Chapter 2: Aftercare Turns Carnal
Jonathan lay very still, listening to the distant click of a door closing. The apartment was a cathedral of silence. His body felt unfamiliar to him—a used, hollowed-out vessel, aching in places he’d never considered before. The sweat had cooled on his skin, raising a new layer of goosebumps. He pulled the duvet up to his chin, the rich fabric smelling faintly of Alistair’s sandalwood and now, underneath, of sex and salt.
He didn’t know how long he stayed like that, staring at the geometric shadows the city lights cast on the ceiling. His mind was a jumble of shattered images: the blindfold’s sudden black, the brutal fullness, the crude, thrilling words growled into his ear. A part of him was horrified. A larger, more primal part was humming, satiated in a way he’d never known possible. The emptiness inside wasn’t just physical; it was a quiet space where his constant anxiety had been, momentarily, fucked into oblivion.
He heard a faint, melodic clinking from somewhere deeper in the apartment. Glassware. Ice.
Pushing himself up on shaky arms, he looked around. His clothes were a sad pile on the polished floor. The leather restraints lay coiled on the bedside table like sleeping snakes. He felt a fresh, hot jolt of shame—and arousal—seeing them there. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, wincing at the tender ache between his thighs. He needed water. Or to leave. He wasn’t sure which.
The en-suite bathroom was a study in marble and steam. A large shower stall, glass-walled, still fogged from earlier use. He avoided his reflection in the vast mirror, instead gulping water directly from the tap. The cold was a shock. He splashed some on his face, but it didn’t wash away the feeling of being marked.
When he padded back into the bedroom, Alistair was there.
He stood by the grand piano, a fresh whiskey in hand, wearing a dark silk robe that clung to the solid lines of his torso. He was looking out at the view, his profile etched against the glass. He didn’t turn.
“Feeling more human?” he asked.
“I’m not sure,” Jonathan said, his voice still rough. He stood awkwardly, naked by the bed, unsure if he should cover himself.
Alistair finally glanced over. His gaze was a physical sweep, lingering on the faint red marks on Jonathan’s wrists, the bloom of a bruise on his hip. “You should see yourself,” he said, a note of dark appreciation in his tone. “You wear it well.”
Jonathan didn’t know what to say to that. He crossed his arms over his chest.
“Regret is boring, Jonathan,” Alistair said, as if reading his thoughts. He took a slow sip. “A useless emotion. What we did was a transaction. You wanted an experience. I provided it. There’s no need for post-coital angst.”
“It wasn’t just a transaction,” Jonathan heard himself say, surprising them both.
Alistair’s eyebrow arched. “No? What was it, then?”
“I don’t know. But it wasn’t that.” He was trembling again, but not from cold. A defiant energy was pushing through the haze. “You don’t blindfold someone and talk to them like that if it’s just a transaction.”
A slow smile touched Alistair’s lips. He set his glass down on the piano with a soft click and walked toward Jonathan. The silk of his robe whispered with each step. He stopped just inches away, the scent of whiskey and expensive soap enveloping Jonathan. He didn’t touch him.
“You’re right,” Alistair conceded, his voice low. “A transaction implies reciprocity. This wasn’t that. This was a gift. My expertise for your submission. And you were exquisite.” He reached out then, not to grab, but to trace the line of Jonathan’s jaw with a single fingertip. “But the gift has been given. The night doesn’t have to be over.”
Jonathan’s breath hitched. His body, traitorously, was responding again. His cock, soft and spent minutes ago, began to thicken against his thigh. The sheer, undeniable truth of his own hunger was the most shocking thing of all.
Alistair saw it. Of course he did. His gray eyes dropped, and the smile turned predatory. “See? The body doesn’t lie.” He let his hand fall to Jonathan’s chest, palm flat over his racing heart. “On the bed. On your back.”
The command was a low voltage straight to Jonathan’s core. He moved without thought, settling back onto the rumpled duvet. The texture against his sensitive skin was a vivid reminder. He watched as Alistair untied the silk belt of his robe and let it slide from his shoulders. He was already hard, his cock thick and heavy, a clear bead of moisture glistening at the tip.
Alistair climbed onto the bed, his movements deliberate, and pushed Jonathan’s thighs apart, settling between them. He didn’t kiss him. He didn’t stroke him. He simply looked, his gaze raking over Jonathan’s exposed body, the vulnerable spread of his legs, the pink, swollen entrance still slick from their earlier coupling.
Then he bent his head.
The first touch of his tongue was a lightning strike. Not a kiss, but a slow, wet, deliberate lick from his perineum up to his hole. Jonathan cried out, his hands fisting in the duvet. Alistair did it again, and again, each flat stroke more focused than the last, softening him, making him yield.
“Still so open,” Alistair murmured against his skin, his breath hot. “Still mine.”
Then he pushed his tongue inside.
Jonathan arched off the bed with a strangled gasp. It was an intrusion entirely different from his cock—insistent, probing, deeply intimate. Alistair ate him out with a ruthless dedication, his tongue fucking in and out of his loosened hole, lapping at the combined slick of lube and his own spend from earlier. The obscene, wet sounds filled the room. Jonathan was babbling, tears pricking his eyes again from the overwhelming sensation. It was filthy. Degrading. He’d never felt so utterly possessed.
“Tastes like me,” Alistair growled, pulling back for a moment to look up at Jonathan’s wrecked face. “You’re full of me.” He dove back in, his tongue spearing deeper, his stubble rough against Jonathan’s tender skin.
Jonathan’s cock was painfully hard, leaking onto his stomach. He was thrusting his hips uselessly into the air, desperate for friction. “Please… Alistair, please, I need…”
Alistair lifted his head. His lips and chin were wet. “You need what? You need to come? Or you need to be fucked?”
“Both,” Jonathan sobbed, past pride. “I need you to fuck me. Please. Hard. Like before.”
“Since you ask so nicely.”
Alistair moved up his body, his weight a comforting anchor. He positioned himself, the head of his cock nudging against Jonathan’s well-used entrance. He didn’t use more lube; the saliva and residual slickness were enough. He pushed in with a single, relentless thrust, burying himself to the hilt in one smooth, brutal motion.
Jonathan screamed. The stretch was sharper this time, more aware, the friction intense and immediate. He was so much more sensitive, every nerve ending screaming. Alistair didn’t give him time to adjust. He set a punishing pace from the start, his hips driving forward with a mechanical, focused power. The bed frame knocked against the wall in a steady, rhythmic thud.
“This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” Alistair grunted, his composure fraying. His hands gripped Jonathan’s hips, fingers digging in hard enough to leave new bruises. “To be used. To be a hole for a real man. To finally stop thinking.”
“Yes!” Jonathan choked out. Each thrust knocked the air from his lungs, each withdrawal a vacuum of need. “God, yes!”
“Then take it. Take every fucking inch.”
Alistair leaned down, changing the angle, and suddenly the cock inside him was grinding directly against his prostate with piston-like precision. Jonathan’s vision whited out. Pleasure, raw and electric, detonated through him in continuous waves. He was sobbing, begging, completely incoherent, his body convulsing around the invasion.
Alistair’s rhythm became erratic, desperate. His breath was hot and ragged against Jonathan’s neck. “Gonna fill you up again,” he snarled. “Mark you inside and out. You’ll feel me for days.”
The words tipped Jonathan over the edge. His orgasm ripped through him, silent this time, a seismic shudder that clenched his entire body. His cock jerked, spilling hot stripes across his stomach and chest in weak pulses.
Feeling Jonathan tighten around him, Alistair let out a guttural roar and slammed home one last time, his body locking as he emptied himself deep inside with a series of hot, pulsing jets.
Collapse. Weight. Heat. The smell of sweat and sex and exhaustion.
Alistair rested his forehead against Jonathan’s shoulder, his breathing slowly evening out. After a minute, he pulled out and rolled onto his back beside him. They lay in silence, shoulders touching, staring at the ceiling.
Jonathan’s whole world had condensed to the liquid ache between his legs and the warm trickle on his thigh. His mind was quiet, utterly blank.
After a long while, Alistair spoke, his voice neutral, conversational. “I have a business trip. Tokyo. I leave tomorrow for ten days.”
Jonathan blinked. The words took a moment to parse. “Oh.”
“When I return,” Alistair continued, as if outlining a casual plan, “I’d like to see you again. This doesn’t have to be complicated. It works precisely because it isn’t.”
Jonathan turned his head to look at him. Alistair was already looking back, his expression unreadable, a man completely in control once more. This was the offer. Not romance. Not dating. This. The silence, the city lights, the brutal, beautiful taking.
He thought of his dorm, his textbooks, the constant, grating performance of normalcy. He thought of the hollow, echoing quiet that had been inside him for years, and how, for the last hour, it had been gloriously, brutally filled.
“Okay,” Jonathan said, his voice a dry whisper.
Alistair nodded once. “Good.” He sat up, swinging his legs off the bed. “The shower is through there. Use whatever you need. I’ll call a car for you.”
He stood, retrieved his robe, and walked out of the bedroom without a backward glance.
Jonathan lay there, feeling the slow drip of Alistair’s come leaking out of him. He knew he should feel cheap. Used. He did, a little. But beneath that, stronger, was a profound and unsettling sense of peace. He had stepped into the abyss, and it had held him. It had fucked him raw and promised to do it again.
He got up, his legs unsteady, and walked to the bathroom. This time, he looked in the mirror. A stranger looked back—flushed, bruised, eyes dark with a knowledge he could never unknow. He turned on the shower and stepped under the hot, needle-sharp spray, letting it wash over him, knowing some things would not wash off.
The water scalded his skin, turning it pink, but couldn’t penetrate the deep, internal warmth left by Alistair’s possession. He used the expensive, herbaceous soap mechanically, scrubbing at the dried streaks on his stomach, the smell of sex and sweat yielding to sandalwood. His hole, when he touched it gently, was puffy and sensitized, a stark physical ledger of the night.
He stayed under the spray until the hot water began to falter. Wrapping himself in a plush towel, he avoided the mirror this time. His clothes, when he picked them up from the floor, felt absurdly thin and childish. Dressing was a clumsy, silent ritual in the empty bedroom. The penthouse was profoundly quiet, just the low hum of the city through glass.
Alistair was in the living room, standing by the grand piano, already dressed in a crisp charcoal suit, checking his phone. He looked up as Jonathan entered. “Car’s five minutes out. It’ll be downstairs.”
“Okay.” Jonathan’s voice was small. He shifted his weight, the denim of his jeans chafing uncomfortably. “So, Tokyo?”
“Ten days.” Alistair slipped the phone into his pocket. “I’ll text you when I’m back.”
The casual assumption of it, the sheer normality, was more disorienting than the violence of the sex. Jonathan just nodded.
“You should eat something,” Alistair said, not unkindly, but as a clinical afterthought. “You’ll crash otherwise.”
The elevator ride down was a smooth, silent plummet. The black car idled at the curb. The driver didn’t speak. Jonathan slid into the cool leather backseat, the scent of it alien compared to the apartment’s dense aroma. As the city slid by, the physical reality settled into him like a sediment. A deep soreness throbbed with every heartbeat. The memory of the blindfold’s darkness, the feeling of being utterly known and completely anonymous, made his throat tighten.
His dorm room was a closet, stale with leftover pizza and loneliness. He locked the door and stripped again, standing in the weak light from a streetlamp. In the small, clouded mirror, he examined the bruise on his hip—a perfect, dark oval where Alistair’s fingers had ground into bone. He traced it. A part of him hoped it would last, a secret badge.
He slept for twelve hours, a deep, comatose sleep devoid of dreams.
The next ten days were a study in dissonance. He attended lectures, took notes, laughed with classmates. He was a ghost moving through a sunlit world. His real life existed in the phantom ache that persisted, a low hum reminding him of his own capacity for surrender. He’d catch himself staring into space, feeling the ghost of a tongue against his rim, and he’d shift in his seat, heat flooding his face.
Alistair texted exactly once, a week in: a picture of a neon-lit Tokyo alley at night, no caption. Jonathan stared at it for an hour, his mouth dry. He didn’t reply. The silence was part of the deal.
The night Alistair returned, the text was terse: 10 PM.
Jonathan’s hands shook as he dressed in simple dark jeans and a sweater. He arrived at 9:58, his heart a frantic animal in his chest. The sleek black door swung open before he could knock.
Alistair looked tired, jet lag etching fine lines beside his eyes, but his gaze was as sharp as ever. He wore a loose linen shirt and trousers. He didn’t smile. “Come in.”
The apartment was the same, yet different. A suitcase stood open in the hallway. The air smelled of distant airports and stale coffee. Alistair went to the bar and poured two whiskeys, handing one to Jonathan. “How were your days?” he asked, as if they were acquaintances.
“Fine. Normal,” Jonathan managed, the whiskey burning a path down his throat.
“Good.” Alistair studied him over the rim of his glass. “I thought about that mouth of yours. On the flight. How quiet you get when you’re being fucked.”
Jonathan’s glass almost slipped. He set it down.
“Show me,” Alistair said, his voice dropping. “Get on your knees and show me what you thought about.”
It wasn’t a request. The command, so blunt after days of mundane silence, unraveled Jonathan completely. He sank to the polished floor, the cold hard surface a shock through his jeans. Alistair unbuttoned his trousers, freeing his cock. It was half-hard, thickening rapidly as Jonathan looked at it.
“Open,” Alistair said.
Jonathan leaned forward, taking the head into his mouth. The taste was clean skin and salt. He relaxed his jaw, trying to remember what he’d read, what he’d fantasized. He bobbed his head tentatively.
“Use your tongue,” Alistair instructed, his hand not touching Jonathan’s head, just resting on his own hip. “And look at me.”
Jonathan’s eyes flickered up. Alistair watched him with a chilling intensity, a scientist observing an experiment. Jonathan swirled his tongue around the shaft, under the crown, and Alistair’s eyelids lowered slightly. Jonathan took him deeper, feeling the head nudge the back of his throat. He gagged, tears springing to his eyes.
“Breathe through your nose,” Alistair murmured. “Take it. You wanted this, didn’t you? To service a man.”
Jonathan whimpered around the fullness, the admission vibrating through his skull. He pushed further, letting his throat loosen, until his nose pressed into the coarse hair at the base. He held there, eyes streaming, before pulling back with a wet gasp.
“Better.” Alistair’s composure was fracturing. A muscle ticked in his jaw. “Now fucking suck it. Like you mean it.”
Jonathan obeyed, setting a rhythm, hollowing his cheeks, one hand coming up to stroke the base. The obscene, slick sounds filled the quiet room. He was achingly hard, pinned by Alistair’s gaze. This was different from being taken—it was active worship, and it was devastating.
“You’re a natural cocksucker,” Alistair grunted, his hips beginning to thrust shallowly into the wet heat. “Such a pretty, desperate mouth. Gonna come down your throat.”
The words, the building tension in Alistair’s thighs, pushed Jonathan faster. He wanted that, the ultimate claiming. Alistair’s hand finally fisted in his hair, not guiding, just holding, anchoring himself.
“Swallow it all,” Alistair commanded, his voice ragged.
The first pulse was hot and bitter, flooding Jonathan’s mouth. He swallowed convulsively, again and again, as Alistair fucked his throat through the last waves, until he was soft and spent. Jonathan kept him in his mouth, gently, until Alistair pulled him off.
Jonathan knelt back, panting, come and saliva slick on his chin.
Alistair looked down at him, his breathing uneven. He tucked himself away. “Clean yourself up. Then get on the bed. I want to see if you’ve tightened up.”
In the bedroom, Alistair didn’t bother with restraints. He pushed Jonathan onto his stomach, pulled his jeans and underwear down to his knees, and spread his cheeks. Jonathan buried his face in the duvet, the position one of complete exposure.
“Still looks used,” Alistair observed, a thumb rubbing roughly over the furl. “Good.”
The lube was cold. A single finger pushed in, then two, scissoring him open with a ruthless efficiency. It burned, the ten-day hiatus making him feel almost virginal again. Jonathan muffled a cry into the bedding.
“Relax,” Alistair said, not unkindly, his other hand stroking Jonathan’s flank. “It’s just me. Your body remembers.”
And it did. On the third finger, a jolt of pleasure sparked through the discomfort. Jonathan pushed back against the intrusion, a silent plea.
Alistair replaced his fingers with the blunt, solid head of his cock. He entered him in a slow, continuous invasion, letting Jonathan feel every splitting inch. The stretch was exquisite, a painful fullness that morphed into a deep, satisfying ache. When he was fully seated, he leaned over, covering Jonathan’s body with his own, his mouth near Jonathan’s ear.
“This is what you needed, wasn’t it?” he whispered, his voice gravel. “All those normal days. You were just waiting to be filled again.”
“Yes,” Jonathan hissed, the word torn from him.
Alistair fucked him then, a steady, penetrating rhythm that was less about violence and more about possession, about reclaiming the territory. Each thrust rubbed perfectly inside him, building a coil of tension so intense Jonathan thought he might break. He was rutting against the duvet, his own pleasure mounting in tandem.
“Come for me,” Alistair ordered, his pace quickening, becoming harder. “Come untouched. Show me what this does to you.”
The command, the relentless stimulation, the sheer psychological force of Alistair’s will, shattered him. Jonathan’s orgasm erupted without a hand ever touching his cock, a silent, convulsive wave that left him trembling and blank.
Alistair followed seconds later, a low groan escaping him as he pulsed deep inside, his weight collapsing fully onto Jonathan’s back.
They lay like that, a damp, tangled heap. Alistair was the first to move, rolling off. He didn’t leave the bed this time. He just lay on his back, staring at the ceiling.
“Stay,” he said, after a long silence. The word hung in the air, an unexpected deviation from the script.
Jonathan, his face still pressed into the fabric, turned his head. “What?”
“Stay the night.” Alistair’s voice was quiet, stripped of its usual command. It sounded almost like a question.
The momentum of the evening shifted, teetering on something new and uncertain. Jonathan, sore, emptied, and more himself than he’d ever been, simply nodded into the dark.