Читать книгу White Lies - Rachel Green - Страница 6

Prologue

John Fenstone’s eyelids flickered with trepidation.

It was sunny outside. One of those warm, end-of-summer afternoons where all he’d wanted to do was leave the office early, go to the park and lie on the grass. John had done the former, but instead of relaxing in the open air, now knelt naked in this hot attic room where the half-shuttered Venetian blinds left bands of alternating sunlight and shadow across the polished wooden floor.

His breath rasped in the silence, beads of sweat formed across his chest and back, nodules of coolant destined for the sea inching across the broad plates of his shoulder blades and the swell of his pectorals. Every minute or so some would join and make a sudden dash for the floor. He shivered with the sensation. John willed his heartbeat to slow, his breathing to become silent.

There. The soft tread across the floor, the tang of aftershave. Red Morocco, a gift bought for his last birthday. He felt the touch of Richard’s hand against the back of his neck, coarse fingernails scraping the skin as of John’s throat, the lightest pressure against his windpipe. John could feel the beating pulse in his throat. He had to force himself to remain calm. Since there were no restraints it would be so easy for him to move, to resist. He willed himself not to.

“What would you do for me, hmm? What would give me if I asked for it?”

Richard’s voice came as a whisper next to his ear causing John’s skin to pucker with sudden gooseflesh. John answered without hesitation. “Anything, Master, and my life.”

“Anything and your life. Exactly.”

Richard’s fingers around his throat were replaced by a forearm smelling of sweat and the heady, warm-Camembert scent of recent sex. A second arm was braced against John’s back as the choke hold was applied. John fought to remain conscious and not struggle as his blood became starved of oxygen. His vision began to recede as he blacked out, the border between conscious and unconscious drawing ever closer.

The pressure eased off, allowing him to take a gulp of breath. He snapped his eyes open, the lines of shadow across the yellow oak freeze-framing across his lids. Black-white. Light-dark. Love-hate. Live-die. He swallowed, the action catching against the bruise already forming across his larynx. He could feel the steady thump of blood at his temples.

His nostrils flared as the arm tightened again. He had the sudden fear of perhaps this would be it. Perhaps this time the game would go too far. Had he made a will? No space for thought. Just the pressure, pressure, pressure of the game. A simple code–three taps on his master’s arm–would end it. John fought to keep his hand still. The pressure released.

“Good.” Richard’s lips brushed his shoulder. Teeth grazed his flesh. A silent promise spoken directly to his loins. John breathed deeply, calming himself as sweat rolled down his back and into the crevice between his buttocks. Somewhere far away, a dog barked.

John’s cock hardened as Richard applied the pressure again. How near to death could he get and still remain obedient? His heartbeat pounded in his ears.