Reconstructed
Pairing: Joey/Mick
POV: Joey
Rating: NC-17
Warning: BDSM
Disclaimer: The following is a work of fiction. It did not happen. This fiction in no way represents people mentioned within. I do not profit from these stories.
Summary: A few short moments of fear. But then he promises me shackles, ropes, candles and whips. I am a servant who finds comfort only by my king’s feet.
There’s no sheet music to guide you in life. Not even tabs. I stumble along, note by note, without directions. No mater how successful I am, I still feel lost. So much in life is predestinated. I have no choice but to conform. External conditions like social status and moral values set boundaries that separate me from myself. They rule me relentlessly; push me in directions I’m not supposed to walk, towards the normal and conventional path. Keep me from my true destiny.
When I look at myself in the mirror the melancholy in my eyes echoes my innermost feelings but the reflection doesn’t reveal my soul. I pretend to be something that I’m not. Keep the unfeigned me under lock and key. My body and soul walks different paths. I repress needs that aren’t socially accepted. I’m not complete.
My subdued self surface from time to time, like sharp snap shots of bizarre desires that feels very familiar, almost like home. I ignore the fact that I long for rage. My true self censored. I’m waiting for me. The annihilated part of me wants to emerge, to no longer conceal and pose. I seek the untainted and proper path.
My divided soul provides me with nothing but chaos and unease. I pray that everything will turn out right eventually. I can’t lie to myself forever. I just need a little push over the edge. To take the plunge.
For a long time now my subconscious has driven me closer. I find my old Murderdolls outfits in the back of my closet. Tight pvc and leather. Buckles, chains and studs. Something or another made me keep them. Old clothes but with a newfound feeling. I try to remember if they effected me like this before but can’t really say. With my hands cuffed together I stoke myself slowly to an astounding release. With a small sigh I take two steps closer to the edge.
~¨~¨~
I’m in a dull and impassionate relationship. I guess I never really loved my girlfriend. She just kind of drifted into my life and I never questioned it. All my friends are married or have girlfriends. Well at least most of them. That’s how things work. I didn’t have the resilience to question it. I spend most of my days finding new ways to escape. I numb mind and body and dream of a different life.
I shouldn’t complain. I’m a rock star with a picture perfect girlfriend. We have a normal but totally uninteresting sex life. She rarely takes the initiative and doesn’t want to try anything out of the ordinary. I’m unsatisfied and cheat on her, but no one seems to fulfill my needs. I know that there has to be something greater than this.
~¨~¨~
We’re touring and he’s constantly there. When I touch myself pleasurable and odd fantasies flash by inside my head. He invades my dreams. Large. Intrusive. Potent. I can barely look at him. I hate the way he makes me feel. I love the power he has over me. I crave it. I compensate by fucking as many groupies as possible. Adoring eyes, small bodies, flattering words but all I want is condemnation, muscles and scorn.
I’m awakening.
~¨~¨~
My subconscious pushes and pokes, nagging me to acknowledge my primal needs. No drugs will do the work. I try my best to ignore but my urges are so strong it feels like I’m walking around with one shoe missing. So obviously wrong but I can’t do anything about it.
~¨~¨~
My inner voice commands me to act. It is time. I sneak into his dressing room and take his boxers and his wallet.
He finds me after the show and grabs me by the throat, forcing me into a small backstage bathroom. I’m pressed against the wall, looking up at him. I swallow hard. He’s almost two heads taller than me. I pray that my dreams will finally come true. The stern look, those tight, beautiful lips - my expectations are almost too high.
”My wallet and… other private stuff disappeared when I took a shower.” His voice is sharp and ruthless.
I have no idea how he knows. It’s a miracle that I don’t faint right there on the spot; out of fear and turn on. I’m nervous, afraid my little scam will go wrong. I’m about to loose my balance but take a good hold of the sink.
Our positions are predestined. And I accept.
”Would you like to explain?” he asks with a tone that is both fierce and demanding.
I just stand there, startled by the fact that my dreams are coming true. I can’t lie to him. Not to Mick. A rush of security and peacefulness fill my mind. The outside world seems very distant. I’m entering a new realm, surreal but very true. I haven’t experienced anything like this before yet everything feels very familiar. The setting is well known; the standard backstage bathroom, the artificial smell of lemons, the small mirror above the sink, the too bright lamp.
I’m on the threshold of two colliding worlds. I have one last chance to turn back. All I have to do is to tell him it was a prank.
I say nothing. Silently I let it happen. He has already defined my role. Servant. Eventually I cry, begging for his forgiveness. A forgiveness I know deep in my heart I don’t want. I need punishment. I need to unite with my soul. With him.
I have doubts, a few short moments of fear. But then he promises me shackles, ropes, candles, whips…
Sweet liberation.
~¨~¨~
Sometimes I whish I would wake up and realize that all of this is just a dream. That I would sit up straight in bed, heart beating fast. To slowly realize that I am normal.
But it isn’t a dream. No matter how hard I pinch myself I won’t wake up. And I’m not normal. Things can’t be undone. I’ve crossed the line and stand staring into the abyss. I’ve let myself be pushed into the unknown, eagerly fired on by my curiousness.
~¨~¨~
I’m not quite sure why I turned to him for help. Maybe it’s because of his size, or his long black hair and clear blue eyes, maybe it’s because of his reputation or maybe something different all together. One thing I know for sure; he is my only way to salvation.
I’ve always admired his integrity. So authoritarian and slightly secretive. We have known each other for years but I barely know him. Not for real. I know what kind of pick ups he prefers, I know his standpoints in politics but I don’t know why he chose his ways in life.
A faint smell of apples and rotting leaves hit me as I open the large iron gate to the front yard. The lawn is immaculately cut and I stop to look at the house. The light in the large window spread a faint, inviting glow. The late September evening turns slowly into night. I can’t really explain how it all happened but I’m standing staring at his house.
The house, just like its master, is huge. It suits a famous rock star alright. He has everything; great home, money, good looks yet had he’s always been single for as long as I’ve known him. I detect a shadow in the upstairs window. Maybe he’s looking at me as I’m watching his castle.
I walk up to the door even though the thought of going back home is tempting. I have to do it. My future awaits me behind that door. I take a deep breath and ring the bell. There is no turning back. It takes at least half a minute until I hear footsteps. The hallway lamp is lit and the lock turns.
“Get over here,” he orders suddenly with a natural born authority.
I’m paralyzed, standing at attention.
“Get over here. Now!” he shouts. Voice even harder, echoing off the walls.
Even though I’ve dreamt of this for so long I’m startled by his demanding tone. My senses are in a complete state of chaos. I don’t question the relevance of his command. He hears my silent prayers. He knows. He understands.
I’ve found my sanctuary. The physiological traits that constitute to my ability to repress, work on overtime. Why is it so difficult to obey? To accept.
I do as I am told and my feelings for him wash over me. I’m scared but I love the way he controls me so completely. So harsh. So degrading. So perfect. I’ve always been in his shadow. He will save me. Some might think that what I crave is far worse than any drug but to me it’s pure salvation. To live a life in pleasing fear, excitement and obedience.
My thoughts like a whirlpool in my head but a voice of reason within me reassures me. Deep inside I know that this is what I need.
Mick’s self-assured and demanding voice throws me back to my childhood. Everything is clear to me now. I remember Mrs. Moller, my stern English teacher. How I stood in front of her, looking down on the floor while she yelled at me. My self-conscious shame gives me a new perspective on the situation. There are evident traces of anticipation in the air. I’m about to be reconstructed. Piece by piece he will pick me down and build up the real me.
The hallway is flooded with light. Long black hair. He’s wearing tight black leather pants and a black wife beater. I’ve never seen him wear anything like that before. His top is inside out, like he put it on in a haste. Barefoot. I wonder where his boots are.
”I’m sorry,” I stutter. Can’t really say why, it just seem like the right thing to say.
His eyes are hard, just like there were the day when he had me against that bathroom wall backstage.
“I…”
“Hush!”
I blush hard. I become painfully aware of how inappropriate my clothes are.
Those stupid elevated boots, ugly pvc pants. I look like a girl, like a dim-witted groupie. It feels wrong. Totally wrong. I can’t remember what compelled me to wear that old outfit. I look stupid!
It’s like I’m awakening from a dream. Confused. What am I doing in his house? Why am I wearing those stupid stage clothes? They don’t even fit that good. He detects my unease.
“Don’t worry. You can trust me. This is just between the two of us. No one has to know. Just relax and do as you’re told and everything will be fine.” He reassures me.
I want this to happen. That’s why I took his private things in the first place, curiously rummaging through his belonging. Wantonly fingering the black cotton of his clothing. It all make sense.
Past and future blurs into an intoxicating presence. He’s calm as a rock in contrast to my shaking nerves and an imminent need to cry. My instincts to escape give away to my need to obey. So forbidden. So taboo. Under the scrutinising eyes of my fellow band mate I bow my head in compliance. So right. He demands and I reply.
”Look me in the eyes when I talk to you.”
I force myself to meet his stern blue eyes. His fingers on my groin, not fondling but more like rough exploring. Never before have I been touched in that way, not by my girlfriend or any other woman. I’m hard.
“Walk after me. I’ve prepared everything.”
I don’t question him; I’m too tired to try to find an explanation. Everything will be fine. All I have to do is to take my punishment. Once and for all. All my fears are gone and I’m content with my newfound lack of power. I know for certain that my liberation is near. My fake façade is crumbling, killing the last traces of social conformity. The real me emerge.
I stand passive in the corner of his basement. He has prepared. The storage room has transformed into a kingdom where he will rule. Grateful tears of relief fall silently down my cheeks. Waiting for my instructions. Mrs. Moller’s spirit present. I close my eyes and can almost smell her breath, reeking of coffee and cigarettes. I remember her harsh words uttered in front of the entire class, can feel the humiliation all over again.
“Unbutton our pants.”
Facing the wall, looking away from him, my trembling fingers open the fly. The plastic fabric tighter than a couple of years ago and I struggle to get them down my hips. With the artificial material stuck around my knees I stand uncovered, waiting for his next command. Waiting for him to lead me. Weak. I’m completely aware of what will happen. Mick told me with painstaking details that time in the bathroom when he disciplined me with his bare hands. That blessed day when he became an important part of my life.
To be forced to stand with my pants down in front of another man have me close to ecstasy. Like a child waiting to be parented and shaped by someone else, in screaming need of authority and guidance. I feel special, chosen. I enter a state of mind where concepts like morals and responsibility no longer has any significance. Do as you please with me! Take what you want. No consequences, I wont blame you. Just perfect pleasure and peace.
I feel his large hand on my butt, almost caressing. Fingers find their ways in between. I hold my breath.
“Hands on the wall and feet apart.”
A quick slap. I close my eyes and steel myself for what will come. The next slightly harder than the previous one. It stings and burns. Finally. Soon enough I can’t help myself I scream in liberation. My inhibitions leave me though throat and mouth. I’ve waited for this for so many years. I want him to hit me harder. I need the sweet pain to save me, to drain my angst, to open up my mind, to liberate my body, to free my repressed soul.
Then he stops.
My knees tremble. I press my chin to the cool concrete wall and let grateful tears fall down my cheeks. Why did he stop? My skin long for more. There’s still so much I need him to beat out of me. A comfortable mix of hot and cold spreads from my behind to my groin. I look over my shoulder.
He’s right behind me.
”Oh, we’re not done yet. Not by far,” he promises.
My thoughts are far away and I feel dizzy. I force myself to shut my rational thoughts off, to just feel and enjoy. Like a drug addict curses the fact that the drug will wear off eventually, I fear the moment when I will have to leave this room.
“Show me!”
I reach behind my back and spread my cheeks open, revealing my most private part. Delightful humiliation. He’s evaluating me and I have nowhere to hide. Exposed and caught.
Like the time when Mrs. Moller caught me doodling in my book, drawing ugly pictures of my mean teacher. Suddenly she was right behind me. Her evil eyes penetrated me. Tickling feelings of fear and curiosity - the first glimpse of the real me. Her breasts felt heavy on my shoulders as she looked down into my book. I was fascinated by her ruler, how she hit her hand with it when she yelled. She broke it in rage on her desk. How I longed for her to hit me with it. Slowly it dawns on me how deeply rooted my need is.
I crave pain. I want Mick hit me again. To feel his hand on my butt. If he doesn’t continue I will beg him to do it. I deserve the pain. I deserve contempt. I demand to be hit, punished and degraded.
Long at last he complies. The whip releases me. Repeatedly he let the leather fall on my hungering skin. I fall to the floor panting, too overwhelmed to stand up straight. He drags me by the hair to the black leather ottoman. My limp body is placed face down. Our heavy breathing is all that’s heard. My cheeks are pulled apart, a small pressure, two breaths and then he forces his finger inside.
No return. Secrets revealed, my innermost feelings are in his hands. I am finally free. Sweet submission. It’s clear to me now. I’ve never really found women attractive. It wasn’t Mrs. Moller’s fault my fantasies about her wasn’t perfect. She was a woman and I needed a man.
“Undress.”
I don’t want to be too eager so I take my clothes off slowly. The black leather of the padded bench feels cool against my skin.
“Are you ready?”
I’m pretty sure the question isn’t out of concern, just another way to prolong my wait.
“Yes Mick. I’m ready.”
“Like this, to you, I’m Sir,” he informs me.
Procrastinating. I’m not sure what to do to make him hit me. Once again tears fill my eyes. My skin crawls in anticipation. Each fibre of my body ready for the stinging kisses of the whip.
“Yes Sir.”
I close my eyes and wait.
The tiny knots at the end the tails make a small rattling noise when he whips my back. My entire body twitches. I scream out loud. The pain chocks me even though I was prepared. My member rock hard underneath me. The next blow is equally painful. He hit me irregularly, confusing my drummer brain with a pace that has no beat. Pain subdues slowly and I’m filled with a unique serenity. Noting else matters. I capitulate to the emotional side of the beating. I no longer scream. I groan and pant. I meet each blow thankfully.
Deliverance. Release. My peak rips through my body. I black out from exhaustion. When I return I feel his soft lips on my heated back. Cautiously he kisses my wounded skin like he wants to taste the heat. The war is over. Instincts won over socialization. My soul has finally found its balance. I am forever in dept to my saviour.
My king kneels before me and kisses me passionately. Unparalleled.
~¨~¨~
Now I see and shall never stray again. I will forever be in debt to him for saving me. He releases me from my bonds, the shackles I never chose to wear but was forced into.
I am submissive. I enjoy being whipped and spanked but the thing I enjoy the most is the power he has over me.
~¨~¨~
I’m grateful that I’ve found love and master in my friend. I’m eager to serve him. It is so much harder for him. I am passive. He’s in charge. I need to feel forced, to know that I nothing. Worthless. My need to comply is so much stronger than his need to lead. I want to kneel before him. I am a servant who finds comfort only by my king’s feet. In a leach. And he does everything to satisfy my needs, with little or no concern of his own. He does it for me. I try not to manipulate him into punishing me. I try hard.
It’s not always about pain. Sometimes I enjoy him being firm. He grabs my hands and holds me tightly. To feel his weight on top of me. I feel small. I tease him until he loose control. I bring out the worst in him. Selfishly I make him take me rough and hard. He throws me down on the bed and fucks me without much prep. Fast.
~¨~¨~
I struggle to be a good servant. To be perfect. I want to please and service him so that he’ll let me wear the collar that marks my position all the time. Maybe even 24/7. But it is our relationship that’s the most important thing, not my submission. I love him more than life itself. And if he decides that this has to end, that I no longer would have the pleasure of being his servant, I’d still choose him. If he no longer wanted to dominate me I would want to be with him in a “normal” relationship. I would repress my innermost feelings again like I did before and try to live as his equal. He will always be my king, even though I’m not his servant.
~¨~¨~
I’m a very, very lucky man to have a lover who is dominant by nature. I know that what I have others would kill for - lover so large and strong. He gives me more that just a session now and then. We don’t play dress up with hand cuffs and whips. He fulfils my every wish willingly and with enthusiasm. Total and natural submission. He orders me around like he means it.
~¨~¨~
When I’m not wearing my collar I call him Mick. He is the one who decides when I get to wear my collar or not. It’s his call if he’s Master or Mick. He decides and I accept.
I place myself under lock and key, wearing the modern version of a chastity belt. I offer him the key and he takes it with a broad smile. It takes no more than an hour or so until he decides to use me. My joy knows no end when I’m down on my knees pleasuring him and the device keeps me from getting an erection. I love wearing it. It’s a constant reminder of my king. I’m frustrated and I love it. I would do anything to be in my master’s presence. Every second he’s attention is elsewhere feels like a lifetime.
Sometimes I’m a little too much. I come on too strongly. It’s a mistake I make from time to time. I’m not wearing my collar and we’re just like any other couple, not master and servant. But my need for him gets too strong even though I understand that it is strenuous for him to have a clingy boyfriend around his legs all the time. I must learn to leave him alone. To read him better so I can tell when he’s willing to accept the role as master. I have to learn how to control my submissive needs and to feel comfortable knowing that he loves me. I’ve put on the chastity belt again but this time he place the key openly on his nightstand. Even though he hasn’t said anything I’m guessing that he wants me to take it off. But he accommodates me, knowing how much I like wearing it.
I’m not the most self-controlled person and without it I would probably misbehave and relieve myself. I don’t want to but temptation is too hard to resist. I love when my sexual frustration rises to a high where my longing for him is almost unbearable. I want to be desperate for his touch, to feel that I’m ready to do absolutely anything for him, to please and to obey.
In the evening I ask him to unlock me so I can take a shower. Afterwards he doesn’t want me to put it back on. He tells me that I need to concentrate on matters outside our relationship for a while. He’s right, as always. When I’m wearing it I’m too focused on my submission and him. But the problem is that I want to be focused on him. All the time. I try really hard not to pressure him into put on my collar but I’m hoping that he will. Soon.
~¨~¨~¨
My Master never ceases to amaze me. He makes me do things I never thought I could. Good things. And when he makes me do things that hurt - that’s even better. He’s my teacher, my instructor and we both know that I’m in grave need of supervision. He is omnipotent. I look up at him like a small child look up to an adult, admiring and unworthy.
~¨~¨~
The door slowly opens and a shadowy figure walks down the stairs. Black leather clothes reflect the dim light of our basement room. The steel and hard leather at his hip glimmers - cuffs and whip. He strides across the floor, his heavy boots makes a clicking noise. He smiles and greets the small cameras mounted on the walls.
There’s no one else in the room but us but we’re not alone. We have friends all over the world that know us but not who we are. They’re here for my very important rite of passage.
I watch as Mick walk over to the table. Smilingly he picks up a glass of champagne. The small glass looks fragile in his large hand. He takes a sip and gives me a small nod.
I leave my place in the corner and run to him, kneeling at his feet, kissing each boot lovingly. Much to my surprise he leans down and kisses me, a fingertip run over my hardened nipple. Master gives me permission to speak. This is a rare occasion. But I’m left speechless as I watch his hand closely fondling the handle at his side. Blue eyes gleaming as he looks me over, sipping his drink. The expression in his eyes is overwhelming; lust, power and love. I repress a small shiver.
I take the bottle, refreshing his drink, sitting back down by his feet I straighten my back perfectly. His left hand finds the cuffs and without a word he hands them to me. I stare as he turns to the table and pick up the leach. Holding it. Our eyes locked as I cuff my hands together.
I shiver at the click of the leach, rising obediently at his command. A steel hook, attached to a chain, metal meet metal, slowly hoisting my arms upward. His hand on my ass. I tremble. I hold very still as he attach the leg spreader to my ankles, forcing my feet apart. A rough hand in my hair and he pulls me in for a kiss. Sweet tasting lips and coarse beard.
The touch of the whip that I love in my Masters hand. The hurt, the pleasure, the love of the fine leather tails caressing my naked skin. Preparing me for what to come, like a burning fire spreading over my legs, my ass and my back. Hard and deep the tails hit me, enslaves me. His. His servant. I breathe deep and remain very still. Stripes of passion form on my pale skin. Craving the pain. Lovingly he shifts his aim. Cries leave my mouth, soft and wanting. I’m hurting for him, my Master.
The rhythm helps me remember to breath. Aroused. My breathing shortens as the pain increases. Hard. I concentrate on keeping my balance, to ease the pull on my shoulders as he shows me love. He stops. I wait in fear and with desire.
The sound of breaking air, the crack of the whip. Stinging pain. A drop of blood trickles down my side, soon followed by a second. Head pounding from the rush of my blood pumping though my veins. He let the whip rest, soothing my hot skin with hand and tongue. Strong fingers find my hard on, enveloping me softly. I’m rewarded with a passionate kiss. He unfasten the cuffs around my ankles and release the chain.
“You wanted fire,” he whispers in my ear.
He straightens up and speaks out loudly for our absent friends to hear the ritual words.
“Today you will taste the fire. I’ll brand you as mine. A sign of loyalty and obedience.”
He walks back upstairs and outside. I’ve waited for this for so long that I should be able to wait just one more minute. But it’s hard. The wait and the fact that I’m all by myself. I understand that this isn’t easy for him but we have prepared immaculately and I know nothing will go wrong. I trust him.
He returns with a soft smile on his lips. The iron is white hot, glowing in his hand. The sign is simple, his number. It’ll be easy to explain. Just a scar, just two small lines, connected. A coincidence. His eyes hold mine as he move closer towards me. My legs tremble. My mind focused and on edge. Body relaxed and ready to welcome his mark.
Searing pain erupts as he pushes the iron into my chest right above my heart. He steadies me with a firm hand on my hip and I can hear him count even though his voice is no more then a whisper
“One Mississippi, two Mississippi.”
He removes it and leaves a burning mark on my pale skin. He burry the iron into the sand filled bucket and grabs the large chunk of ice from the cooler. I hiss as he press the ice to my wound. Knees buckle. He catches me and holds me in his strong arms.
“Focus.” He whispers. “Focus on my will. Use my strength.”
He massages the area with the ice until it’s almost completely melted. He pads my skin with a white cotton towel then he applies the burn spray. It will be worse tomorrow but the pain will pass eventually. He kiss away the stray tears that I couldn’t hold back.
“Mine. My love. Forever.”
Using all my willpower to remain in a standing position, absorbing his vigour. The pain is slowly submerging but my arousal is rising fast. He holds me and I let his strength fill me up, wash over me. Focusing on his voice. His will. My desire to please. My need to belong to him. Completely.
With a tug on my leach he leads me to the ottoman. Lay me down. Alleviating my pain with his fingers and tongue. Tasting my submission, driving me onwards. Two fingers pushing deep. Pain mixing with need. The safety of his embrace as he enters me. Tip of his tongue nudging my wound, tasting my servant mark.
My need is transcendent. His touch inflaming me more that the whip, more than the iron. His tongue shows me again where I’m marked, branded, owned. Hearing his voice almost like it was from inside my head.
“Now servant cum for your Master.”
Every pore of my body tightens and erupts in pure pleasure. Release. I come long and hard and the only feeling that is greater than the sexual high is the feeling of being loved by him. The beauty of knowing that the mark I bare is just a small reflection of the one that brands my heart.