You and I found love, lost under the shade

2

He spends the hour with his motion restricted, helplessly rutting his hips against the mattress to relieve some of the burning need in his groin. It both helps and makes it worse, the feeling of being on the edge of release but not quite there. It's difficult to breathe, and if he allows himself to think about it he'll panic. So he tries to ignore the tape covering his mouth, and instead focuses on breathing shallowly through his nose.

Helpless. Helpless. Helpless. He loves Louis so much, it hurts. It hurts. He wants to be good enough for him; he's aware that there's no one in this world who's good enough for Louis.

The thing is, Harry knows it's a bit strange, knows it's a bit unusual. What person willingly experiences such torture, and then finds pleasure in it? It's pure masochism at its finest, and Harry is confident enough now to refrain from denying it. A while ago, before he met Louis, he might've been confused by it. Might've shied away from it.

But now . . . Well, now, it's become a part of him. The lovely pain. The beautiful torture. The relief in knowing that he's showing his devotion in the almost primal way—taking pain upon himself, for the sake of his love.

Well, only sort of. Louis really isn't a sadist, never has been. Harry was the one who started the whole BDSM thing, had even asked for it wordlessly, hinting at what he wanted and waiting for Louis to pick up on it. Nervously.

Louis had smiled when he realized what Harry was getting at, had wrapped his fingers around Harry's wrists tightly and watched in awe as Harry came apart underneath his touch. He wasn't a sadist but he liked the power, liked knowing that he had the capability of doing that, of enticing that exact reaction out of Harry. He wasn't a sadist but he would pretend to be one for Harry. Harry, the masochist.

Dominant-submissive relationships weren't easy, so Louis and Harry were doing very well considering the challenge. It required a lot of communication, and though their communication as a couple was better than most, it was the cause of virtually all of the conflicts that arose in their relationship. The safe word, kiwi, for example. Communication solved that problem, but it could've been avoided if they had just spoken about it sooner.

Harry breathes out a long exhale, mind hazy from the extreme amount of arousal that feels like an enormous vat of potential energy within him. He doesn't even have to try to not think about much, because when he's in this state all he can think about is the present. There's no past, no regrets. No future, no worries. Just now now now, the ache of latent pain and desire that's brimming from him. That, and Louis. It's impossible for him to think of anyone else.

Pleasure in penance, and peace too, yes, peace in penance as well. Release in retribution, that's what he's yearning for. There's release and relief and reprieve, all beautiful words that he desires so deeply. And then the bravery, the valor in vulnerability. Courage. Pleasure, peace, release, relief, reprieve, valor. Penance and retribution and vulnerability. Self-punishment. Masochism.

These words are interconnected, woven together by a shiny golden thread.

Time drags slowly. Each second is like prodding at an open wound. Harry waits. An hour, maybe, but it feels like an eternity.

And then the door clicks open.

Footsteps cross the room at a steady pace, each pause between the footfalls perfectly spaced. Harry counts the steps in his head, listening:

One... two... three... four....

At ten the steps stop. Harry cannot see behind him but he knows that Louis is standing at the edge of the bed, looming over him. Waiting coolly, calmly taking in the scene of Harry lying waiting, taped up and tied up, unable to move. Wanting, waiting, begging, gagging.