Rachel Haimowitz & Cat Grant - [Power Play 1] (25 page)

might come next.

Jonathan walked away for a moment, and came back with

something thick and black in his hand, shaped like a spade on a

playing card: six inches long, thick as a thumb at the point and twice

as wide as a dick—at least—at the bottom before it narrowed to the

flange.

Oh my God. That’s not what I
think
it is, is it?

“Open wide,” Jonathan said with that infuriating tiny smirk of

his. He held the plug to Bran’s lips and pushed inside. Bran couldn’t

even close his teeth around it, much less his lips. Hurt just to try, like

his mouth was about to rip at the edges. “Get it good and wet. You

know where it’s going next.”

Bran swallowed hard around the plug and tried very hard not to

think about what Jonathan had just said.

Oh, God. It’s gonna tear me apart.

So much for not thinking.

He got as much spit on the plug as he could, despite his mouth

having gone dry as a fucking desert. Jonathan pulled it out none too

gently and moved out of eyesight, one hand skimming down Bran’s

back.
As if that’s gonna make this any easier to take.

Bran gripped the edge of the table, every muscle tensing against

the inevitable breach. But it was only Jonathan’s fingers that slid

between his ass cheeks, cool and slick with lube, easing inside him.

God, please tell me he’s not gonna shove that thing in after all. Please tell

me it’s just another one of his mind-fucks.

Shit, no such luck. Jonathan pulled his fingers out, replaced them

with the plug. Or the tip of it, anyway, until it could go no further.

Probably no more than an inch or two, and Jesus, already the burn

was
terrible
, but Jonathan just pushed and pushed some more, slow

but inexorable, and said, “Relax, Brandon. We’ll be here for
hours
if

you don’t relax.”

Hours?
Bran shut his eyes, tried to will himself loose, but he

couldn’t even pry his fingers from the edge of the table, let alone relax

his sphincter. Jonathan pulled the plug out a fraction, jammed it back

in, gave it a twist. Out and in again. Fucking him with it. It wasn’t

pleasant—too big, too unyielding, too much force, nowhere near his

prostate. Jonathan wedged his free hand between Bran’s cheeks and

spread them wide, gave the plug another hard rock; it slipped in a

little more, and Bran gasped.

“Try bearing down,” Jonathan said, and yeah, he could do that,

wanted it
out out out
anyway, so he tensed his abs, pushed. And son of

a fucking
bitch
, in the plug went a little further, burning like fucking

fire
and there was
no fucking way
Jonathan wasn’t tearing him, making

him bleed—

“Easy,” Jonathan said, still rocking the plug, pushing it in and

out and in and out in tiny, tiny increments. “You’re not tearing, I

promise.”

Fucking mind reader.

Another hard push—
Jesus, aren’t his arms getting tired?
—and in

it went a little more, forcing him open a little wider. His toes curled,

came up off the table. He was halfway to his hands and knees before

he even realized he’d moved, and Jonathan—never easing up on the

fucking plug—planted his elbow in Bran’s spine and shoved him

back down. “I’ll restrain you,” he warned. “I’d have to let go. We’d

have to start again.”

Fuck
that. Bran held on—just barely—until the damn thing

wouldn’t go in any further. Felt like a whole
arm
shoved up inside

him. Too big. Too much. He couldn’t hold it. His whole body had

turned into a single throbbing ball of
hurt
. Trembling, panting, cold

sweat dripping into his eyes.

One way to make it stop, and the word was out his mouth before

he could bite it back: “
Red
.”

Jonathan stopped immediately, and the plug slithered out

between his legs. Cold air brushed over his hole. Felt like someone

had drilled him open.

Jonathan circled the table, leaned down to look him in the eye.

“Will you eat?”

Bran’s stomach rumbled. As if he wasn’t miserable enough already.

But he couldn’t, he just
couldn’t.
“No.”

“Do you want to leave?”

Did he? Could he take much more of this? Or hell,
any
more?

But . . .
three million dollars
. His whole fucking
life,
his
future.

And for what? A few hours of discomfort?

“Discomfort.” Hah.

Stop being such a fucking pussy, Brandon. Nobody likes a crybaby.

Great, thanks, Dad. Really helping here.

Suck it up.

“Brandon?”

Bran jumped, nearly launched himself off the table to cringe on

the other side. For a moment, just one moment . . .

He’s not your father. He’s a man of his word; he won’t harm you.

Voice soft, face even softer. Hand in his hair, stroking. “Do you

want to leave?”

Bran met his eyes and said, “No.”

Jonathan’s softness faded so fast Bran wondered if he hadn’t just

imagined it. “Then shut up.”

Jonathan walked back around the table. A few seconds later,

more lube squirted into his hole—cold and slimy and not the least

bit reassuring. Then came the plug again, pain returning in a flash as

Jonathan pushed with renewed vigor.

This was really going to hurt him if he didn’t find a way to relax.

He sucked in a breath, then another, and bore down like Jonathan

had told him to. The plug slid in further, but still not all the way. Jesus

Christ, this thing was fucking
endless
.

“That’s it, keep going like that. Breathe. We’re almost there.”

Almost?

“God, you should see yourself,” Jonathan said, the plug rocking-

pushing-rocking, “all stretched wide around the plug. So hot. Makes

me want to shove my cock in there right now.”

Just, God, please, not beside the plug.

“Why don’t you?” Bran asked. “Please, Jonathan. I want it.”

A hard slap on the back of his left thigh, right atop God knew how

many marks from Jonathan’s various “toys.” Bran hissed in a sharp

breath, even as Jonathan chuckled and said, “Nice try, Brandon.”

Another hard push. Well, hard
er
, anyway; the pressure was

unrelenting, the stretch and burn even more so. Jonathan gave the

plug a twist, angled it forward and
holy mother of
—

Bran’s chest came off the table, mouth open on a gasp, dick

suddenly
rock fucking hard
between the leather and his thigh as the

plug pressed against his prostate. The pain of it was still huge, but

less terrible somehow. Tempered, distant beneath the sudden wash

of pleasure.

Until the next hard push, and then it was the other way around

as the widest part of the plug forced its way inside, the pleasure (and

his erection) fading and distant beneath
too much too full take it out

take it out take it
out
!
The muscles in his ass clenched hard around

the neck of the plug, which had looked about the width of Jonathan’s

cock but felt like
nothing
now after the stretching he’d just taken. But

the
rest
of the plug, the full heavy length and breadth of it buried

inside him like a giant fist . . . He bore down, growl morphing to a

closed-mouthed scream as he tried to expel it. Fucking hopeless.
It

barely even moved.

“If I rolled you over right now and sucked you,” Jonathan said,

trailing a hand along Bran’s sweaty back as he circled round the table

to meet his eyes again, “You’d come so hard you’d probably pass

out.”Kinda absolutely fucking impossible to believe that, but no point

in arguing.

“Hurts something fierce when I’m not touching you though,

doesn’t it.”

That wasn’t technically a question, so he didn’t feel compelled to

reply.“How long do you think you can bear that, Brandon? Five

minutes? Ten? You look ready to cry already.”

He grimaced, clenched his teeth, bit back a
Fuck you
.

Jonathan
tsked
. “None of that, now. I’m only doing as you

asked.”

God, please, not like
this
. . .

“What about the whole night? Think you could stand it? Think

your body would relax, stretch, learn to accept it?”

Fuck, that actually
was
a question. Took him a moment to find

his voice, though, to work up enough moisture to reply. “I don’t

know, Jonathan.”

Jonathan’s smile had far too many teeth. “I’ll tell you a little

secret. It won’t. You don’t get used to something like that, not without

practice.” He patted Bran on the cheek, so condescending Bran barely

resisted the urge to bite him.

“Up you go, then. We’ve only just begun.”

Was he fucking kidding? How was he supposed to walk like

this?“I said
get up
,” Jonathan growled, and strange but Bran found

himself rol ing to his feet before he even had time to contemplate the

logistics of it.

Over to the suspension bar again. His wrist cuffs were attached to

either end of it, just like that first day. Feet anchored to the floor, only

this time Jonathan gave him no slack at al . In fact, he was stretched

out so far the muscles in his belly burned and the cuffs bit into his

wrists and the tops of his feet.

Jonathan strode over to the wall of toys, fingering various crops

and canes. Picked up a massive whip, letting the leather tails tumble

through his fingers. Looked like there were a couple dozen of them,

all sleek black leather, thick and heavy. Jonathan tried it out on his

arm, the smack echoing in the silence.

Bran nearly swallowed his tongue. “N-no blood, Jonathan. You

promised.”

Jonathan came back to the table, buried his fingers in Bran’s hair.

Gently, reassuringly. “And I will keep that promise. I won’t make you

bleed. See?” He draped the whip over Bran’s shoulder, let it trail across

his skin. The leather was heavy, but supple, with no hard edges.

Jonathan’s hand followed where the whip had fallen, smoothing

and soothing as he stepped behind Bran and moved back. The leather

left his skin. Then came back a moment later, high across his shoulders

with a mighty
thwack.

The sound was almost worse than the strike itself—it didn’t hurt

that much, at least at first. More thud than sting. Nowhere near as

bad as a cane, or even a crop.

But then the pain of the first strike blossomed as the second

landed overtop it, deep like a fucking tackle, knocking air from his

lungs in a grunting whoosh. The third strike hit before he’d gotten

his breath back from the first two, and in the same fucking place. Less

force, somehow, but so much fucking sting he couldn’t bite back a

shout. A mass of fire, a dozen little burning bites of pain, and the next

strike fell on top of them before he could even get his head around

the last one.

On and on it went, strikes hard and fast and
merciless
, traveling

down his back with all the speed of a fucking snail and all the pounding

sting of a 2x4 with nails in it. Hard to believe he wasn’t bleeding.

Impossible
to believe. But the only thing he felt dripping down his

back was sweat—no telltale sting of salt in an open wound.

Like you’d even notice it over the burn of the whip.

The first blow on his ass made him scream loud enough to hurt

his throat. Pain layered upon pain of too many other implements,

four days’ worth of lessons and demerits. And
God,
he didn’t think

that fucking plug could hurt any worse, but as the whip landed across

his ass, it felt like he was being punched from the fucking
inside.

Jonathan aimed the next strike right over the plug’s base, driving it

forward. Took Bran a second to come back from that, to realize the

whip had moved on, lower across his ass, across a constellation of old

welts and bruises that hurt so fucking bad he couldn’t even
breathe
,

couldn’t even find the wherewithal to scream, and this was going to

fucking
kill
him, he couldn’t take it for another
second
, and so fucking

what if he
was
a crybaby because—

The flogging stopped, and somehow Jonathan was standing in

front of him, stroking a hand down the side of his face, grasping his

chin, lifting his head up. “Will you eat?” he asked, infinitely patient.

Bran was so fucking nauseous he didn’t think he could right now

even if he wanted it more than anything. And he
didn’t
want it more

than anything. Well, okay, part of him did, but the rest? He shook

his head.

“Do you want to leave?”

Yes.
“No.”

Jonathan’s fingers tightened on his chin. “Don’t safeword again

unless you mean it.”

He’d safeworded?
When?

At least Jonathan was kind enough to switch to the front when he