Letting the River Flow

Jack has been acting up lately, breaking the rules they agreed on at the beginning of their non-traditional relationship left and right with Neal being twenty years his senior. The last straw is when he leaves dirty dishes in the sink the same day he leaves clothes thrown carelessly on the floor-- he knows Neal hates that. He grew up in unsanitary conditions in a cluttered, claustrophobic home. He didn't have the privilege of growing up in a tidy, loving house like Jack's, hence his neurotic cleaning frenzies and bitterness at anything out of place. His past left an irremovable stain on his personality in the shape of a laughable quirk, but Jack knew its origin, knew how messes crawled beneath Neal's skin and itched like a million invisible bug bites.

"Jack."

He looks up from his computer. His hair is longer than he's used to and tugged into a loose bun. Neal doesn't mind, and loves when it's down; it means there's more to pull, after all, eliciting the most delicious of sounds from his whore of a boyfriend.

"I'm busy."

Neal closes his laptop with a rough downward slap. "Not anymore," he snaps. "Bedroom. Rope. Now."

~~~

Jack's been waiting for this, practically begging for it for days, although it is admittedly a bad time. He's still in college unlike Neal, and has a three-page essay due at midnight. But he knew that there was the chance Neal would act tonight, he even wanted it, college academia and their due dates be damned.

He'll plead extenuating circumstances, maybe. If it's anything like last time's punishment, he won't be able to sit, so he can always claim a sudden onslaught of illness, skipping class on Monday to make his case more realistic.

Jack silently goes to the utensil drawer, opening it with a clink of metal. He pulls out the rusty key to the chest and heads to the upstairs bedroom, stairs moaning with each step of his socked feet. He gets on his knees, shimmying beneath the darkness of the bed, past the risers and spare cleaning supplies their closet is too full to hold to grab it by its handles and slide himself out with the chest. He inserts the key and opens it with a click, digging to the bottom to pull out the soft, light blue ropes (Neal loves seeing him in blue everything, never admitting it but always buying him blue clothes. His eye color is without a doubt the culprit, a pop of color compared to Neal's intense, charcoal pools that are capable of staring right through him, making his belly shiver and blood rush to his face with just a look. It's a skill Jack's eyes have not yet mastered, so he's glad the sky-blue brightness of his irises can make up for it.)

He hears the stairs creak as his lover follows.

Neal returns with a glass of water and a handful of towels. "Strip," he orders.

Jack gulps. Follows the directions without being told twice. Neal enjoys remaining as clothed as possible during their games, and the power dynamic is more intoxicating than any cocktail, no matter the strength, or any drug, regardless of chemical makeup.

"You could've just asked to be punished, you know," he says, once Jack's clothes are folded neatly on the bed. (He won't push his buttons any more than he has to.)

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Neal lays the towels out on the bed, then hands Jack the glass. "Drink this," he demands.

Jack assumes Neal is going for overstimulation, and his pulse races excitedly. Neal must be worried the sheer amount of sweat and cum lost will dehydrate him. He gulps it down without question, then sits down on the towels, his bare ass against the soft blue fluff.

Neal ties his hands behind his back in a series of intricate knots, pushing his fingers through the rope to make sure his circulation isn't cut and that their session is as safe as possible. He pushes him on his back, then, and ties his legs so that his ankles are beneath his ass, his knees forced closed as his legs are bent. He keeps his legs open obediently, no longer needing to be asked to do so after his boyfriend has demanded it from him so many times.

"I'm not going to cage you," states Neal. "Isn't that nice?"

"Yes, Sir. Thank you."

Neal hums in approval, then steps out of the room. Jack's heart pounds against his ribs, his mouth gone dry despite the water he just consumed; Neal never leaves him during their games. Is this part of the punishment? To be left exposed for hours with no stimulation, having no choice but to wait for his return? The air is cool against his bare, untouched cock as it grows to a semi-hardness.

When Neal returns, it's with two other glasses of water, one in each hand. Jack's eyebrows furrow in confusion. "What...?

"Drink," Neal repeats, and brings the glass to his lips. The water smacks against what's already in his stomach. By the third glass, his belly feels ready to burst, the liquid heavy in his uncomfortably tight stomach.

"Neal, what--"

"Ask another question and I'll gag you."

"Are you trying to see me piss?" he wonders aloud with a laugh. Fear and an unexpected wave of arousal surface right after the absurd question.

Neal doesn't answer, his neglect of the inquiry fueling Jack's theory. He waltzes over to the chest and takes the red ball gag out, coming back to stuff it into Jack's mouth like an apple in a roast pig. He leaves it unstrapped, though, just in case Jack can't handle whatever he's plotting. If he needs to, he can spit it out and safe word and Neal will kick the game to the curb and cut him loose as quickly as humanly possible.

As though sensing his discomfort, Neal sits beside him and rubs his hand over Jack's stretched belly. Jack moans, the act of Neal stroking his heavy abdomen oddly intimate and soothing, like he's nothing but a dog having his belly massaged. He hardens fully, standing straight and tall and all-too proud for such a bizarre situation.

After a few minutes, Jack can feel his bladder, swollen and uncomfortable in his body which is quickly starting to sweat. He lets go of a muffled whine; flexes his toes and struggles against the rope.

"Is something the matter?" Neal asks, sweet and innocent as can be for a man with such a hungry gaze.

Jack knows better than to unclamp his jaw and let the gag fall.

It must've been fifteen minutes, but it feels like an eternity of squirming under Neal's piercing stare as the other man rubs circles into his belly, hands occasionally drifting to his cock to gently trace the tip. Jack desperately wants for him to pump him to completion, bloated tummy and bladder temporarily forgotten whenever his hands grace his leaking dick.

Finally, Neal states, "You shouldn't have disobeyed me, Jack," before pressing his hand down hard against his lower body.

To Jack's horror, a stream of piss shoots from his cock. He closes his legs, but Neal quickly grabs them and yanks them apart. Jack trembles, heat coursing through him at how fucking weird this shit is. He's about to piss himself like a baby and Neal wants to watch.

"Legs apart or I'll spank your cock," Neal hisses.

Jack's breaths are labored and heavy as he nods.

"Let go," Neal orders.

Jack's throat constricts and his eyes water. He doesn't want this--it's embarrassing and perverted but his need to please Neal, to make up for what he's done, over-rides the self-consciousness.

Psssssssssssss.........

"Dirty boy," he coos at him. "You filthy, disgusting animal..."

A tear slips out of Jack's eye. He squeezes them shut, shaking hard, heart hammering from the utter embarrassment of what he's done.

Neal grabs his wet cock, pumping it furiously and Jack wails, high-pitched and ashamed.

"Cum like the naughty boy you are," he orders. "Cum for me, slut."

In a humiliatingly short time, Jack shoots cum with a smothered shriek, gag falling out of his mouth so that he can take in huge gulps of air through his mouth. As he comes down, Neal cuts him free, rubbing the rope marks on Jack's legs and arms, chasing away the soreness with his skilled fingers.

"You did good, Jack" he purrs, and the praise warms his heart, makes it all worth it.

Neal's cleaning process is thorough and precise as he throws away the towel in several plastic bags and scrubs Jack's inner thighs in the shower. If he hadn't just cum, he'd be reacting to the touch, but his body is tired and limp as Neal washes him to his liking with only occasional shivers of pleasure.

"Tomorrow I'm going to fuck you hard," Neal promises.

All is well.