. : bliss valley : . [18+]

. : one : .

o n e

Sebastian was good in bed.

He knew it.

His slightly alcoholic, mediocre state college dudebro friends knew it.

All the Women's Studies majors in his coed dorm sure as hell knew it.

Not to brag, but Sebastian was, like, A-mazing.

Self taught and a natural around forms feminine and masculine from the first moment he was conscious of his developing sexuality, Sebastian prided himself on his near scientific approach to the world's oldest art form.

In high school, George Redtree said Bas would win the nobel prize for revolutionizing sex, if such a ridiculous thing actually existed (he made a fake award for him anyways, spray painted gold.)

During tennis matches (where Bas always ended up without a shirt after the second set), adoring fans likened his smooth maneuvering on the court to a leopard on the hunt, stalking his unwitting prey, muscles corded with endorphins and other ancient warmakers.

Around a listening ear and a bottle of Dom Perignon, Sebastian would even say he singularly perfected the craft at the ripe age of twenty before most guys even got their feet wet.

Sebastian Mendoza was Eros on earth.

Passion.

Machismo.

Alpha.

The mesmerizing Afro-Latino aesthetic so many demonized and fetishized in the same breath.

He was it.

And he trusted in it with all of the heart he pretended to not have, so convinced of its invisible power (whatever it was) at the time.

But now, hanging from a high ceiling clothed in nothing but firm, restricting rope and tingling welts, he isn't so fucking sure anymore.

Knots tied around his wrists end at the small of his back, his left ankle is cinched to a rope curling near his left buttcheek (still crimson from an unforgiving hand).

Rope winds ever further beneath his pecs, and twisted between them, over his arms, hugging his rhomboid major and latissimus dorsi like an old friend.

Friction laced in pleasure points he never knew he had. No part of him touched the ground; he was suspended only by careful bonds and the assurance he would never collapse under her care.

The woman who ended his world rubbed a leather hand across his scarred back with a smile faint as sun dust.

Contrasting rich copper skin, her teeth were soothingly white.

Her mother was a dentist.

"How you holding up, slave?"

It was a question and a command all at once, and Bas would've replied if he wasn't gagged and literally hanging by a thread.

Even then, he wouldn't have responded. It was as if a professor placed a foreign exam in front of him and she kindly handed them the wrong answer key.

How am I holding up? He quietly asked himself. Was that one of her puns, or a legitimate question?

His lower half, dripping from two hours suspended in midair without at end in sight, kept up the conversation between his moans. The pleasant throbbing between his legs was edging into a helpless, spacey river where make it stop and please don't stop merged.