The Gift

I didn't get nervous until after the hostess left me, naked and trussed up like a Christmas turkey, with a leather ring snug around the base of my cock and balls and a string of large, heavy stainless steel beads up my arse.

I sort of wished she'd stay a while. She wanted to, I could tell. She knows I swing both ways. Her dark eyes gleamed with far more than professional interest when she lubed me up and started working my hole with her fingers, loosening me until she could slip the anal beads one by one inside me.

"Sorry, Mr. Molko," she purred in that lilting island accent. "Maybe another time, yes? Mr. Yorke will be here soon, and he is most anxious to play wit' you. You don't want to make him wait."

I gave her my most filthy smile. "No, I should say not. Thank you, Cherie. You're my favorite, you know."

"You are such a flirt, Mr. Molko." She bent and pressed a light kiss to my lips, then rubbed her soft mocha cheek against mine. "You ask for Cherie next time you come, hm? We have us a good time." She tugged on the small metal ring dangling from my arse, rubbing the beads against my prostate and making me gasp. "Have fun tonight, love."

She patted my bum and swayed out the door, and I was alone.

Alone is never a good thing for me. Mostly because my brain goes into overdrive, and I start to scare myself. Like tonight.

After Cherie left me - with Placebo's first album playing low on the sound system, ha ha, very funny - I started thinking. About everything I'd heard, and why the fuck I was doing this. And what would happen if... well, if anything happened.

No one knows I'm here tonight, or who I've given myself to for the evening. Stef and Steve have heard rumors about him, just like I have, and they would both kill me if they knew. They know I'm a member at The Ties That Bind; Steve even came here with me once, more out of curiosity than anything else. He likes a bit of slap and tickle, but he only dabbles occasionally.

Me? I'm the real thing. A bottom in every sense of the word. Neither of my dear husbands understands that, and they're frightened for me every time I come here. Unnecessary, of course; I'm quite safe here. But you can't tell them that. So I didn't, especially not tonight. They would've tried to stop me, and I couldn't have that. And so now, I'm alone, and no one outside this club knows where I am.

Bit of a scary feeling, that.

I wriggle around experimentally, testing my bonds. The chains cuffed to my knees and ankles are set on winches in each corner of the ceiling. Cherie's pulled the chains tight, forcing my legs up and spreading them wide, my arse hanging off the end of the metal table I'm lying on. The cuffs around my wrists are snug, but not too tight. My arms are pulled above my head, stretched tight enough to arch my body against the table, but not so tight as to be painful. The cuffs attach to a swivel clamp, which in turn attaches to an adjustable chain set in the wall.

The practical upshot of all this being, by adjusting the various chains my top can turn me any which way, even stand me up if he wants, without having to undo my wrists or my legs, and without hurting me.

There are advantages to belonging to a well-run, professional D/s club, let me tell you.

Most people think that the tops come up with these particularly creative arrangements. Not so. It's mostly the bottoms that dictate the set-up. I know I do. Once the fun begins, I do what the top tells me, and love it. But no one tells me how I'm to be bound. This is how I like it.

I find myself hoping to all that's unholy that Thom likes me this way.

I had no idea he was even a member until a few months ago. I'd heard that he'd been here many times, but thought he was just slumming it, or maybe a guest of someone else. Fancy that; both of us long-time members at the best BDSM club in London, and neither of us knew the other belonged. Funny thing, life.

Anyway, the minute I found out, I could think of nothing else but having him use me. Took me ages to get up the nerve to have a message sent to him, asking him to top me. Only members are allowed to top, for liability reasons; members get extensive background checks, guests don't. But I finally asked, and he agreed. I was indecently excited; I've had a mad crush on the man ever since the first time I saw him, playing to an indifferent audience at a seedy little London club.

It was Beck who told me about him, actually. Boy has a big mouth, and when it's not full of cock, it's usually spouting things he probably shouldn't be saying. Such as, Thom Yorke is a member here, he and Beck play together a great deal, and the things I'd heard whispered in the club's group sex rooms about Thom were true. Beck even showed me the bite marks. Little pinpoint scars, faded but noticable if you knew what you were looking for.

And now, lying here bound and splayed, so hard I'm burning, I want that bite almost as much as I want to choke on his spunk. But I wonder what exactly that bite will do to me, and I'm scared.

I consider telling him it's all off when he gets here. Then I imagine the things he could do to me, and I want it. Badly. I can't decide, too torn between fear and desire to have any idea what to do.

Then the door opens, and Thom walks in, sexy as fuck in a snug black shirt and black trousers that barely cling to his hipbones. Those blue eyes gleam when he sees me, and he smiles, and I'm gone.

No more second thoughts now.

"Mr. Molko, I presume?" Thom says, stalking toward me like a great cat. "You may answer my questions."

"I'm Brian Molko, yes." He raises his eyebrows at me in a mildly scolding expression and I give myself a mental kick. I know better than that. "Sir."

His smile widens. Fuck, he's even sexier than I imagined. Slinky, graceful, beautiful.

Dangerous.

I lick my lips and force myself to direct my gaze downward. Not that it's a hardship to look at his crotch. Not at all. But his eyes captivate me. I want to fall into them.

He leans down toward me, his mouth inches from mine. "And what," he says, brushing his lips against mine, "shall I call you?"

He kisses me, his lips warm and wet and soft as a cloud. I want to raise my head, open my mouth and tongue fuck his, in spite of the punishment I suspect this would earn me. Maybe because of it. But I don't. He's in charge here, not me, and I don't want to do anything to make him leave.

"Well?" he says when he pulls back. "Are you going to answer my question, or shall I have Cherie bring you your clothes?"

Oh god. "Whore. Call me whore, please, Sir."

He laughs. "And you can keep calling me Sir. I like that. My little whore." He reaches down between my legs and gives the bead ring a sharp tug. One of the big steel beads pops out, briefly stretching my hole, and I can't help crying out. God, I love those things. Nothing feels quite like it.

Thom is clearly delighted by my reaction. "Oh, you like that, do you, whore?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Shall I do it again?"

"Please, Sir."

He does, pulling several out this time in rapid succession. I don't try to control my reactions, since he seems to like me noisy and writhing. Then he pushes the beads back in. His fingers slip in beside them, making me moan.

"What a lovely sound," he murmurs. "I'm glad you're the noisy sort. I don't like someone who just lies there quiet as a fucking corpse." He pulls his fingers out of my arse and bends toward me. "Look at me, whore."

I obey him, raising my eyes to his face. Those burning blue eyes drill right through me. He slides a hand into my hair, gets a handful, and pulls, forcing my neck into an arch.

"You should grow your hair out again," he says. "Not that the mullet from hell isn't adorable on you, but that bob you used to have would be so much better for pulling on."

What does it say about me, exactly, that I immediately consider the possibility? Even though I haven't worn my hair like that in ages, and have no desire to.

Whore, indeed.

He smiles at me, and my heart flutters. "D'you know what today is?"

I do. That's why I picked this particular night. "Your birthday, Sir."

"That's right." He lets go of my hair, wanders over to a big metal tool chest in the corner, and starts rummaging around. "Have to tell you, when I got your message asking me to top you, tonight of all nights, I was thrilled. I'm getting Molko for my birthday, all tied up and spread, I told Jonny. God, what a fucking present."

He twists around and grins at me over his shoulder. "I asked him if he wanted to come, either to watch or to play, but he said no thank you. He likes to play now and then, but it's not generally his thing." He turns around again, leaning over the drawer and shoving the contents around. "Ah, there you are, you little bugger!"

For a second I think he's talking to me. Then he turns around and starts toward me again, grinning from ear to ear, and I see what he was talking to. I hadn't thought I could get any harder, but my cock throbs with the new rush of blood brought by the sight of the little silver clamps in his palm. They do tend to get lost in the drawer.

He's carrying other things too. I can't quite see, can't tell what they are. Just the possibilities, though, make me want to spread my thighs even wider, leave myself completely open to him. He chuckles at the look in my eyes.

"Have you ever been a birthday present before, whore?"

"No, Sir."

He takes my cock in his hand, strokes firmly. I bite my lip, enjoying the sensation. I'm not going to come yet. My control's too good for that.

"What about the cake?" he asks. "Have you ever been a birthday cake?"

What an odd question. "No, Sir."

He gives me a look that sends a chill of dark pleasure up my spine. "You're about to be."

He opens his hands, sets down what he's brought. A thick metal cock ring with screws that adjust the tightness and sturdy rings at regular interevals around it. Two thin chains with clips on either end. Little steel weights, only a few ounces worth, made to attach to nipple clamps. A lighter. A small blue candle, the sort you put on...

Oh.

Oh, Christ.

I stare at him, wide-eyed and more turned on than I've ever been in my life. He gives me a smile full of sin.

"Hold still," he says. "This is going to hurt."

It doesn't, really. Not at first anyway. He slips the metal ring about halfway down my shaft and turns the screws until it's snug around me. The skin above the metal starts to flush a dark rose. God, I love it when I can watch this. Watch a born Master doing these things to me. I know he'd stop immediately if I said the safe word. I know that. But always, there's the tiny possibility that he won't. And that's what makes my cock pulse and my arse tighten around the beads buried inside me.

"What a fucking beautiful prick you have, little whore," Thom says.

He leans down and runs his tongue around the head of my cock with aching slowness, then wraps those soft, soft lips around me and sucks. An almost-there scrape of something sharp makes me cry out, makes me lift my hips and beg for more. He slides his mouth further down, all the way over the metal ring, pulling on the string in my arse at the same time. Slow, steady pressure as a two-inch-wide bead opens my hole, then the sharp, quick snap of it popping free. Feels so fucking good. I'm arched and writhing on the table, burning all over.

Thom pulls back and licks his lips. He stares at my arse as he tugs another bead out. "God, that's sweet." He shoves the protruding beads abruptly back up inside me, then picks up the tiny weights and clips them to the ring at the end of the bead string.

The pressure is immediate, pushing on my hole from the inside. When he sets the weights swinging ever so slightly, shifting the beads inside me, I moan and twist on the table, trying to keep that delicious movement going.

"Fucking hell, you're beautiful," Thom says, running his hands up the insides of my thighs. He gives me a wide, wicked grin. "You're just like an angel," he sings, blue eyes sparkling, "your arse makes me hard."

Not exactly the lyrics I've come to know and love. I start giggling. Can't help it. Never had a top before who cracked jokes. I like it.

Thom grins. "Oh, do I amuse you, sweet little whorelet?"

"Yes, Sir." I risk a smile, and he laughs.

"I'll have to try harder, then." He clears his throat and straightens himself up. "Now, where was I? Ah, yes. Preparing my birthday cake." He gives me a stern look. "That tasty dick of yours distracted me. You'll have to be punished for that."

Oh, fucking fuck. Every bit of me except my vocal cords begs to be punished immediately. He knows it, too, I can tell.

But Master Thom has other plans.

By the time I recover from my punishment fantasies, he's already clipped the thin little chains to the metal cock ring and attached the other ends to tiny rings in the cuffs around my knees. I raise my head and stare, fascinated by the sight of my cock held almost perfectly upright by the ring and chains.

"Are you ready to be my birthday cake, whore?" he asks. His eyes are hard and shiny with lust and the need to dominate.

"Yes, Sir." I let my head fall back onto the table, and brace myself for what's to come. I'm going to have to use all of my control to keep from coming too soon.

He gently kisses the tip of my cock, picks up the little blue birthday cake candle, and pushes it slowly into my slit. God. God, it's tight. But the way is eased by the pre-come leaking out of me like a faucet. The sensation rides the knife edge between pleasure and pain. He doesn't stop until the candle's half buried inside my cock. Then he thumbs the lighter on and holds the flame to the wick.

He stares at my face, his eyes gleaming in the orange flicker. "Sing 'Happy Birthday' for me, whore."

I take a few deep breaths, wet my dry lips. "H-happy birthday to you," I sing, a little breathlessly, "happy birthday to you. Happy birthday, dear.. Sir. Happy b..."

The first drop of hot wax hits the sensitive skin at the edge of my slit, and I scream. The searing, blistering pain carries me away into blissful hell and my mind goes blank.

*****

When I become aware of anything except the delicious pain, Thom is leaning over between my legs, smiling, the candle flame nearly touching his stomach. He's good. Most tops would've thought it was too much for me, and they would've stopped. Not him. He can read me like a book, even though we've never met before tonight. He knows exactly how much I love the pain.

And no one could possibly understand that unless they've experienced that particular pleasure.

So he's a bottom too. Sometimes.

Interesting.

"What a naughty boy you are," he says, straightening up again. He pulls hard on the weights dangling from my body. One of the beads pops out, and I gasp. "A naughty, disobedient little whore, oh yes you are." He tugs again, pulling another bead free. The movement splatters my balls with hot wax. My legs shake with the effort of not coming. "D'you know why?"

"Yes, Sir." My voice is hoarse, breathless.

"Tell me."

"Because I... I didn't finish your... your birthday song. Sir."

"Too right. Now, you've already got a punishment coming, sooo... let's see." He scrunches his face up in thought, and I have a moment to think how perfectly adorable he looks before he tells me his punishment plan. "I was going to just use the small whip on you. But I think you've earned the paddle. Yes, that's good."

Good. Fucking worlds better than good. Just the thought makes my whole body throb with want.

He reaches up and snaps a little silver clamp onto my left nipple. My head buzzes with the fierce shooting pleasure. I hear myself moaning, feel the blisters rising on my cock and balls as my hips move of their own accord, sending wax flowing like lava. Cold metal clamps around my other nipple, my back arches and my eyes roll back.

I'm trembling from head to foot, trying desperately to hold back the orgasm that wants to roll me under. Never have I been tested this severely. But coming before your Master just isn't done. So I hold on, and after a few frantic seconds I have myself under control again.

Thom ducks under my leg, comes to stand at the head of the table. He bends over me, tenderly stroking my flushed and sweaty cheek.

"You have amazing control, little whore. That will have to be rewarded. Later." He lays a soft kiss to my forehead. "But first, my cock needs your attention."

Oh god. God, finally. I lick my lips, mouth already watering in anticipation. I don't dare say anything, but I want so badly to suck him. Please, please, god please.

"Think I'll turn you over," he says. "My birthday candle's gone out, thanks to all the wax sloshing around. I'll add an extra lick or two to your punishment for that."

I bite back the big grin that wants to spread over my face.

He goes swiftly through the business of adjusting the chains to turn me over. My hips ache briefly when he lets my legs down. That didn't used to happen ten, fifteen years ago. Oh well.

It's only a few seconds before all the chains are loosened enough for me to move. My wrists are still cuffed together and attached to the wall chain, though there's enough slack now for me to turn however he wants me. I lie still, waiting for his instructions.

"On your knees and elbows, on the table," he orders

I get into position quickly. He nods his approval. "Very nice," he says. "Yes, very nice indeed. Erm, spread your legs a bit."

I scoot my knees apart, clumsily because of the cuffs and chains still attached to my legs. The metal ring around my cock remains chained on either side to my knees cuffs, producing a most interesting sensation whenever I move my legs.

He slips a hand between my parted thighs and runs his fingertips over the two rings still circling my dick, on upward, right up to the tip. He twists the candle still inserted in my cock. The feeling is quite indescribable. I suppose most people would call it pain: burning, spiky pain that shoots right to your core. But I like it.

Oddly enough, this is the first time I've ever truly thought of myself as a masochist. But really, there isn't anything else to call this, is there?

Thom's hands are moving again, pushing my thighs further apart until my knees are precariously close to the table's edges. He runs his tongue over my balls, up my crack, flicking over my hole and pushing inside. He takes the bead string between his teeth and pulls another one free. I moan loudly, arching my arse higher into the air.

"Fuck, you distracted me again," he growls. "Damn that pretty little arse, anyway. That'll be two more licks." He reaches up to twist the candle again, then tugs it out and tosses it on the floor.

I look up at him through a drugging haze of pain as he comes around to stand in front of me. "Can't wait to shove my cock up your arse and fuck you sideways. In a bit. First, you need to suck me off."

My eyes lock onto his crotch as he slides his zipper down and takes out his rigid prick. God, it's perfect, thick and hard and dripping in his hand. He rubs the tip over my lips, letting me taste him. So fucking good. I open wide and he shoves himself right down my throat.

Thom's bigger than I'd have thought. He's utterly merciless too, fucking my mouth hard and fast, fists clenched in my hair.

Mullet from hell, indeed. Bastard.

Lucky for me, I can swallow a whole lot of cock, thanks to Stef's love of being deep-throated. Steffy's parts are definitely in proportion to his height.

I work my tongue around the head of his prick whenever he pulls back enough, clench my throat around him when he plunges deep. It isn't long before I feel his cock swell in my mouth. He growls, thrusts in to the root, and shoots semen down my throat. It's not easy to swallow when I can't even draw a breath, but I manage. A little slips out to run down my chin. I know I'll get at least one more blow of the paddle for that.