|Chakotay and Paris have a past.|
|With each lash of the whip, the body jerked but didn't fall. He stood there
willingly, without benefit of support; head bowed, bloodless lips pressed
tightly together, eyes closed. Another blow and he sucked a hot breath
between his teeth and pressed his clenched fists tighter to his thighs. Such
"Position," the hard voice commanded, and he did; falling to his knees gracelessly, a tan sprawl of limbs, aware of the hard shape he held by sheer will in his ass. He placed his hands on his wide spread thighs, palms up. His hard cock bounced slightly in its leather bindings.
Hard thumbs pressed against his jaw, forcing his mouth open; a rosy headed cock forcing its way past the dry lips and bumping against the back of his throat, gagging him, before sliding out. A stinging slap to those same lips for his ineptitude, and it was back, thrusting harder. This time he took it fully, rolling the salty mix of precum and the tang of his own blood about his mouth, swallowing it like nectar.
His back stung from the earlier harsh blows; he could feel the slow slide of sweat down his back, mixing with the welling blood, adding a bit more sting. The feeling was intoxicating and he rocked slightly on his heels, driving the dildo in further, hoping He would notice and punish him. But He ignored him, and the slave realized He knew it was a deliberate act of defiance, and was punishing him by refusing to notice.
*Please,* he wanted to plead, *hurt me, possess me, use me. I need the pain, I need you, I need.* But he remained quiet, anticipating the coming evening, knowing that he performed well, he would be writhing on the floor, bloody and screaming. Sated and content.
Chakotay opened his eyes, panicked that he had spoken his thoughts aloud, but Paris looked at him blandly. Chakotay searched his mind for the question the blonde pilot had asked, hoping he hadn't noticed his distraction. Finally, he picked up the thread of the conversation and responded.
Tom smirked slightly and nodded, moving toward the door, stopping at the entrance as it opened.
Chakotay fell to his knees without a thought, his body responding as if it were only yesterday that it had heard this command, not four years. Heart hammering in his chest, cock leaking in anticipation, he held his breath, waiting for the next order, mind racing ahead to the punishment awaiting him.
Cruel laughter, silenced by the hydraulic swish of a closing door filled his ears. He was gone. Chakotay ignored the tears tracking down his cheeks, struggling to his feet and into a chair. The ache in his chest sharpened, and he almost welcomed the emptiness; the slow twisting of a dull blade.
Paris had always known how deep to make the final cut. He was a master at the fine art of pain.
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