Re: THE SHORTCUT - M/MM - Face to face with Dylan (new part added October 30)
Posted: Wed Nov 05, 2025 12:15 am
by Htdgagfreak85
“It wasn’t Martin’s voice,” he said softly, as though testing the words on his tongue.
Then again, quieter. “It wasn’t Martin’s voice.”
The repetition made the room feel smaller.
I tried to ask who it was, but he didn’t seem to hear me. His focus had shifted inward, his hands clasping the sheets like they might anchor him to the present.
And when he spoke again, his tone had changed — lower, detached, like someone slipping under the surface of a dream they’d tried to forget.
The blindfold stayed on.
It was the first thing I noticed when the bag was unzipped and a rush of cool air brushed over my skin. I had no idea how long the journey had lasted — or even if it had been a journey at all. Time had dissolved somewhere between the hum of the engine and the suffocating darkness of the bag.
Hands — not Martin’s, I was sure — closed around my arms. Their grip was firm, efficient, practiced. They guided me from the bag and onto the cold floor. My bare skin met stone; the chill shot through me, goosebumps rising down my spine. The realization that I was naked struck harder now, the cold wrapping around my body until even my cock’s stubborn arousal felt like betrayal.
The cuffs bit into my wrists and ankles. The rope linking them held everything tight, no room to stretch, no way to ease the pull. The gag pried my jaw open, drool slick on my face, my jaw muscles screaming from the strain. I’d lost track of how long I’d been bound — half-numb, half-raw, every inch throbbing with tension. Somehow, the discomfort fanned the heat inside me. I couldn’t fight it; part of me didn’t even want to.
Then everything went still.
No words. No touch. Just my breath too loud in my head and the hammer of my heartbeat against the blindfold.
Without warning, the rope at my ankles loosened. Hands lifted me upright. My legs trembled, unaccustomed to bearing weight. The blindfold and gag stayed, but their hands steadied me until I found balance, suspended between obedience and collapse.
They led me forward. The texture beneath my feet changed — rough stone becoming smooth, almost polished. They positioned me, then withdrew. The silence thickened until it felt like the room itself was waiting.
A voice broke it.
Calm. Controlled. Curious.
“Do you know why you’re here?”
It wasn’t barked like a demand — softer than that, but sharper too. It wasn’t about geography. It was about me. About the choice I’d made when I signed that damn paper, stripped, knelt, and let them cuff me.
I tried to answer, but the gag turned my voice into a muffled breath.
The voice came closer. “Think before you try again,” it said evenly. “Because the reason you believe you’re here… and the reason I brought you here… may not be the same.”
Leather creaked behind me. Footsteps circled, slow and measured. I felt his gaze trace my body through the blindfold, each pass pressing that single question deeper.
Do you know why you’re here?
I swallowed. I thought I did — that it was about trust, surrender, the fine line Martin and I had been walking for weeks.
But blindfolded, gagged, dissected by an unseen observer, I wasn’t sure anymore.
Gloved fingers brushed my wrist — a pulse check, maybe — then corrected my posture: shoulders back, ankles parted. Not for comfort, but for display.
“You’re wondering where you are,” the voice continued, now near my ear. “And who I am. Curiosity is the beginning of surrender.”
I swallowed hard.
“Do you know what fascinates me most about your kind?” he asked. “It’s not obedience. It’s hesitation — the way you hover at the edge of resistance before you fall.”
His words sank deep. Beneath the chill of his tone, there was a strange reverence, as if the dissection itself was worship.
Footsteps again. Then something cool brushed my chest — metal, or a chain. Goosebumps spread.
“Very good,” the voice murmured. “He’s as you described.”
As you described.
Footsteps I recognized followed. For a second, relief surged. Martin? Finally?
I turned my head instinctively, though the blindfold kept everything black. My breath rasped through my nose; drool slid down my chin.
I tried to say his name — Martin — but all that came was a pitiful “Mmmrrttnnn…” The silence stretched, until more footsteps cut through it.
They circled, deliberate. A new voice followed — calm, low, clinical.
“So. You are the one he brought. The one who signed.”
Signed. The word hit like metal.
“You are here by choice,” he continued, not cruel, simply curious. “Your body is no longer yours. Your will is a thing to be tested. And the measure of your obedience will define how far we go.”
I whimpered into the gag — unsure if it was protest or anticipation — but he simply circled again.
“I am called Master R,” he said at last. “Martin… is my apprentice.”
The name struck like a blow.
Master R.
Even in darkness, I saw flashes of Hale’s dungeon — the stories whispered in corners, the man who’d driven Ryan to the edge and then watched him break. A name born in rumor now had heat and breath.
Apprentice.
Not equal.
Not in charge.
Martin hadn’t brought me to a partner; he’d delivered me to the source. My stomach tightened, knees pressing harder into the floor as the truth settled in. If Martin wasn’t commanding me… who was I really surrendering to?
A gloved hand touched the back of my neck — not rough, but deliberate.
“He speaks highly of you,” Master R murmured. “But he warned me — you fight. You question. You cling to the illusion of control.”
The hand slipped away. Softer footsteps followed — familiar ones. My heart leapt even before I heard him breathe.
“Martin…” I tried again, useless against the gag. “Mmmrrttnn…”
A second touch — his — traced down my face, gentle and grounding. “I’m here,” he whispered.
The words barely reached me, but they were enough.
“From this moment,” Master R said, tone sharpening, “he belongs to me. To us. His body, his silence, his limits — all will be explored.”
Explored. The word landed like weight.
Martin’s fingers brushed the gag strap, a quiet reminder of how little I could say now. And for the first time since this began, I stopped trying. There was nothing left to say.
I kept still, because I didn’t know what else to do.
The silence in that room was alive—breathing, waiting.
Then the voice came again, smooth as a blade sliding from its sheath.
“You’re in a place built for purpose. Every chain, every mark on the floor, exists to teach control.”
I couldn’t see him. I could only hear the weight of his words, feel the air move as he circled.
Metal rang somewhere close by; the echo told me the room was large, the walls hard.
“Most believe discipline begins with sight,” he said. “But sight is a lie. You’ll learn to feel first.”
A gloved hand rested on the back of my neck—steady, unhurried. The touch anchored me more than it threatened. I wanted to turn, to see, but the blindfold pressed that need flat against my skin.
“Your Master stands with us,” he said, the word Master cutting through me. “He’s here to be measured. To prove that he can shape another into obedience without breaking him.”
Something shifted in the air behind me; I knew it was Martin. My chest tightened. Measured?
He hadn’t told me this part.
The hand left my neck. Leather creaked close to my ear. Then the voice again—quieter, almost intimate.
“Now look at what he must learn to control.”
The blindfold slid away.
Light hit like a strike. I blinked hard until the blur turned to shapes—the stone arches overhead, the glint of chains, the immaculate order of it all. The place looked less like a dungeon and more like a studio built to worship precision. Everything shone: steel hooks, padded benches, the black coil of rope resting on a table. The air smelled of oil, leather, restraint.
Martin stood a few steps away, shirtless, bare-armed, eyes fixed on me.
Behind him, the man who’d spoken—tall, immaculate—watched with the calm of someone used to obedience.
“Begin,” he said to Martin. “Show me how you guide what is yours.”
My pulse kicked. The meaning hit me all at once: I wasn’t the test. I was the material of the test.
My breath caught—shallow, hungry. Bound and exposed, I felt my cock throb, hips arching involuntarily as I waited. My heartbeat hammered in my ears, skin prickling with sweat and anticipation
Martin stepped closer.
The man in black—Master R—gave a small nod and withdrew into the shadows, leaving the space between us suddenly enormous.
The gag had dried my throat to sandpaper. When Martin’s fingers reached behind my head and unbuckled the strap, I barely breathed. The rubber sphere slipped from my mouth with a wet sound, the air that followed tasting of leather and relief.
I coughed once, my voice rough and small. “I don’t… I don’t understand. What is this place?”
He didn’t answer. He only looked at me in that patient, unreadable way that always made me nervous. Then he reached for something on the table beside him—a small, dark object, metallic glint catching the light.
“What’s that?” I asked, my voice breaking on the second word.
Martin turned it over in his hands as if inspecting it. “A reminder,” he said. “Something to help you learn.”
I watched, heart pounding, as Martin held the object between his fingers. It was a small, black collar with a thin leather loop through it. The buckle glinted in the harsh light, polished to a high sheen that matched the rest of this room they'd brought me to.
"What is it?” I whispered, dread pooling in my stomach.
Martin didn’t answer. He just knelt, eyes fixed on that spot high up my thigh—so close I could feel my pulse throbbing in my groin. The collar was cold against my skin, the leather snug as he buckled it tight just below where my leg met my hip. I flinched, breath catching, the green light blinking to life so gently it seemed almost harmless.
I couldn’t stop my questions from tumbling out—“What is that? What does it do—?” but Martin just picked up a remote, thumb hovering over the buttons.
“Martin, just tell me—” I managed, panic threading through my voice.
He pressed the button.
The shock hit fast and hot, a jolt of electricity biting deep into the tender flesh of my thigh. My whole body jerked, a strangled sound tearing out of me. The pain was sharp, almost too much—my muscles clenching hard, nerves on fire, vision blurring for a second. My cock twitched, confusion and arousal tangling with the sting as the current faded, leaving my skin tingling, my body shuddering, my mind reeling. Shame and need twisted together.
“F-fuck… Ma—Martin… it… it h-hurts…”
I felt the weight of Master R’s gaze from somewhere behind me, silent approval.
Martin crouched in front of me, eyes level with mine. His tone softened, almost kind. “From this moment on,” he said, “you don’t speak in the first person. No more I. No more me. You speak as this boy. Every thought, every sentence. Understood?”
I hesitated. “Martin, I don’t—”
Before I could catch my breath, Martin’s thumb slammed the button again.
The second shock was brutal—a white-hot surge that tore through my thigh and rocketed up my spine. I crashed to the ground, legs giving out, vision swimming as pain and heat exploded behind my eyes. For a second I couldn’t move, just gasped, cheek pressed to the cold floor, muscles twitching uncontrollably, cock still hard and aching, leaking against my skin.
Rough hands grabbed me—Martin, steady and unyielding, hauling me upright with no room for protest. My knees buckled, but he kept me standing, face inches from his, my body trembling in his grip. Helpless, humiliated, I locked eyes with him, the shame of my need burning hotter than the shock.
“Try again,” he said quietly.
My mouth went dry. “Th—this boy… doesn’t understand.”
“Good.”
He nodded once, the faintest trace of a smile touching his lips, and then his hand moved toward my cock—hard and aching, straining against the air. His fingers curled around me, firm but unhurried, and he gave me a slow, mocking stroke.
“So much pain, and still this hard,” he murmured, voice dark with approval.”You were born for this, boy.”
The words stung and thrilled at once, shame burning in my cheeks as my body betrayed me, desperate for more even through the ache.
Without warning, Martin pressed the button again.
The shock ripped through my thigh, hot and savage, forcing my body to arch in its bonds. My scream echoed off stone, raw and uncontrolled, shattering what little defiance I had left. I collapsed, shuddering, the pain still shrilling through my nerves—my breath broken, desperate.
Martin’s hand gripped my jaw, forcing my gaze up to meet his. “Say it,” he ordered, voice low and implacable. “This boy doesn’t fight.”
My whole body shook, breath coming in frantic, ragged gasps. Tears stung my eyes as Martin’s grip tightened on my jaw, forcing my head up.
“I—” The word broke apart, useless. I tried again, voice rattling and wet from pain. “Th-this boy… doesn’t fight.”
The words barely left my lips before Martin shoved a massive panel gag between my teeth, stuffing it deep, cutting off anything else I might have said. My jaw stretched wide, drool already spilling past the rubber, the world narrowing to the harsh taste of leather and the absolute, silencing weight of submission.
Martin rose again, turning slightly toward the shadows where Master R stood. “He’ll learn quickly,” he said.
From the dark, the man’s voice replied: “We’ll see.”
He stopped speaking all at once.
The change was abrupt; for a second, I thought he’d lost his voice. His eyes were fixed somewhere far away, pupils wide, body caught between now and then. The air-conditioner hummed quietly, but it barely reached us.
I sat there, speechless. Until that moment, I’d believed his messages — his fragmented recollections — were just stories told from a safe distance. But seeing him now, the tremor in his hands, the way his breath caught before each word, I understood he hadn’t been writing fiction. He’d been surviving memory.
No wonder he couldn’t keep sending updates.
He rubbed the inside of his wrist as if trying to erase something that wasn’t there. The gesture said more than his words ever could.
“Now you see,” he murmured at last, his voice thin but steady. “It wasn’t that this boy didn’t want to write. It’s that… he didn’t know how to come back.”
I didn’t answer. Nothing I said would fit.
The story wasn’t over — that much was clear. But already it was tightening around both of us, a coil of truth, guilt, and something dangerously close to devotion.
I realised then that the real reason Dylan had asked to meet wasn’t just to tell me what had happened.
He needed someone to witness it.
And I had agreed.
Re: THE SHORTCUT - M/MM - The Voice Behind the Blindfold (new part added November 5)
Posted: Tue Nov 11, 2025 11:22 pm
by Htdgagfreak85
Dylan sat silent for a long time, staring at the generic, swirling-lines art above the hotel bed. His thumb traced his left wrist without thinking.
“After the shock collar…” he began, voice low and distant. “This boy… this boy really thought that was it. That the test was over. That this boy had proved he could follow the rules — even the insane ones.”
He flinched, pressing the heel of his hand to his forehead. “Shit. Fuck.”
Then he looked at me, eyes bright with anger that wasn’t for me.
“See what I mean? It just slips out. It’s easier to say this boy than I. He programmed it in.”
Dylan drew a long breath, visibly fighting to reset. “Let me start over. I thought Martin had succeeded. I thought I had passed.”
A bitter laugh escaped him. “That wasn’t the test. That was the warm-up. The real test came right after. Master R wasn’t impressed.”
Master R wasn’t watching me anymore; he was watching him. He ordered Martin to bind me — a karada. I could feel his panic. His hands shook, the rope burned. He was sloppy. Master R called him out, humiliated him right there.
He shocked me with the collar again while Martin worked, just because I hesitated. And Martin… finished the tie. Pulled it so tight I thought my ribs would crack. It held. He’d done it.
Master R inspected it. Said Martin’s work was adequate. Then he said his observation would begin.
I raised a hand, stopping him mid-sentence.
“Hold on, Dylan.”
He blinked, like surfacing from deep water.
“You keep saying karada,” I said quietly. “You’ve mentioned it before, but you’re only skimming the surface. What was it really? What did it feel like?”
Dylan frowned, his gaze hardening — the kind of look that’s not anger at you, but at the fact that you’re asking.
“You’re not seeing it,” he repeated flatly. Then his mouth twisted into something halfway between a laugh and a sigh. “You want me to describe it? You want a play-by-play — every pull, every knot?”
“That’s not what I meant,” I said, though part of me knew it was.
He turned toward the window, the reflection swallowing him. “You want that for your readers? So they can see what I saw? Feel what I felt?”
The silence that followed felt like judgment.
Then, almost to himself, he muttered, “It wasn’t just rope. It was… structure. It was design. It was built to take you apart.”
He stared at his own reflection, then back at me.
“You want to see the ropes? You want to feel what I felt?” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Fine.”
He took a breath — and when he spoke again, his tone had gone cold, mechanical.
“Here’s how you build a karada.”
My world was a grey, humming buzz. The shock had left me limp and trembling. The only other sensations were the panel gag and the rope.
The gag was... it was a 'panel gag', he'd called it. A flat, polished piece of leather outside, but inside... inside was this massive, hard, silicone... thing. It was so deep it forced my tongue flat, pinning it to the floor of my mouth. I couldn't swallow. I couldn't move my jaw. I was already drooling, a thick, humiliating stream, and there was nothing I could do about it.
Then Martin’s hands were on me.
He hauled me upright. His grip was mechanical.
You have to picture the rope first. It was red. A bright, synthetic, almost offensive red. And he had so much of it.
He started with my core. He created a "box" around my torso. He looped the red rope twice around my chest, just under my arms, pulling it tight. Then twice around my waist. His hands were slick with sweat, and I could feel them slipping on the rope as he pulled the knots. Then, he ran four vertical lines connecting them—two in front, two in back—like the bars of a cage. Instantly, I couldn't bend. I couldn't twist.
Then, the chest.
He threw the rope over my right shoulder, passed it under my left arm, pulled it across my back, and did the same on the other side. He created a perfect, tight 'X' right on my sternum. And he cinched it.
The air punched out of my lungs, and I reflexively tried to gasp, but I couldn't. The gag blocked everything. It was just this choked, wet sound in the back of my throat.
The 'X' forced my shoulders back, hard. My chest was pushed out. I felt... presented. Exposed. And that's when the first, sick, hot twist started low in my stomach. The humiliation of being displayed.
He moved to my legs. He was panting now, a low, grunting sound with every knot. He grabbed my right thigh, lifted it, and yanked it back. The rope burned as it circled the top of my leg, high up, right against my groin. He did it so fast. Loop. Pull. Lock. My leg was instantly numb, trapped in place.
Then the other one. Loop. Burn. Lock.
I was kneeling, but my legs were bound open, held by the ropes. I was locked in this perfect, degrading posture.
But this is the part... this is the karada.
He took the end of the rope from my legs. He ran it between my thighs, from back to front. I felt it slide against my skin, and my whole body tensed.
He brought it up... up... and threaded it through the center of that 'X' on my chest.
And then... he pulled.
Down.
It was... everything at once.
The rope between my legs pulled my torso forward. The 'X' on my chest crushed my lungs. My balls were trapped. My back was arched. The 'box' dug into my ribs. The loops on my thighs went from numb to agony.
I was trussed. Like an animal for slaughter.
I couldn't slump. I couldn't fight. I couldn't even tremble properly. Every muscle was stretched and locked. My jaw ached from the gag, and I could feel the drool, hot and thick, spilling out from the sides of the leather panel and running down my chin, dripping onto the ropes on my chest. I was disgusting.
And the final, awful, humiliating truth? I was hard.
Trapped in this harness, gagged and drooling, my muscles aching, in pain... and I was painfully, undeniably aroused. I was disgusted with myself, but I was also... wired. Every nerve ending was on fire.
Martin paused behind me, his fingers brushing cold metal where the cuffs dug into my wrists. I heard the tiny click as he unlocked them. My arms dropped uselessly, blood prickling back to my hands.
Then he didn’t waste a second. Rough hands caught my wrists, forced them back, and rope replaced steel. The rope was different—thicker, less biting than the cuffs, but pulled so tight I thought my bones might grind together. Martin didn’t stop with a simple knot; he wound the rope again and again, cinching it until my hands were fused together, the scratch of the fibers burning into my skin. He tied it off somewhere at my waist, so every twitch pulled at my arms and locked my whole body tighter.
It was worse than the cuffs. There was no numbness, no cold metal—just the fire of rope digging into flesh, impossible to ignore. Even now, long after, I still find myself rubbing those wrists out of habit, searching for marks that aren't there, my skin remembering what my eyes couldn’t see.
Martin finished the final knot somewhere behind my neck, a last, vicious pull that yanked my head back slightly. I couldn't even look down. I could only stare forward.
He stepped back, panting, his forehead dripping. He'd done it.
Master R stepped forward.
He walked up to me, and I couldn't flinch. He just... inspected. His eyes traced the red lines of the 'X', down my stomach, to where the rope disappeared between my legs. He noted the dark, wet stain on my chin and chest where I'd drooled.
He saw it, of course.
He saw my erection, straining against the ropes. He didn't smirk. He didn't react at all. His eyes just... cataloged it.
Then he reached out one finger and pressed it, hard, against that central knot on my sternum where all the lines met.
I choked on a sound. The cold, precise pressure sent a jolt straight from that knot to my groin. It was a calculated, impersonal touch.
He ran that same single finger under a loop on my thigh, testing the tension. He seemed satisfied.
He finally stood up and turned to Martin.
"Adequate," he said. The word was like a slap. "Your tension is uneven. You compensated for your initial hesitation by being too aggressive at all. It's functional, but it is not art."
Martin looked like he was going to be sick.
"But," Master R continued, "he is bound. You followed the command under pressure. And," he added, with the slightest glance down at me, "the "subject is... receptive. That has value."
He gestured for Martin to step away, to stand near the wall. Then he turned his full attention back to me. Alone. Trussed, aroused, and trapped in the middle of the room.
"Now," Master R said, his voice quiet, almost pleasant. "The apprentice's work is done. My observation begins."
Dylan stopped speaking. For a moment the hum of the air-conditioner was the only sound. His gaze was somewhere else, unfocused.
I’d thought his messages had been stylised, embellished for effect. But seeing his hands tremble, hearing how his voice thinned to nothing — I knew this wasn’t fiction. It was memory, still raw.
He rubbed his wrist again, a small, unconscious motion, like checking whether the mark was really gone.
When he spoke, his voice was steady, but the steadiness felt earned — like he was holding the edges of something that could still break if he loosened his grip.
“It never really stops,” he said. “You think it’s over, but it just finds new ways to exist.”
He gave a faint, tired smile — not bitter, just knowing.
The kind of smile that tells you a story isn’t over, even if the words run out.
I realised then that he hadn’t come to unburden himself.
He’d come to see whether someone else could carry a piece of it.
And in listening, I already had.