Fifty Shades of EraserMic (Shades of EraserMic #1)

By The Balls

Shouta wondered if Hizashi ever had a clue the effect of his words on him. How they stuck. He didn't know if it was merely because of his subspace. If it was because of how his body had flamed with the heat. Something, maybe both, happily seared them there. They weaved into the back of his mind creating a precious little fantasy that had taken root stubbornly all these months. How did he explain that to his husband?

The blonde had been so upfront about his fantasies. About how long he's wanted them and or how recent they were, yet he didn't know how to breach that topic. How to bring it up when the fantasy was warping? Changing all the damn time? It felt damn near impossible to vocalize it. How he could see it in his mind, in his dreams, but was unable to say it. It was like trying to catch a fly with bare hands.

Impossible. Hard. And yet he didn't know how much longer he could choke it down. Didn't know how long he could go without saying anything. But how could he bring it up? His husband was so uncomfortable, guilt ridden after the erotic humiliation that he didn't know if the man would want to do anything like that again. But the idea, the twisted image that came into beautiful high definition recently.

Made stronger when his eyes fell on an abbreviated word on the list had strangled him. To see the full thing written out next to it in parenthesis. Oh, the way it had weaved and changed every little bit of the fantasy to something riskier. Something hotter that threatened to boil him alive. CBT. Or, as it said in those parenthesis, cock and ball torture. Shouta wished he could say he was a brave man, not easily squeamish.

He swore he had proved it quite a few times but some part of him cringed at the thought of anything hitting him or crushing his dick or balls. But oh, the image was impossibly better than he could ever say out loud. The thought of his husband dressed like he always did with their BDSM play. The tight leather pants that had him drooling over that flat ass. The boots with their wicked spikes on the back.

To have the man standing before him with a hip cocked? To see those long blonde locks of his spilling down his chest and back respectively? Oh, it was shiver worthy. It was damn sexy and his husband knew it. And it was right there. The image of his husband standing in front of him with those boots on. Spikes flashing dangerously at him. The sight of those tight leather pants that squeezed and clung to every inch of his legs.

Made those already long legs all the more drool worthy as his hair swayed against his back. The idea of those deep blues his husband had been experimenting with painted across his eyelids. How those eyes of his would glow beneath the dark hues? His lips painted a beautiful shade of pink? Pressing onto his crotch only to press down, down, down with increasing pressure? To be coaxed towards the pleasure once it was over?

Using those wicked items to give a true taste of torture? It had him short of breath when he imagined it. Had him gasping himself awake on the nights he was at the dorms. Had him twisted up in his blankets with a few droplets of sweat rolling down his temples from the clammy sheen over his forehead. Trying to process the difference between his low light dream and the darkness of his room.

It was a torturous fantasy. One that he wanted to bring into reality more than he wanted anything else. Was he a glutton for being treated like shit? Was there something fundamentally wrong with him that he liked it? Or was it because he knew his husband held some of those venomous attributes? That he loved seeing those green eyes looking at him so coldly? To hear that lovely voice of his raising to pick him apart?

Only to hear it crooning and snarling those vulgar words at him? He didn't know what it was, but he wasn't sure how to breach that topic. It was only the beginning of September when they went through that erotic humiliation, wasn't it? Was this too soon? Or would it be fine? He didn't know how to breach it, but he was dying at the image that was beginning to resurface. Coming more often than he'd liked to admit.