Chapter Five
The next couple days go how they should. Mainly. I bring him food and briefly uncuff his hands so he can eat and use the bathroom and we speak a little, about nothing important -- his voice is husky and unexpectedly deep, which I'm not sure is natural or caused by his current emotions, although he always seems calm with me. He lives in darkness but never complains. I think he cries some, because his mask is sometimes darkened by moisture, but I never threaten him, and he doesn't seem afraid of me, just submissive to my curt demands.
But there's some things that don't quite go right. I continue to be mystified by my attraction to him. Although he is objectively stunning, he isn't a cute sexually aggressive brunette with a perky bubble butt, so I have no idea why I'm having such a strong reaction to the way he looks. We haven't had any emotive interactions, he just calmly does everything I tell him to without protest, which is not my preference as I like guys with fire. So, the fact that I've been watching him intently, mesmerized by the lines of his face, the way he's developing rough stubble on his otherwise unmarred jaw, the veins that run up his strong masculine arms -- well, it's throwing me for a loop.
I place the tray, with soup and bread and water, on the nightstand and gently uncuff Sebastian.
"Thank you," he says softly.
"That's okay," I respond, guiding him into an upright position, my hand supporting his back, taking everything I have to not run my fingers along his taut muscles. I place the handle of the mug in one hand and the hunk of bread in the other, which he nibbles at. "Aren't you hungry?" I ask, a little concerned, because he really hasn't eaten much since we brought him here and I don't want him to get weak or sick.
"Not really, sorry," he tells me. "I'm not exactly doing anything to build up an appetite," he shrugs blindly toward the bed that is his prison.
In the end, he does finish the soup, though I suspect it's only to please me after my intrusive question, but he places most of the bread back on the tray as he finds the large glass of water. I can't help watching, staring even, as he places it to his full lips and glugs it down, his Adam's apple bouncing with the flow of the water, causing an unfortunate matching bounce in my cock.
"Do you need more?" I ask, conscious of how quickly it's gone.
"No thank you."
He's so meek! But what do I want? Him to be fighting me every step of the way? Maybe, just a little bit, if only because feistiness would explain why I'm so hot for him, and getting hotter.
* * * * *
On the third day he finally speaks up.
"Can I -- can I have a shower?" His voice is rough from limited use. I think for a moment -- the bathroom window is tiny and high so there's no way he'd get out of there but I have to be conscious that all the peace to date may be because he has been trying to lull me. He might make a weapon, or just hurt himself trying to get away. I really can't tell where his mind is at the moment.
"Okay, but if you want to be uncuffed I'm going to have to stay with you. Or I'll stay out, but you have to keep them on." He shrugs, and his voice is tiny.
"Can you take them off, please?"
The implications finally reach me, and I'm suddenly uncertain this is anything but a terrible idea. I unfasten them and help him to remove his vest as I need to ensure his mask stays in place, though he hasn't attempted to remove it up to now.
I stand before him as he slides his sweatpants over his hips and he is before me in nothing but a very tight, very short pair of boxer briefs that mold to his flat stomach and hug the top of his strong thighs and everything else. I gulp, thankful that he can't see my face, as he pauses for a moment, before tucking his fingers into the waistband and sliding them down.
His body is straight out of Greek sculpture, except for one very important aspect. I look at his large pale nipples, erect in the frigid air of the room, perfectly placed on his broad pectoral muscles, smooth and golden. His abdominals are perfectly even and demarcated, with the striations of serratus anterior that show they aren't just vanity muscles but created through genuine work and need. I know lacrosse is a physical sport and he's good at it, so I'm not that surprised, but still impressed. His firm obliques create a beautiful Adonis plate; a deep v with a flat front that, along with a faint happy trail, points directly to his cock. Obviously, I'm more than a bit of a fan of a guy's junk, but his is divine, even hanging softly by his upper thigh, it's thick, long, and smooth, with heavy balls lightly covered in light blond curls... My eyes are travelling to his strong, defined thighs when I realize I've been staring too long.
I shake my head for a moment to clear it. This is wrong. He is completely at my mercy and I have essentially just put him in a position where he has stripped naked for me and I'm now drinking in that nakedness without any expression of desire from him. It is so unfair of me to be doing this. I am not some kind of predator but that's how I'm acting. Christ, I'm starting to feel sickened by my lack of self-control.
I guide him to the bathroom and turn the shower on, before helping him to step under the fast spray, where he twists this way and that, seemingly enjoying the feel of the warm droplets. I watch his partially covered face as he tips his neck to the side, letting the heat work at his muscles, which must be stiff after so long with so little movement.
He turns away and I watch the rivulets run down his muscled back and over his firm ass. It's not bubbled, but somehow better, firm and high with smooth indents on each side, eminently masculine and very, very bitable. I'm getting very jealous of that water, rolling down his body and touching him everywhere.
There's a slight embarrassed cough.
