. It hurt, to pull them up to waist level. To hold them there. Hurt to keep his back straight. But Ash did, because that’s what he knew he should do. Let his head fall forward. Hid his face in his hair, looked at the toes of Mr. Prince’s shoes, not knowing what he’d done but wishing he hadn’t. Wishing he could make up for it.
And it came, though he hadn’t thought it would. The approving sound, the cool, thin fingers on his jaw, pulling his face upward. Making him look his shame in the face.
“That will not happen again.” Prince said, softly. “Not with me.”
Ash couldn’t hold back the whimper, the shiver that went through him, pulling at the cuts. He could feel the bleeding start again.
“I want you.” The fingers dug into his skin. “Here. Not elsewhere. Not inside your head. I want to see you, not the body you leave behind.”
Prince’s eyes searched Ash, as though they were trying to find something inside him worth bothering with.
Ash wanted to close his eyes. Kept them open. Wanted to shrink away. Pushed himself forward.
“Do you understand me, now?”
Ash nodded, slightly, into the pressure of the fingers. He understood now what Prince had seen, and what he had wanted to see. What Ash had deprived him of, even as he gave him access to other things. Ash wouldn’t make that mistake again. When he spoke, it was clear. Low, but strong. “Yes, Sir.”
The hand released him. Tapped his cheek in something between a slap and a pat.
“Good.” Prince jerked a nod, and Ash could see the barest glimmer of enjoyment in his eyes. “Now. Get dressed, and get out.” He pushed a black t-shirt into Ash’s hands. “I’ve called you a car. I’m sure your girlfriend will be pleased to get you home in one piece. More or less.” And he left the room.
Though he hadn’t thought he would have the energy for it, desire stabbed through him again at the dismissal. At being treated like a toy that Prince no longer cared to play with. He told his body to be quiet. For now.
He pulled the t-shirt over his head. It smelled of soap, and was too big, a fact his back thanked him for.
The twinge reminded him.
Cat. God, she was going to be irritated at him, if he looked even close to as banged up as he thought he might. His smile grew.
That could be fun, too.