| Current mood: |  accomplished |
Nine Hours: Part Two
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kyrre started it, blame her. *grin* Oh, and temve encouraged her.
Welcome to the second half hour of the
Nine Hours of Sweet Torture collaborative challenge.
Author's note: I meant for this to be about the same lenghth as Kyrre's, about 350 words. It came to 452 exactly. Blame Bruce. To people interested in helping to continue this, the length of your contribution is up to you, but somewhere between 350-450 seems fair. (temve or kyrre, feel free to jump in with other advice/rules/stuff, or just to smack me down if I'm overstepping.)
Author's note part two: For realism and research purposes, I attempted the following rope trick, but alas, there are some things extension cords were never meant to do. (I'm in a dorm. My options are limited. Sue me.) However, I'm still convinced that the theory is sound.
We'll see if I can convince you all.
..."You may try." And a too hot tongue traced fire over his throat.
It was all Bruce could do not to scream.
He could feel where Henri’s tongue had been, could see it in his head--a burning, glowing stripe that would have opened his throat had it been any other weapon. A startled noise escaped from Bruce as Ducard’s hands resumed their tender ministrations, this time on his arms. Bruce tried again to escape, pulling against his bonds, and his breath caught. There was pressure on his chest totally unrelated to Ducard. He looked down.
The tail of the rope that secured his wrists had been cunningly looped through the headboard and back down to his waist; that much he already knew. What he had missed in the haze stemming from exhaustion and arousal was Ducard wrapping him in the rope from waist to mid-chest. Any tug of his wrists tightened the cocoon. It wasn’t enough yet to inhibit his breathing, but if he kept pulling...
Damn the man and his clever hands.
The clever hands in question had worked their way to his shoulders and kept brushing teasingly against Bruce’s neck. Bruce wondered if Henri was wishing he had more rope.
As Ducard began to move from shoulders back up to wrists, Bruce muttered, “I thought you said my arms would take care of themselves.”
Ducard sat back on his heels, a contemplative expression on his face. “So I did.” He got up off the bed and moved out of Bruce’s line of sight.
Bruce listened intently, waiting to hear Ducard open a drawer or cabinet and fetch some new instrument.
Nothing.
The door hadn’t opened, which placed Ducard still in the room, but Bruce could barely turn his head thanks to the position of his arms. He kept listening.
Silence.
Without Ducard’s presence to focus on, Bruce found his eyelids fluttering. It was a testament to how tired he was that he could even think about sleeping like this. He caught himself on the barest edge, snapping awake and jerking his wrists involuntarily. The rope around his chest tightened and flashes of white obscured his vision. He gasped for breath, eyes straining to catch a glimpse of Henri.
It was a test. Everything was a test. Ducard had tested him and broken him, bent him to his will and arranged him for his pleasure. If Bruce fell asleep now, God only knew how he was going to wake up.
“Henri?” he whispered. The combination of lust, fatigue and adrenaline lent a tremor to his voice he couldn’t disguise. “Henri?!”
It was too goddamn quiet.
And then, standing quietly at the foot of the bed, was Ducard, as though he’d been there all along. “You are so beautiful when you struggle,” he said.
So...who's up next?
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batslash,
