“Do you like that?”
Cooed sweet and languid, precise complementary to the pressure on his wrists.
“Do you like that?” the voice repeats, each syllable perfectly the same in its patience.
He does. When he opens his mouth to say it, no sound comes out. Neck hurts.
No, not hurts —throat won’t work. Tongue is in the way. Too swollen to do its job.
“Yeah. I figured you might. It’s okay. Just let me do this.”
Hands, warm but not moist. Thumbs rub along jut of bone, test and slip along tendons ticklish. Bizarre, what we’re made of. Tissue and blood and nerves, all centrally located. Can’t exist outside his head. All right there, right inside. Tight little package of human.
Then, steadiness—a surety flesh never holds, even at its bravest, and his eyes dart in the darkness, mounds under eyelids push against restraining fabric. He can’t see.
His wrists are blindfolded, too.
That’s not what that’s called, is it? There’s another word, and it tickles and laughs along his spine, teasing his unworking tongue’s tip.
Corded. Nylon? Cables…?
He arches into the bed, sheets sliding beneath bared skin. Hears a gasp. If the sound had come from him, it’s one of want. If it had come from the other—the one watching, the one in charge—it’s one of appreciation.
“It doesn’t hurt, does it? Too tight…? Let me know you’re not in pain. Let me know you’re enjoying this as much as I am.”
Doesn’t hurt. It’s nice.
Smooth but tight and also rough. Rough-smooth. Processed, twined, could burn if grabbed too harsh by fingers crying out for more, yes, I beg of you. But the fingers on him aren’t desperate. Grazing, fluttering, abandoning his locked wrists to dance over his ribs and navel.
Again, he arches, not-body bowed tight. Feels his mouth open, a phantom moan betraying his warmth and leaving him cold. It’s good, though. He hopes the other knows, hopes it doesn’t look painful when his vocal cords defy their command.
The other knows his name.
Does that make this better? Worse, perhaps.
Good, that he can’t see. Doesn’t want to know who it is.
Bad, that he can’t speak. Words would be nice, give back to the nameless entity handling him. Palms braced on his hips. Are they going to push? To stabilize? Hands steadied on him would allow for leverage, with him on his back. The other is sitting on his lap now, heavy, pinning him.
He rolls his head, feels the tug and pull of elastic snag at his hair. It is a blindfold.
If the person on him shifted, they could sink down onto his cock.
That’s what he wants. Doesn’t know it ‘til the thought hits him, but he wants it. He wants that, he wants it, could die for it if he doesn’t get it. That’s what the twinge is, that’s the current running under everything, ripping off its own blindfold and tearing through his body: arousal. He’s hard—roiling in his gut, in the forefront of his mind. Body needs release as a natural conclusion like any other function. Hands on him feel nice, the hungry eat, the thirsty drink, the tired sleep.
He needs to fuck.
Wants to be inside another and buck up into them, unable to catch sight of whose hole he’s allowed to lose himself in. Regardless of who they are, they’re going to enjoy it.
Abuse that outlet, fuck, that’s what he wants, he deserves it! To be loud with it and forget how the shapes of his soundless lips might look as he uses the faceless figure to get off. They seem willing, after all. Inviting and kind and far too patient with him. A body he can unload into, just needs to make that happen—
“Don’t be afraid.”
Why would he be afraid? He’s not afraid.
One spot, tiny, ice cold and—that’s what that is, too. Ice. Beneath the flare of his rib cage, a stray drop of cool water rolling towards his navel. Why ice?
“I’m not gonna hurt you.”
He hadn’t been afraid, but those are some nice words.
The ice travels, pressed tight to his burning skin with perhaps a single finger, sliding over his body like a game piece, tracing up across the board of his chest to read words through a lens. Nestles at the dip of his throat, coaxes his pulse out, begs him to swallow a noise he can’t make to begin with.
So cold. Is it melting? It shouldn’t be getting colder . Not how ice works.
“You feel that, Rhett? Right on your heartbeat? We’re gonna explore. Wanna see where you’re most sensitive.”
“That’s silly,” he says back, words mute and lost to his own head, “you know where I’m most sensitive.”
Ignored, the ice spins a small circle, lapping waves of miniature shock. Clavicle. Widening, to his pec, and then a sharp swathe over his nipple—intense and refreshing, the bud far too sensitive to handle in its hyper state—and his mouth falls open. It’s a moan, but the other doesn’t get to hear it.
It must be obvious, anyway.
“Yeah, I knew you’d like this part. So big and strong, but what are you when you’re robbed of everything? When you can’t move your hands? Can’t make a sound? Can’t see?”
They know, then. Know he’s trying.
“Helpless. Laid out bare and waiting for me, so pretty. I could do anything right now. You have no way of knowing what’s next.”
The ice slides and lingers on his nipple—sitting on it, burning the cold into white heat and prickling his flesh wary as beads of water slide down his pec. He ruts up in whining protest, but the weight in his lap is too strict for such wishes.
There’s a laugh. “Want me to move it, Rhett? Don’t like it there, gettin’ you raw and hard?”
He nods, shakes his head, thrusts, random outputs to get the ice cube to venture elsewhere. Answers are given like darts thrown in the dark, any of them should hit the target. Please.
“Alright. How ‘bout this?”
And the ice trails down, the imaginary warmth of air caressing his tortured nipple. The guided cube slides farther, farther—stops. Abruptly, there, right at the base of his arousal where his body is at its warmest. There’s too much blood there. A piece of ice won’t last.
“You want me to stop here?”
If you can make it good.
Just let me fuck you already.
Why can’t these words leave his head?
Back and forth, back and forth—drooling around his cock, producing a moat of chill. Tingling, impossibly sharp. Over and over reminding of the difference in sensations, in temperature. The blindfold is sweltering. He doesn’t want it anymore.
Wants the blindfold gone, wants the ties on his wrist gone. Hands up over his head. He’ll be good, he’ll keep them there if that’s what it takes.
Wants to see it when the ice sneaks in and is collected, never leaving his skin, flush between the other’s fingers and his own cock as the hand takes him into a slow up-drag. He gasps—it’s too much, wants to gasp—again: no sound.
“You feel that, Rhett? Exactly where my hand is on you? Inch by inch? You’re so sensitive. Torture, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” he swears by it, this is torture. Wants to buck. Hips are broken too, s’no good. Everything’s broken except the pinch of cold when it slips over the ridge of his head and is held, locked to the spot surely just above the slit of his cock, held and held and held. Another hand, gentle pressure right at the base, and then it isn’t gentle. Fingers wrap around his thick length, bruising, a natural cockring.
He arches again, jaw locked open, wailing invisible moans. Wants to hear himself—needs to know it’s his body being toyed with, crushed mercilessly against the edge. The cold, all his yet half his tormentor’s, is too much where it is now. Flattened against the sensation of almost there, the nerves wracked with the precipice of pressure and I’m about to come, but he isn’t. It’s a trick of temperature, too precise and long-drawn to be a real promise of relief.
“If I touch you now, Rhett, can you come for me? Been so good.”
Yes, yes, I have been good. Let that reach them, at least. He deserves this.
Yes—fuck, please, stroke me.
Suck me, sit on this cock, let me come in you.
“Rhett. Say my name. I’ll do it.”
“Link.” The word comes out pristine, audible.
“Link,” he gives it again, half-moan, and then he’s shaking.
“Rhett! Get up! We’re gonna be late.”
The shaking—it isn’t him, isn’t his own body—it’s Link’s hands on his shoulders, and to say Rhett is “disoriented” upon rejoining the waking world would be the understatement of his life.
He jolts, eyes burning with sudden light as Link tears the blanket away, irritated and looming over his bed. He’s speaking, and Rhett misses all of the words about class’s starting time, doesn’t see the carefully-chosen button-up Link’s wearing like every other morning or the backpack straps on his shoulders. He isn’t even able to register where he is, because moments ago he’d been elsewhere, with close breaths and an existence that hadn’t gone past his own mind and body.
Rhett lies on his back, stunned, feels the sweat on his brow breathe cool when Link asks him another question and whisks away to the other side of their dorm room without waiting for an answer.
“You don’t even have time to shower now,” Link continues, biting, opening a drawer and throwing some of Rhett’s clothes at him. They land in a rough heap on his chest, startling him further into consciousness. “Get up and get ready already! What’re you gawking for?”
Dazed, but finally lucid, Rhett pushes himself to sit, slapped back into reality.
Did he have a dream...?
He’s… oh, Jesus . He can’t get up without Link knowing what kind of dream it was; he’s so stiff between his legs that it’s unbearable.
Either way, he’s not going to be on time today. Groaning, Rhett runs his hands over his face, collecting sweat and traces of the near-emission as he fights to re-obtain them from his subconscious. What the hell, where had a wet dream that intense come from…? Who’d been with him? He’d… had he been blindfolded? …he’d said a name, too, hadn’t he?
He’s ridiculously hard.
“Go on without me,” he croaks.
“What? You don’t wanna walk together?” Link asks from the door. “We always walk together.” His hands fall from his backpack straps to his sides. “It’s nice out. C’mon, man.”
Rhett stretches, pulling his knees to his chest and picking the shirt Link had chosen for him from the covers. Can he just get up and go right now? Not in this state, which—it’s been a while since he’s gotten any action, but he didn’t think his ego was that desperate for it yet. Concocting bizarre… kinky scenarios, just for him to dream about fucking?
Something about ice… why ice?
Speaking of, Rhett could use a cold shower.
He groans again, attempts to will his stubborn erection away, and Link huffs, crossing his arms. For the first time, Rhett considers him through one cracked eye. He looks as nice as he always does for class. Dark feathered hair styled with mousse, pink polo shirt, fitted jeans cuffed at the ankle. Also looks like he’s been ready to hit the trail for a while now. No wonder he’s pissed.
“I don’t wanna be late, Rhett.”
“I… I’m sick,” Rhett decides, burying his sights in the blankets around him.
“What...? You wanna… hang back today, then?” Gentle concern replacing his impatience, Link wanders closer, and the very real fear that he might reach out to touch an oddly-horny Rhett—test the warmth of his brow with the back of his hand—clears Rhett’s throat for him.
“Yeah, you go on ahead. I’m sure I’ll feel better after I get more sleep.”
Link halts and squints at him just so, but the expression Rhett’s wearing must be reassuring for illness. “Oh… kay. I’ll get the notes for ya.” He turns, looks once over his shoulder, opens the door to the hall where other students float past, starting their mornings. “Try and drink some water, yeah? Ice would bring down a fever.”
“I—” Rhett turns his attention to the floor. “I will. Go on now, don’t be late on account o’ me.”
“Alright. Later, brother.”
Then Link is gone.
After a few minutes that feel like half a lifetime, Rhett is left alone, and it’s barely a decision he gets to make when he falls back to the bed and tugs his shirt up, shoving his hands down into his boxers and discovering just how wet his head is. Jesus, he’s sloppy with it.
Normally he would look at stuff online, but when he takes himself in hand and starts stroking—fast; worn memories of blindfolds and a nebulous other who’d been about to handle his cock with a warm voice and cold hands clinging to the edges of his mind—he knows he won’t last long enough to find porn.