Mastering Stefan by JM Snyder

Three years and Stefan's yet to find that certain someone who can take him to the precipice of lust, dangle him over the abyss, and shove him headlong into the darkness of his own desire. Someone who drives him to the edge but won..t let him fall. Someone he can trust completely, body and soul, someone he can lose himself in. When a local gay bar called the Code hosts a Fetish Night, Stefan goes looking to be conquered.

August in Richmond is sweltering -- even at quarter to midnight, the air is sticky like a wet rag and the humidity takes Stefan..s breath away. He settles for a black latex vest, no undershirt, and a pair of bright blue latex boy-shorts so tight, Daisy Duke would be jealous. The shorts make his buttocks look like two round rubber balls, high and tight, and the outline of his cock bulges along the top of his upper left thigh. The vest, tapering to twin points just above his narrow waist, only accentuates both assets.

But when he enters the bar, he..s just one more body in the crowded sea that undulates over the dance floor. Music pounds around him like the surf, washing him up to the bar with the rest of the driftwood. He orders a White Russian, his first mistake. Then he eases onto a vacant stool, his second. Just to wait for the drink, he reasons, but sitting at the bar in a place like this is social suicide. After his next Russian, Stefan stops trying to make eye contact with anyone other than the bartender. By his third, he thinks this party is a bust.

He stays, if only because the night is young and the drinks are cheap. Between refills he swivels around in the stool, leans back against the bar, surveys the room around him. In the dim lighting, the bodies meld into one, a primordial animal that gyrates obscenely in time to the music as if masturbating to the beat. The thought turns Stefan on. He has to slide down a little to ease the chafe in his shorts -- his dick tries to swell beneath the latex but the shorts won't give an inch, and the restriction only makes him harder. He shifts his package a bit, rearrange the goods, until the swollen tip of his cock ends dangerously close to the bottom hem of the shorts. As he presses against the stiff length, his eyes slip shut at the sweet ache that blossoms in him. And no one to share it with, he thinks.

As he turns back for his drink, a shadow detaches itself from the dance floor, heading his way. When Stefan spares a glance over one shoulder, the stranger takes that as an invitation and sidles up next to him at the bar. The guy is a few years older than Stefan, early forties at the most, with long blonde hair tied back from his face with a thin leather strap at the nape of his neck. The arm closest to Stefan bulges with strength, the skin rough and ruddy from long exposure to the sun. Raising his glass, Stefan gives the stranger a drunken grin and has to shout over the crowd to be heard. "Hey."

A hand falls to Stefan's thigh, large fingers clamping down on the erection that strains his shorts. Blunt fingertips trace the length and the latex warms beneath the touch. When the guy looks at him, Stefan's lower lip is caught between his teeth to bite back a half-muffled gasp that manages to escape anyway. The stranger has eyes like diamonds, so pale they're almost clear, rimmed with black kohl that gives him a deadly look, and the set of his jaw imbues him with a wrath worthy of any young god. "Please," Stefan sobs. He wants to give himself up to this man, with his white mesh tank top and his black rubber pants. The fingers on his dick make it hard to remember a time before their touch. Struggling not to appear too eager and failing miserably, Stefan wants to know, "Where?"

The guy doesn't answer. Far away in another world, the bartender sets another White Russian in front of Stefan, with a tall shot of amber whiskey to accompany it. The stranger knocks back the whiskey, never dropping his gaze from Stefan's. He holds Stefan prisoner in those crystal eyes, pins him to the stool like a captured moth. The hand on Stefan's thigh inches higher, the latex rolling up beneath it, until the tip of his dick dampens the stranger's palm. With one hand Stefan grabs onto the bar to hold himself steady; with the other, he dares to touch the stranger's muscled forearm and feel the tendons stand out beneath his fingers.

There at the bar, the guy sinks down to squat in front of Stefan's stool. Still silent, he turns Stefan to face him, spreading Stefan's legs until he's between them. His wide eyes watch Stefan closely, his thin, unsmiling lips not betraying any emotion while Stefan struggles to hold his back. He wants to throw himself at this man -- he wants to be ravished, torn into from behind, latex stripped away as this stranger barrels inside. He feels his heart beating where the boy-shorts cut into his upper thighs and wants to beg this stranger to take him now but more than that, wants to be taken without having to ask.

Slowly, the guy rolls back the hem of Stefan's shorts -- just the leg where his dick pulses. He peels the latex away from Stefan's cockhead, an inch or two; the shorts are too tight to allow anything more. Some part of Stefan's mind whispers that his dick is out in front of a couple hundred people, what the hell's he doing here? But the mere fact that he's exposed in a bar and the night doesn't come to a screeching halt around him is enough to make his dick begin to weep. At the first drop of jism, the stranger leans closer, his hair tickling Stefan's thighs, closer, until his hot whiskey-wet lips kiss the tip of Stefan's dick.

"Oh God," he moans. His fingers dig into the guy's arm, claw at the bar. His hips rise up off the stool, but his trembling legs are too weak to hold his own weight and he plops back down. The latex cuts across his erection like a tourniquet, igniting a dull fire in his balls that smolders with lust. A soft tongue rubs across the spongy glans of his cock, tickling him, teasing. Saliva and cum slick the latex around the head of his shaft and the stranger's hand presses down on Stefan's still-sheathed length, kneading him through the shorts, working him towards release. When that mouth closes over his bulbous tip, the stranger tongues a tender spot just below his slit and sucks until Stefan comes with an explosive orgasm that threatens to rip him asunder.

Stefan bucks up off the stool, his hand knocking aside the untouched Russian waiting for him, and white liqueur splatters the bar like the load he shoots into the stranger's willing throat. As he stands, Stefan sighs, "Please." His hand trails down the guy's arm, catches for a moment in those strong fingers, then falls to his lap, spent. Take me home, he wants to say, his mind filled with images of the two of them entwined together in someone's bed, but he can't seem to remember how to put those thoughts into words so he just murmurs again, "Please."

The stranger pulls something from his back pocket -- a business card. Tenderly he lifts Stefan's now-limp member and slides the card into the sticky wetness between Stefan's cock and thigh. Then he rolls the latex down again to cover the too-tender tip of Stefan's dick. The paper feels like cardboard shoved into his shorts.

Then the guy fades back into the crowd. No words, not even a name. Stefan reaches for the White Russian, needing a drink, only to find ice cubes melting on the bar.

*****

It takes him half a week to work up the courage to call the number on the card. He dials it from work, waiting until the office empties out at lunchtime to pick up the phone. The first try, he hits a six instead of a two and has to start again. The second try rings once, twice, three times before Stefan thinks he hears someone in another cubicle and lets the phone slip back into the cradle. He stands, stretches, looks around but he's just hearing things -- he's alone. This time he dials quickly before he can lose his nerve, but someone answers on the first ring and startles him speechless. "What is it?" a gruff voice asks. If Stefan had to give a sound to the nameless stranger from the Code, this would be it.

Beneath his desk, Stefan shuffles his feet together like a nervous teenager. "Um, hi," he starts, then remembers he's at work and lowers his voice. He glances at the business card again but only sees the number he's dialed and the word Master beneath it. The fact that it's spelled out in black and white stirs his blood. Unsure of how to begin, Stefan admits, "I got your card."

"Did I give it to you?" the voice wants to know. Master, Stefan thinks, mouthing the word to try it on for size. "Or did someone else pass it along? Because I'm very select in who I give this number to and if you didn't get it from me, hang up."

"No," Stefan hurries to explain, "I got it from you. At least I think so. Saturday night, at the Code?" His words are met with a stony silence so loud, it hurts Stefan's ears. "I was at the bar. Getting a drink? And you ... I don't know, you came up to me and just sort of ..."

He trails off. "Sort of what?" Master prompts.

Stefan lowers his voice. "I had on these shorts. Made out of latex?"

"Are you asking or telling me?" Master wants to know.

"Blue shorts." Stefan remembers how he had to peel them off when he got home, digging the latex out of his ass after that blowjob. "You rolled back the leg and then ..." His face feels hot and he has to rub his hands down the front of his slacks to dry his sweaty palms. "You ... you --"

Master demands, "Say it."

"I'm at work," Stefan whispers. More silence, and beads of sweat break out along the back of his neck just below his hairline. With a furtive look around at the empty office, Stefan whispers, "You sucked me off. Remember?" It's almost a plea.

But warmth floods the voice on the other end of the line, and Stefan sighs with relief. "Ah yes. You. I wondered when you'd call."

"Really?" A silly grin tugs at Stefan's lips but he twists his mouth into a frown to tamp it down. Hoping he sounds suave and nonchalant despite the pounding of his heart, he shrugs and asks, "So, you busy tonight? Or something?"

He expects a coy answer along the lines of, "What do you have in mind?" But Master cuts to the chase. "Tell me what you're wearing."

"Now?" Stefan asks, surprised. "I'm at work."

"If I drop by this evening,.. Master clarifies, ..what'll you have on? Better yet, what will I have to take off to get to that sweet candy ass of yours?"

"I'm ... I --" Stefan stutters, searching for something to say. What on earth will he wear? Anything Master wants, anything at all. Did he honestly say he's coming over tonight? Oh God. Lamely, he whispers, "I don't know."

"Shit." For a moment Stefan thinks he's angry at him, but before he can stumble through an apology Master says, "What's your fetish? Leather, Saran Wrap, what?"

Stefan mumbles, "Latex." He likes the smooth feel of the thin plastic -- wet, slick and molded to his body, or hot against his sweaty skin, unyielding as he strains against it. He likes wetsuits and galoshes and latex gloves that snap into place, the way they feel rubbing along his flesh, the way they smell pressed to his nose. Once he masturbated in the dressing room of a department store while wearing nothing but a raincoat so new, it squeaked every time he moved. Scuba magazines are porn to him -- pictures of men in form-fitting suits that he imagines ripping apart to get at the tender meat inside. He dreams of running in the rain wearing nothing but a slicker, a cold rush of air breezing against his balls as someone unseen chases him. It's a familiar dream, one he's had since middle school, and though he's never been caught, he knows that whoever hunts him down wants to pin him down and fuck him right there in the mud and the rain. He can almost picture the slicker rucked up over his ass and knows just what the rain would feel like running down his pale skin. Whenever he has that dream he wakes up so hard, it only takes one or two good jerks to get him off.

In his ear, Master murmurs, "Latex." The word sounds like a promise in his voice. Before Stefan can reply, Master continues, "This is what I want. You'll be home by what, six?"

"Yes," Stefan says. His voice cracks and he clears his throat to try again. "Six, yes, I'll be there."

"Leave your door unlocked," Master commands, ..and put on something -- you have a full body suit, right?"

Stefan has two, both black latex. One has zippers strategically placed for easy access, which he has yet to put to use. The other has seen more wear -- he's modified it himself, adding a rubber cock sheath that juts from the front like a handle and a tiny ball sewn into the butt to press between his buttocks. That's his solo suit, the one he puts on when it's just him and his hand, and unfortunately that's all too often. He likes to put it on and sit in the bathtub, the shower pounding down around him as he massages his cock through the sheath and grinds his hips back against the spigot to work that little ball around and around his asshole. "I have things to wear," he admits.

"Get dressed, then," Master tells him, "with me in mind. This is the important part now -- you can't get off before I get there, you hear me? Sit on your hands if you have to but keep them out of your ass and away from your cock. You understand?"

"Yes," Stefan breathes. "Yes sir."

"What's my card say?" Master prompts.

Stefan raises the business card to his nose and can still smell his own spunk lingering on the paper. "Yes Master."

*****

Per Master's instructions, Stefan doesn't lock the front door to his townhouse when he comes home from work. His is a quiet neighborhood, no one will enter, but it turns him on to strip down to his underwear in the foyer knowing that someone could walk in on him. Kicking his clothes aside, he takes the steps two at a time to the bedroom, where he peels off his underwear and snags the zippered latex suit from his closet. He's hard already just thinking about wearing it, but he wants to prolong the anticipation, do things right. Into the bathroom then, where he leaves the door open just in case Master comes in and hears the shower running. Stefan takes his time, lathering his cock and balls and ass, slipping one finger inside him and gasping at the sting of soap on hidden flesh. By the time he cuts off the water, his dick is tender to the touch but he promised he wouldn't get off until Master arrives and it's all he can do to hold back. He empties half a bottle of baby oil into his palms, rubs it over his nipples and chest, down his belly, slathering his erection and balls and the trembling skin between his legs. There's a cock ring he keeps stretched around a hairbrush; he rolls it off and slides it down into place against the base of his shaft, to help him stay hard without blowing his wad. More baby oil on his buttocks, lifting and spreading them apart to coat the cleft between them, then he steps into the suit and begins to zip it into place.

The suit fits like a second skin. A long zipper runs from the waist to the raised collar, which Stefan tugs up with relish, enjoying the slow tightening of latex around his body. He smoothes his hands down his chest, savors his own touch through the plastic, cups his throbbing cock and works the latex against his balls. The material glides along his skin easily, frictionless from the baby oil. The tab of a small zipper dangles between Stefan's legs and he thumbs it open an inch or two, just enough to slip inside and strum his perineum. Grabbing the edge of the sink, he squats a little to finger himself and wonders when Master will arrive.

Master. Reluctantly Stefan zips the suit shut. His hands shake as he washes them in the sink, his entire body humming with the pleasure that radiates from his crotch. He won't come now, he won't give in, not yet. Not alone. Downstairs then, where he'll try to think of something other than the stretch and pull of latex across his skin. But each footstep is a spark that ignites his blood, each movement cranks his lust up another notch. He barely makes it down the stairs, gasping as he descends, grabbing at the rail to keep from passing out from sheer ecstasy. At the foot of the stairs he has to catch his breath, the suit is so tight, it pinches him in all the right places and his whole body aches with the need for release. Somehow he makes it across the living room to the couch. His hands are drawn to the bulge at the front of his suit as if magnetized -- he can't stop touching himself. Again and again he brings himself to the brink of orgasm, but each time he manages to bite it back, hold it in.

Wait for Master, he tells himself. It takes all the strength he has to keep that thought foremost in his mind. It'll be better together, don't do it alone, he said not to come, he said to wait ... somehow, incredibly, Stefan forces himself to wait.

Minutes pass, each one an eternity. Stefan sits on his hands as Master told him to, palms down to keep from rubbing his fingers along the crack of his ass. He watches the clock on his VCR and the green numbers blink at him like staring cats. Seven o'clock comes and goes, eight running to catch up behind it, nine looming on the horizon like a death sentence. By nine thirty every part of him beats in time with his heart. How much longer? Another moment more and he'll explode.

When the telephone rings in the kitchen, Stefan feels the front of his latex suit dampen with a quick spurt of pre-cum. "Shit!" That was too close. Let it ring, he thinks as one hand absently begins to rub at his crotch, but after several minutes of the insistent noise, a thought occurs to him. Master. Launching himself off the couch, Stefan staggers into the kitchen and answers the phone with a breathless, "Yes?"

In his ear, Master purrs, "Did I set you off?"

"Almost," Stefan admits. He leans back against the wall, sated just hearing his Master's rough voice. "Where are you?"

Master counters the question with one of his own. "What if I said I can't make it tonight?"

Discouragement floods Stefan -- he wants arms around him, kisses across his brow, someone else's fingers in him for once. Is that asking too much? "Why not?" he asks. It sounds like an accusation but he doesn't care. "I'm waiting --"

"Good boy," Master says.

"What?" Stefan asks, confused. Then it hits him and he has to ask, "Is this some sort of game to you?" The thought angers him -- what if this guy is laughing right now because he got Stefan so worked up just waiting for him to show? "Don't fuck with me, Master."

A lengthy silence stretches between them and Stefan fights the urge to apologize. He listens to Master's breath, tries to imagine what might be going on behind those crystal clear eyes. It seems like forever before Master finally speaks. "This is not a game," he says, and Stefan believes him. "It's a test. I've met lots of guys who say whatever they think I want them to say just to get fucked, and that's not what I'm looking for here. I want someone to spoil, Stefan. I want someone to worship, someone to protect. I want someone who wants me, who wants every part of me. Someone who trusts me enough to know that I will never, ever let them go. That sort of relationship isn't easy to come by."

"I know," Stefan whispers. Doesn't he want those things too? He wants to be spoiled, worshipped, protected. I want that someone you're talking about to be me.

"So this is a test," Master says again. "I want to see how far you'll go for me, how long you'll wait. I might not show up today, or tomorrow, or two weeks from now. But if you're as serious as I am about this, then you'll be ready whenever I come for you. Can you do that, Stefan? Can you wait for me?"

Stefan doesn't know. He chokes back tears that clog his throat and whimpers, "I'm so close."

Master tells him, "Wait for me. If you pass the test, Stefan, I promise to make every single one of your dreams come true. But if you fail ..."

He trails off and lets Stefan imagine what failure will bring. Another long moment passes, then Master whispers in Stefan's ear, "Don't fail me, boy. I want you."

*****

Stefan leans back against the wall as the phone slips from his nerveless fingers. When he starts to slide down to retrieve it, the latex suit squeezes against his erection with a sweet pain that pounds through him like a toothache and he doesn't dare squat down any farther just in case he comes all over the place. Pushing away from the wall, he glares at the clock on the wall above the kitchen sink and replays their conversation in his head. Did Master honestly say it'd be two weeks? Dear God, Stefan will die before then. He can picture it already: dead at thirty-two, found wrapped in plastic with a smile on his face and a hard-on to make rigor mortis look limp. Beneath his breath, Stefan mutters, "Two weeks, my ass. I can't wait that long."

Behind him, a familiar voice growls in his ear, "Me either."

Stefan starts to turn but a black hood descends over his head, blinding him. "Master?" he asks, hands fluttering to his neck as the hood tightens beneath his chin. It cuts off all sensation -- he can't see, can't hear, can't barely breathe, and the sudden rush this gives him is like a jolt of adrenaline to his heart. Strong hands grab his wrists and pin them behind his back. Very faintly, Stefan hears the metallic click of handcuffs closing into place and an experimental tug proves that his arms are secured. "Thank you," he sighs. "Master, thank you. I didn't think --"

Master interrupts him. "Two rules." He speaks close to Stefan's ear to be heard through the hood, his breath hot through the material. Latex, Stefan would recognize this heady vinyl smell anywhere. "One, don't fight the cuffs. They tighten the more you struggle and I want this to be fun."

Stefan nods. "Two," Master continues, stepping around Stefan to face him, "I'm not gagging you for a reason. This is fun for us both, you hear me? And you might be the one trussed up but you call the shots. One word -- any word, even if it's my name, or God's, or holy fuck yes -- and I stop. One word and this all ends. I walk out, it's over. You got that?"

Again, Stefan nods. Beneath the mask, he clamps his lips tight together. No words. He wants this, he needs it, he'll never talk again if he has to. Just please, he thinks as the first drop of sweat trickles down his brow. His hands itch to wipe it away but he doesn't dare move a muscle. Please.

Trailing a finger down the front of Stefan's suit, Master traces the zipper with one short nail. Lower, his finger outlines Stefan's cock, then finds the small zipper that closes off his crotch. "What do we have here?" he asks. From the sound of his voice, he's kneeling in front of Stefan now, God. When he plucks at the zipper behind Stefan's balls, teasing him, Stefan moans but doesn't speak. He won't say a word. He won't.

That zipper opens slowly, one notch at a time, an excruciating wait. Wisps of cool air sneak beneath the latex to soothe his fevered skin. Another notch, two, and his testicles slip free from the suit. Then the zipper opens a little wider and his tortured cock finally finally escapes the tight confines of its prison. "Hello again," Master says, playful. He runs his thumb along the bottom of Stefan's shaft from base to tip and kisses the damp head. Stefan bites his lower lip until he can taste the coppery tinge of blood. His control is slipping, he feels it loosening with the dribble of pre-cum he can't hold back. Master licks it away. "Not yet. I'll tell you when." His hand eases between Stefan's legs to rub at his latex-sheathed buttocks. "I want in there," he tells Stefan, tapping against the taut material that separates his finger from Stefan's quivering hole. "What do you think? Can I come in?"

Stefan clamps his mouth shut, he won't be tricked, but he gives Master a vigorous nod to show that he wants to let him in. Still, it takes years for Master to stop fondling him and stand. His hands smooth up Stefan's hips and around his waist, and when they find Stefan's bound hands, his fingers lace through Stefan's as Master pulls him into a tight embrace. That hot breath again, matching Stefan's own, this time it flutters along the face of the hood, tickles the small holes that allow Stefan to breathe, the smell of sex on it like a breath mint. Master presses his mouth to Stefan's and tongues the latex keeping them apart with an urgency that makes Stefan's knees buckle. In a harsh whisper, Master asks, "How badly do you want me?"

A wordless cry of frustration tears from Stefan's throat and Master laughs. "This is a test," he reminds Stefan, releasing him. One hand trails along Stefan's shoulder as Master circles to stand behind him. "Remember that. You're doing well. Good boy."

Master pets Stefan's back then moves lower, rubs down between his ass cheeks and up again, tantalizing. When he dips along Stefan's crack a second time, his other hand presses against the small of Stefan's back, leaning him forward. Stefan complies, his ass now sitting in Master's firm palm. A thick thumb follows the curve of his butt, feeling through the latex for an entrance, and to himself, Master mutters, "How the hell am I supposed to get in here?"

Stefan has a few ideas, but he doesn't offer them. With a displeased grunt, Master moves away to rummage through one of the kitchen drawers and Stefan almost stumbles from the sudden lack of support. "Where do you keep the knives?" Master wants to know. Beneath the hood, Stefan closes his eyes and takes a deep, shuddery breath. So many questions ... testing me, Stefan reminds himself. He hears Master opening drawers, cursing when he can't find what he's looking for. You're here for me, Stefan wants to say. Tear through the suit with your teeth if you have to, just get back to me.

"A-ha." A drawer closes and Stefan waits to be touched. When Master returns, though, he grabs Stefan's upper arm in a stern fist and pulls him along to another spot in the kitchen. Stefan follows, obedient -- what else can he do? He loves this attention, the details, the thought behind each movement. The latex binds him into his own inner world where Master looms as the only reality. His hands are all Stefan can feel; his voice, all Stefan hears. Without sight, his other senses have taken over and he can even sense Master breathing, as if they're both part of the same beast.

When Master stops, Stefan bumps into him. "Down," Master commands, the strong hand against Stefan's back forcing him to bend at the waist until he finds himself facedown on the kitchen table. Booted feet kick his legs apart, spreading them wide. Master rubs at his ass, seeking entry. "Let me at this apple bottom of yours," he says, stroking between Stefan's legs. Once or twice the tips of his fingers brush Stefan's balls and he gasps. Now, he thinks, the word a litany in his mind. Now, take me now, Jesus Master, now! If only he could beg out loud ...

Finding a spot he likes, Master pinches the latex and pulls it away from Stefan's skin. "Hold still," he cautions. Stefan hears the snip snip of scissors and catches his breath, his mind a whirl of white panic. What -- "Trust me."

The scissors pierce the latex easily. For the briefest moment Stefan feels a cold blade of steel on his heated flesh, then the latex tears enough for Master to throw the scissors aside and work at the material with his hands. The latex splits a bit more, gaping above Stefan's puckered hole. "There you are," Master says with a laugh. Stefan laughs too, but the sound dissolves into a sharp intake of breath when Master's hot tongue licks beneath the latex to taste him. His legs slide wider apart, he sinks into the table, his entire body numbs from desire and lust and his cock stands tall as Master rims him. "So tender," he sighs, the words kissed into Stefan's buttocks. His tongue delves under the latex to touch the base of Stefan's sac and saliva trickles down in its wake. Soft, maddening, Master's tongue swabs Stefan's ass, wetting him, readying him.

Then he stands, his touch gone, and Stefan sobs with need. "Puh --" he starts, please, but he catches himself in time and bites back the rest. Please. He hears a belt buckle hit the floor and a second later, the cool tip of a huge cock pokes his ass. His sphincter contracts, his muscles work to draw Master in, but he's no longer in charge here. Master holds off, probably enjoying the sight of a half-hidden ass flexing beneath his dick, who knows? Time stops, folds in on itself, turns back, and Stefan's crying now, hot tears burn the hood that blinds him, please. When one finger finally eases inside him, he lets out an angry scream like a spoiled child. NOW!

Finally Master eases his thick cock into Stefan. "Shh," he murmurs, rubbing Stefan's back with one hand as he glides inside. His other hand finds Stefan's dick and blunt fingers roll off the cock ring that holds him back. "There you go. How's that feel?" Released, thank you, Stefan mouths silently. He thrusts into Master's fist, finding a rhythm that matches Master's own slow fuck. He's earth-shattering, this man -- he drives into Stefan all the way to the base of his shaft, holds the position a moment or two, long enough to send bursts of pleasure shattering through Stefan like a million shards of glass, then pulls out until the head of his cock almost slips free. In again, harder, the wait a little longer, then the mind-bending slow draw back out. In, out, a steady pace. Stefan comes immediately, slicking Master's hand with his juices, and lets himself be coaxed to a second climax. He gasps with each entry, sucking in the latex that covers his mouth until the inside of the hood is slick with sweat and spit, it presses against his face with a hot dampness. He moans with desire, his throat thick with lust, but he doesn't dare say a word because he never, ever wants this to end.

*****

Some time later, Master loosens the hood and pulls it up over the bridge of Stefan's nose. Fresh air floods his senses, stunning him. Then warm lips cover his in a tender kiss. "You can speak now," Master murmurs against his mouth. "You passed the test."

Stefan gulps in Master's breath. It takes a second or two for him to find something, anything, to say. When he can, he asks, "What's that mean?"

"You're mine."

Another kiss, just as loving as the first. Master licks Stefan's lips before parting them, seeking his tongue. Stefan pours everything he has into the kiss, the only touch he feels -- everything from his waist down is over-stimulated and buzzes with a faint numbness. Even his shoulders have lost all sensation, and he no longer feels the handcuffs. His fingers could have fallen off for all he knows. Never has he felt this hollow, this empty, this used. Like a well-worn tool, or a favorite toy. Master rubs the back of his neck, kisses him hungrily, whispers that he's been a good boy, he's done well. Stefan melts beneath the touch.

When the hood finally comes all the way off, Stefan has to blink back the stark light that blinds him. Both hands on the clock on the wall point at the twelve but that means nothing to him. Midnight, noon? He doesn't know, doesn't care. Master helps him stand, then turns Stefan around to face him. Disappointment stabs through him when he notices Master is fully dressed in a long-sleeved black latex shirt and pants so tight, they look painted on. If his ass didn't throb from Master's earlier ministrations, Stefan could almost believe the man just arrived. In a petulant voice, he asks, "You're going?"

"I don't want to," Master concedes. His long blonde hair is tied at his nape, just the way Stefan remembers it, and even in the bright kitchen light, his eyes are as clear as glass. Picking at the zipper pull under Stefan's chin, Master asks, "Can you handle more?" Stefan nods quickly, yes. Fuck the hour, and fuck work tomorrow, as long as this man fucks him again, and again, and again. A small smile curves Master's thin lips. "How about a little game?"

"Sure," Stefan agrees, eager to please.

Master's hand drifts down Stefan's chest, his gaze following. "There's only one key to those cuffs," Master tells him. "I have it on me. Somewhere. To play the game, you must undress me first, then probe around until you find it." Stefan grins as Master adds, "Using only your mouth, your tongue, and your teeth."

Stefan's abused cock jerks to attention at the promise of a long night ahead. He can't wait to find out what he wins when he finds the key.