It’s funny, Daly thinks, how he’s never had much time for sex in the outside world. Mainly because a pale, pudgy-faced nerd doesn’t get the chance to get laid all that often. Even when a girl does come on to him, like Cole, all gushing geeky hero-worship, he really isn’t all that interested. He likes code, he likes gaming, he likes the approbation of his peers. But what he has discovered he really likes is control.
It’s taken a while for him to figure this out, to be fair. At first, simply being able to boss his crew around and have them act as cheerleaders in his escapades of daring-do, knowing that their only choice is that, or having their faces and breath taken from them, that power, that mastery, is exhilarating. Then he begins to recognise that the more physical aspects of his domination – the slaps, the kicks, the using that smug bastard Walton as his fucking footstool, no less - all of it goes straight to his cock in a way he’s never before experienced.
That’s when he realises that there is nothing to stop him going further, nothing to stop him indulging his libido in any damned way he pleases.
And, naturally, the target of his attention is CEO James Walton. Daly doesn’t consider himself homosexual; he isn’t sure that he even has an orientation. He just enjoys being in charge and being able to inflict discomfort and embarrassment on those he controls.
Which is why, today, he’s lying back on the silk sheets of his comfortable kingsize bunk, arms crossed behind his head as Walton bounces on his cock. Daly knows Walton hates being fucked by him – I mean, what guy wouldn’t hate being repeatedly fucked by a captor who delights in torturing and humiliating his victim, whether or not he’s being raped at the same time?
Daly also knows that Walton’s straight and that his sexual preferences are most assuredly vanilla, and so, as well as really, really not enjoying being sodomised until he’s swollen and bleeding, he particularly hates the kinky BDSM shit that Daly’s discovered he likes.
And so, Walton’s sporting a particularly brutal leather muzzle which covers his face to just below his nostrils, thick straps buckled over his head holding it firmly in place. The muzzle has a built-in butterfly pump gag, the tubing of which swings obscenely from side to side as Walton rides him, the bulb slapping against the heavy duty clamps fastened tightly to his nipples.
Walton’s arms are cinched tightly together behind his back in a leather mono-sleeve which is itself secured to the heavy duty, rigid posture collar buckled snugly around his neck. And the pièce de résistance, as far as Daly’s concerned, is the tight black leather harness locked down over Walton’s cock and balls. Not that Walton ever really gets hard from what Daly inflicts upon him, but it’s more the symbolism, another little reminder of Walton’s helplessness, that Daly enjoys.
In short, Walton is trussed up like a fetishistic sadist's wet dream. Idly, Daly considers introducing an exclusive leisure facility for gamers wanting something of a more extreme form of R&R, a facility focussing on the defilement of slim, pretty, soft brown haired, blue eyed boys who moan and whimper and cry in the most deliciously erotic way.
He files that tempting notion away for future reference.
“Work yourself on my cock, slut. C’mon, squeeze – work those ass muscles. You exist only to give me pleasure. You’re just a collection of holes for me to use. Well, holes and a pair of hands, although I can live without the hands because I can’t trust you to behave yourself. What are you?”
Daly twists one of the nipple clamps viciously. A smothered wail filters out from behind the muzzle.
“I said, what are you?”
Walton is trying, Daly can see that, really trying to grunt out what he wants to hear, but his mouth is stuffed full of gag and his lips are pressed hard against the unforgiving leather cinched around his face, and all that he can manage is a series of somewhat pathetic muffled moans and whimpers.
Squeezing the root of Walton’s testicles between his thumb and forefingers, provoking another muffled scream, Daly sighs.
“God, you’re pathetic. If you didn’t have a nice tight asshole for me to use I’d have thrown you out of that airlock ages ago, along with your pathetic little son.”
Walton begins to cry, then, and Daly’s cock is rock hard. Grasping Walton’s hips, he forces him into a punishing rhythm, fucking up hard into him as he slams Walton down on his prick. It’s not long before he can feel his climax approaching. With a roar, he empties himself inside Walton’s body, as Walton tries to stop himself heaving at the hot, wet sensation deep in his rectum.
Daly sighs and stretches, totally satiated, then sits up, pushing Walton off him and off of the bed, leaving him lying awkwardly on the floor with his bound arms twisted beneath his back. Grabbing a thick plug from the bedside cabinet, Daly leans down over his captive.
“Don’t want you wasting that come, do we, slut? Once I’ve fucked you a few more times I’ll let you empty yourself, and then we’ll see what you’re willing to do to bribe me so I don’t make you lick it all up.”
As Daly painfully forces the plug home, Walton turns his face to the floor and imagines himself somewhere else.