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The warm air lazily caresses his bare skin, tracing every muscular contour while making his flesh hypersensitive, amplifying even the slightest movement and his hands remain restrained behind his back, the handcuffs just tight enough to remind him of the fact he can't escape even if he tries.
His lips part slightly without conscious thought as he's releasing a silent breath and his pupils are so dilated, obscuring the color of his beautiful eyes, leaving only that dark, intense gaze as it scans you with a shameless, undisguised hunger. He shifts slightly in the chair while anticipation is coursing through his body, eating him alive from whiting, waiting for you to decide what comes next.
He feeds on the intense disgust in your eyes, that hatred that seems to emanate from you in waves so dense they could drown you and he absorbs it in the most thirsty and starving way possible, letting it settle under his skin like fuel and that hatred of yours would only become a problem for him if the ritual ever breaks and you suddenly start seeing him as a person, rather than what he wants to be to you.
Dex knows you too well for someone you claim to despise.
He understands your inclination towards cruelty, those tendencies to inflict pain and the intense thrill that courses through you at the sight of freshly spilled blood. He has seen how your breathing changes, how your attention focuses, how the sickening darkness seeps through the cracks of any self-control you pretend to have.
You give, he takes, and it works because there's no one else who fits this space like him.
No one else can handle this balance of repulsion and filthy longing that is ugly and deeply uncomfortable, and perhaps that's the most pathetic part of it all... That out of everyone, he's the only one who understands how to satisfy it, Dex is the only one who can please you in this way, however pitiful that may sound.
He licks his lips, watching intently as your finger slides across the table, testing how smooth and resistant the surface is.
“Aren't you going to ask me my safe word?” he purrs playfully, his voice husky, low with amusement.
Your eyes shift from the table to rest on those pools of hazel and you remain stoic, ignoring his joke, “how many?” you ask softly, reaching closer and raising your hand to place it on the back of his head and he's immediately tensing as your fingers tangle and tighten in his hair.
Dex swallows, unable to control how the blood rushes to his groin too quickly and his useless hands clench, taking a breath before replying.
“Until I wish I had a safe word.” he mutters, listening to his heart pounding so loudly in his ears and he's lying, he would never use a safe word since he expects you to never stop.
There's a tingle traveling beneath your skin, and your hand tighten his hair.
“Breathe.”
Just as he's about to inhale, you roughly force his head back and slam his face against the table and the sound is so loud, echoing through the place and Dex gasps from the pain that starts in his nose, spreading like flames across his face and you keep it pressed against the surface dragging it slowly, the first blow leaving you breathless.
And you don't stop.
You do it again, lifting his head, then crushing it against the smooth wood.
One, two, three, four, five blows, each one harder than the last and he's shivering in the chair, thighs tensing beneath his black cargo pants, hands shaking behind his back.
You're panting for breath now; each blow resonates more deeply in your ears lodging itself in your brain.
Dex is in the same state.
The table breaks his nose, there's warm blood gushing from his nostrils as his lips are split, he feels his gums burn and bleed, smiling widely at such delicious feeling and each blow widens the split on his cheekbone caused by the impact and his forehead is aching.
He wonders what his fresh bruises look like, and the mere thought makes his cock throb and leak untouched inside his warm clothes.
You let him breathe after the eighth impact, pulling his face away from the filthy wood, now darker with blood that belongs to him. You let out a little huff as you watch the red and thick strands of drool connecting his split lips to the table before they snap from the shake you give to his head to make sure he hasn't passed out.
He's grinning with his eyes closed, so ecstatic and pretty it makes you sick to admit it, so writhing in pain that burns his swollen wounded face, then you grip his hair tighter and you need to see him die like this, quivering and panting in agony until he just can't take it anymore.
You want his indestructible skull to crack because of you, you want that adamantium to damage his brain somehow, you hope he stops breathing once you've finished off his pretty and perfect nose.
The fact that he can still endure more infuriates you, and he's begging you for more as you stare at the fresh and inviting blood adorning his disfiguring face.
“P—Please, more, more more,” he babbles, drooling as he keeps his mouth agape to pray to you in sheer devotion, and you want to know if his teeth are loose, you want to see if you damaged them enough for him to spit one out.
You bite your lip hard until it's bruised and return to your task with more fervor than before, smashing his face again but with more force, maintaining a solid grip on his now sweaty hair and his shoulders go slack. You don't need to look to know he's pushing his hips up for some sweet friction.
You just continue, harder, a tenth time, frowning at how starving you feel for more, clenching your teeth when he lets out an agonizing groan on the tenth blow. His head even slips from your grasp from the force, and you have to place your hand on his neck and grip it to lift his face again.
Then your hand travels to his hair, tilting his head towards the light and he's so broken, head lolling pathetically being held just by your grip and he has a satisfied smile on his blood-soaked face, bruises adorn him beneath the sticky deep red, his half-open mouth salivates nonstop and his eyes are no longer open, you hope he has a weak pulse now, you hope his brain hits his skull.
With the finger of your free hand, you caress a cut on the bridge of his nose, smearing your finger with his blood, and bring it to his mouth, just to test how conscious he is.
Slowly, his pink tongue peeks out, his mouth barely moving because he can't even feel it anymore. He wipes the blood from your finger using his warm tongue, humming at the metallic taste, and you can't help but smile with satisfaction. Then, as your final display of pleasure, you grip the hair that falls over his forehead and pull down, his face slams back against the surface with a loud thump, listening to something breaking that makes you puff a shaky breath in fascination.
Dex tenses all over and not a single sound escapes him, and you see him squirm slightly after a few seconds.
Such a whore for pain.
So adorable, he came inside his pants, making a mess inside the fabric that sticks to his weeping, thick cock. His torso is covered in sweat, every muscle glistening making you so hungry, wetness adorning his freckled flesh that must taste so salthy and good.
You push him off the chair effortlessly; he falls to the ground with a heavy thud and weakly settles onto his back, huffing in need, groaning in pain that intensifies when he feels air hit his raw face.
You're standing in front of him, staring at how dark the faded fabric is in his crotch.
So wet.
You stare more than you should, fascinated at how he's so big and worthless, too easy for you and you are licking your lips, your shoe slides into his groin without any little gentleness, reveling in how hard he remains even though he's just finished.
Dex whines silently, pushing his tired hips against your shoe, arching his back when you press too roughly, eliciting a guttural moan from his dry throat; poor, sweet boy can barely breathe.
His cock hurts so much it's not even pleasurable anymore, but he's so delirious by it. He's drugged by the excruciating pain, choking when you press a little harder right where his aching tip is, and then you pull your shoe away when you realize that not satisfying him will only make him feel worse.
Which is all that matters.
You take a step back, admiring the work of art before you.
He looks like a masterpiece, blood trickling down his neck, his face perfectly disfigured, his chest rising and falling so gently it seems he's not breathing anymore, perky nipples hard and sensitive adorning his tits, thick thighs spread, his cock waning before you and his muscles are loose, adjusting to the discomfort of maintaining his hands behind his back.
You feel the urge to touch him, to dig your finger into his swollen cheekbone, but you're disgusted by the thought. So you just reach into your pocket, pull out a pair of small keys, and toss them aside.
“You have ten minutes to leave. Clean my table,” you mutter, trying not to let your ragged breathing distort your voice as you begin to walk away from his lulled frame, not caring if he heard you or not.
You hope he didn't.