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▇▇▇▇ stood over the boiling pot of soup, keeping one eye on the blizzard that was still in full swing outside the kitchen windows.
The pot had been simmering for a bit, the vegetables softened and the broth clear and golden. In a pan off to one side, squares of marinated tofu sizzled in oil, ready to be added as the final step. It all smelled of rich umami and fresh herbs, and ▇▇▇▇ stirred the large pot one last time, tapping the ladle on the side to remove the last drops of broth before pausing in the task of babysitting the food.
He could hear the soft jingle from the locks on his victim’s mitts from the other room.
The other ambience of the house filled the space around them--the crackling from the main wood furnace that heated the countryside house, the muffled wind through the walls and windows as the winter storm raged on outside the house, and the soft bubbling of the food on the stove.
That was the beauty of a cock gag.
▇▇▇▇ made sure the burner under the soup wasn’t set too high before shuffling over to the living room, unable to hold back a smile at the sight that waited for him.
His victim was well-adjusted by now, docile, with the last few weeks’ worth of bruises healing in layers on its neck and wrists.
It sat meekly on the couch, legs folded up underneath it. A cotton throw blanket was tucked over its lap. ▇▇▇▇ hadn’t left the TV on, so there was little to entertain itself with.
The soft, slightly greasy strands of its hair hung around its face, and as ▇▇▇▇ paused in the doorway, it looked up at him with big, wet grey eyes.
▇▇▇▇ tutted, faux sympathetic to the fading puffiness and last lingering darkness from a black eye on his victim’s face.
He stepped forward, licking the pad of his thumb and pressing it against the last lingering sore spots in a mime of cleaning its face.
The small spike of pain made the victim wince and shuffle, but its mitted hands didn’t leave its lap.
It let ▇▇▇▇ have his fun though, knowing better than to resist.
“Soup’s almost done,” ▇▇▇▇ said, finally breaking the quiet tension that seeped into the silence.
He pulled his thumb away from the victim’s cheekbone, watching its throat bob as it swallowed.
He gave it a warm smile.
“Let me get you a bowl.”
He moved back towards the kitchen, using it to hide the way his cock was starting to throb inside his pants.
He couldn’t help it.
It was the thrill of pain, poking at his victim’s soft spots.
His victim was so sweet.
The food was still at a simmer when he returned, turning off the burner under the tofu and using an overmitt to grab the handle. He dumped it all into the large pot of soup, oil and all, giving it a hearty stir to incorporate it all before snagging one of the serving dishes hanging off to one side of his counter.
Using the ladle, ▇▇▇▇ scooped a generous helping into one of the bowls, grabbing a wide soup-spoon from his utensils drawer. It was plastic and less dangerous than a metal spoon if his victim happened to get any ideas in its silly head.
It still had some bad habits that ▇▇▇▇ hadn’t beaten out of it.
With the spoon propped under the steaming vegetables and broth, ▇▇▇▇ carried the meal back to the living room, joining his victim on the couch.
It flinched whenever he made contact with it, which was a behavior that ▇▇▇▇ hadn’t figured out if he wanted to train the poor thing out of.
It was sorta endearing to know that any touch from him wasn’t really wanted. His presence was always something that was tolerated, and his victim sat with tense shoulders and stiff arms and legs, like a cat that was desperately trying to convey how uncomfortable it was with your presence but wasn’t bothered enough to move.
▇▇▇▇’s pants were thick enough--heavy jeans--so that there was less of a risk of the victim feeling the hard length of his cock.
Still, he took a moment to adjust himself, not bothering to hide that action as well.
His victim wrinkled its nose at the gesture, looking pointedly away as if that could change its reality.
▇▇▇▇ liked its fight.
“Oh, don’t make that face,” he teased, setting the bowl down and flopping back on the couch.
It was easy to wrap his arms around its waist, pulling it halfway onto his lap and nuzzling against its face and neck. It cringed away, breathing hard through its nose, but it was smart enough not to show its displeasure more than that.
▇▇▇▇ cooed over it, licking the black leather panel that was pressed over the bottom half of his victim’s face. He could feel the thick bulge of the toy right behind it.
With a grunt, ▇▇▇▇ hooked two fingers into the thick collar around his victim’s neck, yanking it into him to keep it where he wanted.
He bullied into its space, kissing its ear and then traveling down. He moaned as he kissed his way to its adam’s apple, working around the collar to get at its skin. It swallowed around the toy, trembling as it struggled to hold back a retch.
For a moment, ▇▇▇▇ was tempted to forgo the food altogether and just eat his fill of the thing.
Maybe, if he kissed it hard enough, he could open up its split lip from last week and indulge in the copper-y sharp salt of the victim’s insides.
He pressed down on its throat, making it squeeze the toy inside its mouth just a bit tighter, and that was what pushed it too far.
It whimpered, sharply, warning ▇▇▇▇ that it was getting close to gagging.
Polite.
So he relented.
He pulled away, fishing one of the small keys from his pocket to undo the lock on the latch of the panel gag. He undid the buckle with a click of metal, finally pulling it away.
The victim still waited, eyes watering more than ever now that it had to put more effort into holding the toy. It would get punished if it let it slip now.
Its lips were flushed pink-red, swollen from sucking on the toy for the entire morning, and it brought its mitts up, cupping them under its mouth as it swallowed desperately to keep it down.
▇▇▇▇ loved its suffering.
“Here,” he said, finally reaching up to snag the base of the toy.
The victim blinked gratefully, finally spitting up the toy with a moan of relief. It swallowed heavily around the thick globs of saliva and spit. It still spilled on itself, flushing in embarrassment over the mess it made even with its best efforts.
It wore one of ▇▇▇▇’s older t-shirts, the cotten stretched out at the armpits and neckline, and the front now speckled with wet spots from the victim’s spit.
▇▇▇▇ didn’t bother cleaning the toy, setting it wet and used on the coffee table and grabbing the soup.
“Hungry?” he asked casually.
The victim was still blinking back tears, its legs tangled with his in a pantomime of intimacy.
▇▇▇▇ scooped a fair bite of vegetables, broth, and tofu, bringing the steaming bite to the victim’s face.
The heat made it turn its head away instinctively, the human fear of ‘hot’ and ‘fire’ firing in overdrive with its andrenaline, but then its hunger and sense of smell caught up with it.
The angle was awkward, but the victim made it work, wrapping its lips around the spoon. ▇▇▇▇ tipped it up, making sure to tip all the contents into its mouth.
Its eyes popped wide at the temperature, sucking air sharply through its teeth to try and aerate the broth. Fresh tears spilled from its eyes, involuntary and unable to be held back with the same self control that it used to keep its dignity intact.
▇▇▇▇’s eyes were bright and eager as he watched it eat.
He already had a second bite, prodding at its lips and face before it had even managed the first.
He cooed and tutted, acting like an overbearing boyfriend more than a kidnapper as he plied his victim with bite after bite of rich, savory soup.
He paused halfway through, only because the soup had started to genuinely cool off and he realized that each bite of vegetable was no longer as painful as it was at the start.
His victim was a mess at that time--tears streaming down as it sucked back snot as the heat cleared its sinuses. It panted, letting a pink flushed tongue dangle out of its mouth as it made soft little noises of pain.
▇▇▇▇ finally set the soup aside, no longer able to control himself.
With a possessive growl, he dragged himself onto the victim, stradling its lap and using its collar to yank its face up.
The kiss ▇▇▇▇ forced onto it was deep, pressing at its lips as he tried to suck on its tongue and feel the damage from the food.
The top of its mouth was ravaged from the broth, burned and in tatters. ▇▇▇▇ moaned, rutting his hips forward against the soft bump that was the victim’s own caged cock.
The victim pressed its mitts against his ribcage, gentle, the first sign that ▇▇▇▇ was maybe pushing it too far.
The skin inside its mouth had already blistered and popped, fresh and vulnerable underneath. ▇▇▇▇ found one bubble that hadn’t been ruined, not going back for air when he first needed it to instead press at this new vulnerable spot in his victim just to feel it squirm and jerk.
With a firm bite on its bottom lip, ▇▇▇▇ re-opened the split from before.
The tang of metal exploded on his tongue, and that was almost the tipping point.
With a grip in the victim’s hair just to make sure it didn’t pull away, ▇▇▇▇ finally broke the kiss off long enough to catch his breath.
With its head wrenched backwards, ▇▇▇▇ could stare down the irritated ring of muscle that marked the beginning of its throat. It opened and closed as it breathed, flexing and gasping as it struggled to keep up with this new game.
Next week, new soft skin would grow over the burns, and ▇▇▇▇ couldn’t wait to drag his cock against the freshly healed skin just to feel the victim gag and choke itself on him.
He was dizzy with it, the blood in his body unable to decide if it wanted to flow up or down.
▇▇▇▇ was the one who had to pull back to catch his breath then, squeezing his eyes shut as he overwhelmed himself with the fantasy. It took everything in him to not cum in his pants on top of it, and he had to hold himself still for a moment, forehead pressed to his victim’s as he trembled.
It wasn’t until the victim made a noise of distress underneath him, confused why he wasn’t moving and starting to squirm for a more comfortable position.
▇▇▇▇ pulled back with a breath, thumbing the victim’s lip. The blood ran thin with spit, still a bright red with the fresh oxygen of the victim’s panting.
He wanted to pull its hand to his crotch, suddenly self-conscious. He wanted it to feel the reaction his body was having, so it could know that there was a purpose to all of this.
“There’s my little upright bodybag,” he teased, pressing his face to his victim’s and peppering soft kisses to its cheeks and lips.
He let his hands trail downwards, pinching at its chest and then pressing against the bump of food starting to settle in its stomach.
“Still hungry?” he asked. If it said yes, he would get more hot soup, wondering if it was possible to burn its throat on the broth next.
Its tongue darted out to swipe its split lip, like it wanted a taste of its insides just as much as ▇▇▇▇ did.
Its eyes flicked to his, clearly trying to puzzle out what the ‘correct’ answer was. What could it say to appease its jail warden?
“I’m . . . it’s okay,” it croaked, its voice rough from disuse as it struggled to form the words.
▇▇▇▇ shrugged, not really bothered one way or the other. He tugged on its leash instead, leaning down as he pulled its mouth back to his.
It moaned against his mouth as he cupped its face, pressing at its bruising, getting it to squirm and rut underneath him.
Each twitch of its hips made him roll his own, his cock oozing passively beneath his clothes. ▇▇▇▇ didn’t need the skin-to-skin contact his victim did. In fact, he liked the layers between them.
He stuffed his fingers into its mouth, getting a good grip on the squirming muscle of its tongue and yanking it down.
His victim grunted, making a noise of confusion that ▇▇▇▇ swallowed into his own throat.
With its tongue pinned, it had even less agency in the kissing. It couldn’t even react as he pressed their faces together, drooling into its open maw and raking his tongue across the burns on its palette. He gathered a wad of spit in his cheek, pulling back briefly.
His victim was close to crying again, eyes red and flushed as it gaped its mouth for him, keeping its lips obediently spread. ▇▇▇▇ still hooked his other thumb behind the top row of its teeth, opening it another half inch.
He spit onto its tongue, tipping its head back to watch the patch of white foam slip backwards down its red throat.
Shot and chaser.
He kissed it deep, like he was trying to get a taste of the spit that he had just lost.
The soft touch of his victim’s mitts on his hips was what tipped ▇▇▇▇ over in the end. The muffled noise of the weather outside accompanied the soft bubble of food still left on the stove, and with ▇▇▇▇’s tongue pried down its throat, the only noise the victim could make was choked whimpers around the wet, sloppy noises of its own spit.
It didn’t dare push him away, too well-trained for that, so its bound hands just rested on ▇▇▇▇’s hips.
The final heat-blister broke in its mouth, and ▇▇▇▇ came, shuddering and closing his eyes as his mess spilled into his underwear.
He continued his rutting, unbothered by the mess he was making in his own pants as he continued to chew and gnaw on its lips.
When he finally pulled back, resting on his heels and taking a moment to catch his breath, his victim didn’t move much either. Its tongue still hung from its mouth, the tip stuck between ▇▇▇▇’s fingers. It drooled down its front, eyes bright and furious at this new indignation.
All ▇▇▇▇ had to do was ruck up its t-shirt, hooking a finger in the thin pair of sweatpants he generously allowed it to wear during the colder months. He pulled it open, exposing the twitching plastic cage that held its cock.
Sure enough, his victim had left a mess in its own pants.
Not an orgasm, since ▇▇▇▇ only allowed those during special occassions, but enough pre-cum to prove that his victim’s body was confused. And desperate. And needy.
His victim turned its head away, refusing to even look at the reaction its body was having. It didn’t want to acknowledge that its body seemed to want this despite its mind saying no.
▇▇▇▇ didn’t care. He let its pants snap closed, snagging the cock gag and holding it up.
The victim shivered, licking its lips. After a moment, it leaned forward, taking the fake cock into its mouth and then down its throat as ▇▇▇▇ pressed it deeper. The leather panel molded to its skin, and it held obediently still as ▇▇▇▇ tightened the straps, relocking the gag around its head like a bandaid over a wound.
▇▇▇▇ patted its cheek, chuckling as it furrowed its eyebrows and wrinkled its nose. Its sharp exhale was the most resistance it could manage though, and when ▇▇▇▇ moved to climb off of it to clean up the remaining dishes and food, it actually squeezed his hips tighter, clinging to him as if it didn’t want him to leave.
▇▇▇▇ gave it a knowing smirk, and it yanked its mitts away with the best scowl it could manage around its blazing blush.
So he hadn’t broken his toy, not yet at least.
“I’ll be quick,” he cooed all saccrine sweet and perfect boyfriend, even as his victim rolled its eyes and huffed, already putting on a show of being standoffish and huffy.
The bruising on its ass was starting to heal a bit too much for ▇▇▇▇’s preference, not to mention the bite-marks around its tits from his teeth and clamps needed to be refreshed.
If the soft cuddling during the violent snowstorms and homecooked meals were starting to wear his victim down, the ▇▇▇▇ needed to remind it why it was scared of him in the first place.
He was fighting its Stockholm syndrom just as much as it was after all.