textfiles/sex/EROTICA/W/whiphand.txt

Dedicated to those who like to lose.
Sometimes.

Whip Hand

       D'Schane and Terry were necking on the couch.  D'Schane, the
smaller of the two, sat in Terry's lap enthusiastically sucking on an
earlobe.  There was nothing particularly special about this, except
that they were in the middle of an elegant shopping mall, seated right
between the Godiva Chocolates and Victoria's Secret.  Shoppers would
walk by, then miss a step as they realized that the couple by the
fountain was two long-haired young men.  The looks on their faces were
making them laugh, and Terry choked on a kiss at one point and had to
pause to wipe the drool off his chin.  This was their first day
together after d'Schane's two-week conference in Chicago, and neither
of them was feeling particularly discreet.
       Mall security put up with this until D'Schane started
unbuttoning Terry's shirt, giving the general public full view of
Terry's collar.  While the mall seemed prepared to put up with
same-sex affection, the touch of leather at Terry's throat clashed
with the sedate decor.  A pair of uniformed guards very politely but
firmly asked them to leave.
       They were still laughing on the way out.  The rain was drying
off of the zigzag brick pattern on the sidewalk.  The new-washed sun
reflected blindingly off of the gold dome on an old bank.  D'Schane
seated his Stetson firmly back on his head and pulled the brim down to
shade his eyes.
       "Don't feed or tease the straight and vanilla people," Terry
said when he could.
       D'Schane snorted.  "What makes you think I'm not straight
myself?"
       "Well, for one, you sleep with me."
       "That doesn't make me queer.  It makes me a lot of other
things.  An opportunist, for instance.  Are you?"
       "Straight?  You aren't the only man I've ever slept with."
       D'Schane actually looked startled.  "I didn't know that."
       Terry smirked.  "Like you know everything just because you can
read my mind.  You never even thought to ask.  It still amazes me how
everyone seems to think I was born knowing how to deep-throat."
       Terry stopped them to stare in the window of one of the little
stores.  He used to come there back when he was in school.  It sold
rude greeting cards, a little over-priced leather and a lot of
T-shirts, mostly to high-school students who wished they could afford
the leather.
       "Here.  Open your mouth," D'Schane ordered.
       Terry obeyed almost by reflex.  D'Schane reached up and popped
something into his mouth.
       Startled, Terry bit down on the chocolate.  D'Schane crumpled
up a distinctive piece of gold foil and pitched it in the gutter.
       "Hey," he said, swallowing.  "I didn't see you pay for this."
       D'Schane gave one of his most irritating grins, like a small
child who has just killed someone.  "That's because I didn't."
       "You self-righteous case of arrested moral development . . .
..."
       "Funny.  That's what the shrink called me, too."
       "What shrink?"
       "My parents made me agree to see one a few years back.  They
were having a hard time dealing with my criminal lack of gratitude.
Said I owed them for my education, my nauseatingly neo-romantic first
name, my fucking DNA, and everything else.  Wouldn't let me forget
that the senior Professor Grey invented the nerve splices that let us
all plug in, that I'd be nothing without Mom's software company, and
how dare I not come home for Thanksgiving?  They're just pissed that I
had lecturer status at MIT when I was younger than Dad had been. The
shrink saw me once and asked them not to send me back.  I think I
scared him."
       D'Schane never kept quiet, unless his mouth was busy with
something else.  Terry could think almost as fast as d'Schane could
talk, and so often found himself absorbing a flood of words, all the
things that d'Schane had wanted to say for twenty-one years but the
rest of the world hadn't been smart enough to understand.
       "And don't worry," he continued.  "The place I stole the
chocolate from is about to get an utterly inexplicable credit from
American Express, as soon as I can find a console."
       Terry sighed.  "You're weird."
       "Am I now?  Weirder than my darling, who gets off on being
held down and hurt?  Honestly, some times I wonder how you got to be
so delightfully twisted."
       "I've had practice."
       "Well, I found out what I liked early, and set out to find the
best people to teach it to me, just like I'd learned everything else.
Only problem was I kept getting thrown out of leather bars until I
turned eighteen.  No one wanted to do time for blatant baby-fucking.
I bottomed for a good year up in Boston, and I saw much more than I
could ever do.  I still think you're something special.  You seem to
have the most fun long after most practicing masochists would have
called quits.  It's not the pain levels you get off on, though I
suspect a major pharmaceutical company could make a fortune off of
your neuroreceptors.  It's how you like to be _forced_."
       "Are you complaining?"
       "Hell no.  But I worry about you some times.  I'm not sure you
have the pride to keep the rest of the world from stepping on you.
Letting your lover hit you is one thing.  Letting yourself be used,
really used, is another."
       "You're just jealous of the rest of the world."
       "And you're a slut."
       They had stopped in front of a Sense Arcade.  Inside the
laser-painted darkness, school kids were competing against the latest
generation of video entertainment.  Some of them, lucky enough to have
sockets, were tied into a dozen different worlds of magic, fear, and
stars.
       "Let's go in," Terry suggested.
       "Why?" d'Schane asked, twitching his upper lip in a
carefully-cultivated gesture of distaste.
       "They might have metachess."
       "Hm.  Is that a dare?"
       "You bet it is."
       They stopped to gawk at an ancient mechanical pinball machine
before locating a metachess console in the back.  The game was idling,
blinking directions and disclaimers at the walls.  An Arcade attendant
took their money and set up the game.  D'Schane pointedly touched the
back of his head to make sure his link was hard-switched off.  Reading
his partner's mind would be a very rude way to cheat.  They struggled
awkwardly into the rented headsets and switched into a world the size
of a chessboard.
       Terry drew black and picked a bishop for a heart-piece.  He
flipped back to visual to eye the spectators.  They had begun
accumulating as soon as he and d'Schane had connected.  A couple of
people were pumping tokens into view consoles so they could follow the
action.
       Terry and d'Schane spent about five minutes taking swipes at
each others' pawns.  Terry was playing conservatively, keeping his
bishop covered, but not too much to give it away.  He let d'Schane
take down a knight.  If he did it right, he could get d'Schane to lose
caution and give away his mate piece.  One piece on each end of the
cybernetic board would, in dying, lose the fight for either of them.
       There was a game beyond the game.  If Terry lost, he could
count on being brought home and treated like captured property for the
rest of the night, taken hard and often until they both were tired.
If he won, d'Schane might get mean.
       Terry bided his time and watched one his pawns kill a castle
on a lucky stroke.
       D'Schane slipped up.  It was a hairbreadth miscalculation of
combat that drew Terry's attention to the white queen.  It didn't
fight with quite the mechanical, if random, clumsiness of a computer.
Terry sent his other bishop against the queen.  The bishop lost, but
by a bit too much.
       It was tempting to flip to visual, to look at d'Schane.  Terry
didn't do it just yet.  He didn't want to lose his concentration.
D'Schane couldn't be sure that Terry had him figured out.  Terry began
creating a ring of black pieces around the queen.  Keeping his bishop
tucked safe in a corner, he started picking away at d'Schane's mate
piece.
       D'Schane, who had read Sun Tzu, liked to force an opponent to
yield.  Terry, who hadn't, liked to kill.
       He let the queen wipe out a knight and a pawn.  D'Schane must
be getting tired.  The queen, his heart, was powered only by his own
skill and reflexes, and those were being drained by the relentless
real-time combat.  When at last the queen looked sufficiently wounded,
Terry brought the bishop out of its corner.  It was safer to let one
of the dumb pieces kill the queen, but he wanted to feel this.
       His bishop jumped to the queen's square.  Instantly the game
view clicked into encounter mode.  The two combatants brought up
lightning lances and struck at each other, one desperate, the other
gleeful.
       Terry mistimed just enough that the queen actually hit him
once.  He hit back, nearly wiping out her offensive capabilities at
one stroke.  At this point, it was usually polite to demand a yield
from the fatally crippled party.  Terry wasn't in the mood.
       He took just a little too long to kill the queen.  If d'Schane
hadn't flipped out before the death-blow, he'd have a headache from
the visual effects.  Terry gave the console his ID to post with the
winner list.  He then started disengaging himself from the headset.
       D'Schane was glaring at him.
       Terry smiled back.  "Nice game."
       "Get up."
       The arcade rats milled about, uncertain what to make of the
tension.
       Terry obeyed, feeling his throat move against the collar.  He
wondered if d'Schane would hit him.
       Instead, Terry was impelled out the door by an angry hand at
his back.  He tripped on the threshold and fell, catching himself with
his hands.  Terry got up with slow, nearly insulting deliberation.  By
now, he had probably racked up a couple of dozen lashes to be
delivered when they got home.
       Once they had reached the parking garage, Terry let himself be
thrown against the side of the Pontiac.  He could have knocked
d'Schane over had he wanted.  Terry was a little bigger, a lot
stronger, and much more fit.  But the part of him that was gleeful at
d'Schane's rage would only let him struggle when he was sure he would
eventually lose.
       "Spread your legs," d'Schane ordered.
       Doing so brought Terry down to eye level.  The door trim was
chewing on his spine.  D'Schane leaned an angular hip sharply against
Terry's crotch and scratched at his nipples through the shirt.
       Terry's breath caught.  D'Schane usually made sure Terry's
nipples were good and sore so that a single touch made him whimper.
Terry had almost forgotten the feel of d'Schane's sharp-edged nails.
       D'Schane said, "You're being rather provocative today.  Have I
neglected you so badly?"
       Terry opened his eyes.  He hadn't realized until then that
they were closed.  D'Schane's expression was incongruously serious.
       "Are you reading me?" he asked.
       "No."
       "If you were, you'd know the answer."
       D'Schane twisted Terry's nipples between his fingers, dragging
a ragged gasp from him.
       "I want to hear you say it."
       Terry shook his head silently.  This was something he couldn't
ask for, not even to release his lover from the uncertainty of walking
a fine line between love and abuse.
       A car door slammed.  The echoes broke the mood.  A woman was
walking past them, staring.  Terry flashed the bystander a strained
smile over d'Schane's shoulder in a vain attempt to make her look less
like she thought she should call the police.  D'Schane reached behind
Terry and keyed the car door open.
       Terry climbed into the back and d'Schane into the front.  Once
he had shut the door, d'Schane fastened his seat belt and then
slumped, pressing his head against the steering wheel.  Seconds
passed.  Terry realized he was counting to ten slowly before he
started the car.
       The car engine turned over silently.  The lights on the
dashboard rippled.  D'Schane pulled out of the parking space with a
silent concentration that made Terry wonder if he was about to hit
something on purpose.  Terry struggled into his own seat belt.
D'Schane always put him in the back when he was feeling particularly
domineering.
       The garage exit gate took d'Schane's credit card and spat it
out a few seconds later after charging them for parking.  D'Schane
took a left turn over Key Bridge and got onto the highway.  Terry sank
back into the leather seats and wondered if they would be doing
anything interesting on the road.  It didn't look like it, though.
Instead of ducking onto the express lanes, that would autopilot the
car at a smooth 110 miles per hour, d'Schane kept them in the driving
lanes with the rest of the slow older cars.  D'Schane passed from lane
to lane, cutting someone off abruptly and earning a sharp honk.
       He seemed calmer, but only just, by the time they reached the
house and left the car.  Turning on all the lights, d'Schane
disappeared into the kitchen.
       "What are we doing now?" Terry asked.
       He was answered by the sound of kitchen things being opened
and closed.
       "I don't know about you, but I'm eating dinner.  What do you
want?"
       Terry walked into the kitchen.  "I want to be your dinner."
       "Sure you do."  D'Schane threw two boxes into the oven.  "I'm
eating steak and fries.  I know what it wants.  It's dead."
       Terry sat down at the table.  "Is something wrong?"  Food
smells worked their way into his nose and made his stomach growl.
       "No, nothing is wrong.  Everything is fine.  I'd just like to
know what you want."
       Terry thought about that.
       "All of my friends live in Maryland."
       D'Schane had started sorting dishes and putting them away.  He
stood on a chair to put the glasses in an upper cabinet.
       "I'm your friend."
       The oven sounded off.  D'Schane jumped off the chair, opened
it, and pulled out the two steaming dinners, juggling them on the tips
of his fingers.  He dropped one in front of Terry.
       "All of my other friends.  We're fifty miles away in Virginia.
And this place is nowhere near public transit.  I haven't visited any
of them in months."
       D'Schane pried dinner open.  "I can buy you a car."
       "I can't drive."
       "I can fix that, too."
       "That isn't what I meant," Terry said, picking at the
potatoes.
       "Then what did you mean?" d'Schane asked over a mouthful of
food.
       "I wouldn't mind a little autonomy.  I don't even have a job."
       "Yes you do."
       "I work for you, Grey."
       D'Schane looked up across the table.  "Don't call me that."
       "D'Schane.  I work for you, I sleep with you, and I don't even
leave the house unless you're around to drive me into town.  You asked
me what I wanted."
       "I asked you to tell me what you wanted me to do to you this
evening.  I didn't ask for a lecture, especially on things I already
know."
       "But . . . ."  Terry bit his lip and let the conversation die
of frustration.  He ate about half the food and went to dump the rest
down the trash.
       There was a spider on the floor by the disposal.  Terry
shuddered and stepped on it.
       "You don't like spiders."
       Terry looked up irritably.  D'Schane was switching on the
cyberlink that read the thought impulses off of Terry's collar.
       "You know I don't like spiders."
       "You _really_ don't like spiders.  You're afraid of them."
       "Is that a big deal?"
       D'Schane smiled and got up.  "Maybe."  He pointed to the floor
and snapped his fingers.
       Terry edged away from the spot on the floor that had been a
spider.  "Not here."
       "Are you disobeying me?"
       "Yes."
       "It'll cost you."
       D'Schane was using that tone of voice that he reserved for his
affronted feudal lord persona.  Terry tried to figure out what he was
up to.  D'Schane smiled harder as he read Terry's confusion.
       "I don't care."
       "That's nice.  I'll be in the bedroom in a few minutes.  I
want to see you on your knees on the floor facing away from the door
when I get there."
       Terry turned on the bedroom light.  There wasn't much stuff in
the room.  D'Schane had moved all of the consoles, the vintage
Macintosh (which didn't work), and the stacks of paper books into the
downstairs den.  That left the bed, a dresser, and a pile of dirty
laundry.
       Terry thought about taking his clothes off, but then didn't.
D'Schane liked to strip him himself.  He knelt by the bed and waited,
enjoying the clawing edges of that velvet-pawed, half-safe sort of
terror he loved so well.  D'Schane took his time.  Terry shifted from
side to side, letting the blood back into his knees.  He froze when he
heard d'Schane come in.
       Two hands, dripping wet, rested gently on his shoulders.
Terry sighed and relaxed under the touch, until d'Schane abruptly
threw him down onto his back and sat on him.
       "You are afraid of spiders," d'Schane said, pinning Terry's
hands up over his head.  "What else are you afraid of?"  His blue eyes
were narrowed and his smile grew wider as Terry started to struggle.
       Terry tried very hard not to think of the summer he spent
living with Daphne, of the hot and airless closet where he had slept
after she stopped taking him into her bed.
       D'Schane said, "What if I tied you down and held a hand over
your nose and mouth until you fainted?  Try not to think about that,
too.  What else are you afraid of?"
       Terry screamed.

       D'Schane called from Austin.
       "It's funny how the smoother virtual communication gets, and
the cheaper it is to hold a computerized conference, the more some
sites want to pay me to actually show up."
       "Are you having fun?" Terry asked.  The scene behind
d'Schane's face was a hotel room with an unmade bed and a console
half-disassembled on the bed.  D'Schane's face was pale and sharper
than usual.  That could be the video quality, though.
       "Sometimes.  The job is sort of a pain.  I'll tell you more
about it when I get back."
       Terry nodded.  The com lines weren't secure, and if d'Schane
was doing anything sensitive, talking about it would tip valuable
information to any electronic thief who cared to listen in.
       "Do you dream of me?" Terry asked.
       "I haven't slept much."
       "Got company?"
       D'Schane smiled.  "Sometimes.  A woman I haven't seen since
school stopped by.  You'd like her.  She's tall, blonde, and
overbearing.  What about you?"
       "I got a couple I know to drive down, pick me up, and go out
to dinner and a movie last night."
       "That's good.  I have to go now.  I'll see you Friday."
       "Maybe you will.  I've been invited up to U. Maryland for the
weekend.  I think I'll be going to see a friend's band play."
       "I want you there when I get home.  In fact, consider that an
order."
       Terry sat back when d'Schane broke the connection.  He didn't
need to obey.  He could go anyway.  Or maybe it was time for a little
escalation.
       Terry switched his console over to the documentation he was
supposed to finish, worked on it, and thought.

       D'Schane's plane was supposed to land at 6:35 p.m.  His car
arrived home at just before 8:00, right on time.  The garage door
slammed.  Luggage hit the floor with a thud.
       "Terry?"
       Silence followed.
       All of the lights were out.  The house had old hand-switches
in the walls.  Terry could hear d'Schane trip in the sunless hallway
as he turned on lights.  Then d'Schane was standing in the bedroom
doorway, back-lit, his lean profile and cowboy hat achingly familiar.
A switch clicked.  Nothing happened.
       Swearing at all things mechanical, d'Schane hit the switch
again.
       "I need to talk to you."
       D'Schane jumped.  He reached up behind his ear for the link
switch to Terry's mind.
       "You know what I'm thinking now," Terry said from where he
stood in the dark.  "But I'm willing to bet that you can't avert it."
       If d'Schane were smart, he would have backed up into the
lighted hallway.  But if he had retreated, he wouldn't have been
d'Schane.  He stepped into the room under the heavy tactical
disadvantage of eyes unadjusted to the dark.  Terry, unseen, slammed
into him from the side.  D'Schane staggered and slapped Terry across
the face.
       If Terry had been feeling a bit more submissive, the blow
would have knocked him down trembling at d'Schane's feet.  Instead he
caught the wrist, twisted the arm behind d'Schane's back, and lifted
up.
       D'Schane yelped.
       Terry said, "You should think with your own head.  Mine just
confuses you."
       D'Schane said nothing, but gritted his teeth audibly.  He was
no match for Terry in a fair fight, and knew it, so went limp and
tried to disappear.
       Terry pulled a pair of cuffs from his pocket and snapped one
of them around the captured wrist.  When he reached for the other
hand, d'Schane's composure broke.  He gave a soft whimper as Terry
took away his freedom.  Terry kicked him lightly behind the knee and
lowered him to the floor, then went and did something obscure to the
light switch.
       They both blinked in the sudden light.  D'Schane was kneeling,
head bowed, hair messed.  His hat had fallen to the floor.  Terry eyed
the arch of d'Schane's back, the bound wrists, and the blush on his
cheek.  He realized his mouth was watering at this taste of power.
       "I want to tell you two things," he said, sitting down on the
floor before d'Schane.  Terry felt the collar at his throat when he
swallowed.  It could not be removed, and housed the sensors that fed
d'Schane's cyberlink.  Ordinarily it gave him a sweet sort of 'owned'
feeling.  Now it provided an artistic touch of irony.
       "The first is that if you beg, I'll stop and let you go."
       D'Schane stared fixedly at the floor.  He would, Terry knew,
rather die horribly than beg.  Yet the offer was tendered, and
d'Schane couldn't blame Terry for forcing him if the game were played
to conclusions.
       "The second is how good you look like this.  I should top you
more often."
       He stroked d'Schane's face with a finger, touching his lips,
the cords of his throat, the soft part behind his ear.  D'Schane
hadn't moved.  His breath was shallow and eyes half-shut.
       "Still playing nobody home?" he asked.
       Even though d'Schane knew it was coming, he still cried out
when Terry slapped him.
       "You've forgotten what this is like, haven't you?"
       Terry hit him again.
       "You've watched my mind dissolving as you shredded my skin,
but you couldn't feel the pain."
       Again.
       "Until now."
       Again.
       "You should do this more often.  You'd be less of a coward
about it."
       Again.
       D'Schane tried to bury his face in his own shoulder.  Terry
paused.  His palm burned.  He reached out and stroked D'Schane's
reddened cheek.  The sudden arbitrary gesture of tenderness made him
dizzy.  He could make d'Schane feel anything he wanted.
       "Turn it off."
       Terry blinked.  "What?"
       D'Schane's eyes were still fixed downward, hidden behind hair.
       "The cyberlink.  I can hear you thinking.  Please turn it off.
Please."
       Terry smiled.  He thought about how much he was enjoying the
position of dominance.  The pleasure of it warmed him like sunlight.
He would sit in judgement of d'Schane, and he planned to show him just
enough of hell that anything else would look good.  D'Schane would
weep with gratitude at the slightest kindness.  After all, d'Schane
was the one who showed Terry how to do it, and should be proud of how
well his student had learned.
       D'Schane looked at him for the first time that night.  His
eyes were wet.
       He said, "Then tell me you aren't doing this because you hate
me."
       Terry leaned forward and touched d'Schane's lips with a
finger.
       "I don't hate you.  Not ever.  I promise."
       "Thank you.  I won't cry."
       "You're crying now."
       Terry watched with fascination as d'Schane trembled.  Tears
leaked from his eyes and down his cheeks.
       "Kiss me," d'Schane said.
       Terry slapped him, jerking his head back.
       "In case this is news to you, you don't get everything you
want."
       D'Schane glared at him, and his eyes were bright as sparks.
He would need that fire soon.  Terry abruptly grasped that one special
pleasure of topping.  He could watch.  D'Schane often blindfolded him,
or he was too distracted to see what what was done to him.  Now he
could study his victim's changes of expression, each drop of sweat,
and every tiny twitch.
       Terry got up and dug in the dresser for the things he wanted.
When he returned, d'Schane was still sniffing.  Terry held a tissue to
d'Schane's nose.
       "Blow."
       D'Schane obeyed awkwardly.  Terry wiped the corners of his
eyes and put the tissue aside.  Reaching up, Terry unbuttoned
d'Schane's shirt.
       Terry took d'Schane's nipples between his fingers and stroked
them until he squirmed and sighed.  Then he reached down for the heavy
chromed clips.
       "I'll bet these hurt you more than they hurt me," Terry said,
"because I'm used to them and you aren't."
       D'Schane gasped as the clips bit his nipples.  Terry cradled
d'Schane's face in his hands and held him that way while he sank into
the pain.  He touched his fingers to d'Schane's lips, letting him take
them into his mouth and suck on them.  Terry probed the back of
d'Schane's throat with a finger, trying to make him choke and bite,
and so provoke Terry into the mood for further violence.  But d'Schane
was quite still and meek.  Somehow that was provocation enough.
Taking out a Y-shaped chain, Terry attached one end to each clip,
leaving the third to dangle free.  He tugged the loose end, making
D'Schane whimper.
       "I'm going to unfasten your hands," he said.  "I want you to
know how sorry you'll be if you give me trouble."
       D'Schane nodded.  "I know.  I won't."
       Terry unlocked the cuffs and pulled off d'Schane's shirt.
       "Put your hands behind your head," he said, then gave the
chain another tug.  "Stand up."
       D'Schane obeyed.  Terry unbuttoned his lover's jeans and
helped him step out of them.
       One of the things he dearly loved about d'Schane was his
instant, electric response to every touch, even as distressed as he
was now.  He squirmed as Terry bit his neck.  D'Schane's penis was
soft.  Terry took it in his hand and stroked it.  He had sucked it
often enough.  This time it seemed that no velvet touches on those
sensitive parts were going to make d'Schane hard just yet.  Terry made
him dance against the chain and gasp when it pulled.
       There was an eye-bolt set in the underside of the bed.  Terry
had set it up that morning and covered it with a draped corner of
sheet so it wouldn't be noticed until he needed it.  It was at exactly
the right height that Terry could bend d'Schane over and clip the end
of the chain to the bolt.
       Almost the right height.
       Terry nudged d'Schane's feet apart and forced him lower.
D'Schane rested his head and shoulders on the bed and clasped his
hands at the back of his head as Terry fastened the last link to the
bolt.  If he moved much, or even took too deep a breath, he would give
the nipple chain a very sharp jerk.
       "Clever," d'Schane muttered into the blanket.
       Terry brushed a hand against d'Schane's bare flank and trailed
his fingers over the tense muscles of his back, stroking every rib,
ruffling his hair, and running a fingernail down the crack of
d'Schane's ass.  He took one hair between his fingers and tugged.
D'Schane jumped, froze, and then moaned.  Terry stripped off his
shirt, bent down and picked up the riding crop.  He laid it gently
against d'Schane's ass and watched his body go taut and trembling.
       D'Schane had, as far as Terry knew, few hang-ups.  He did seem
to suffer from delusions born of reading, at an early age, too many
indifferently-written sword and sorcery novels in which the heroes
were tied up by their hands and flogged across the shoulders by
thoroughly evil yet attractive villains.  Romanticized tales
conspicuously lacked the mess and bodily fluids (except for an
artistic streak of blood) of a real-life torture scene, and the hero's
breeches were always left on for some obscure plot reason.  Terry
suspected that this was why his back would be whipped raw and his ass
scarcely touched.  D'Schane showed little interest in the ramming end
of anal sex.  To strip away someone's dignity that completely, to have
to bother with lubricant and cleaning up afterwards just held no
appeal for him.
       Terry did not suffer from any such delusions.
       D'Schane knew it, and he was starting to cry again, before
Terry had even struck him.
       The force of the first blow startled even Terry.  D'Schane
cringed.  Terry examined with clinical interest the mark across his
ass.  He never knew skin had quite that many colors.  The shaft of the
whip was fiberglass and left a thick red welt as if it were a cane.
The loop of leather on the end had wrapped around D'Schane's skinny
hip.  Terry laid a second mark diagonally across the first.  D'Schane
kicked, earning himself a welt across the calf.  He had so little body
fat, Terry realized, that it was hard to find a spot to whip that
wouldn't instantly bruise.
       Terry would have liked to leave a symmetrical lattice of welts
like d'Schane sometimes did, but it proved to be too much trouble.
Terry concentrated on the tender flesh just beneath d'Schane's
buttocks, which were rapidly becoming so sore that a light touch made
him moan.  He bit at his own arm to stop the noise.  Terry clipped him
across the shoulder.
       "You're not allowed to hurt yourself."
       Dropping the crop, Terry pressed up against d'Schane's ass.
The skin was so hot that he could feel it through his jeans.  Terry
decided that he was wearing too much clothing.
       His jeans joined d'Schane's on the floor.  Terry picked a tube
of lubricant out of the drawer.  His skin was tingling with arousal,
and his penis was almost half-hard already.  When he looked back,
d'Schane had turned his head to watch him.  Terry reached down and
tugged the nipple chain, making him cry out.
       "Ever been fucked in the ass?" Terry asked.
       "Yes."
       "Then I don't have to tell you how much more it hurts if you
resist."
       Terry started working a lube-covered finger into the tightness
of d'Schane's anus.  He probed past the muscle, pressing downwards.
D'Schane sighed suddenly as Terry found his prostate.  His slack
genitals showed some sign of life.  Terry pulled his fingers out and
reached for more lube, smearing it over the head of his own penis.  He
fumbled just a bit finding the exact right angle.  Apparently d'Schane
had decided not to resist.  The head of Terry's penis went in slowly
but smoothly.  He gave d'Schane a moment to lean into it, to thrust
back and open himself up to be taken.
       Terry had spent too much time thinking about what he was doing
to d'Schane.  The full sensory force of what he was doing to himself,
when it finally caught up to him, nearly made him pass out.  The heat
and the tightness were squeezing his heart.  Dizzy, Terry leaned down
and licked the sweat from d'Schane's back.  He pulled out and thrust
back in again just a little too fast.  D'Schane made a pained noise
and tossed his head.  Terry wrapped his arms around him tightly.
Reaching down, he sprang the clips and was rewarded with a ragged
scream.  D'Schane shook and melted into Terry's arms, his moans rising
in pitch as the thrusts grew harder and harder against his sore flesh.
       Then something at the base of Terry's spine ignited.  He
clawed d'Schane's back, leaving red marks all the way down.  Terry's
knees buckled, bringing them both tumbling to the floor.
       Little by little their pulses sank back to normal.  Terry
disentangled himself from d'Schane, reached up and pulled the blankets
down off the bed to wrap them both.  Then, as the sweat cooled on
their bodies, he kissed d'Schane on the mouth and licked his tears.
D'Schane's body was stiff with unaccustomed stresses and the pain of
being taken.  Terry felt him soften under the gentleness.
       Terry said, "Remember how you said I shouldn't let people step
on me?"
       D'Schane very pointedly reached up to the back of his head and
touched the switch of the wire to Terry's mind, turning it off at
last.  Holding Terry tightly, he whispered, "I'm sorry.  It's so hard
being God for you sometimes.  I had to run away.  I'm sorry I didn't
try to talk about it.  But I can have you a job somewhere in town by
next week.  It's another favor, I know, but you'll have something you
can keep on your own merits.  I can even find you an apartment . . .
..."
       Terry was shaking his head.  "That's not what I want.  Ask me
what I want."
       "OK.  Terry, what do you want?"
       Terry reached up and touched his collar.  "I belong to you and
I want to stay that way.  That isn't what's wrong.  But I wouldn't
mind if you sold this house and we moved to Georgetown."
       "Is that all?"
       Terry ran his tongue along d'Schane's throat.  "No.  I want
you to tell me that you love me."
       "I love you."
       When Terry whispered the words back, they both lay still for a
moment, not looking at each other, just a little frightened by it.
       Terry kissed d'Schane again, tickling the roof of his mouth
and biting his lips.  He licked his way down to the sore nipples,
making d'Schane wince.  He tasted the taut skin of d'Schane's belly,
then took into his mouth that which grew hard and twitched all of its
own.  D'Schane lay back, breathing hard, one hand twined in Terry's
hair.
       "You're going to get it tomorrow night."
       Terry freed his mouth.  "I know.  I'm looking forward to it."