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Eleven
He didn't say anything to Gilbert.
And the riding crop didn't hurt as much as it used to.
As the force behind the lashes caused him to twist back and forth on his "leash," Arthur found himself wondering if Gilbert had drilled the hook far enough into the ceiling. It was wobbling slightly with each movement of his body, jostled by the thick leather strap that was fastened to the back of the collar around his neck with a metal clasp. His arms had been pulled up over his head, wrists threaded through the twin loops attached to the leather and buckled tightly in place. His shoulders screamed at him, his whole upper body ached brutally, but there was nothing Arthur could do except wait it out.
He was entirely nude. The contraption of leather and metal fastenings that Gilbert had fitted onto him rubbed his bare skin raw, while the ball gag pinched ceaselessly at the corners of his mouth. There was one large band around his waist; it connected to the collar in the back in a series of elaborate chains that clinked when Arthur shifted. The front was rigged with a lattice of straps and links that only Gilbert could make sense of — it appeared as nothing more than a tangled mess to the inexperienced eye. However, the ensemble was meant to be more decorative than protective. It did nothing to shield Arthur from the riding crop, and the exposed parts of his body were already criss-crossed with blunt red marks.
If the hook fell out . . . Arthur didn't want to think about what Gilbert would do to him.
A particularly hard lash whistled through the air, the strength of it when it landed snapping his head backward. His legs were bent clumsily under his body, the feeling beginning to leave them from lack of circulation; Arthur managed to twitch them out, spread them to his sides, the bedsheets cold against his skin as he pressed his knees down into the bed to anchor himself.
He winced as a wave of heat — not the first — crashed through him. Gilbert had given him a dose of the lust-inducing drug right before he'd outfitted him properly, and it was in full effect by now, dulling all sensations except the burn in his groin — which was intensified by the cock ring that Gilbert had sadistically clipped on him. The ring was joined to the collar with yet another adjustable leash. This the albino tugged when he felt Arthur wasn't focusing, gripping the length of leather and yanking with no small amount of force, grinning madly at the cry that contorted Arthur's mouth around the gag as both the collar and the cock ring tightened another notch.
Arthur hated it when he did that. It put even more pressure on what were already sensitive areas, and he knew that though the longest he could safely wear the cock ring was about half an hour, Gilbert had been known to push the limit, extending it to forty minutes or even fifty — not quite long enough to cause priapism or any other lasting damage, but enough for Arthur's lower regions to start feeling extremely uncomfortable. Thankfully Gilbert had chosen not to bring out the corset-and-garter part of the outfit today; Arthur wasn't sure if he would be able to handle having his ribs crushed at the same time his dick was being jerked about like a dog muzzled by a cruel owner.
Gilbert himself was still mostly dressed, his shirt the only missing item of clothing. It was to maintain the atmosphere that the recipient of his lashes was nothing more than a tool, a toy, a slave reared to please his master, Arthur supposed, but his thoughts were sidetracked when Gilbert abruptly stopped trying to flay the skin from his body and instead prodded the tip of his erection with the riding crop.
"Mmh!" Arthur gasped, the sphere in his mouth obstructing his tongue.
Gilbert smirked. "What? Does it hurt?" he asked, sing-song, and ground the riding crop down harder, smearing pre-cum over the swollen head. Arthur's legs spasmed. "I can't understand ya, kiddo, if ya don't speak up."
Don't call me that. You're only two years older. How long had it been since Gilbert had put the cock ring on him? Twenty minutes? Twenty-five? It was already beginning to hurt, which was a bad sign. But Gilbert seemed to be in a reasonably good mood — perhaps he would take mercy on Arthur, just this once, and free him before things veered too close to the edge.
As if sensing Arthur's thoughts, Gilbert brought the riding crop up to Arthur's face, tapped Arthur's cheek with it. Arthur cringed as he felt his own fluids coating his skin.
"You're goddamn lucky I'm feelin' fuckin' awesome today." Another tap. Arthur tried not to flinch away from it; even though he knew Gilbert would never leave long-lasting marks on his face no matter how angry or drunk he was (scars on his body could be hidden from prying eyes by clothes, but there was nothing he could do to cover up his face short of pulling a paper bag over his head, and that wasn't an option), his body couldn't shut out the instinct to get away. "Guess what? You're gonna have three more new customers in a few days. Three more sources of income. How's that sound? Fuckin' amazin', right?"
Arthur made a sound of agreement, knowing it was what Gilbert wanted. His lips were going numb from the gag. At least he won't be as infuriated when he finds out that Alfred's quit, he thought, a spike of ice piercing his stomach just from thinking the name. If only I hadn't — no. I can't think like that. He was only a client. It wasn't . . . it wasn't my fault.
"Betcha wanna know who they are, huh?" Gilbert was obviously enjoying his little spiel.
Arthur nodded. For the sake of playing along, and for the sake of forgetting Alfred.
Gilbert trailed the riding crop down Arthur's front, traced loops around his nipples, twirled it inside his navel with airy flicks of his wrist. "The first guy's one of my old buddies from high school. A whip-cracker, that one, big and terrifyin' and shit, but I know he'll take good care of ya. Told me he likes 'em tight, and says he won't turn down a screamer, either. You'll scream for him, won't ya? We'll have to find a place that soundproofs its walls for the two of ya to meet." He smiled knowingly, lips sliding back to reveal his canines. "Second one . . . tiny li'l' thing, Asian, quiet and polite as all hell. 'Nother one of those college kids; they just can't get enough of ya, eh? Don't know what the squirt's gonna want, but it'll probably be pretty damn kinky — he had that look in his eyes. And the last guy . . . a charmer. Spiky hair, big grin. Acts kinda like the Jones kid, now that I think 'bout it."
A replacement for Alfred. Arthur wasn't sure whether that was a good or a bad thing. Thinking about it made him feel hollow, and he quickly closed his eyes, tried to erase the entire matter from his brain.
Suddenly, the riding crop was under his throat, digging in, pushing his chin up. "Oh, you wanna come, Artie? Looks like it hurts." There was absolutely no sympathy in Gilbert's voice. Only glee.
Banishing his feelings, Arthur murmured an affirmation. Forget.
"Heh. Why don't'cha beg and show me how much of a slut ya are, then?"
The ball gag was unbuckled and taken out of Arthur's mouth.
He knew what Gilbert wanted him to say. "Please . . . please take it off . . . it hurts . . . it hurts so much . . . please let me come . . ." Breathy, desperate, submissive. Gilbert tossed the riding crop aside, eyes glinting with satisfaction — but when he took hold of the leash attached to the cock ring, Arthur knew it wasn't going to be over that easily.
He was jerked around by the leash to face the wall; Gilbert's hand was in his hair, fisting it, roughly tugging his head back at an awkward angle to bare his throat and hissing in his ear, "Tell me you want me to fuck you."
"Please," Arthur breathed. "Please fuck me."
"Whore."
The sound of a zipper being undone, the friction of dry fingers being shoved into him. Gilbert didn't bother with lubrication if there wasn't any immediately on hand, and though the initial penetration was extremely painful, Arthur could bear it. The first handful of times Gilbert had taken him dry, he'd cracked, bled, almost needed stitches. Now the ring of his ass was lined with flexible scar tissue, and Arthur had become used to pain. And he wasn't completely without aid — the natural moisture of his insides was nowhere near an actual substitute for proper lube, but since it prevented Gilbert from tearing him apart from the inside out, it was better than nothing.
But the worst part — ah, there it was — was when Gilbert began moving in him. Those first few thrusts sent shocks through his body, zipped down the muscles in his legs, stretched his vocal cords taut. They fucking hurt. Arthur jammed his forehead against the headboard, flattening it into the wood, and tried not to think about the nerves that were on fire in his backside. He tensed his arms as they hung over his head, still tied, and purposely aggravated his injured shoulders to have another, lesser pain to focus on.
Distracted, he almost didn't feel the cock ring being removed. Then Gilbert's hand was on him, his grip harsh and twisting like it always was, reeling Arthur back in with brutal efficiency. The stimulation burrowed deep into Arthur's groin, and he panted into his forearm, rocked with Gilbert as he was fucked. Forget. Forget. Forget, he thought vaguely, though the pain had submerged his mind. He couldn't remember what it was he was trying to forget anymore. Something about . . . about . . .
"Fuck," Gilbert snarled. His hand smacked one of Arthur's asscheeks, and Arthur was quick to twist his surprised yelp into a moan. "Squeeze me, you bitch — harder — mm, shit — oh fuck, yeah, just like that!" He clenched his fingers harder around Arthur's cock. A keen escaped Arthur's mouth.
Oh, God, do I get off on pain after all? The question flickered once, then disappeared as he came, his sperm spurting onto the sheets, trickling over and between Gilbert's knuckles.
Gilbert grabbed him by the back of a knee and heaved it over his shoulder, forcing Arthur to balance on one leg. A second before he climaxed, he sank his teeth into Arthur's calf, gnawed through the skin as he shuddered to a standstill. Arthur barely registered the sharp sting; the endorphins from his orgasm were still holding him in thrall, and his only reaction was a hitch in his breathing. When Gilbert let him go, he collapsed bonelessly onto the bed, body limp, wrists still suspended in the air.
Then he was freed entirely. Arthur did his best to hold himself up as Gilbert wrangled the complicated getup off him and undid the leather bindings, feeling more naked now that there was nothing on him at all, and allowed himself to fall back down as soon as Gilbert left the room to put everything away. He ignored the dampness of the sheets and the ache of the new marks that had been made on him with the riding crop. All he wanted now was sleep.
He expected to be kicked out by Gilbert when he came back, expelled to his own room and bed, but Gilbert's mood still appeared to be running high. There was warmth at his back; then a hand was slipping between his thighs, grazing his perineum. Pinching the tender skin. Arthur was too tired to fidget, and let Gilbert do what he wanted. Not that he had much of a choice, anyway.
Lips on his side — then Gilbert bit him again. Arthur had learned early on that Gilbert didn't kiss. Instead, he showed his "affection" with bites: some with enough force to break through skin and blood vessels, while others left nothing more than a temporary hickey.
"You've been good," said Gilbert, his voice raspy, slightly worn out, but still dangerous. His touch moved to Arthur's balls. He rolled them, squeezed, then pulled — not hard enough to hurt, but Arthur pressed his legs together all the same, wanting him to stop. "Y'know, I've been thinkin' . . . I've had ya for pretty damn long time now. It's 'bout time I marked you as mine."
Arthur's eyes flew open. What, are all of these scars not enough for you? he wondered wearily.
"Hm . . . yeah, we'll drop by Liz's place tomorrow. Do ya want a piercing or a tattoo, Artie? She does both." It wasn't really a question. Arthur knew Gilbert was going to choose for him either way.
The hand wandered up to his chest, grasped a nipple between two fingernails. "How 'bout a stud here?" whispered Gilbert, his breath uncomfortably warm against Arthur's ear. "Or" — a thumb on his soft dick, pulling back the foreskin — "here? Start ya off with a Prince Albert, then get ya a cute li'l' magic cross, heh? It's more advanced and shit and it'll hurt like a bitch, but I know ya like pain. It'll look good on a whore."
Arthur knew Gilbert used to have a genital piercing — an apadravya — but had to have it removed due to complications. He imagined the piercing needle at the tip of his own cock, shining and sharp, poised to stab through — and decided resolutely that he didn't want a piece of metal in his genitals. Or anywhere near his genitals.
Gilbert was already moving on. "Or we could get ya a tattoo . . ." His fingertips danced all over Arthur's shoulders, chest, abdomen, skipped around the small of Arthur's back, rested on his hip. "Something fuckin' badass. Something that'll make people know you're mine, like —" He broke off in a yawn, seeming to lose his train of thought. "Ah, what the hell. We'll talk 'bout this later . . . gonna crash for a bit first."
Relaxing, Arthur closed his eyes. Gilbert wouldn't harm him in his sleep.
"Hey, Artie, one more thing." Gilbert's nails dug into his thighs to get his attention. "Ya know yesterday? After ya came back from your session with Jones?"
Arthur stiffened. Waited.
"He called me . . . what, less than half an hour later? Asked if ya've got a free slot on Wednesday for an all-nighter." Gilbert cackled. "Sure got him whipped, eh? What've ya been doin' for him, Artie?" His inquiry was deceptively lighthearted; there was a definite edge to it, a hidden layer. A suspicion.
"Nothing more than the usual," said Arthur, keeping his voice neutral. His insides had gone cold. Wednesday was the day after tomorrow. So soon? What does he want? He has a girlfriend!
For a moment, he thought Gilbert wouldn't believe him — but fortunately, his answer was accepted without further questioning. Gilbert said lazily, "Well, whatever, he can have ya all he wants as long as he pays up." Another yawn. "I'm gonna be busy on Wednesday — got some business to take care of. You're gonna have to find another ride to Sundale." And that was that. Two minutes later, Gilbert was snoring.
Arthur stayed as he was, rigid as a board, staring at nothing. Memories — and the emotions that went with them — washed through him. What did it mean? Why was Alfred coming back after the . . . incident that had occurred between them? What was his motivation?
As he continued to lay there, fully awake, finding a ride to Sundale was the last concern on Arthur's mind.
