Sex in C Major
Chapter 64

There was himself. High. Fleeting.

And there was-

Master.

The masterpiece was deep. The masterpiece that moved him, that commanded him, that controlled every last movement and made his chest hurt with pride and pain and possibility-

It growled and grumbled, rattled at the cage of his ribs, squeezed at his heart, crushed the rhythm away-

The bass boomed again. And the third climax shattered the earth. He was free. Falling. Flying. It didn't matter. He was drowned under the rush of sound, and he couldn't breathe through it. It was everything. Everything. It stopped.

Silence.

Cold, lonely silence.

Chains. The shed. The bench. Sweat.

Bound and blind and being fucked by music and music alone.

The illusion broke.

Shattered.

And the slave began to cry. 24

Stefan woke...warm.

Very warm.

He was surrounded by heat and softness, moving gently with every breath, and for a moment, he didn't know why that felt so strange.

And then it clicked. The shed. The chains. That strange, almost out-of-body experience with the music. The way he'd dissolved into tears when Yannis had switched off the sound. The way he'd-

Oh.

He'd clung and cried like a child when Yannis had let him out. He'd been almost hysterical. And now...

Stefan blinked, and pulled the duvet away from his head.

They were on the sofa.

They.

Stefan blinked at Yannis' sleeping face, inches from his own, and felt a deep blush suddenly colouring his cheeks. Oh God. Had he been so frantic that Yannis had had to cuddle him to sleep like a baby? Christ. They-they barely had anything to do with each other. It wasn't Yannis' job to look after him. He didn't belong to-

Stefan stopped that thought in its tracks, and carefully slipped out of the nest of warm body and duvet.

He was still entirely naked.

His discarded T-shirt was still on the piano where he'd left it, and Stefan picked it up before looking down at himself. There was dry mud caked between his toes. Marks from the chains. And he smelled of sex and sweat.

Shower.

He tiptoed out of the room as quietly as possible, but couldn't help the creaking of the stairs, and gave up entirely when the pipes rattled before allowing the shower to spit hot water down into the cubicle. He shut the door, but left it unlocked. He'd never asked, but...surely slaves weren't allowed to lock their owne

He stopped that thought, too.

The hot water felt luxurious, and he basked in it for a while before seeking shower gel. He borrowed some that, by the smell, belonged to Yannis-perhaps Daz's would be too presumptuous-and scrubbed until his skin tingled. His dick was tired and chafing, and for once didn't respond to a massage in heat. When he washed his face, the faintest hair could be felt on his chin, and Stefan closed his eyes and breathed.

Hysteria aside

He felt...good.

It had been something more than masturbation. The phantom weight of the chains had felt safe, even without his master there. He felt as calmed and focused as though he had been fucked. Felt grounded.

Did that mean-

Stefan shoved that away, too. He felt good. It was Christmas. And Yannis had...cuddled him. They'd held hands in bed last night-albeit maybe Yannis hadn't been really aware of it but he'd deliberately cuddled him. They'd gone to sleep all tangled up.

Yannis wasn't what Stefan had thought.

And whatever the hell his experiment had been proving, whatever data it supposedly was that he was gathering, Stefan...sort of wanted a bit more of it.

This-this wasn't no strings attached.

This wasn't...ownership. Cold. Detached. It was something more.

And Stefan didn't know if it was possible, to be owned by-no, for Daz to share him. For this to be some kind of...triad. But he wanted it, suddenly. He wanted more than just the occasional involvement in managing him. He wanted Yannis to be around as much as Daz. Albeit maybe, given their sexual differences, with a different role.

Stefan was...an experiment to Yannis. A subject.

And it should have disgusted him. Should appal him. Hadn't he heard it all before? Hadn't he been called an experiment, a freak of nature, a test, all his sexual life? Hadn't he heard it countless times in slurs and jeers and rejections? Hadn't it always been that even the nice guys passed over him, saying sorry, I don't need to experiment to know I don't do trans. Hadn't he always been you're not a he, you're an it to the arseholes?

It should have made him throw up.

But.

It didn't.

And he didn't know why. And so, yet again, Stefan pushed the thought away, and stepped out of the shower. He grabbed a towel off the rail, and dried as quickly as possible, looking at the ceiling to avoid ruining his good mood with his bad body. The T-shirt going on was a relief. His underwear, he realised, was still in the bedroom and not clean enough to go on after a shower-so he knotted the towel around his waist and tiptoed back downstairs.