Czech Tales, Part 1

Boris Sacharov sank into the worn armchair of his hotel room, eyelids heavy after a long day. He craved silence, a moment to unwind. But sharp thwacks and muffled moans pierced the thin wall from next door, stirring his pulse. Curiosity tugged at him like a siren's whisper. He dropped to his knees, eye pressed to the keyhole, breath quickening. There, in the dim glow of a bedside lamp, Denis Reed commanded the scene—a bondage master in full command. His boy slave, Rusty Smith, knelt bound, wrists lashed tight behind his back with supple leather straps. Denis circled him slowly, a predator savoring his prey. He gripped Rusty's chin, tilting it up, forcing those wide eyes to meet his. 'Beg for it,' Denis growled, voice low and unyielding. Rusty trembled, his lithe body arched in submission. 'Please, Master,' he whispered, the words husky with need. Denis smirked, then cracked the riding crop against Rusty's thigh—red welts blooming instantly on pale skin. Rusty gasped, hips bucking involuntarily, his cock straining hard against the metal cage locked around it. Denis didn't relent. He bound Rusty's ankles next, spreading them wide, exposing every inch. Fingers trailed teasingly over Rusty's ass, dipping lower to probe the slick, waiting hole. Boris watched, transfixed. Heat flooded his veins. His hand slipped inside his pants, wrapping around his throbbing shaft. He stroked in rhythm with Denis's strikes—slow at first, then faster as the scene intensified. Denis lubed a thick plug and pressed it in, inch by merciless inch, while Rusty whimpered and writhed. 'Take it all, boy,' Denis commanded, twisting the toy deep. Boris matched the pace, palm slick with his own arousal, fisting himself harder. The wall seemed to vanish; he was right there, lost in the raw dance of dominance and surrender.