A Place Between

Arin’s lungs crowd their ribcage on every inhale. Strong knots bind their wrists to the bed frame, with only enough slack left to breathe. A second length of rope winds around their hips and thighs, then connects the two together, holding them bent at the waist. Another pair of ropes connects their knees to a pole, keeping them spread. They couldn’t straighten out if they wanted to.

Some dark part of their mind riots against any form of constraint. At any moment, someone could enter, could hurt them, could kill them, and there’s nothing they could do about it. Their pulse thuds in their wrists and their throat, chest hitching with shivery breaths. Their sudden movement rattles the headboard.

They should fight it more, they think. They do for another moment, twisting. Their knees try and fail to close. Their toes flex against the mattress. They’re well and truly stuck, presenting like some animal, exposed for anyone to see.

But it’s not just anyone in here. It’s Lash, whose eyes they swear they can feel while they wear themself out squirming in their bonds. Before, they expected him to be impatient, and he can be, but he’s perfectly satisfied to take his time when he has them at his mercy.

Eventually they grow tired of fighting. A strange lethargy suffuses every muscle, and their head grows fuzzy, too heavy and too light at once. Anyone could hurt them, but Lash won’t.

As if he hears that thought, he strokes a big hand between their shoulder blades, down the arch of their back. “You wear yourself out yet?” he asks.

They grunt quietly, unsure they trust their words. Their body trembles as it’s forced to relax.

His hands are warm, petting down their spine and along their sides. They stroke gently over the curve of Arin’s ass, down the backs of their thighs. Lash always goes straight for what he wants, until he has them like this. With anyone else, it might be tempting to think of the touch as adoring. With Lash, he’s doing it to torment them.

Their body doesn’t know that though. Slowly, it relaxes into this unnatural position, like they can trust the ropes to simply hold them up. To some extent it’s true, anyway.

He reaches around to pet at their chest. Normally they wouldn’t consider it all that sensitive, but Lash’s warm hands squeeze and pet anyway, then stroke and roll their nipples between his fingers, until they’re tight and tingling, sending little skitters of sensation to Arin’s cock.

“There you go, baby. Just relax. Give in to the Lash.”

They should protest, but they can’t even find the energy to want to. They’re clay he can mold however he desires.

His hands tickle the edge of the ropes at their waist. He traces the connection down the sides of their thighs, then across, from the outside in, until his thumbs brush the sensitive skin of their inner thighs.

He draws them up, delicate along their perineum, then thumbs apart their ass cheeks. “Look at that,” he sighs, one thumb circling their hole. They twitch at his teasing, but their hole relaxes, relents beneath his touch too, until he can ease just the tip in.

“Eager,” he says smugly, then pulls the thumb away. His hand disappears only to return with a smack to their ass cheek. “Slut,” he practically purrs.

Arin, again, feels no desire to protest. Their days are hard enough; no need to make their nights harder too.

“You like that?” Lash asks. It’s not clear whether he wants an answer until he smacks them again.

Their hips jolt forward with the impact, but there’s not much place for them to go. “Uh-huh,” they say.

“What was that? I didn’t hear you.” Another smack, and they shudder.

“Yes,” they say through gritted teeth. He rewards them by smearing slick over their hole and rubbing in tight circles. They want to squirm, but even that is limited. They struggle to relax their jaw, breathing harshly as he coaxes their body to open up.

Patience isn’t Lash’s strong suit, but trust isn’t Arin’s, and here they are. Maybe they’re underestimating him, but all Lash wants is their body — not their business, not their money, not their power. It makes it easy to surrender.

The warmth in his strong, callused hands doesn’t hurt either.

Weight shifts behind them, then Lash’s tongue swipes over their hole. They shudder, fingers clenching, unable to react any further than to arch their hips up into it. One arm hooks beneath their hips to hold them steady and the other yanks their ass cheeks apart for him to get in there, slick tongue teasing at their rim.

He strokes their cock, fingers dabbling at the tip, smearing more slick there, over and over while his mouth gets to work.

His stubble burns their tender skin and he digs that huge chin in, lapping at them until their hole relaxes, until he can get his tongue farther in. He pulls back, spits.

When one of those thick fingers finally breaches them, they groan, turning their face into their arm, sweaty skin against sweaty skin. The finger leaves and there’s his tongue again, slipping farther inside, wet and filthy all along their sensitive rim.

It’s two fingers this time, and they don’t know whether they want to close their legs or spread them wider — they can’t do either. They’re left with no choice but to accept it, trembling as he plays them like a fiddle, stroking slick inside, then pulling out for his tongue to sweep back in, alternating between the two until they’re shaking all over, saying, “Please, I—”

“Please what?” he demands.

Even after his mouth and his hands and with their body tied up in his bed, some coil of shame still remains, something built into them so long ago that it might never go away. They don’t want to say it. They never do.

His fingers inside them slow, then withdraw, and all that’s left now is the delicate touch at the head of their cock, far too much when that’s all there is. They want his fingers back, his mouth back. They want more than either of those things. He brushes a soft hand over their ass, calluses scraping until it almost tickles, and his thumb circles their hole with the lightest touch.

“Fuck me,” they gasp. “Please.”

He’s made them beg before, made them debase themself to the point of tears. He’s more merciful tonight.

He doesn’t answer, but he does dive back in with his tongue, slicking hot inside them, mouth open and jaw working so hard it scrapes the delicate skin there. Then he shoves his fingers in again, three this time, no longer teasing but pumping with intent. They open up easily, body just accepting whatever he has to give.

Only when he’s satisfied does he line up behind them, spreading them wide with both hands. They can feel his stare, feel how open they are now. That frisson of shame shivers up their spine alongside the heat. He lines up his cock, wide head pressing against their hole, and eases it in slowly. He’s gone much harder before, with much less preparation. This isn’t a kindness; it’s one more method of torment.

Still, their chest tightens, something sticking in their throat as he inches in, one huge hand sliding up their waist to hold them steady. They don’t get this often. Sex, sure, but touch, warm and human, is rarer. That it comes from Jacob Lash of all people is its own sort of thrill.

In moments like this, he touches them like he owns them, like he can do anything he wants — he can do anything he wants, almost — but out there beyond the bedroom door, they know he’s not seeing anyone else. He doesn’t go home with fans or do more than flirt, shallow and harmless. He pretends to have a full schedule, but he always makes time for them. Or time for this, anyway.

The points of stimulus remain: Lash’s ropes at their wrists and hips and ankles, Lash’s cock pushing inside them, and Lash’s hand, with its workman’s calluses and violently split knuckles, caressing their waist.

His cock glides in smooth, and his hips settle against Arin’s ass, and their thoughts scatter. It hits deeper than his fingers could possibly get, deeper than any other Arin’s had, and they try to move away from it and onto it at the same time, body at war with itself and with the ropes all around them. Lash’s other hand settles on their other side, holds them right where he wants them, and they sob, teeth gritted as they rub their sweaty face against their own arm, unable to do much else.

“Come on,” they gasp, even though it aches and they’re still adjusting. They need him to move. Need him to fuck them to get them through the current sensations and into something else.

Big thumbs trace lines down either side of their spine. “Isn’t this what you asked for?”

“No.” They try again to move, body fighting the mixed signals. They squeeze, only half involuntary, until he grunts. “I said I want you to fuck me, not sit there.”

Lash laughs, runs one hand down their quivering flank. “But you’re such a good cock warmer,” he says with an exaggerated sigh. They’re proud to hear it sounds strained, at least. He moves, barely, and likely more for his own comfort than theirs. “Admit it. You’d love if you could keep a dick in you all day.”

They grind their teeth and breathe, trapped with their body hungrily milking at Lash’s cock.

He leans forward, another minute shift, and they moan at the way it moves his cock inside them. “Taking your phone calls, signing paperwork, all with my dick in your guts keeping you full. Then when I got bored, I’d bend you over that desk of yours and fuck you till you can’t see straight.”

They let out a desperate, jittery breath. He’s not allowed in their office for exactly that reason; they don’t know if they’d be able to focus ever again.

“How does that sound? Good?” he asks. When they don’t answer immediately, he yanks them back onto his cock, nudging a hair farther in.

“Y-yes,” they manage to spit out.

“Tell me how you want it.”

“Harder.” They twist in their ropes, accomplishing nothing at all. “Stop teasing and fuck me,” they demand with all the authority of the CEO of Fairfax Industries.

Lash sounds amused. He leans over them, calluses scraping up their shivery sides, lips pressed against their ear. “Say please.”

“Please,” they say, instantly, all sense of entitlement fluttering away with their breath.

“I love when you’re good for me,” Lash says, then he rears back to give them what they demanded, blunt nails digging between their ribs while he pounds into them with all the force his magnificent body is capable of.

After the slow buildup, this is an onslaught, and one that’s almost impossible to adjust to. Arin sways in their prison of ropes, until that’s the only thing keeping them upright. Lash grips the makeshift harness around their waist and yanks, forcing their hips into his, forcing his cock deeper until they can feel it behind their teeth.

Their shoulders ache with the effort of holding themself up, and their toes curl against the mattress because it’s all they can do, and their head lolls between their arms as he slams into them. Lash’s body is capable of so much violence, and he gives them all of it they’ve asked for — or all they’ve asked for except the hand that drifts to their face, stroking along their jaw, helping them to lift their head up and turn so he can kiss them, sloppy and uncoordinated with his tongue spilling between them. They’re aching and overwhelmed and damn near helpless, and somehow they’ve never felt so adored.

His hips move in shallow slaps now, but there’s still enough power behind them that Arin grunts against his mouth. No matter the force he uses, his cock still bullies its way past the point of comfort until they’re wringing desperately around him. They couldn’t have it any other way now. If another cock or toy doesn’t get as deep, it feels… incomplete. They love that too full feeling, the way their body can’t stop clinging around him, the way their muscles shake when it gets to be too much.

He’s right that they’d sit on it all day if they could. He’s right that they think all the time about getting Lash as deep as possible inside them.

It pushes, presses, slams into them until their body molds around it. It’s impossible to get used to; no matter how much he fucks them, they still cling, still feel every inch stroking their insides.

Eventually he grows erratic, has to pull back and stop kissing them, but his hand lingers, rubbing across their collar bone and around to the nape of their neck, pushing between their shoulder blades until they arch. Every change creates a new burst of feeling, but in time it all melds together: heat, pressure, building around the hot coal of their prostate and spiraling outward to cover their whole body.

They clench their fists in their bonds and fall into the rhythm of it. They can’t move or escape or do anything, so they might as well surrender. Their body sags slightly as they fall into it, but Lash has them in his ropes and his hands, in the brutal throb of his cock in their ass. He’ll take care of them.

They don’t know how long it takes, how long they drift, feeling nothing but sensation, heat swamping their body, prostate getting pummeled by Lash’s heavy thrusts. It catches them by surprise when it all comes to a head. They come with a sudden cry, trembling around him and spilling across the bed sheet.

“That’s right, baby,” Lash says, tracing a hand through the sweat on their back. He sounds like he’s close, throat tight. A few more jerky thrusts, then he comes too, hips stuttering against theirs as he spills deep inside.

He drapes himself across their back, petting their skin lightly. It takes a while before he softens and pulls out, and they miss his cock the instant its gone. Everything feels too sensitive, worn out and wet and open, and if he wanted to fuck them again, they’d let him, over and over and over. They shudder at the thought, an aftershock coursing through their body.

The sweat has started to dry tacky on their skin by the time he moves to cut them loose. Knees first, then their hips and thighs, then finally their wrists.

This part is always the strangest. No one would be surprised Jacob Lash likes to play rough, but they’d be shocked to see how seriously he treats the aftermath. He rubs their wrists until the feeling returns, kisses them when they crawl over him, clingy like they always get when it’s over.

That’s their secret. Sometimes Jacob Lash is gentle and attentive, and sometimes the CEO of Fairfax Industries needs to be held. When Arin isn’t so worn out, they might be distressed to think it makes them a matched set. For now, coarse hands made for violence stroke lovingly down their back, and they’re less inclined to deny it.