Re: Like She Owns Him (5/12) John/Sam, bottom!John, AMTDI, dubcon, sexual slavery, obedience, etc.
anonymous
October 17 2010, 21:25:28 UTC
"Most honored plutocrat?" Sam asks, rising to her feet, and the man nods haughtily and seats himself in front of her. His slave cowers beside him, his leash attached not to his harness but to a ring pierced through the head of his dick.
Sam sits down again, and her hand finds John's hair once more.
"You have gone to a lot of trouble to see me," the plutocrat says, jerking his leash like an afterthought. The slave cringes, but John can see his dick getting harder like he can't help himself. John pushes against Sam's hand in his hair, ridiculously grateful that he has a choice, and she scratches his scalp lightly.
It's not real, he reminds himself. But for a moment, he thinks some part of it might be.
"You have something that belongs to me," Sam is saying.
"So you claim," the plutocrat says with narrowed eyes. He turns his gaze to John, who only then remembers to lower his head. "Forgive me if I say I don't believe you are capable of owning anything. You think you have fooled us, but this is a most obvious sham." He leans forward in his chair and kicks John's leg. "Or did you really think that all he needs is a harness and a leash?"
Sam's hand tightens in John's hair, pulling painfully, but he suppresses a wince. "Our ways are not yours," she says. "Where I come from, we do not damage another person's property."
The patrician gives her an assessing stare. "Give me reason to believe you."
"He is mine," Sam says. "He may not act as your slaves do, but I assure you, he is bound in obedience to my commands. He would do anything for me."
It's a clever bit of truth-twisting, but the plutocrat seems unimpressed. "Bah," he says. "He is certainly not showing much sign of devotion now."
Sam looks confused, and it takes John a moment, too, to realize what the plutocrat means. But somewhere between the stairs and this room, he's lost his erection, and his limp dick is hanging out below the straps that are supposed to confine it.
John's face heats and he wants to cover himself or jerk himself hard, but he's afraid if he makes any move it will be seen as disobedience. His head is down, so he feels rather than sees Sam figure it out. Her hand releases his hair and the leash pulls sharply. "John?"
"Sorry," he says softly, and he doesn't have to pretend to make it sincere. "I'm sorry, Mistress."
"He is occasionally distractible," Sam says, like she's mentioning a minor configuration flaw in a horse. "But I find him adequately capable of regaining focus whenever necessary."
That's an obvious cue, and John knows what he has to do, just as he knows he can't touch himself to do it. Sitting nearly naked in a too-cool room with the haughty plutocrat and his slave is hardly conducive to regaining an erection, but Sam is here, and John has to make do with what he has. He looks up at her, desperately hoping that's acceptable, and concentrates on the sympathetic tightness around her eyes, the ironic curve of her mouth, the long, tight, wicked looking gloves on her forearms. He imagines her cuffing his wrists. Strapping him to a rack. Demanding that he get hard for her.
She holds his gaze steadily and it's enough; he feels his cock swell until it's stiff, poking straight out below the straps that formerly contained it.
"Enough," the plutocrat says, and John bows his head, staring at his erection and holding on to the image of Sam in his head. "You prove only that he is your lover, not that he is your property."
John's not expecting it, so he's utterly unbraced for the back of Sam's hand, hard against his ear. His teeth rattle and he wonders if the studs have drawn blood, but he just dips his head lower and concentrates on keeping his erection. It probably should be harder than it is, but all he can think of is Sam, and the fact that he's at her mercy. She could do anything to him right now. Anything at all. The thought is a knife edge between trust and danger, between fear and arousal.
"He will," Sam is saying grimly, "do anything for me. That is no exaggeration."
"Show me," the plutocrat says, like that's a reasonable request.
Sam doesn't hesitate a moment. "John," she says. "Lick my boots."
Sam sits down again, and her hand finds John's hair once more.
"You have gone to a lot of trouble to see me," the plutocrat says, jerking his leash like an afterthought. The slave cringes, but John can see his dick getting harder like he can't help himself. John pushes against Sam's hand in his hair, ridiculously grateful that he has a choice, and she scratches his scalp lightly.
It's not real, he reminds himself. But for a moment, he thinks some part of it might be.
"You have something that belongs to me," Sam is saying.
"So you claim," the plutocrat says with narrowed eyes. He turns his gaze to John, who only then remembers to lower his head. "Forgive me if I say I don't believe you are capable of owning anything. You think you have fooled us, but this is a most obvious sham." He leans forward in his chair and kicks John's leg. "Or did you really think that all he needs is a harness and a leash?"
Sam's hand tightens in John's hair, pulling painfully, but he suppresses a wince. "Our ways are not yours," she says. "Where I come from, we do not damage another person's property."
The patrician gives her an assessing stare. "Give me reason to believe you."
"He is mine," Sam says. "He may not act as your slaves do, but I assure you, he is bound in obedience to my commands. He would do anything for me."
It's a clever bit of truth-twisting, but the plutocrat seems unimpressed. "Bah," he says. "He is certainly not showing much sign of devotion now."
Sam looks confused, and it takes John a moment, too, to realize what the plutocrat means. But somewhere between the stairs and this room, he's lost his erection, and his limp dick is hanging out below the straps that are supposed to confine it.
John's face heats and he wants to cover himself or jerk himself hard, but he's afraid if he makes any move it will be seen as disobedience. His head is down, so he feels rather than sees Sam figure it out. Her hand releases his hair and the leash pulls sharply. "John?"
"Sorry," he says softly, and he doesn't have to pretend to make it sincere. "I'm sorry, Mistress."
"He is occasionally distractible," Sam says, like she's mentioning a minor configuration flaw in a horse. "But I find him adequately capable of regaining focus whenever necessary."
That's an obvious cue, and John knows what he has to do, just as he knows he can't touch himself to do it. Sitting nearly naked in a too-cool room with the haughty plutocrat and his slave is hardly conducive to regaining an erection, but Sam is here, and John has to make do with what he has. He looks up at her, desperately hoping that's acceptable, and concentrates on the sympathetic tightness around her eyes, the ironic curve of her mouth, the long, tight, wicked looking gloves on her forearms. He imagines her cuffing his wrists. Strapping him to a rack. Demanding that he get hard for her.
She holds his gaze steadily and it's enough; he feels his cock swell until it's stiff, poking straight out below the straps that formerly contained it.
"Enough," the plutocrat says, and John bows his head, staring at his erection and holding on to the image of Sam in his head. "You prove only that he is your lover, not that he is your property."
John's not expecting it, so he's utterly unbraced for the back of Sam's hand, hard against his ear. His teeth rattle and he wonders if the studs have drawn blood, but he just dips his head lower and concentrates on keeping his erection. It probably should be harder than it is, but all he can think of is Sam, and the fact that he's at her mercy. She could do anything to him right now. Anything at all. The thought is a knife edge between trust and danger, between fear and arousal.
"He will," Sam is saying grimly, "do anything for me. That is no exaggeration."
"Show me," the plutocrat says, like that's a reasonable request.
Sam doesn't hesitate a moment. "John," she says. "Lick my boots."
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