s*x in C Major

Chapter 3

Chapter 3

The narrow street was in Middleton, as it turned out. And as Stefan lived in Harehills, it was a long walk home.

Stefan’s flat was on the fifth floor of a grubby high-rise. The lifts never worked, and the stairwells always stank of piss. “Hey, pretty girl, fancy a f**k!” was shouted after him as he passed the bins near the communal door, and he jogged up the five flights with his skin crawling. His neighbours, when he reached his front door, were being arrested by a heavyset policeman with an exhausted air. Aware of the contents of his own flat, Stefan worked the locks quickly and barely opened the door a crack before slipping inside.

His flat was effectively a single, small room with a bathroom bolted onto the side. It was little more than a bedsit. His furniture consisted of a moth-eaten armchair and a mattress on the floor. The kitchenette was nothing more than a tiny fridge, a microwave oven, and a sink. His other possessions were either rammed into the closet off the bathroom, or scattered in boxes about the main room.

But it wasn’t like he could afford anything better. He wasn’t homeless, so the council figured their work was done. He had no job, and all his benefits went on his hormones. What choice did he have?

He stripped off and showered, the cold water a shock to the system—the gas had been cut off months ago after he’d stopped paying the bill—and scrubbed away the stench of booze. His lips felt swollen and sore from the stranger’s—no, Daz’s—kiss, and he rubbed his thumb absently over them as he slipped back into a T-shirt.

His hand hesitated over the boxers.

Daz hadn’t punished him.

Stefan could vaguely remember the hand on his thigh in the bar, and thinking he was about to get something rough and brutal. And the kiss had been brutal, as had being literally thrown out, but…it wasn’t enough. That wasn’t what Stefan had wanted.

Now if Daz had f****d him on the hall floor, held him down with an arm twisted up behind his back and told him to scream all he liked because nobody would hear him…

Stefan dropped the boxers back on the clean clothes pile, and headed for the mattress. He stripped the sheets off, and opened the window wide. Cold November air rushed in, and goosebumps erupted up his thighs.

In only his T-shirt, and with the cage locked across the door to keep out intruders, the room suddenly looked like a home-made prison.

Like the kind of place a man with a partner would keep his plaything.

Daz had said he had another plaything, but what if he had a partner instead? What if Daz went on romantic dinners, and to his sister-in-law’s wedding, and had holidays in Greece every year with some clever, good-looking guy who thought s*x on the sofa was as kinky as it got?

And what if that wasn’t enough for Daz?

What if he had Stefan on the side?

Only Daz was a normal, family kind of guy, and everyone respected him and liked him, and his sleeping with the likes of Stefan would be a scandal and ruin everything for him, so what if it had to be secret?

So secret…

Stefan lay down on the mattress and stared at the cage over the door as he began to touch himself, rubbing cold fingers along his hot c**k.

So secret, Daz kept him locked in here? No phone, no keys, the buzzer for the door disabled. He’d come round every so often, sometimes several times a day, sometimes only once a week, and Stefan only had water and whatever food Daz brought with him.

“You belong to me,” Daz would say, in that deep, smooth voice. “Why would I share my toys with anybody else?”

At first, he’d lock Stefan in the bathroom. No windows. No way out but the bolted door. And he’d come over, drag Stefan out by the hair, and f**k him on the mattress. In the early days, Stefan would plead and struggle. He’d fight. And he’d lose, every single time.

Then he’d try to be good, so it wouldn’t hurt, and Daz would like him better and let him do more. Stefan would call him sir, and be on his knees, waiting, when Daz came over.

“Don’t get ideas,” Daz would say when he stopped f*****g Stefan’s face and would stand still when Stefan sucked him off. “You’re a s*x aid, nothing more. You got that?”

“Yes, sir,” Stefan breathed at the ceiling, deep in his fantasy. His fingers were damp—but they wouldn’t be. Daz wouldn’t let him touch himself. If Stefan wanted to come, he had to do it on Daz’s c**k. Sometimes, Daz would hold him face-down on the mattress or the carpet, and Stefan could rub himself off as Daz f****d him. But sometimes, Daz wanted to see his face, and then he would hold Stefan helpless, never touching his d**k.

“This isn’t for you,” he’d say. “I own you. I own your pleasure. And I’m not interested in using that.”

“Please, sir,” Stefan whimpered—in his fantasy, and for real. “Please let me come, sir, please, please, please…”

In the beginning, Daz would never allow it. But now, sometimes, he did. He’d make Stefan lie on the mattress, just like this, and tell him to touch himself. Tell him that he wanted everything Daz did to him, because he could get off just by Daz talking to him. Tell him that he could have all the pleasure he wanted—but if he came, he would owe Daz two in return. And when Stefan came, which he would, Daz would pick the most painful way to f**k him. He’d pick a way to make Stefan scream.

And when Stefan was done screaming, and had c*m staining his face and thighs, Daz would lie on top of him, just pinning him down, and ask him what he wanted.

“More,” Stefan whispered—then imagined the sting of the slap. Wrong answer. Not more, never more, because—“Nothing, my wants aren’t important, I want whatever you want—”

And then Daz would push back into him, and—

Stefan came, shaking and sweaty despite the cold. The cage on the door was suddenly a promise. The deep voice in his memory was suddenly a need, and even as the aftershocks of his orgasm rolled away, he wanted more. He wanted to be filled, f****d, used, discarded, kept, owned, commandeered, he wanted to be a thing, wanted to belong…

He scrambled blindly for the phone. The cold air washed over his arse, punishing him for his desire—but for once, Stefan didn’t care. So he was f****d up and sick—so what? He’d be sick if it would give him that reality; he’d be disgusting if it could give him that painful pleasure…

I imagined you kept me locked in my flat like a s*x slave for use when your partner is out of town and I got off to it.

The text was a rush of emotion and longing, and the moment he sent it, Stefan regretted it. He could have maybe persuaded Daz into s*x, maybe, from the two kisses they’d shared, but—

The phone rang, and Stefan jumped so hard he dropped it.

“s**t! s**t-s**t-s**t—hello?”

“Don’t ever text me again.”

His heart stopped beating. The air vanished, the vacuum left behind even colder. He was standing in the middle of his living room, wet c**k and fingers slowly chilling, in nothing but a T-shirt—and that voice stopped him dead, not even twenty-four hours after he’d first heard it.

“What part of, I have a plaything already, did you not understand?”

“I do understand it,” Stefan whispered, “but I want you anyway.”

“You want me to cheat?”

Stefan closed his eyes. f**k, yes. Yes, he did, and he felt sick even thinking it. He didn’t want to be that guy. He’d told himself he’d never be that guy. He always skipped over guys on hook-up sites that said they had boyfriends or girlfriends and thought them scum.

But—

“Yes.”

“For you?”

“To use me. I’m not asking for anything more.”

“What are you asking for?”

“I just—I just m*********d imagining you’d come to my flat and f**k me like I was a s*x slave. Lock me in naked, and only bring me food when you’d come to use me. f**k me any way you wanted, whenever you wanted, and hurt me and beat me and—and you were so nice and normal with your boyfriend, you let your dark side out on me, and it had to be a secret so nobody else could ever even know I existed, and…”

“Is that what you want?”

Stefan whimpered.

“Tell me what you want.”

The air was too thin. Stefan’s chest was working too hard.

He wanted—

“I—I want you to use me like a s*x aid,” he whispered, and the words were both humiliating and hot as they left his mouth. “I want you to lock me in my bathroom until you have need of me. I want you to hurt me and tell me I like it, and you’ll be right. I want you to—to own me, so I have to do what you say, no matter what it is, and when I disobey you, I want you to punish me.”

“You want to submit to me.”

“And I want you to make me.”

“And you think I want that? Or I have time for that?”

“Please.”

“I met you in a bar last night.”

“And you should punish me for being out of control, then make me thank you for looking after me,” Stefan whispered.

“You think you can tell me what to do?”

“No, Sir.”

There was a long pause.

Then, quite suddenly: “Tomorrow morning, eight fifteen sharp, be at the house. No earlier, no later.”

Stefan’s heart leapt. “Really?”

“I don’t like repeating myself.”

“Um, no, Sir. Sorry, Sir. Um—what if I don’t remember where it is?”

“Not my problem.”

And the call cut out.