Goldilocks and the Two Bears
Part IV
Chris was having the most delightful dream. He was hiding in the laundry basket in the middle of the men's track team's locker room. It was hot, it was stuffy, and he was surrounded by over a dozen well-toned, athletic young men. Each in various stages of undress. If he didn't get out soon, he would be overcome by the heady aromas of sweat and unwashed jockstraps. Unfortunately, he had no exit strategy and was content to stay there until he was discovered… or until he expired. Whichever came first.
It was as he was eying the firm, round backside of a particularly delicious-looking young buck by the name of Dwayne Johnson that the source of his fantasies, the cause of every hard-on he'd developed since setting foot on campus came into view. Jeff Hardy. Lean and supple like a willow tree, he was the star of the track team as well as co-captains, with his brother, of the soccer team. He was the object of Chris' most secret desires and he wanted him so badly he was willing to commit various illegal and immoral acts just to get closer to him. Acts like hiding in the laundry basket in the locker room of the men's track team.
Wearing nothing buy a towel around his hips, Chris watched, transfixed by the sway of those hips and the bounce of what was hidden beneath that towel, as Jeff walked right up to the laundry bin. He tossed off the used towels that had been Chris' camouflage, making his hiding place a little less hidden.
"Hello, Chris," Jeff purred. In Chris' dreams, Jeff always purred. "Are we being a naughty boy?"
Chris popped out of the bin. "Yes!" he chirped.
"You're a very dirty boy, aren't you?" Jeff ran a finger down Chris' bare chest.
"Yes!" repeated Chris, thrilled by the boy's touch.
"Then let's get you nice and clean."
Jeff helped Chris out of the basket and led him through the locker room, towards the showers. Lucky for Chris, he was already naked. That saved time that would otherwise be wasted on taking his clothes off. It was precious time that could be spent with his precious Jeff. His precious, gorgeous Jeff shoved him into one of the shower stalls and turned on the water.
"Now," purred Jeff, whipping off his towel, "I get you clean." He proceeded to rain hot kisses all over Chris' body.
He cried out as heat sparked to life on his nipple and whimpered when it quickly died away. An identical heat gently scorched its twin.
"Again, Jeff," he moaned, a little more than half mad with desire. "Please do it again."
The flare of heat returned, bordering on pain as a trail was made across his chest, from one nipple to the other.
"Who is Jeff?" It was a strange voice, a voice he did not recognize. A voice that most definitely did not belong to Jeff.
A puddle of heat formed on his belly and he gasped aloud, breaking the connection to the dream. The drag back to reality was slow, but little dabs of heat remained. It was like being pricked by a very hot needle.
"Who is Jeff?" the voice repeated. This time he felt a warm trickle on his inner thigh, stopping only inches from his groin.
The warm tingling sensation near his groin area woke Chris up faster than any cup of coffee or cold shower ever could. His eyelids peeled back and he tried to sit up but his body would not obey. It took a few moments before he realized his lack of movement was not due to uncooperative muscles but to his being restrained.
"I'd quit squirmin' if I were you," said the voice. "Or things could go from erotic to catastrophic in a matter of seconds."
For the first time, Chris noticed the owner of the voice. From what he could make out in the dim candlelight, the man was large, in both height and width. He had a broad chest that was covered in dark hair, long muscular arms, and hands big enough to crush the skull of a small, furry woodland creature. He was holding the candle in one of his skull-crushing hands.
"Who are you?" Chris asked, wishing his voice didn't wobble to way it did.
"You still haven't answered my question." The man tilted the candle, ever so slightly, causing a drop of melted wax to fall from the edge.
Chris gasped, out of pleasure and surprise, when the drop landed in his belly button. It was followed by another and then another. Each identical drop landed in precise spots, until his navel was completely filled. He stared in admiration at this man and his steady, experienced hands. Chris was far from innocent – so far, he needed a ladder and a pair of binoculars just to catch of a glimpse of it. However, it was a short list of people he knew that possessed such skill and an even shorter list of those he would even consider trying this with.
"How do you do that?" he whispered, the man's original question completely forgotten.
"This?"
Kane poured five drops in succession, forming a circle around Chris' navel. His captive squeaked as he felt each drop of wax hit its mark. It was an intriguing sound, somewhere between a squeal and a moan. He was eager to find out what other sounds this young man was capable of making.
"It's really very simple," explained Kane. "The higher you hold the candle, the farther the wax has to fall, the longer it travels through the air, the cooler it will be when it finally makes contact with the skin." He held the candled higher and let a drop fall, just to show him the difference. "The key is to know how much heat the person can take. The closer the drop, the fiercer the burn." He lowered the candle, down past the original starting point, and poured a line of wax on the blonde's left side, tracing the line of his ribs. His houseguest yelped, bucking against his restraints. "Should I go lower?" He peeled off a bit of dried wax. "Or are you ready to answer my questions?"
"Yes," replied the only man Kane had ever tied to his bed. "Yes to anything you want."
Anything? Perhaps it was time to break out the honey pot. "Who is Jeff?"
Chris licked his dry lips and eyed the height of the candle. "He's a guy… that I kinda know."
The candle lowered a fraction of an inch. "You like him. I could tell by the way you said his name." Kane tilted his candle and gazed at the reflection of the flame in the drop of wax as it broke free. "I do not want to hear his name again." The next drop fell from a shorter distance. "You will not speak it." Another drop, a centimeter closer to the skin. "You will not think it." Another drop, even lower still. "Are we clear?"
Chris was breathless, speechless. His brain was a shriveled lump of clay surrounded in a layer of cotton. Never before had he known the perfect mixture of pleasure and pain. He'd heard it and read about it. But all the adjectives in the English language failed to truly capture its essence. A passion of need consumed him. The need to have more, to feel more, until there was nothing left of him. Sure, he was covered in more wax than a fake birthday cake and he had no idea how he was going to get it all off, but those were all minor inconveniences. He'd deal with them at a later time, most likely as he was trying to recall his address and telephone number.
"Are we clear?" repeated the man that Chris would do anything for, including forgetting all about Jeff Hardy and his elastic hips.
"Clear as a vodka martini, sir," stated Chris. His captor laughed at his remark.
"Not 'sir'… At least not yet… If we're lucky, we may get to that. However, for the time being, you can call me Kane."
He brought the candle to his face. Chris could see the blue irises of Kane's eyes and faint scars across his right cheek. He was not frightened, merely curious as to how they got there. It must not be a happy story, but Kane, for all his quirks and fetishes, did not seem to be an unhappy person.
"Jericho," he wheezed, his throat dry from all the excitement. "Chris Jericho."
"Chris Jericho," murmured Kane, testing the name on his tongue. The flame of the candle flickered with each exhalation. He tilted his head to the side and said, "You belong to me, Chris Jericho." He blew out the candle and the room went dark.
