Page 29 of Anchored

“I . . . I want—”

I want out of here. I want the pain to end. I want never to lay eyes on you again. I want to hold on to the one tiny scrap of myself I have left.

Mr. Foster frowned, nodded at the supervisor with the prod, and Daniel wailed, “Wait! Please! Wait, don’t! I . . .”

Mr. Foster was standing very, very close, his cock hardening as Daniel watched.

“Please,” he choked out, but only just barely, the words like acid on his tongue. “I . . . I want you.”

“You want me what?” Mr. Foster asked, his hand returning to Daniel’s hair.

God, speaking those three words had been hard enough. Mr. Foster was going to force him into details? The hand in his hair tightened in warning, and even that little tug, that little pain, sent blistering shock waves through his overtaxed nerves. “I want . . . to suck your cock,” Daniel said through clenched teeth.

“Say it like you mean it, slave.”

“Please,” Daniel managed to add.

Another nod to the supervisors, and for one terrifying moment, Daniel felt betrayed, cried, “No! I did what you wa—” But the men just let go of him, and he dropped hard to his hands and knees, panting with relief.

“Go ahead,” Mr. Foster said. “Impress me.”

Daniel reached up with shaking hands and placed them on Mr. Foster’s hips. His muscles protested even that small motion after spending God knew how long clenched and spasming beneath the prod, and already there were stark red welts around his wrists, on his forearms, where the supervisors had held him. Too exhausted and uncoordinated to shuffle forward, he tugged gently on Mr. Foster’s hips, inviting him closer.

“That’s it.” Mr. Foster stepped close. “Act like you want it. Say it again. Tell me you want to suck my cock.”

“I want to suck your cock.” The words came easier that time. In fact, Daniel was fairly certain he’d say anything at all that Mr. Foster asked him to. They were just words, after all. Just words.

He leaned in, closing the distance between them, and rubbed his mouth across Mr. Foster’s erection. The man’s scent this close was strong, but unpleasant only by association. He could do this. He had to do this. He parted his lips and wet them, touched them to the underside of Mr. Foster’s cock, let his tongue brush the hot skin. It tasted like it smelled, soap and musk and a hint of salt, and when Mr. Foster breathed out, “That’s it, Daniel, keep going.” Daniel screwed his eyes shut and plunged, taking the entire head into his mouth.

Mr. Foster moaned and thrust forward, and it was frankly one of life’s small miracles that Daniel didn’t vomit all over him when Mr. Foster’s cock bumped the back of his throat. Daniel reared back and quickly shifted one hand from Mr. Foster’s hip to the base of his dick, leaving only a couple inches with which the man could thrust.

Daniel did his best to give proper attention to those couple inches. He even tried to look like he was enjoying it, though it seemed impossible to keep the revulsion off his face or hold in those little choking noises every time Mr. Foster dripped pre-cum onto his tongue. Not to mention he was so exhausted he could barely hold himself upright, let alone attend someone properly. And he really, really didn’t like the way the supervisors were watching him, waiting, he supposed, for their turns.

Mr. Foster thwapped Daniel on the head and said, “My God. I think we finally found something you’re bad at.”

Daniel freed his mouth just long enough to say, “I’m sorry, sir; I haven’t—”

“Yes, yes.” Mr. Foster pushed Daniel’s face into his crotch again. “I know. Practice will make perfect, no doubt. Besides, Mr. Whitman seems quite smitten with you. I’m sure he won’t care how inept you are.”

Daniel focused harder, though he didn’t really know what he could do to improve. He’d not done this often, and though his small handful of partners had never minded his inexperience, Daniel liked to think he’d made up for it with enthusiasm. Now, however, he felt nothing but disgust—with Mr. Foster, and with himself for capitulating.

Mr. Foster sighed, yanked Daniel back by the hair. “Enough.” And then to the supervisors, “Get him up.”

They scooped him off the floor without a fight and threw him into the conference table hard enough to wind him, then spun him around and held him more or less vertical, ass propped against the varnished wood. He clung there, afraid of what they’d do to him if he fell, and realized with a slow, stunning sense of betrayal that Tim’s seat was empty. The man had left him here alone. So much for having the guts to stand with him when things got bad.

But he didn’t have the energy to be angry with Tim, didn’t have the space in his brain to give it, not when he was so busy worrying about making it out of this room in one piece. He wanted to hope Mr. Foster was finished with him, but the man still had a raging hard-on, and Daniel didn’t think he’d be leaving without taking care of that first.

“One more time, Daniel,” Mr. Foster said, advancing a single step.

The supervisors’ vise-grips on his biceps were back, and one had a prod shoved into Daniel’s stomach.

“Tell me you want me.”

“I want you,” Daniel said, acutely aware of the implement of torture pressed to his middle. The words practically rolled off his tongue this time, less robotic than before. He even reached a hand out as far as the supervisor holding his arm would let him, showing Mr. Foster that he’d pick up where he left off if given the chance.

“Tell me you want me to fuck you.”

“I want you to—” Daniel froze, body and voice, when he realized what he’d almost just said. What Mr. Foster had just said, and what he’d very clearly meant by it. “No,” he whispered, too quiet to hear, but he knew the denial was etched into his face, into the tension of his aching body.