Chapter 4: The Evening's First Command
The aftermath of the clamp was a soft, slow dissolve. Will lay against Luke’s chest on the rug, listening to the double drum of their hearts syncing. The spot between his legs pulsed a gentle, satiated complaint. The world had narrowed to the warmth of skin and the smell of Luke—sandalwood and clean sweat.
“You’re ruinous,” Luke murmured into his hair, his voice a rumble against Will’s ear. “Absolutely ruinous. My entire afternoon’s schedule is in ashes because I can’t stop thinking about the way you sounded.”
Will made a non-committal hum, too boneless to form words. He traced the embroidered edge of Luke’s tunic where it had fallen open.
“We should get up,” Luke said, making no move to do so. “There are things. Boring, kingdom-shaped things.”
“Mmm.”
“You’re no help at all.” Luke kissed his temple and finally shifted, sitting up and bringing Will with him. “Come. A bath. Then you can nap like the decadent creature you are while I pretend to care about grain tariffs.”
The bath was deep and steaming, scented with rosemary. Luke washed him with a thorough, practical tenderness that made Will’s eyes sting. He soaped the hollows of his collarbones, the line of his spine, the backs of his knees, as if mapping him anew. The obsidian collar, ever-present, clicked softly against the porcelain.
“You spoke to Kaelen,” Luke said, working a lather through Will’s curls. “What did you think of him?”
“He was… perceptive.”
Luke chuckled. “A diplomat’s greatest skill. He wants you for the ceremony. I told him the decision was yours.”
“I said yes.”
The hands in his hair stilled for a second, then resumed their gentle motion. “Good,” Luke said, simple and profound. It was all that needed to be said.
Dressed in fresh, soft clothes, Will did nap, sinking into the middle of the massive bed while Luke’s footsteps receded down the hall. The silence of the chamber was different now. It wasn’t empty. It was full of the echo of the chain, the ghost of the clamp’s pressure, the lingering warmth of the bath. He slept deeply, dreamlessly.
He was woken by the gradual dimming of the light. The sun had moved, and the chamber was painted in long, melancholic blues and purples. The candles had not yet been lit. Luke stood by the windows, silhouette stark against the dying sky, already changed into dark, soft trousers and a linen shirt, untucked. He was looking at the table.
The box was still open.
Will pushed himself up on his elbows. Luke heard the rustle and turned. His face was in shadow, but his eyes caught the last of the light, silver and intent.
“Evening,” he said, his voice quiet in the sprawling room.
“Evening,” Will replied, his own voice rough with sleep.
Luke walked to the table. He didn’t touch the contents. He just looked. “Yesterday was the clamp. A promise kept.” He turned to Will. “Today is a new choice. Come here.”
Will slid from the bed, his bare feet soundless on the velvet rug. He stopped beside Luke, following his gaze to the three remaining objects: the dark leather paddle, the string of violet beads, the clamp—now clean and waiting.
“Kneel,” Luke said, the command soft but absolute.
Will lowered himself to his knees beside the table, the position already feeling familiar, grounding. The collar rested against his throat.
“Look at them,” Luke instructed. He moved to stand behind Will, a warm, solid presence. “Really look. Think about what they do. What they feel like. Which one your body is curious about today.”
Will’s eyes traveled over them. The clamp he knew—its sharp, focused conversation. The beads… they were a mystery, a depth and a weight that felt monumental. But the paddle… it was simple. Direct. A connection made of impact and sound. His hand, almost of its own volition, began to rise.
It hovered over the beads, his fingers trembling just above the deepest violet orb. He imagined the cool, smooth glass, the inexorable pull of the weights. A flush of heat, followed by a tremor of pure nerves, went through him. He wasn’t ready. Not for that depth.
His hand drifted left, passing over the empty space where the clamp had been, and settled, palm down, on the cool, matte surface of the leather paddle. It was warmer than he expected, as if it had been absorbing the room’s heat all day.
A slow exhale sounded above him. Luke’s hand came to rest on his shoulder. “Good. A solid choice. Honest.” He lifted the paddle from under Will’s palm. “Stand up. Bend over the foot of the bed. Grab the posts.”
Will rose, his legs steady. He walked to the elaborate footboard, carved with grapevines and mythical beasts. He leaned forward, his torso resting on the silk coverlet, and reached out, gripping two of the thick wooden posts. The position arched his back, presenting the curve of his ass. He felt terribly open.
He heard Luke move behind him. There was no sound, then the soft, threatening whisper of air.
The first impact was a shock.
It wasn’t just a sound—a crisp, clean thwack—it was a sensation that bloomed instantly, a sting that radiated outwards, warming the skin of his left cheek. He gasped, his fingers tightening on the wood.
“One,” Luke said, his voice calm, clinical. “Breathe out on the strike. It helps.”
Before Will could process the advice, the second swat landed on the same spot, overlapping. The heat intensified, a bright, sharp pain that morphed, almost immediately, into a throbbing warmth. He moaned, burying his face in the coverlet.
Luke began a slow, deliberate rhythm. A stroke on the right, then the left, then the right again. The paddle was precise. It covered the fullest part of his ass, missing the more delicate crease and the tops of his thighs. Each impact was a isolated explosion of sensation that then pooled and spread, joining the last until his entire backside was alive with a glowing, aching heat.
Will was panting, tears leaking from his squeezed-shut eyes. It hurt. It lit up every nerve. But underneath the sting, something else was building—a desperate, slick heat between his legs. His cock, trapped against the bed, was rigid and leaking, making a damp patch on the silk. With each strike, he rutted forward helplessly, seeking friction.
Luke paused. The absence of the next expected blow was its own agony. Will whimpered, pushing his hips back unconsciously, asking.
He felt Luke’s fingers, slick and cool, trace the hot skin. Then those fingers slid down, through the damp cleft, and found him. Will cried out as two fingers pressed easily into his soaked cunt. The slide was obscene, wet, and perfect. The tight, throbbing ring of his other entrance, his virgin ass, clenched untouched just above.
“You’re dripping,” Luke observed, his voice thick with awe. He curled his fingers, and Will’s vision whited out for a second. “All this, from a little leather and my hand. You incredible thing.” He removed his fingers, and Will heard him lick them clean, a soft, wet sound that made Will’s stomach flip.
The paddle returned.
This series was harder, faster. The pain was brighter, sharper, cresting over the established warmth. Will sobbed openly, his body shaking, but he never let go of the posts. He held on, taking it, the mixed signals of pain and pleasure short-circuiting his thoughts. He was nothing but a vessel for sensation, for the sound of leather on skin, for Luke’s controlled breaths behind him.
Suddenly, it stopped.
The cool, smooth underside of the paddle pressed against his blazing skin. Will jerked at the contrast, a broken sigh escaping him. Luke held it there, a soothing, heavy pressure.
“Twelve,” Luke said softly. He rubbed the leather in slow circles. “That’s enough for your first time.” He dropped the paddle onto the bed beside Will’s head. Then both of Luke’s hands were on him, palms smoothing over the heated flesh, gentling him. “You did so well. So perfect for me.”
Will went limp, all the strength leaving him. He was crying in earnest now, not from hurt, but from the sheer, overwhelming flood of it—the submission, the trust, the shocking rightness of it all.
Luke helped him up, turning him and gathering him close. Will hid his face in Luke’s neck, his whole body trembling. Luke guided them to sit on the edge of the bed, holding him, whispering praises that sank into Will’s soul.
When the storm of feeling passed, leaving him hollow and quiet, Luke reached over and picked up the string of violet beads from the table. He let them dangle in the space between their bodies, the largest bead just brushing Will’s stomach.
“Tomorrow,” Luke whispered, his lips against Will’s temple. “Tomorrow, we try these. I’ll prep you for them. Slowly. With my fingers, with oil. I’ll get you ready to take this first one.” He tapped the smallest bead. “Just this. We’ll let the weight do its work.”
Will looked at the beads, then up at Luke’s face, which was all fierce possession and tender promise. He nodded, unable to speak.
Luke smiled, tucked the beads back into the box, and blew out a single candle on the bedside table, plunging half the room into deeper shadow. “Sleep now,” he said, and eased them both down onto the bed, pulling the covers over their spent bodies.
Will curled into him, his sore muscles singing a quiet hymn. As he drifted off, his last conscious thought was of cool, smooth glass and the profound, patient weight of tomorrow.
Will woke to the specific, deep ache of well-used muscles. Morning light sliced through a gap in the curtains, landing on the empty space beside him. The scent of sandalwood and fresh linen lingered, but the bed was cold where Luke had been.
He heard movement from the bathing chamber, water being poured. Will stretched, hissing as the motion pulled at the tender skin of his backside. The memory of the paddle flared, bright and sharp, followed by the warmer memory of Luke’s hands afterward. He pushed himself up.
Luke stood by the marble basin, his back to the room. He was already dressed in simple, dark trousers, barefoot, his hair still damp. On the ledge beside him lay the string of violet beads, a bottle of clear oil, and several folded cloths. His movements were economical, focused. This wasn't the prince. This was a man preparing a ritual.
“It’s not tomorrow yet,” Will said, his voice sleep-rough.
Luke glanced over his shoulder. “It is after midnight. Technically, it’s tomorrow.” A small smile touched his lips. “The ache will soften after a hot bath. Come here.”
Will padded over, the cool floor under his feet. Luke turned, his silver eyes taking inventory. He traced a fingertip along Will’s jaw. “You look thoroughly used. It’s a good look on you.” He nodded to the bathing pool, already steaming. “Get in. Soak. I’ll join you in a moment.”
The water was almost painfully hot at first, then blissful as it seeped into his sore muscles. Will sank up to his shoulders, watching Luke. Luke uncorked the bottle of oil, pouring a generous amount into a shallow ceramic dish. He placed the beads in it, letting them soak. The oil coated them, making the deep violet glass gleam under the lamplight.
“The oil is infused with lavender and something to relax the muscle,” Luke said, not looking up. He was methodically warming the dish over a small candle. “It needs to be body temperature. Cold would be a shock.”
“You’ve done this before.” Will didn’t mean it as a question, but it came out sounding like one.
Luke’s eyes met his. “I’ve studied. Extensively. For you.” He blew out the candle. “This isn’t about replicating an experience. It’s about building a new one. Ours.” He picked up the dish and a cloth, walking to the pool’s edge. He sat on the submerged step, facing Will. The water lapped at his waist.
“Show me how you’re feeling. From last night.”
Will’s throat tightened. He shifted in the water, turning slightly to present the curve of his ass below the surface. Luke’s hand followed, fingers skimming over the warm, water-slick skin. He explored the lingering heat from the paddle with a clinical, gentle pressure.
“Good. The surface sting is gone. Just a deep warmth left.” His hand drifted lower, between Will’s legs. “And here?”
Will jolted as Luke’s fingers brushed his cunt, still sensitive. “I’m… okay.”
“Just okay?” Luke’s finger slid inside, just to the first knuckle, and Will gasped. “You’re soft. Open. That’s good. Your body remembers pleasure, even through pain.” He withdrew his hand. “Turn around. Kneel up in the water, facing me. Arms on the edge.”
Will obeyed, the water sloshing as he moved. The polished stone edge was cool under his forearms. He rested his forehead on them, presenting himself fully. He heard the soft sound of Luke coating his fingers in the warm oil.
“Breathe,” Luke said, his voice low and close. “This is just preparation. My fingers. Nothing else until you’re begging for it.”
The first touch was a slow circle, not where Will expected, but lower, at the tight, untouched furl of muscle between his cheeks. Will tensed instantly.
“Breathe out,” Luke murmured, pressing steadily. The oil made the contact slick, insistent. “Let the breath go and the muscle will follow.”
Will forced a exhale, and as he did, Luke’s fingertip breached him. It was a slow, inexorable pressure, a stretching burn that was entirely new. He whimpered into his arm.
“Good. That’s it. Just the tip.” Luke was still, letting Will adjust. The burn subsided, replaced by a strange, full feeling. “Now, another breath.”
On the next exhale, Luke slid his finger in deeper, to the second knuckle. Will cried out, his knees slipping on the pool floor. Luke’s other hand settled firmly on his hip, holding him steady. “You’re taking it so well. Perfect.”
He began a slow, patient movement, in and out, scissoring gently. The initial sharpness melted into a dull, persistent ache. Will panted, his knuckles white on the stone. It was invasive. It was intense. But beneath the foreign pressure, a thread of something else sparked—a deep, internal stimulation that made his cock, hanging heavy beneath him in the water, twitch.
“You have another inside you,” Luke whispered, his voice thick with fascination. “I can feel it through the wall. A second pulse.” He crooked his finger, and Will jolted, a shocked moan tearing from him. “There. That’s the spot. The one that will make you see stars when the beads pass over it.”
He worked him open like that for what felt like an eternity, until Will was pushing back against his hand, his body pliant and accepting. Only then did Luke add a second oil-slick finger. The stretch was breathtaking, a burning fullness that stole the air from Will’s lungs. He shook, tears dripping from his chin to mix with the bathwater.
“Almost there, pet. Almost ready for the first gift.”
Luke withdrew his fingers. The emptiness was shocking. Will felt open, exposed, throbbing. He heard the soft clink of glass.
“Keep breathing. Look at the wall. Focus on the pattern in the stone.”
Something cool and impossibly smooth nudged against him. Not skin. Glass. The first, smallest bead. Luke applied pressure, constant and unyielding. Will clenched against it, panic flaring.
“No, none of that. Open for it. Let it in.”
Will sobbed, forcing himself to relax. The bead popped past the resisting muscle with a soft, wet sound. The sensation was profound. A solid, round presence inside him, where there had never been anything before. It was neither pain nor pleasure. It was simply there. A fact of his body now.
“Good. So good.” Luke’s praise was a warm breath on his back. He didn’t move it. He let Will feel the sheer weight of it, the slight, gravitational pull downward. Then, he began a slow, tender rhythm, pushing the bead in just a little further, then drawing it back almost out.
Each tiny movement dragged the glass over that deep, electrifying spot Luke had found. Pleasure, sharp and shocking, lanced through Will’s core. He choked on a gasp, his back arching. The bead moved again, and another bolt of sensation hit him, melting the last of the ache into liquid fire.
Luke leaned close, his lips brushing Will’s ear. “That’s preparation,” he whispered, his voice dark with satisfaction. He gave a gentle tug, and the bead settled fully inside, a permanent, weighted secret. “The rest are for later. This one is to remind you of what’s coming. To keep you ready for me.”
He helped Will stand, his body feeling strange and full. Luke kissed his shoulder, a brief, possessive touch. “Now you wear a part of my collection,” he said. He rinsed his hands in the water, his task complete.