Counterpunch Page 5

  He folded his cushion under his neck and tried to relax and calm and maybe sleep while Stu moved his bulk around until he’d found an agreeable position. Some slaves exchanged murmurs, but nobody spoke up.

  The guard tonight was Charlie, not the worst of the lot, but he hated to be disturbed doing his sudoku, and outside were several more guards that were only too happy to “enforce discipline.” Their main qualification seemed to be extensive experience as schoolyard bullies, but Curtis was also a real old-fashioned sadist. Nobody made a secret out of that. Funny how the usual niceties like manners and overall courtesy evaporated or became at least optional when slaves were involved.

  Maybe that had been the most disconcerting thing about Nathaniel. He’d seemed soft. Polite. As if he gave a fuck.

  This time the crowd seemed louder. Wilder. Brooklyn did his best to ignore them on the way out of the ring. He was still hyped-up, but at the same time tired as hell. Sore and exhausted, grinning even though he’d won only on points.

  Les had told him to go easy, and Brooklyn had agreed. Technically, he’d been the better boxer, and the enemy had kept his face well-guarded. Winning by points was easier. He had his eyes firmly on Florian Esch, and Les wanted him to save some for the German.

  He showered, dressed, had a quick checkup, and got in the car. Yes, the crowd outside was definitely bigger. More women shouting at him. Some were screeching what he assumed were obscenities, but it was all a blur after the fight. Les and Curtis just pushed him through, and Brooklyn ducked away as fast as he could.

  “You apparently have a fan,” Les said.

  “Fan?”

  “The same guy booked you again.”

  “Fuck. Can’t you tell them I need rest? I just boxed twelve rounds, and—”

  “Shut up, slave,” Curtis barked.

  Brooklyn clenched his fists and then threw himself in the corner of the car. “Whatever.”

  “The same guy” apparently meant the Diamond again. Sapphire suite. Brooklyn went through the motions, back up to the suite, undressed again. Les was just as reluctant as last time. He indicated the St. Andrew’s cross rather than the pillory. “I’ll tell them, Brook. But fact is, your price keeps rising. There are more and more people interested in you.”

  “They aren’t interested in me. They want to fuck me. That’s two different things.” Brooklyn stepped up to the cross and lifted his arms so Les could close the leather cuffs.

  “If I were cynical, I’d say that’s the price of fame.”

  Brooklyn laughed. “Right. Like that means a bloody thing if you’re a slave.”

  “Brook.” Les placed a hand flat against Brooklyn’s wrist. “I didn’t make this game. It’s probably still better than prison.”

  “What do you think when you leave? Imagine anything? Ever worried?”

  Les sighed. “Yeah. All the time.”

  “And you just accept it? Who of us is the real slave?” Brooklyn spat.

  Les pulled the leather strap closed with a fair bit of force. “Keep that passive-aggressive arsehole stance for your real enemies, Brook. Just an idea.” He stepped back and turned, all but rushing out. Brooklyn didn’t manage to apologise.

  Then nothing. Silence. He leaned against the reassuring stability of the wood warming quickly against his body. If only he could become a piece of furniture. Without emotions. Without regrets. Without memories. If he could just fight all day, every day, and not crash to earth in between, it might be just about bearable.

  The door opened.

  Yes, it was Nathaniel. Unlike the last time, though, he was almost fully dressed. Same sharp grey suit, shirt so white it looked the faintest shade of blue.

  “Good evening, Brooklyn. Excellent fight.” Nathaniel opened the buttons of the jacket and pulled it off. He hung it on a hook next to an assortment of whips, crops, and canes, and then pulled his tie loose. “Still, I get a little worried when you get driven into a corner.”

  “He got a couple good ones in,” Brooklyn acceded. “The cross this time? Why’s that?”

  “I want to see your face.” Nathaniel slipped out of the tie, pulled the knot open, and hung that up too. He opened two buttons of his shirt at his throat. “It’s easier to talk that way too.”

  “You want to talk.” Brooklyn laughed. “Right.”

  “I didn’t say just talk.” Nathaniel lifted a hand.

  “Right.” Brooklyn tried to relax. The man would get whatever he wanted. If he didn’t get hard, the man still had the pump to make him hard. Unless an erection wasn’t required. What the hell did Nathaniel want from him? Nervousness gnawed at him and didn’t get any better when Nathaniel opened his shirt cuffs and slid the cuff links into his front trouser pockets.

  “Do they hit you a lot?”

  “I’m not enjoying it, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “No, that wasn’t what I was asking. Do they hit you?”

  “It’s rare.” And why did this guy, with a whole range of hitting instruments, say “they”? “Not before a fight. I get punished differently.”

  “How?”

  Brooklyn shrugged. “Like any other prisoner. Isolated, getting my privileges revoked. The works.” And he wouldn’t give Nathaniel any openings to crack him. Bad enough the man knew how to get him hard and get him off.

  Nathaniel stepped close—very close. That citrusy shower gel again, with a tang of a woodsy fragrance. A day’s stubble made him appear more rugged than he was. The man touched his cheek, trailing two fingers down his jaw. “Does your jaw hurt?”

  “Only when I chew.”

  “You won’t chew. Hopefully.” Nathaniel chuckled, his fingers trailing down the side of Brooklyn’s neck, tracing the muscle, and then dipped into the hollow of his collarbone. Over the ridge of the bone, down towards the curve of his pec. “There’s a lot of power curled in here.”

  “Punching comes from the legs and core,” Brooklyn corrected.

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  Down to Brooklyn’s nipple, touching it, and then circling the soft skin around it. Brooklyn was surprised when Nathaniel’s head dipped, and he licked his nipple. The visuals were better than the faint tickle. How would it be if he had his hands free, could press the man’s face to his chest, get him to bite and suck? Push him lower to blow him?

  Nathaniel closed his teeth around the nub and rolled it. Brooklyn inhaled sharply, the pain-pleasure like an itch deeper in his body, tightening his balls. Nathaniel’s hand trailed lower, squeezed them. Okay, so he was required to get hard. Not too difficult, though, with that clever mouth. Brooklyn shuddered when Nathaniel left his sore nipple alone and went to the other one, repeating the treatment there. Biting and then sucking and licking, one hand cupping his pec like he’d touch the breast of a woman. Whatever rocked the guy’s boat.

  Brooklyn grew hard, but Nathaniel didn’t touch him there, merely played with his balls and nipples. He wanted to imagine he was free and able to make demands. Imagined wrestling the guy to the ground and sinking, balls-deep, into his tight arse. Fucking him hard until he screamed and begged for more.

  Yeah, this was doing just nicely. Shame it wouldn’t happen.

  Finally, Nathaniel’s hand, slicked with saliva, found his dick, offering him tightness. Brooklyn pushed forwards, into the fist, and hissed when Nathaniel’s hand pushed back, baring his glans. He was too damned sensitive there, that feeling of nakedness suddenly coupled with discomfort. But when the hand ran to the tip, it was covered again.

  “That’s beautiful, Brooklyn. Simply beautiful.”

  “No machines involved this time?”

  “If you’d prefer.” Nathaniel murmured in his ear, hot breath tickling and arousing him more. “I have a fucking machine. It never gets tired and could easily fuck you all night. Screaming orgasms entirely possible.”

  “And you’d just watch?”

  “I might have to masturbate.” Nathaniel’s hand paused and went back to his balls. “I’d certainly en
joy myself, though, so be my guest.”

  “No.” Brooklyn licked his lips. “No, that’s worse than getting fucked.”

  “Why?”

  “No c—” He stopped himself before he gave it all away. Shit, that hand was just too distracting.

  “No control. I understand.”

  Brooklyn tensed. Stupid fucking idiot.

  “So the pump was bad for you?”

  “Feels amazing, but . . .” Where was he again? Yeah, spilling his guts to a guy who’d paid to fuck him.

  “You’d prefer a mouth?”

  “A good mouth, yeah.” Brooklyn hissed with frustration when Nathaniel stopped stroking him. And then almost jumped when the man dropped to his knees in front of him.

  “Like this?”

  He was above begging. Or below begging. Slaves could beg all they wanted, and sometimes they were indulged and sometimes not—the begging itself made no difference. Nathaniel’s raised eyebrow indicated he was waiting for an answer, though.

  “Yeah.”

  Brooklyn tensed when Nathaniel took his cock and pointed it towards his lips, cringed when he pulled the foreskin back. The same nasty feeling as before, at least until a tongue ran over the exposed head. He groaned, incoherent while the sensation swept up through him and made him ravenously horny and impatient, but all he could do was push a little forwards. Nathaniel reached to a place near his hips and pulled a sturdy leather strap free, about as broad as a weightlifting belt, and buckled Brooklyn against the cross. No movement. Certainly no thrusting. “Spread your legs.”

  Brooklyn obeyed, and his ankles were fastened to the ends of the X, leaving him wide open and almost incapable of movement. All in the hope that Nathaniel would blow him. He couldn’t be sure. There were no guarantees, and definitely no niceties with a slave.

  Nathaniel all but ignored the cock pointing at his forehead now. Brooklyn watched him prepare something egg-shaped with lube, and then push it between his legs, against his arse, and into him. Before his body could protest the invasion, it was lodged inside. And began to vibrate. Brooklyn noticed that if he pushed against the cross at a certain angle, the egg vibrated exactly against his prostate. And that was nothing short of amazing.

  “Good, isn’t it?”

  “Will you blow me?”

  “Let’s make a deal. You pretend for tonight you actually want this, and I will make it really good for you.”

  Brooklyn laughed. “You recruiting me for slave porn? What’s this, the casting? Nice job if you can get it.”

  “No camera, I promise. No witnesses.”

  The hum of the egg inside him, just right, just perfect, made all this bearable. Fuck it. He could “pretend” to enjoy himself. Wasn’t like he had any other choice, right? The man knew too much about his body—and worse, seemed hell-bent on giving him pleasure. “Why the fuck do you care?”

  “Sex is a deal. A transaction. I give you what I have, and you give me what you have in return.”

  Wrong. Sex is war. Brooklyn groaned and pushed against the cross. He might be able to get off just with this, possibly, but it was much easier to come when he got more direct stimulation.

  “Right. I’ll pretend.”

  Shit. And what exactly should he do there? Beg for it? Shout the guy’s name? What was this “pretending”? What would be believable?

  The thought abruptly ended when heat and tightness engulfed him. Tongue, lips, suction. Brooklyn arched in the restraints, all muscles tight.

  Resistance, slick, forbidden heat. He’d almost forgotten what that felt like. And for a freeman who most definitely didn’t have to do that to a slave, Nathaniel was good at this, using his hand for friction and his lips for the more subtle caresses. Licking him, exploring the head, swirling around it before sucking him in deep again.

  Shit, Shelley had never done it like that, either. But he couldn’t even think of his wife, could do nothing but soak up the pleasure. He was almost glad for the restraints that forced him to accept it and gave him no chance to end it.

  As much as he was used to chasing his orgasm, not getting it was almost better. Nathaniel held him back as Brooklyn started to push for it. Getting so close meant he had no control, felt vulnerable and open, and he hated that feeling. Even though it was so good.

  He was about to beg when Nathaniel’s grip became stronger, hand twisting over the tip of his cock with every stroke. The mouth was gone, the pressure unbearable, and then, with another stroke, the almost-splitting feeling of release, orgasm. The strokes continued, slow and steady, finishing him and drawing out that pleasant buzz.

  Not like others who couldn’t get away fast enough. His body clenched around the vibrating egg, and then the tension bled out. He opened his eyes, feeling Nathaniel pull the egg out by a piece of string and place it to the side on a towel. The man’s face was flushed, and he grinned up at Brooklyn.

  “Don’t tell me ‘well done’ or anything like that,” Brooklyn murmured. “Please.”

  “That wasn’t the context I wanted to hear your first ‘please’ in.” Nathaniel stood up. His fine white shirt was wet in a few places, making it translucent. “Did I promise too much?”

  “No.” Well, at least that was honest. “You don’t swallow?”

  Nathaniel laughed. “I preferred to watch you.”

  “Right.” His legs were rubber—the leaden, sated feeling spread inside his body, and he wanted nothing more than sleep. The buzz kept him going for the moment.

  Nathaniel turned, pulled the shirt from his trousers, and unbuttoned it, his back turned towards Brooklyn. Such a childishly modest gesture from a man who gave such capable blowjobs and who had a slave in a dungeon to fuck or whip to his heart’s content. Still, Brooklyn watched as he shed the shirt. Tanned shoulders, sculpted rather than powerful, even though the man clearly had strength. He was no match for a heavyweight, but he certainly liked the gym.

  Nathaniel balled the shirt in a fist, and turned again. “Shower?”

  “Bed for me, if you’re offering.”

  Nathaniel pursed his lips, considering, and then opened the strap around his waist. His ankles were freed next. Nathaniel took hold of the restraints around Brooklyn’s wrists. “I’ve been told your guard is outside and can get in here before you can kill me.”

  “Yeah, Curtis would love that.” Brooklyn glanced to the restraint. “Come on. I can’t sleep standing up.”

  The restraint came off. Brooklyn dropped his hand immediately and half turned when Nathaniel stepped closer to untie his other hand. He could touch him if he wanted. Could even grab his hair and slam him, face first, into the wooden cross, if he’d had the energy and anger left.

  The tap-tap of a laptop keyboard was the first thing Brooklyn was consciously aware of. He turned in bed, saw the malignant red glow of the alarm clock. Eleven. He was ravenous. And he must have been tired to sleep through all his normal routines.

  He trotted off to the bathroom and spotted Nathaniel, who was sitting at the kitchen table, positioned so he could watch Brooklyn sleep. The white Apple logo glowed on the brushed aluminium of the laptop.

  “Ready for breakfast?”

  “Fifteen minutes.” That was the time it took to get showered, towelled, and his teeth brushed. Actually, it was fourteen and a half, but he made a thirty second allowance for finding his way around the miniature hotel shower gel bottles. He considered getting back into his clothes, but the sight of the enormous, soft bathrobes settled it.

  Nathaniel glanced up from the computer and shut it—almost. “You looked so tired I didn’t want to wake you.”

  “Why would you?”

  “What? Wake you up? You’re more fun awake than asleep.” Nathaniel leaned forwards.

  “Fun.” Brooklyn huffed. “You mean, to fuck?”

  “Has it occurred to you—” A knock at the door. Nathaniel got up and let the waiter and his little cart in without paying him any attention. “That I haven’t actually fucked you?”

  The wai
ter’s movements sped up markedly, his ears turning red.

  “But you want to,” Brooklyn said, feeling a shot of sadism, even though he was only an indulged slave, but the very fact that the waiter wore no slave bracelets made him cruel. “The whole tying-up-and-whipping thing you’re into, that’s just a taster.”

  The waiter looked up with what bordered on despair, trying to meet Nathaniel’s gaze. Nathaniel nodded and waved him off without giving him even a moment. “That’s all.” He stepped closer to Brooklyn. “Like many things in life, what I want and what I do are not necessarily the same.” The intensity in the dark-blue eyes made Brooklyn’s guts coil and his balls tighten. Nathaniel’s lips quirked into a smile as if he knew exactly what Brooklyn was feeling.

  The door closed, but neither of them moved. Brooklyn remembered the restraints too well, and he could almost feel them hold him back now. A trained response, to be respectful to his masters—and that was just about every freeman. Especially the rich and powerful, which only made him want to strangle the bastard. Or fuck him.

  Nathaniel inhaled deeply, nostrils twitching. “And?”

  “What?”

  “Will you punch me?” Nathaniel didn’t smile, didn’t mock him, but there was a tinge of humour. “Or are we done for this time?”

  “That’s your call,” Brooklyn said close to Nathaniel’s lips, noticing how they parted, ever so slightly. For all his nonchalant control, the man wanted him, and wanted him bad. Which, strangely, held the urge to fuck him or beat him up—or both—in check. “If we’re done, what do you do with yours? Pull it up and spit it in the toilet?”

  Nathaniel laughed. “I have all the technical implements I need to keep things under control.”

  “So what am I? A dirty fantasy?”

  “Right now? You’re a caged tiger and not to be trifled with.”

  “I’m flattered.”

  “The very fact you’re flattered means you’re not ready.”