THE SHORTCUT - M/MM - THE FRAME - When observation ends (new part added January 25th)

[Camguy2050]

@Htdgagfreak85 Such a powerful chapter Hale teaching Marco that his written words have been taken further than he expected them to be and now that he has Dylan under his on physical control that his own fantasies he may not be able to control and being aware that he is being watched and recorded by the cameras

where will this lead him now will he take it too far or will his fantasies become the rule book for others to follow

[latin-self-bound]

This story improves with every new chapter.

You have created an intense atmosphere, I can feel the tension in that room, and visualize the videocall as if I were there. And the twist in the end was masterfully developed.

You are a excellent writer, I'd love to read the next updates.

[Htdgagfreak85]

@Htdgagfreak85 Such a powerful chapter Hale teaching Marco that his written words have been taken further than he expected them to be and now that he has Dylan under his on physical control that his own fantasies he may not be able to control and being aware that he is being watched and recorded by the cameras

where will this lead him now will he take it too far or will his fantasies become the rule book for others to follow

You understood something important, @Camguy2050

When Hale said my words had gone further than I ever intended, he wasn’t exaggerating.
Having Dylan under my physical control didn’t feel like fantasy anymore — it felt like responsibility. And yes… like temptation.

Whether what comes next becomes a rulebook or a warning is something I’m still trying to understand myself.

What followed that moment wasn’t easy to process.
But I’m writing it down.

- M.

[Htdgagfreak85]

This story improves with every new chapter.

You have created an intense atmosphere, I can feel the tension in that room, and visualize the videocall as if I were there. And the twist in the end was masterfully developed.

You are a excellent writer, I'd love to read the next updates.

Thank you @latin-self-bound for noticing the atmosphere — that tension you felt in the room was real.
The silence, the videocall, the way every word landed… none of it was staged.

The twist you mention wasn’t planned either. It emerged from what the situation demanded of me.

What happened after was heavier than I expected, and it’s taken time to put it into words.

The next update is coming soon.

[Htdgagfreak85]

I stayed where I was for a moment.

Breathing.

Not because I was afraid.

Because I was tired.

Tired of holding myself in place.

Tired of pretending this was still just observation.

“I’m sick of fighting myself,” I whispered — not to Hale, not to Martin — but to the part of me that still believed distance was possible.

My eyes found Dylan again.

Not a story.

Not a fantasy.

Not a paragraph I could rewrite.

A real body.

Bound.

Gagged.

Breathing in front of me.

The ropes were real.

The chair was real.

The weight of what I wanted was real.

I turned toward the closet.

Everything you need is already there.

The words kept repeating in my mind.

Not as temptation.

As an invitation.

When I opened it, I saw it almost instantly.

A vibrating wand.

It was the only key—Dylan’s cock caged, swollen in the device, skin flushed and desperate but helpless to grow.

I chose.

The device felt heavier in my hand than it should have — not because of its weight, but because of what it meant.

I went back to Dylan and lowered myself in front of him, close enough now that distance no longer existed.

His eyes followed every movement.

Not pleading.

Trusting. He saw it and flinched like the sight alone had grazed him.

His breath stuttered behind the tape, a sharp, wet intake, then a long, tremoring exhale as he tried to master it. His knees flexed uselessly against the bindings. His fingers worked once behind the chair, not testing, just bracing, and then went still again.

I held the wand where he could see it. I didn’t switch it on.

His eyes went glossy, not from tears exactly, but from something too big for the body to hide. He shook his head a fraction, a reflex that died halfway through. A beat later he nodded, tiny and deliberate, as he’d argued with himself and the part that wanted this had won.

“Look at me,” I said quietly.

He did. The tape rounded his cheeks; the sponge made his mouth a mute, swollen certainty. He made a sound, not a plea and not consent, just breath trying to turn into sound.

“I’m here,” I said quietly.

My hand rested against him — not demanding, not hurried — just grounding him in the reality of touch instead of silence.

I let my fingers move slowly, deliberately, acknowledging what the ropes had already shaped.

He was trembling.

Not resisting.

Ready.

On the screen, Martin mirrored the action.

Hale handed him a wand like the one I was holding.

“Do what you’re so good at, Martin. Imitation.”

Martin tried to protest, like he wanted to say that was not true, but Hale’s gaze left him no choice.

Ryan’s body responded the same way Dylan’s did — restrained, overstimulated, unable to escape the intensity building inside him.

Then I brought the device into play.

The ropes kept him open, trembling, every muscle straining for friction he’d never get. I pressed the wand against the rigid plastic, watching his whole body jolt, the vibration forced through the barrier until he gasped, helpless.

I couldn’t stop myself. I wanted to see him break, to see that wild, panicked flicker in his eyes—the split-second when pleasure surrendered to panic, when all he wanted was to be free of the ropes, and all I wanted was to hold him right there, helpless and undone. That moment Hale described.

But the relentless vibration wasn’t going to bring release.

It was going to bring disruption.

His body reacted instantly — muscles tightening, breath breaking apart in shallow gasps, every nerve lighting up at once — but the restraint changed everything. The sensation had nowhere to go, no natural resolution to follow.

His whole frame jolted.

Then faltered.

It didn’t take long.

Dylan’s body was already tuned too tight — by the ropes, the silence, Ryan’s presence on the other screen.

The relentless buzz teased him into a ruined, sudden spasming release, his orgasm stolen even as it hit, violent in its softness.

What should have been relief became something else entirely — a sharp, unfinished collapse that left him shaking instead of spent.

His chest rose and fell in quick, uneven bursts.

His eyes went unfocused.

Unmoored.

The release came fast — and wrong.

It forced itself out in a thin, leaking pulse, slicking the inside of the cage, spilling where there should have been relief.

The vibration drew more from him — reluctant, uncontrolled — until the plastic was smeared and his skin shone with it.

Not satisfaction.

Evidence.

The aftermath hit harder than the peak — that hollow, disoriented state where the body expects closure and finds none.

What should have been relief became collapse.

He sagged against the ropes, chest rising and falling too quickly, caught between sensation and silence.

For a moment, I just stared — unable to look away from the mess of it, from what his body had done without ever truly being allowed to finish.

And there it came: the moment Hale had described.

The post-release collapse.

The vulnerable phase.

The place where panic blooms.

Dread surged up in him, raw and suffocating. His breath hitched, chest rising too fast against the ropes, eyes darting — wild, unfocused.

Every muscle fought the bonds — small, frantic jerks — his body desperate for escape, for space, for anything but the crushing aftermath now closing in.

The reality of restraint crashed in, sharp and overwhelming.

A choked, frantic scream tore out of him, muffled and broken by the gag, filling the room with wet, helpless noise.

Desire and guilt crashed through me, fascination prickling along my skin — but beneath it all, instinct cut through the noise.

But I knew what Dylan needed now.

I knew it because I’d been there before.

In his place.

“Dylan,” I said.

He didn’t answer.

The sound that came out of him wasn’t a word.

It was panic trying to remember how language worked.

The ropes answered every movement with soft, merciless certainty.

The chair creaked.

His head shook once, twice, tiny and fast.

No.

Not no to me.

No to what was crashing in on him.

I moved.

Not slowly.

Not gently.

Decisively.

I reached behind the chair and cut the anchor knot at the rail.

The rope that fixed his wrists to the chair slackened.

Not freedom.

Just change.

“Stay with me,” I said.

He thrashed once when the tension shifted.

A sharp, animal motion.

I caught his shoulders.

Hard.

Not cruel.

Grounding.

“Dylan,” I said again. “Look at me.”

His eyes found mine.

Wild.

Lost.

“I know,” I said.

Because I did.

“I know what this feels like.”

Another shudder tore through him.

The chair was wrong now.

The structure that had held him through arousal wasn’t the structure he needed anymore.

I hauled him forward.

He nearly fell.

I didn’t let him.

I dragged him the short distance to the bed.

Not ceremonially.

Not carefully.

Urgently.

He went down on the mattress on his side, wrists still bound behind him, ankles still secured.

He jolted the second his shoulder touched the mattress—hips snapping, knees kicking, wrists grinding hard against rope in a way that made my stomach go cold.

His breath came hot and ragged through his nose, high and thin, the kind of sound that means the body has stopped listening to reason and is just trying to get out.

He twisted hard onto his stomach. His heels hammered the bed, ankles yanking the tie like he could sprint his way free.

“Easy,” I said, low and sharp in the space by his ear. “Easy, or you’re going to hurt yourself.”

He didn’t hear it as a sentence. He heard it as a boundary he could lean against.

I grabbed a short length of rope and rolled him fully prone, one hand flat on his shoulder blades, pinning his wildness into the mattress so it couldn’t tear him up from the inside.

I threaded the rope between his tied ankles and drew it in—measured, precise—just enough to bring his heels toward his hands, not enough to chew his shoulders.

He bucked. A fast, ugly surge.

“Stop,” I said, and tightened the hogtie another inch, shortening the range until his fight turned into a tremor that had nowhere to go but back into his breath.

His breath spiked.

A thin, broken sound leaking around the gag.

“Easy,” I said.

Not soft.

Firm.

“You don’t get to run from this.”

He tried to kick again; his wrists flexed hard as the hogtie caught it and fed the motion back.

Then he stilled — not calm, but checked.

I stood.

And then I started removing my clothes.

Slow.

Deliberate.

I was painfully hard, my body betraying me with an arousal I didn't want to acknowledge. My underwear revealed everything I wished to hide before I took them off and let my dick spring free.

On the screen, I knew exactly how it must have looked.

And how it must have looked to Dylan’s eyes.

I climbed onto the bed behind him.

My body close—so close he could feel every breath on the back of his neck, every shift of muscle.

My thigh pressed along the back of his legs.

My chest against his spine.

From the outside, it probably looked like something else.

Like what Martin would do.

Like what Hale expected.

For a moment, I let the tension thicken, hovering in that space where anything could happen.

Dylan stiffened under me.

Not arousal.

Fear.

Expectation.

I slid one arm under his shoulder.

The other at his hip.

And I rolled him.

Slow.

Controlled.

Onto his side.

Onto his back.

Then I shifted with him.

So we were facing each other.

Chest to chest.

His forehead bumped mine.

We both froze.

His breath was a mess.

Mine wasn’t much better.

I didn’t kiss him.

Didn’t take.

Didn’t claim.

I wrapped one arm around his upper back.

Pulled him into me.

Full contact.

No gaps.

His body fought it for half a second.

Then collapsed.

A sound ripped out of him.

Muffled.

Ugly.

Relieved.

His face pressed into my shoulder.

His bound arms trembled uselessly behind him.

I held him anyway.

“This part is the lie,” I said into his hair.

“The part where your brain tells you you made a mistake.”

His breathing hitched.

“You didn’t.”

Another tremor.

“You don’t need to go anywhere.”

His chest knocked against mine in shallow bursts.

“You don’t need to say anything.”

His head shook.

Tiny.

“Yes, you do,” I corrected.

“You need to stay.”

I shifted my legs slightly, anchoring his hips between my thighs.

Not pinning.

Containing.

A human frame around a body that couldn’t hold itself together.

As I pulled him in, I let my hand drift up, fingers threading gently through his hair, just enough pressure to anchor him to the moment.

My other hand found his jaw, thumb brushing slowly along the line of stubble, a grounding point amidst the chaos.

I pressed my forehead to his, feeling his breath stutter and catch, syncing my own inhales to his shaky exhales until the rhythm steadied, the panic easing bit by bit. Every touch was a quiet promise: present, real, holding him together when he couldn’t do it himself.

His breathing started to change.

Not calm yet.

But slower.

Less jagged.

His eyes fluttered.

Still open.

Still aware.

Present.

Good.

I stayed there.

Not counting time.

Not performing.

Just holding.

We lay pressed together, chest to chest.

Not searching for release.

Not searching for an ending.

Just searching for breath.

For warmth.

For the simple proof that we were still alive inside our bodies.

No words needed.

The only sound was breathing.

The only language was contact.

At some point, my body reacted.

Not as an action.

Not as a decision.

Heat.

Pressure.

A consequence of closeness and friction and too much truth.

I didn’t move to hide it.

I didn’t use it.

I let it exist.

Like everything else.

Dylan didn’t seem to notice.

Or maybe he did.

It didn’t matter.

Because this wasn’t about that.

His breath finally stuttered… then steadied.

One long inhale.

One long exhale.

His forehead rested against mine.

His eyes met mine again.

Different now.

Not wild.

Not gone.

Here.

I pressed my mouth near his ear.

“You’re still mine,” I said.

Not as possession.

As orientation.

“You’re still bound.”

A tiny nod.

“You’re still safe.”

Another nod.

The panic had passed.

Not erased.

Survived.

Behind us, through glass and cameras and men who thought they understood power, something had shifted.

I didn’t look.

I didn’t need to.

I knew.

Because I wasn’t imitating anyone.

I wasn’t following a script.

I wasn’t performing a role.

I was doing what no one in that system had done.

I was staying.

[blackbound]

Well, there we go. See, that wasn't so hard (due to the cage, that is). Loved the description of the ruined orgasm.

But... now what?