Chapter 9: The Kneeling
The walk back was a silent procession through sleeping streets. Taichi moved like a man in a dream, the echo of his own heartbeat louder than the distant traffic. The borrowed black shirt felt like a uniform now, the fabric whispering against his skin with every step, a constant reminder of Yamato’s earlier claim. Shows less. When things get messy.
Yamato’s dorm room, when they entered, was a cavern of shadows. The only light came from the streetlamp outside, slicing through the blinds and painting stripes across the grand piano and the chaotic sheets of music on the walls. The air smelled of wood polish and something faintly metallic.
The door clicked shut.
“Kneel.”
Yamato’s voice was a soft command in the dark. No preamble. No discussion.
Taichi’s knees found the worn patch of carpet beside the bed. The rough weave pressed into his skin through his jeans. He leaned forward, as instructed, until his forehead touched the cool, gritty fabric of the mattress. He closed his eyes. His world became the sound of his own breathing, the scent of laundering, and the waiting.
Behind him, he heard the rustle of clothing. The slide of a zipper. The soft thud of a belt hitting the floor. Each sound was a hammer blow to his composure. His cock, trapped and aching, twitched painfully against the denim. He wanted to squirm, to relieve the pressure, but he stayed frozen, his forehead glued to the mattress.
A long, silent minute passed. Then another.
The anticipation was a blade, drawn slowly across his nerves. He bit his lip until he tasted copper.
Finally, a touch. Not on his skin, but on the back of his neck. Yamato’s fingers, cool and deliberate, slid beneath the collar of the black shirt, tracing the line of his spine upward to tangle in his hair. He didn’t pull, just held. A point of contact.
“Still green?” The question was a whisper, a formality laced with absolute authority.
“Green,” Taichi breathed into the mattress, the word muffled.
Yamato’s grip tightened in his hair, just for a second. A reward. “Good.”
Then the hands were on his shoulders, broad and inescapable, pushing him down. Not hard, but with an implacable force that flattened Taichi’s chest against the bed. He turned his head to the side, gasping. One hand pinioned him between the shoulder blades while the other went to the button of his jeans. The denim was dragged roughly down his hips, taking his boxers with it, the fabric catching on his erection before releasing it into the cool air. A choked noise escaped him. He was completely exposed from the waist down, bent over the edge of the bed, his ass in the air.
The silk scarf—a deep, blood-red—was produced from somewhere. Yamato took Taichi’s right wrist, pulling it up and back to the sturdy wooden bedpost. He looped the material with practiced, efficient motions, securing it with a knot that was firm, but allowed blood to flow. He repeated the process with the left wrist. The binding wasn’t painful. It was definitive. Taichi tested the give, a faint rustle of silk, and a shudder of complete submission wracked his frame. He was tied. Spread.
Yamato’s palm smoothed over the curve of his ass, a proprietary assessment. “Look at you. Already dripping onto my sheets.” A finger ran through the wetness on Taichi’s inner thigh, collecting it. “You’ve been thinking about this since the bar. Since I had my hand on you.”
Taichi couldn’t deny it. He moaned, pushing his hips back in a silent plea.
The first touch against his hole was a shock of cool slickness. Lube. Yamato spread it with his thumb, circling the tight ring of muscle, applying pressure without entering. Taichi shuddered, his entire body clenching.
“Beg.” The word was flat.
Taichi’s pride was a faint, dying ember. “Please.”
“Please, what?”
“Please… touch me. Please.”
The thumb pressed inward, just the tip, a delicious, stretching burn. Taichi cried out, shoving back against it, chasing the sensation.
“Greedy,” Yamato murmured, but he pressed deeper, his thumb sinking to the knuckle in one slow, inexorable motion.
Taichi saw white. The intrusion was shocking, perfect. He panted, drooling onto the mattress.
Yamato worked him open with that single digit, twisting, scissoring gently before withdrawing. Then two fingers, pressing in together, stretching him wider. The burn intensified, a bright, clean pain that melted into blinding pleasure as Yamato crooked his fingers, searching. He found the spot on the third slow thrust, a brush of fingertips against that swollen, sensitive bundle of nerves deep inside.
Taichi screamed. His body bowed against the restraints, his cock leaking a steady stream of pre-come onto the carpet below.
“There it is,” Yamato said, his voice husky with want. He rubbed the spot again, a relentless, punishing rhythm that had Taichi sobbing. He added a third finger, the stretch now a full, burning ache that Taichi craved more than air. He was being remade from the inside out, hollowed and prepared.
The fingers vanished.
The emptiness was a torture. Taichi whined, straining against the silk ties.
He heard the tear of a foil packet, the smooth slide of Yamato sheathing himself. Then the blunt, thick head of Yamato’s cock was pressing against him, replacing the memory of his fingers. It was so much bigger. Taichi stopped breathing.
“Breathe out,” Yamato commanded, his own voice strained.
Taichi exhaled in a shuddering rush, and Yamato pushed.
It was an invasion. A glorious, devastating conquest. The stretch was beyond anything Taichi had ever felt—a burning, tearing fullness that obliterated thought. Yamato sank in by agonizing, magnificent degrees, until his hips were flush against Taichi’s ass, until he was buried to the hilt. He stopped, his body a hard, trembling line over Taichi’s back.
“Fuck,” Yamato snarled, the controlled composer utterly gone. “You’re so fucking tight. Like you were made for this.”
Taichi could only gasp, impaled, split open. The pain was subsiding, transmuting into a deep, intolerable pressure that demanded movement.
Yamato gave it to him.
He pulled back until just the tip remained, and then slammed home.
Taichi’s world shattered. Yamato set a brutal, piston-like pace, each drive hammering into his prostate with unerring accuracy. The bedframe groaned in time with their bodies. The slap of skin on skin, the wet, filthy sound of penetration, Taichi’s ragged cries—they filled the room, a symphony of abandon.
“You’re mine,” Yamato grunted, punctuating each word with a deep, grounding thrust. His hand came down on Taichi’s ass, a sharp, stinging smack that lit up his nerves. “Every fucking part of you. Your pride. Your cock. This perfect, tight hole. Say it.”
The words were torn from Taichi’s throat, between sobs. “I’m yours! Yamato, I’m yours, I’m yours—”
“Who do you belong to?”
“You! Only you!”
Yamato’s rhythm faltered, his control snapping. He fucked into Taichi with a wild, desperate fury, his fingers digging bruises into Taichi’s hips. The coil in Taichi’s gut, wound tight for hours, began its inevitable, catastrophic unwind. His orgasm approached like a train derailing, unstoppable, terrifying.
“Can I—?” he begged, incoherent. “Please, can I come?”
“Come,” Yamato ordered, his voice raw. “Come all over the floor like the desperate slut you are.”
The permission unleashed him. With a broken shout, Taichi came, his body seizing, his cock pulsing jets of come onto the carpet beneath him in ragged stripes. The climax was endless, wracked through with the unbearable fullness of Yamato still pounding into him, every thrust milking another spasm from his spent body.
Feeling Taichi clamp down around him, Yamato lost his final vestige of control. He drove in one final, deep time, burying himself with a choked, guttural roar, his own release pumping into the condom deep inside Taichi. He collapsed forward, his weight a welcome burden, his breath hot and ragged against Taichi’s sweat-slicked back.
For long minutes, there was only the sound of their breathing settling. Then, with a tenderness that felt incongruous, Yamato nuzzled the damp hair at Taichi’s nape. He carefully withdrew, tied off the condom, and disposed of it. He returned to the bed and, with meticulous care, began untying the silk scarves. He rubbed feeling back into Taichi’s wrists, his touch firm and soothing.
Wordlessly, he gathered the boneless, trembling Taichi into his arms and pulled him onto the bed, onto clean sheets. He fetched a warm cloth and cleaned him, wiping the come from his thighs and stomach with an almost clinical gentleness. He pulled the covers over them both, wrapping himself around Taichi’s back, one arm a heavy band across his chest.
Taichi floated in a euphoric, blank void. The ache between his legs was a sweet, lingering reminder. The bruises were promises. He had never felt so peaceful.
The peace splintered with a sudden, insistent buzzing.
It was Yamato’s phone, vibrating violently on the nightstand. Yamato made a low sound of annoyance and reached for it. Taichi, nestled against him, saw the screen light up in the dark.
KAITO.
“Ignore it,” Taichi mumbled, his voice hoarse.
Yamato hesitated, his thumb hovering. The buzzing stopped. Then started again immediately, frantic.
With a sigh, Yamato answered, putting it on speaker. “Kaito. It’s three in the fucking morning.”
“Yeah, I know, I’m outside.” Kaito’s voice was tense, stripped of its usual easygoing humor. There was a muffled sound of wind. “Let me in. We need to talk.”
Yamato went still. “Now?”
“Right the fuck now.” A pause. “It’s about the band. About Miya.”
The name meant nothing to Taichi, but he felt Yamato’s entire body stiffen. The warm, possessive arm around him seemed to turn to stone.
“Bottom of the stairs. Two minutes.” Yamato ended the call and swung his legs out of bed.
The cold air rushed in where his body had been. Taichi watched, a hollow feeling blooming in his gut, as Yamato pulled on a pair of sweats and a t-shirt with quiet, efficient movements. The man who had just wrecked him, who had held him, was gone, replaced by someone sharp and focused.
At the door, Yamato paused and looked back. His expression was unreadable in the gloom. “Don’t move,” he said. It wasn’t the heated command from before. It was an order, plain and simple. “Stay here.”
Then he was gone, closing the door softly behind him.
Taichi lay alone in the warm indent of Yamato’s body, the scent of sex and sweat still clinging to the sheets. The silence of the room was no longer peaceful. It was dense, waiting. He heard the distant creak of the building’s main door, then the low, urgent murmur of voices from the stairwell below. He couldn’t make out words.
But he heard the tone. Kaito’s was strained, urgent. Yamato’s replies were clipped, cold.
Something was wrong. Terribly wrong. The safe, controlled world Yamato had built around them in this room had just developed a crack, and a chill was seeping in.