Page 62 of Rock Bottom
I heard somethingbeing dragged across the floor and found a shiny surface with the right angle. He was pulling a stool over.
And then slick, lubed fingers pressed into my ass, precise and demanding.
His voice was a low purr now. “How long has it been since you were fisted?”
“A while, Sir. I don’t know. A year? Perhaps longer.”
Another finger went in, spreading me wider.
“Two fists?”
“When I first came to live here,” I said hoarsely, “I was loaned to the Master of Florida when he and his cat visited. The lioness double-fisted me, Sir.”
My Silver doesn’t do anything halfway. Whether he’s climbing boulders, playing the guitar, or torturing someone, he’s all in, totally absorbed. I could feel his energy directed at me, focused on me.
And his fist, pressing into my ass — Silver didn’t ease in or hold back. Two fingers, then three, four, moving fast and with certainty, until he pressed past the knuckles and drove in to the wrist.
The moment he buried that hand, he forced in a finger beside it, stretching me open to start on the second fist.
I’ve been owned —literally owned— by half a dozen ancient vampires in my long life, and yet none of them ever reached inside me like this. Not just physically, but soul-deep. Silver didn’t simply own me. Heinhabitedme.
The second fist was agony. Bliss. An invasion that didn’t just conquer my body — itclaimedme. My ass stretched wider, and wider, and still he kept going. My body resisted, screamed, surrendered. When the second wrist slipped inside, it broke something loose in me. The floodgates of need, devotion, love.
He held both fists in me, filling every inch, and then slowly began to pull — not out, but apart — spreading me wide until I was gaping and helpless, completely open for him in every way.
I bellowed in my bonds, tears and drool falling to the concrete floor, everything laid bare for him — and Iwantedit. There was nowhere else in the world I belonged.
“What was it you told me during our first scene?” he asked, voice low and thick with emotion. “Pain equals affection? I fucking love you, Julian. It’s terrifying, but there it is. I love you.”
“I love you, too, Sir.” My voice broke. “I love you, Silver. All of you. Male, female, or anywhere in between. Sir, submissive, partner, everything. Every aspect of you — I love you.”
And then his hands were gone, water flowing in the sink, footsteps returning.
“Stay leaned over.” An order, so I stayed put. Silver took my left wrist out of the cuff, brought my right wrist over my head — along with the cuffs and chain — rotating it so the angle was right. “Hand me your free wrist.” He buckled it back into the cuff, and within seconds, he’d worked the winch so I was standing with my hands over my head.
He stepped behind me. Silent except for his heartbeat.
Scorching, sharp, ripping agony.
The horsewhip, searing through me like fire, each stroke excruciating, wielded with love and absolute precision. He found a perfect rhythm, the blows coming over and over, no time to get on top of one before another slammed home and ripped away.
I bled for Silver. My strength flagged. My body trembled. But I wasn’t in danger — there was more than enough lust in the room to feed from.
I wasn’t going to pass out. I wasn’t going to lose control. I washome.
Eventually, Silver lowered my wrists so I could stand, and then kept lowering them, until I was forced to squat, my skewered balls dangling between my widespread feet, planted on the concrete. He crouched in front of me, and before I could brace, he gripped the first spike and pulled it out in one brutal flesh-dragging slide.
I screamed. Loud. Raw. Just as loud as when he’d driven them in, but longer.
My skin had begun healing around the stainless steel. Pulling the skewers out ripped away all the new growth, and the pain hit like a firestorm.
My screams ended on a whimper.
My cock twitched, and Silver looked at it, then met my gaze. He didn’t have to mention how hard my cock still was. I gave a tiny nod, acknowledging my arousal, and the fact I knew there was still one more skewer to go.
While I was recovering from the second, he clipped a chain from my right wrist to a floor hook, then repeated the process with my left. He unfastened the cuffs from each other and the overhead line, retracted the winch, and stepped back. “Ass on the floor. Arms out to the side. Get comfy.”
The floor hooks were spaced wide, so I lay back, splaying my arms toward them. The concrete beneath me was cold and hard — smooth, no seams or give, just pure unforgiving slab. Every welt and lashmark on my back came roaring back into focus. I knew my back had to be a mess, but it would heal soon enough, and then I’d miss the connection, the reminder.
