Page 29 of Discordant Cultivation

Vale’s free hand wrapped around his throat through the canvas.

“Stop fighting.”

Behind him, Kieran could feel Vale moving. The hard ridge of Vale’s erection pressed insistently through his pants, rubbing against Kieran’s lower back in rough, urgent motions that matched the pace of his hand.

He’s lost it...

The realization hit with sickening clarity. This wasn’t some twisted methodology. This was Vale’s composure shattering completely, broken by four descending notes.

Vale’s hand stroked up and down Kieran’s shaft with slow, deliberate pulls that forced blood to rush southward against hiswill. He twisted his wrist at the tip, thumb circling the sensitive head, slicking it with the first beads of pre-cum that leaked out. And Kieran’s body—god, his stupid broken body—began to respond, hardening in Vale’s fist.

“I said stop fighting,” Vale repeated as Kieran tried to yank the guitar against himself and knock Vale’s hand away. The hand on Kieran’s throat tightened until black spots danced behind his eyes.

Kieran went limp. Not in submission, but for survival. The same way he’d learned to go limp when he felt the beginning of a seizure, to stop fighting the inevitable and let his body do what it was going to do regardless of his will.

Fight and make it worse. Surrender and survive.

His hands found the guitar strings again, playing on autopilot while Vale took what he wanted. The melody that emerged was fractured and desperate, the notes sounding like begging without words.

Behind him, Vale’s breathing matched the rhythm of his hips grinding against the chair and his back, of his hand working Kieran’s body with increasing desperation—faster now, the strokes turning rougher as Kieran’s cock throbbed helplessly in his grasp.

“You’re still playing,” Vale said with wonder in his voice. “Even now, you’re still playing.”

Because what else was there to do? Stop playing and focus entirely on the violation happening to his body? That seemed worse. Infinitely worse.

So Kieran played. His fingers executed chord progressions while his mind tried to separate itself from what was happening. Vale’s fingers squeezed tighter, pumping Kieran’s rigid length from root to tip, forcing waves of unwelcome heat to build in his core. His balls tightened, drawing up as the pressure mounted, nerves igniting in a blaze that ignored all else.

“Please,” Kieran gasped, though he didn’t know what he was begging for anymore. For Vale to stop? For his own body to stop responding? For this to be over?

“Keep playing,” Vale groaned.

“Stop. P-please Vale, please—” Kieran felt it building despite himself—the inevitable conclusion his body was racing toward as shame flooded through him. The heat pooled lower, his hips moving in tiny, involuntary jerks against Vale’s hand, chasing the friction that promised release.

No. No, I don’t want this. I don’t want—

But biology didn’t care about want. Hot, coiling pleasure divorced entirely from desire tore through him like a bullet. His orgasm ripped free—thick ropes of cum spilling over, splattering against his own stomach in hot, shameful spurts that left him trembling and spent.

Kieran’s fingers went still on the strings as he shuddered through it.

Behind him, Vale made a sound—low and guttural—and his movements against the chair became erratic. Kieran felt the warmth of Vale’s release soaking through his pants to the fabric sticking to his back as Vale ground out his climax with a final, desperate thrust. His hand stilled on Kieran’s body, fingers slick and unmoving around the softening flesh.

For a long moment, neither of them moved. Kieran could hear Vale’s gasping, his breath returning to something resembling normal. His hands trembled where they still touched Kieran’s skin.

Then the hood came off.

Light stabbed Kieran’s eyes. He blinked, unable to focus, his vision swimming with tears he didn’t remember shedding. The basement looked too bright after the darkness, stone walls and acoustic panels swimming in and out of focus.

Vale stood in front of him, though Kieran didn’t remember him moving. His expression—

Disturbed. Confused. Almost frightened.

And his hands were still shaking.

“That was—” Vale started, then stopped. He swallowed hard and tried again. “You played through it. The whole time, you kept playing.”

Kieran couldn’t speak. Couldn’t look at him. He could only stare at the guitar in his lap, at his own hands that had kept moving even while his world had been ending.

The silence stretched. Vale seemed to be waiting for something—a response, an acknowledgment, Kieran didn’t know.