He settles himself, letting the hardened cock lay in his palm for a moment before swaddling his hand around its girth. He admires its delicacy, tenderly tracing the veins that run like some type of erotic roadmap. With a squeeze, he can feel the thrumming pulse through his fingertips. It matches his own.
Ashton looks up to see a single bead of spittle dangling at the end of an elongated strand of drool. It glistens—for a second reflecting the flickering candlelight of the room—then releases.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
The cherry-red ballgag in Daniel’s mouth tiredly bobs up and down in reply.
He has been standing tethered to an x-cross: hands stretched out overhead, legs spread wide below, dick sticking straight out in front. Twelve black rubber straps tightly secure his pale naked frame in place.
Ashton continues to rhythmically stroke with a twisting motion. “Good. We’re almost there.”
Before today, Ashton never cared to psychoanalyze his client's motivations. They all have their paraphilias and corresponding reasons for wanting to explore them. His self-defined role is to play with his subjects, providing them with excitement in whatever form they please. No judgment, no sagacious reasoning, no long-term wistful exchange.
A moan signals Daniel’s approval of the methodical throttling his cock is currently receiving. Reddened skin already forms small nefarious halos around dried splotches of wax dotting his chest and upper thighs.
“You’re gorgeous,” Ashton whispers, still kneeling, eye-level with the package he’s groping. “Like some piece of art with no beginning and no end.”
Daniel’s head hangs, his balls swollen and most likely aching from the prolonged edging. Ash leans in and suckles one, pulling it gently into his mouth and rolling his tongue over the soft outer flesh. As he releases with a pop, it stays there, momentarily frozen and distended. He then watches it slowly retract, ready to surrender.
Ashton nuzzles even closer, arousal saturating the air around them with a musky scent. He takes it in through his nose like he’s inhaling for deep meditation.
“It's time,” he says, gazing back up. “How do you want me?”
Even in the dim light, Ashton is taken by the amber in Daniel’s eyes; a marriage of warm honey and deep caramel. Time has allowed him to see the longing in the story they hide.
He recognizes the narrow path they depict. A stroll he himself has taken. A lonely walk along a bluff where rocks below absorb a frenzied sea. But, if he looks deeper, way out into the distance, there’s a calm. A motionless horizon, each night swallowing the sun, exchanging its heat for a soul filled with fire. Spiritual energy patterned with wonderment.
Ashton stands and retrieves a small carpeted platform from the other side of the room. A makeshift dungeon he hides in the basement of his mid-century-modern suburban home. He drags the box over to Daniel’s feet and steps up, now face to face. Running his tongue across the lifeless plastic gag, he savors the sweet saliva still clinging to its edges.