Thank you for helping me work towards my Nanowrimo goal! 💙
Roman thumbs over the curved glass of his pocket watch, admiring the cogs and dials spinning within. It's a masterpiece of mechanics, one of the best of its kind. Something Roman loves trotting out at parties and soirees to show off to his guests.
The soft ticking from his pocket watch is smothered beneath the sound of the man's pained, desperate groan.
Roman takes his time counting down the seconds before he stows the watch and lifts his head.
Against the wall, calves trembling from the effort of staying upright, his prized pet sweats and sways.
His hands are folded neatly in the small of his back, fingers clasped with one another in an inverted prayer. His knuckles are white from the strain of holding himself restrained, tamping down the urge to release himself without Roman's permission. It would be a grevious error on his part.
Dick's legs are spread, a half-foot further than shoulder width apart. A half-foot further than strictly comfortable, and the strain is beginning to show in his muscles.
He's trembling from head to foot, heels dipping towards the tile before he recovers back up to the tips of his toes.
"Come on, Grayson," Roman calls over in a lazy drawl. "Put your back into it. Don't give me an excuse to cane you again."
Dick gives a wordless snarl, something muddled between hopeless and furious —but pulls his posture into a better alignment. His thighs are drenched in a fine sheen of perspiration, and it makes the kettlebell gripped there glisten.
Roman feels his pulse quicken at the sight of the red welts lining the inside of his legs. He squirms at the though of how much those cane marks must sting with the touch of sweat and salt. How much delicious agony Dick must be in, holding a weight gripped there with nothing but his overworked muscles and sheer force of will.
He deliberates over telling Dick how much time he has left. Sometimes it's fun to watch the man's despair spiral endlessly, untethered by any sort of goal. Other times, it's more satisfying to watch him eek out the last of his endurance in pursuit of an unobtainable goal. It makes his failure taste all the sweeter on Roman's lips.
The younger man's panting is nearly in time with his pocket watch, exertion making his chest rise and fall with steady desperation. It rattles the pegs pinch there, their ends tapping the plaster when Dick rocks forward onto his toes again, calf muscles jumping.
Roman uncrosses his legs, tucking the two halves of his suit together as he stands to approach the man.
Dick tenses as he draws near, one blue eye slitting open to track his movements. His forehead remains pressed to the wall, his lips parted on every shaking breath as Roman reaches out to run a gloved finger down his flank.
The skin here is red and agitated, pinched into angry peaks by the row of wooden pegs. They sway gently with every breath, strung together with a length of blue twine that disappears between Dick's thighs, threaded through the kettlebell and back up the mirrored row.
Dick flinches away from his touch, a thin whine pressing between his gritted teeth as Roman teases his overworked skin. The pegs run from the peaks of his nipples, following the curve of his ribs and down the lines of his cum gutters. His cock hangs heavy between his legs, throbbing when Roman wraps a loose fist around it.
Dick's footing shifts, the kettlebell slipping dangerously, and his panic as he corrects the overbalance tugs behind Roman's navel.
He leans in close, giving the man's cock a firm squeeze as he murmurs, "Do you think you can hold out, Grayson? Do you think you can take it?"
Before, his answer might have been a triumphant yes. But Roman's had time to introduce Dick to some of his more malicious games. He knows his own limitations now, more intimately than ever before.
His forehead doesn't lift from the plaster as Roman pulls away, his eyes squeezing shut on a sob when Roman releases his cock.
"You know how to end this," Roman calls back, as he takes his seat again. "You can end it at any time. You just have to accept your own failure."
Dick moans, toes and knees turning inward. He's flagging, fatigue setting in. The kettlebell slips an inch lower, the string pulling taut against the pegs.
Roman grins, fingertips drumming a steady tempo on the arm of his chair. Any minute, now. Any moment, and Grayson will—
The kettlebell slips loose, hitting the floor with a thump that isn't quite deadened by the carpet. Dick's heels hit the ground a moment later, but Roman hears neither over the sound of the man's scream.
The pegs clatter to the ground at his feet, torn free of his flesh with the descent of the kettlebell. His skin is flushed an angry red, the bitemarks of the pegs prominent when he sucks down a deep breath.
Dick's knees fold, crashing down on either side of the kettlebell. It must be painful, kneeling on the wooden pegs, but Dick doesn't even acknowledge them.
Roman smirks, watching the man's shoulders heave with a mix of exertion and tears.
"There, there," he soothes, lipless mouth twisted into a cruel smile. "Maybe you'll do better next time."
