This entry is part of The Bastian Protocols series. If you’d like to start from the beginning, start here.
The prospect stood on the brass mark wearing only white briefs.
His clothes had been folded and placed on the chair exactly as Bastian had instructed. Pants first. Shirt over it. Belt coiled neatly on top.
Bastian examined the stack before he looked at the man who had made it.
“You rushed.”
The prospect’s stomach tightened.
“Yes, Sir.”
“Why?”
“I wanted to be ready when you returned.”
Bastian lifted the belt and let it uncoil through his hand.
“That wasn’t the instruction.”
“No, Sir.”
“What was the instruction?”
“To undress, fold my clothes, and wait on the mark.”
“Did I give you a time limit?”
“No, Sir.”
Bastian placed the belt back on the chair.
“Then speed served no purpose.”
The prospect lowered his eyes.
“Eyes forward.”
He corrected himself immediately.
Bastian stepped closer.
“You still believe your usefulness depends on how quickly you can become what someone wants.”
The prospect didn’t answer. Bastian’s fingers closed around his jaw.
“What do you believe I want?”
The prospect felt the old instinct rise. A perfect answer. Something devoted. Something impressive.
He let the silence remain.
“I don’t know, Sir.”
Bastian’s thumb moved once across his cheek.
“Good.”
The word warmed him more than praise should have. Bastian released his face and walked around him.
The prospect felt each step without turning his head. His body had become accustomed to Bastian’s attention, but not immune to it. The quiet scrutiny made every inch of exposed skin feel awake.
“Today,” Bastian said, “you will learn to be inspected.”
The prospect’s breath deepened.
“You will not pose.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“You will not hide.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“You will hold the position I give you until I release you from it.”
“Yes, Sir.”
Bastian stopped behind him.
“And you will tell me if attention becomes something else.”
The prospect knew what he meant. The older feeling beneath them. The sense that being looked at meant being measured for use.
“Yes, Sir.”
Bastian placed one palm between his shoulder blades.
“Feet apart.”
The prospect adjusted.
“Wider.”
He obeyed.
“Hands behind your head.”
The position opened his chest and exposed his torso. His elbows stretched outward. His abdomen tightened. Bastian’s hand moved from his back around to his ribs.
“Relax.”
The prospect tried. Bastian’s fingers pressed lightly into the tension beneath his skin.
“That is not relaxation.”
“I’m trying, Sir.”
“I didn’t ask you to try.”
The prospect’s jaw tightened. Bastian stepped in front of him.
“Tell me what’s happening.”
“I don’t want you to find anything wrong.”
Bastian studied him.
“Do you think this is an examination you can fail?”
The prospect hesitated.
“Yes, Sir.”
Bastian’s gaze hardened, but his voice remained calm.
“You are not here to prove that your body deserves attention.”
His hand settled over the prospect’s stomach.
“You are here to learn that attention can be given without judgment.”
The prospect felt the warmth of Bastian’s palm spread through him.
“Drop your hands.”
He lowered them. Bastian took hold of one wrist and raised the prospect’s arm slowly.
“Look at me.”
The prospect did.
Bastian ran his other hand from the prospect’s wrist to his shoulder. His touch was clinical at first, testing muscle and range, but his thumb slowed when it reached the sensitive hollow beneath the arm.
The prospect shivered.
“What was that?”
“Pleasure, Sir.”
“Only pleasure?”
The prospect searched himself.
“Embarrassment.”
“Why?”
“Because I reacted.”
Bastian lowered his arm.
“You will react.”
His fingers moved to the prospect’s chest.
“That’s what bodies do.”
Bastian traced one nipple with the pad of his thumb.
The prospect inhaled sharply.
“You will become hard.”
The thumb passed over him again.
“You will tremble.”
Bastian pinched lightly.
The prospect’s breath caught.
“You may even beg.”
The pressure increased until the prospect shifted his weight.
Bastian stopped.
“But none of those reactions will become permission.”
The prospect’s eyes met his.
“Your body may speak,” Bastian said. “I will still listen for you.”
Something eased inside the prospect.
“Yes, Sir.”
Bastian released his nipple and walked around him again.
“Hands behind your head.”
The prospect resumed the position. This time, he tried not to hold himself like an object on display. Bastian’s palms moved across his shoulders, then down his back. He pressed into the muscles along the spine, with patience and curiosity.
The prospect’s body began to soften beneath his hands. Bastian’s fingers reached the waistband of his briefs. The prospect went completely still.
Bastian noticed. His hands remained where they were.
“What changed?”
The prospect stared at the wall.
“I’m not sure.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
The prospect breathed slowly.
“I know what you’re doing, but my body thinks it knows something else.”
Bastian stepped close enough that his chest touched the prospect’s back.
“Tell it where you are.”
The prospect swallowed.
“I’m in your room.”
“Again.”
“I’m standing on the mark.”
Bastian’s breath warmed the side of his neck.
“Who is touching you?”
“You are, Sir.”
“Have I hurt you?”
“No, Sir.”
“Have I removed anything?”
“No, Sir.”
“Have I ignored you?”
“No, Sir.”
Bastian’s hand settled over the prospect’s heart.
“Then remain here.”
The prospect closed his eyes. The warmth at his back was firm. Present. Chosen.
His breath slowly returned.
“I’m here, Sir.”
“I know.”
Bastian’s fingers hooked beneath the waistband, but he didn’t pull it down.
Instead, he let the contact remain.
The prospect’s pulse beat visibly in his throat.
“Color?”
“Green.”
“Do you want me to continue?”
The prospect waited until he could answer without performing.
“Yes, Sir.”
Bastian slowly drew the briefs down.
The fabric passed over his hips, then his thighs, then dropped to the floor. The prospect’s hands remained behind his head. Every instinct told him to cover himself.
The prospect was hard. The evidence of it stood between them, impossible to hide and impossible to explain away.
Bastian didn’t smile.
He didn’t tease.
He just looked.
The prospect’s face burned.
“What are you feeling?”
“Exposed.”
“What else?”
“Aroused.”
“What else?”
The prospect forced the word out.
“Ashamed.”
Bastian reached between them and closed one hand around his exposed penis.
The prospect gasped. The grip was steady, warm, and deliberately still.
“Why?”
“Because you can see how much I want this.”
Bastian tightened his hand slightly. The prospect’s hips twitched forward. Bastian did not move with him.
“Wanting isn’t anything to be ashamed of.”
His thumb pressed beneath the head, firm enough to make the prospect’s knees weaken.
“Need is not shameful.”
The prospect breathed through parted lips. Bastian leaned closer.
“Desire does not make you less disciplined.”
The prospect’s hands tightened behind his head. Bastian’s hand began to move.
One slow stroke. Then another. The prospect’s eyes closed.
“Open them.”
He obeyed.
Bastian continued touching him without urgency. Each movement seemed designed not to bring him quickly toward release, but to teach him how to remain visible while pleasure moved through him.
“Hold still.”
The prospect’s abdomen clenched.
Bastian’s thumb circled slowly.
The prospect made a small sound.
“What was that?”
“Nothing, Sir.”
Bastian stopped.
The loss of movement was immediate and brutal.
The prospect opened his eyes wider.
Bastian’s hand remained wrapped around him.
“We have discussed this.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“I don’t want a polished version of you.”
Bastian gave one firm stroke.
The prospect’s breath broke into a moan.
“There.”
Bastian continued.
“That is useful.”
The prospect’s face flushed deeper.
“My voice?”
“Your honesty.”
Bastian’s rhythm remained slow.
The prospect felt himself swelling in his hand, every sensation sharpened by the command to remain still. His thighs trembled. His breathing became uneven.
Bastian watched closely.
“What do you want?”
The prospect nearly said whatever you choose.
He caught himself.
“I want to come, Sir.”
“Better.”
Bastian’s hand slowed.
The prospect’s body strained toward it.
“May I?”
“No.”
The prospect groaned. Bastian continued touching him, never enough to finish, never so little that the ache faded.
“Why did you ask?”
“Because I want permission.”
“Why?”
The prospect struggled to think.
“Because I want the choice to belong to you.”
Bastian’s hand stopped again.
The prospect looked at him.
Bastian’s expression was unreadable.
“That answer sounds beautiful. But is it true?”
The prospect looked away. Bastian’s free hand closed around the back of his neck.
“Eyes on me.”
The prospect obeyed.
“Why did you ask?”
The prospect’s voice was smaller this time.
“Because I’m afraid that wanting too much will make you stop.”
Bastian’s grip softened.
“There you are.”
The prospect’s eyes burned. Bastian released him entirely.
The prospect made an involuntary sound of protest. Bastian bent and picked up the briefs.
“Step out.”
The prospect obeyed.
Bastian folded them and placed them with the rest of the clothes. The prospect remained naked on the mark, hard and aching, with nowhere to hide. Bastian returned and stood directly in front of him.
“I’m not going to punish you for wanting.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“I’m not going to withdraw because your desire inconveniences me.”
The prospect’s throat tightened.
“Yes, Sir.”
“And I won’t reward you for pretending you have no needs.”
Bastian placed his palm against the prospect’s chest.
“You will learn to speak them.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“You will learn to tolerate hearing no.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“You will learn that denial is not abandonment.”
The prospect exhaled slowly.
“Yes, Sir.”
Bastian took his hand and placed it against the center of his own chest.
“Feel that.”
The prospect felt the steady beat beneath the fabric.
“I am still here,” Bastian said.
The prospect nodded.
“Say it.”
“You are still here.”
Bastian moved the prospect’s hand back to his side.
“Hands behind your head.”
The prospect resumed the position.
Bastian stepped back and inspected him again.
This time, the prospect let himself be seen.
His scars.
His trembling thighs.
His arousal.
His fear.
None of it made Bastian turn away.
When the inspection was finished, Bastian picked up the folded blanket and wrapped it around the prospect’s shoulders.
The prospect looked down at himself.
Still hard.
Still wanting.
Still denied.
Bastian lifted his chin.
“The lesson was not whether you could remain still while I touched you.”
The prospect waited.
“The lesson was whether you could be wanted without becoming an object.”
Bastian pulled the blanket closed around him.
“And whether you could want without becoming ashamed.”
The prospect’s breathing steadied.
“Did I pass, Sir?”
Bastian’s gaze sharpened. The prospect realized the mistake before Bastian answered.
“This was not an examination.”
“No, Sir.”
Bastian brushed his thumb over the prospect’s mouth.
“It was an inspection.”
The prospect held his gaze.
“And what did you find?”
Bastian’s expression softened.
“A man who is beginning to understand the difference.”
The Permission
This entry is part of The Bastian Protocols series. If you’d like to start from the beginning, start here.