"— ifIsaynoit'snotmyfault." 

"Good boy. Well done." He squirts some lube in his hand and starts to stroke Marlo's cock. "And now you're all tied up and I can do whatever I want to you and none of it is your fault at all. You can say 'no' as much as you like."

He whimpers — he'd still asked to be tied up that doesn't — "Thank you Chris —" 

His tone is gentle, like a teacher. "Now, you might say, 'Chris, that doesn't count, I asked to be tied up.' It's true you decided of your own free will to put yourself at my mercy, and that was perhaps a mistake." He stands, rummages in the sex toy drawer for something. "But that is in fact the last decision you got to make."

"Please —" and if he breaks into a moan instead of finishing the sentence then nobody needs to know whether it was going to be please stop or please more — 

Chris clicks his tongue against his teeth. "I wish I had a better sense of what scared you... I'll use the cane. I like the cane."

He's definitely scared. 

He is also, however, several other things.

"You'll have to tell me what scares you, won't you? Later." The cane whistles through the air and hits the inside of Marlo's thigh.

A loud high-pitched sound that feels like it was ripped out of him. 

"What do you say, Marlo? So it's not your fault?" That soft, gentle, teacher's voice.

He punctuates his sentences with three precise blows from his cane.

He gasps — "no, please, stop —" 

"I don't care what you want."

He hits Marlo over and over again, until there are six evenly spaced pink lines down each of Marlo's thighs.

He cries out, louder with each hit. 

"You mark up so prettily."

"Thank you Chris," between gasps. 

Chris kisses him, pressing their bodies close to each other.

He can't move much but he melts into the kiss, presses up into Chris as best he can. 

Chris touches Marlo possessively, as if Marlo is a toy for him to use: his chest, his thighs, his stomach, his shoulders. He scratches Marlo. He presses his fingers into the marks from the cane. 

Being treated like Chris's toy feels deeply correct, in a way he hadn't realized sex could feel. He gasps when Chris scratches him, whimpers when he touches the marks he left. 

"I'm going to fuck you," Chris says, "regardless of your opinion on it."

The quietest whispered "no"; he looks like he's pleading. 

Chris slicks up a finger and starts to put it inside Marlo. "Have you had something inside you before?"

He shakes his head. 

Chris cricks his finger and brushes against Marlo's prostate.

His back arches and his head falls back and his arms flex uselessly against the rope — it's so —