Chapter 7: The First Taste of Submission
Victor didn't let go of his hand as they walked.
The hallway stretched long and dark, lit only by sconces that threw amber light against the walls. Thomas's bare feet made no sound on the marble. He was still full from dinner, still warm from the shower, still wrapped in the ridiculous kitten sweater that hung past his hips.
He felt like a doll. Something small and fragile that had been dressed up and placed in a house too big for him.
Victor stopped in front of a door.
Not the one they'd come through earlier. This was different. Darker wood. Heavier. Victor pushed it open without ceremony, and the smell hit Thomas first. Amber. Whiskey. Something else, something warm and close, like skin that had been lying in the sun.
The bedroom was obscene.
Not because of what was in it, but because of what it represented. The bed alone could have fit four people. Silk sheets the color of dried blood. Marble floors polished so fine that Thomas could see his own reflection staring back at him, distorted and pale.
A chaise lounge sat in the middle of the room, low and ornate, its velvet cushions still holding the shape of whoever had sat there last.
Thomas stopped in the doorway.
Victor turned.
"What's wrong?"
Thomas shook his head. His throat was tight. "Nothing. It's just... a lot."
"It's just a room."
Thomas wanted to laugh. Just a room. Just a room that probably cost more than every apartment he'd ever slept in combined. Just a room with sheets that felt like water and floors that gleamed like a frozen lake.
"It's not a lot," Victor said again, softer this time. "Come here."
Thomas came.
Victor led him to the bed and sat on the edge, his legs slightly apart. He pulled Thomas between his knees, and Thomas stood there, trembling, looking down at the man who had taken him from the streets.
Victor's hands rested on Thomas's hips.
"Look at me."
Thomas looked.
"I need you to understand something," Victor said. "There are rules in my house. Simple ones. Easy ones. But they matter."
Thomas noded before Victor finished the sentence. He always nodded. It was instinct. When someone explained the rules, you agreed. You agreed so they wouldn't hurt you. You agreed so they wouldn't leave you.
"The first rule," Victor said, "is obedience."
Thomas nodded again, faster this time.
Victor's thumb traced a slow circle on his hip. "Do you know what obedience means?"
"It means doing what you say."
"Yes." Victor's voice was low, patient, like he was explaining something to a child. "It means doing what I say, when I say it, without question. It means trusting me to know what's best for you."
Thomas felt something twist in his chest. He'd heard those words before. From foster parents. From men on the street who promised him shelter and gave him something else entirely.
But Victor wasn't those men.
Victor had cleaned him. Fed him. Dressed him in soft clothes and hadn't asked for anything in return. Victor had seen the scars and the bruises and hadn't flinched.
"Okay," Thomas said. "I can do that."
"I know you can."
Victor's hands slid from his hips to the hem of the tiny shorts. He tugged them down slowly, letting them pool at Thomas's ankles. Thomas stepped out of them, and now he was standing there in nothing but the oversized sweater.
His face burned.
Victor looked at him. Not at his face. At his body. At the pale legs, the small feet, the way the sweater fell to mid-thigh and left everything else bare.
"On your knees," Victor said.
There was a cushion. Velvet. Dark green. It sat on the floor between Victor's feet, and Thomas lowered himself onto it because what else was he supposed to do? Because saying no wasn't an option. Because Victor's voice had been calm and clear and Thomas's body obeyed before his brain even caught up.
He knelt.
The marble bit into his knees through the thin cushion. He put his hands on his thighs and looked up at Victor, and Victor looked down at him, and the power in that angle was almost suffocating.
"Good," Victor said. "You're doing so well."
The praise hit Thomas like a slap. His eyes stung. He blinked hard.
Victor leaned forward. His hand came to rest on Thomas's cheek, warm and solid. "Have you ever done this before?"
Thomas shook his head.
"No?"
"Never."
Victor's thumb stroked his cheekbone. "That's okay. I'll teach you."
Thomas didn't know what he meant. He knew something, had heard things, had listened to other boys talk. But it had always sounded like something that happened to other people. Not to him. Not to someone who flinched when people touched him.
Victor unzipped his pants.
Thomas's breath caught.
He didn't look away. He couldn't. Victor's cock was thick and dark, already half-hard, and it sat in front of Thomas's face like a challenge.
"Put your hand on it."
Thomas's hand came up, shaking. He wrapped his fingers around it.
The skin was soft. Softer than he expected. Warm and smooth and strangely human.
Victor made a low sound in his throat. "Now your mouth."
Thomas hesitated.
It was only a second. Just a breath.
But Victor noticed. His hand caught Thomas's chin, tilted his face up.
"You're okay," he said. "I'm not going to hurt you. Just take your time."
Thomas nodded. He licked his lips. He leaned forward, and he wrapped his mouth around the head.
Salt. Skin. A taste that was strange and new, nothing like food, nothing like anything.
Victor exhaled slowly. His hand moved to the back of Thomas's head, not pushing, just resting there.
"Just a little more."
Thomas took more.
His mouth stretched. His jaw ached. He didn't know what he was doing, just moved his mouth the way he thought he should, licked the way he thought he should.
Victor's fingers tangled in his hair.
"You're doing good," Victor said. His voice was rough now, strained. "Just like that. Just like that."
Thomas wanted to be good. He wanted to hear that again. The praise was a drug, flooding his chest with warmth.
He went deeper.
Too deep.
His throat seized, and he pulled back with a gasping sound, coughing hard enough that tears jumped to his eyes. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, mortified. He'd failed. He'd ruined it. Victor would be angry now.
But Victor's hand just moved to his cheek again, tilting his face up.
"You're okay."
Thomas's vision blurred. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I can try again—"
"Stop."
Thomas stopped.
Victor looked at him. His green eyes were dark, but not cold. Not angry.
"It was your first time," Victor said. "You did good. You just need practice."
Thomas swallowed. His throat hurt. His eyes were wet. "That's okay?"
"That's okay."
Victor stood, and for a moment Thomas thought he was leaving. He thought Victor was walking away, had finally realized Thomas wasn't worth the trouble, was going to send him back to the street where he belonged.
Instead, Victor reached down and pulled him up.
Thomas stumbled, legs weak from kneeling, and Victor caught him. Held him. His arms wrapped around Thomas's back and pulled him against his chest.
"You're shaking," Victor murmured into his hair.
Thomas couldn't respond. He was shaking. He was crying. He was so tired, and so full, and so confused.
Victor held him in the middle of that ridiculous, decadent bedroom, and didn't let go.
"Sleep," he said. "You need to sleep."
He guided Thomas to the bed. The sheets were cool and slick, silky against Thomas's bare legs. He sank into them, and the pillow smelled like Victor.
Victor pulled the covers up around him. His hand smoothed Thomas's hair back from his forehead.
"Stay," Thomas whispered. He didn't know why. He didn't know where it came from. The word just fell out of his mouth like something broken.
Victor paused.
Then he climbed into the bed, still half-dressed, and lay down beside him.
"I'm here," he said.
Thomas turned toward him. He pressed his face against Victor's chest, felt the warmth of his body, the steady beat of his heart. The world went quiet.
He was still hard. Still aching from the blowjob he'd failed at. But he was too tired to care. Too tired to do anything but breathe.
And when sleep finally came, it came like water, pulling him under.
Victor stayed awake.
He looked down at the boy curled against his chest—the pale face, the wet lashes, the ridiculous sweater that was now bunched up around his waist. He looked at the bruises on his thighs. The scars on his arms. The fragile bones that probably hadn't known a full meal in weeks.
He'd come close, tonight. Close to pushing too hard. He'd seen it in Thomas's eyes when he pulled back, the panic, the certainty that he was about to be hurt.
That was the thing about Thomas.
He was broken in a way Victor hadn't expected. Not hard-broken, not the kind where the pieces had calcified into something sharp and jagged. Soft-broken. The kind where the edges were still raw and bleeding.
Victor's hand came up, traced the curve of Thomas's shoulder.
He'd have to be careful.
He'd have to go slower than he wanted. He'd have to wait.
But that was fine.
He was a patient man when he needed to be.
And Thomas wasn't going anywhere.