VIOLENCE IN LIFTS

[Subtle_Domination]

These chapters are based on my own experiences and fantasies.
If it offends or breaks rules, please delete.


Chapter 1

Canary Wharf, London
Sunday, 5. A.M.​

It began with silence, standing side by side in front of a round metal button illuminated by a blue ring. Just the two of us, no acknowledgment of each other, my heart pounding, my fingers fidgeting, the lift descending towards us.

The growl in his throat and unwavering eye control in his reflection in the mirrored lift door told me that his mood could flip at the slightest provocation and when the lift doors opened, revealing its empty interior, his excitement clearly increased. He strode inside with confidence and I followed, my stomach flipping as the lift doors slid closed, encasing us.

What had been an erotic exchange of ideas online was now, in this prearranged silent moment, a very stark reality, and potentially far too dangerous a situation.

He stood at the back, behind me, watching me nervously press the button for the fiftieth floor and shift ever so subtly on my feet hoping my movement was undetectable, wanting suddenly, a moment of invisibility in which I could compose myself and shake off the nerves. I could hear him breathe, feel him watching me patiently, hear him reach for something in his pocket, and heard the swish of a spray, knowing that he had just clouded the lens of the security camera, rendering it sightless. And as the lift began to rise, he stepped forward, pressing into my back, his intimidating breath on my neck, his larger frame dwarfing mine, then, with shocking speed his huge hand gripped my throat, squeezing it far too hard as he threw me back against the lift wall, his free hand ripping my shirt open, sending buttons everywhere, his other hand rising and retreating, up behind his shoulder, forming a fist that tensed, ready to punch. That patient violence in his eyes was now flaring wild into greed and in a shocking blaze of worried panic, encouraged abandon and the very real awareness of pain, he punched, twice, once in the cheekbone, the other in my jaw. I staggered sideways, stunned at the reality of the aggression and pain. His fingers fanned through my hair, pulling me upright, dizzy and stupid, reaching out for support until his mouth clamped wide over mine and a hard slap across my face forced open my mouth. His tongue filled me, aggressive and winning, taking away my breath. His free hand grabbed my crotch through my trousers and squeezed so hard that I started to cry out in alarm but this only excited him more so he twisted the handful, not caring how much it hurt, lifting me up onto my toes.

My face, still held firm in his grip was now being turned and studied, his eyes looking into mine until I reddened, feeling a much weaker, nervous and vulnerable man than I’d ever imagined. His eyes moved down, looking at my exposed dad bod, flicking open the ripped shirt that was never to be worn again. His eyebrows rising up to question me for even looking at him and his confident expression informing me that I was very easy pray.

Now his solid shoulders flexed so that shapely pectoral muscles stretched his white t-shirt taut, partly for show, to focus my attention on his strength and partly because the stretch clearly felt satisfying and empowering. It made his t-shirt ride up a little to reveal dark, wiry, belly hair, on a firm torso that drew my eyes to it, despite my resolve not to look.

He watched me, followed my eyes, reached down and tugged his t shirt up to his shoulders, allowing me to look before letting the material drop back into place.

My face throbbed. I was holding my jaw, watching the lift pass the midway point, floor twenty something. His growl had begun again and I felt myself staggering forward, my jacket and shirt being tugged back over my shoulders and down my arms until I was half naked. He separated them with a fast tug and threw my jacket back at me. My shirt, rolled into a ball was kicked into a corner. I raced to put the jacket on, looking at him horrified when he pressed the button to stop the lift at floor 30.

He was ending it, I thought in surprise, and despite this rejection, I felt relief. But when the door opened, a man, as big, if not bigger than my companion entered, acknowledging him and watching him undo my belt and pull it free, then pull my jacket wide, putting me on display to him.

I turned my head quickly, questioning him with my eyes. This had not been agreed. There was no mention of another person. There were rules, we had been very specific, and yet now, grabbing my chin and kissing me hard, his fingers moved to the button on my trousers, popped it open and he forced down my zip. Suddenly a second pair of hands were on me, pulling off my jacket and while a huge hot mouth found my nipple, the strangers hot tongue tongue run down my spine, my trousers yanked down my legs, a knife cutting the waistband of my underwear, four hands ripping them off me in a game of tug of war. My right shoe twisted off in the tussle and immediately a hand pulled off my sock off and pocketed it.

Then they both stood back, watching me panic, completely in shock, trying frantically dress as the lift pinged and the doors opened onto the top floor. No one was there, the floor was empty. All the office staff gone. It was five a.m. They knew precisely who was in the building.

The new stranger reached past me, watching me flinch and pressed the ground button.


I wanted to jump out, put an end to it but the doors were closing and now they both pressed against me, the new guy examining my face, then lifting his fist to strike two precise battering blows on the same spots. I could taste blood. I felt dizzy, I staggered, crouching low, needing to curl into a protective ball and then, suddenly, I was being hugged tight, my hair stroked affectionately, light kisses touching my lips, a hand sliding down my back. One of them was seeking out my most heated part with insistent fingers, mixing the affection with pain and the stronger pull of sex. The man I knew from online was thrilled at having a weaker male to control, possibly for the first time, and now stamped my trousers down offering me up as easy pray to the first, who leaned me forward, immediately, turned me, shoved my head down, opened my cheeks and found my hole. He began to rub it hard, tapping it with his finger.

Floor thirty, my trousers were only on one leg, naked, yelping out as his finger forced itself deeper into me, twisting, and then withdrawing it at speed, making me shout in panic. At floor ten, my trousers were being pulled up, my jacket tugged closed, the doors began pinging, we were at the ground floor and stepping out, both men, now chatting happily, walked through the lobby and unlocked the front door, opening it for me.

Nervous and embarrassed at the amount of flesh showing despite wearing my suit jacket, I kept my head down and walked fast, past them, out into the air, to London Bridge Station, to my train platform. In a train toilet, pulling on a t shirt from my bag, dressing fast to stand in front of the mirror to survey the damage to my face.

I was shocked. It was much more red and swollen than I'd expected, huge at the cheekbone, dark at the jaw. It could be disguised. I had stuff at home that will cover it. I have been here before. I know exactly what to do. I will be in work tomorrow morning as if nothing has happened and when I get home, I will excitedly relive it all, over and over but right now, all I need is sleep.

 

[Subtle_Domination]

 

[Subtle_Domination]

2​

​

Mayfair​

The three others whose desks were grouped with mine had noticed, I realised. Eyes were discreetly studying my face whenever I looked down and quickly swapping concerned expressions while I busied myself. Once a discreet moment had passed, I rose and went to check the makeup I'd used to cover it and to give them time to express their concerns amongst each other.

In the brightly lit toilet mirror things were much, much worse than my initial assessment. The bruising was very dark and the swelling now quite dramatic. It gave me excited shivers to see what two strong male strangers who got off on the act of violence, aggression and dominating a weaker specimen of male had done to me. Four surprisingly aggressive blows, at least I could only remember four direct punches followed by the ripping off of my clothes - and me a man otherwise in total control of life, in charge of a team of twenty! Yet there in the prearranged presence of an alpha/beta fantasy, I amounted to little more than an unimportant runt, a weak specimen, timid and surrendering my rights to others who walked all over me while loving it.

Later, after work, there would be a second act, not a violent one, however, this one was designed to arouse and hurt me in a far more fundamental way.

Andrew, 35, masculine, somewhat muscular but with a mind as devious as his, his frame was not important, it was his confidence and imagination that drove those who sought out his attention that kept him top of a global game.

I would arrive at his office at 7.20pm, prestige indeed that would inevitably cause envy amongst his thousands of online followers. I would not enter until all of his employees had left, and then one specific code would open one specific door, through which I would pass and climb the fire escape stairwell to his floor and head to the huge corner office suite. There, in a darkened reception area, I would sit on one of the six chairs, lined against a wall in front of the reception desk.

But first there was my day to get through.

"I fell," I told them, "from the top of a stool in the kitchen, trying to get brown sugar from the top shelf. Hit my head on the shelves crashing down."

They pulled varying expressions of concern but didn't believe a word of it. They suspected I was either being queer bashed and felt ashamed to admit it or was on an abusive relationship that I would deny. They had, once before, almost staged an intervention by calling various helplines on my behalf. I had closed that down fast but in a way it had worked. For at least two years, I had displayed no facial bruising at all. My face had become a no-go area.

I was not sure why being beaten aroused me so much, it didn't represent some cathartic process to rebuild the helplessness of being bullied during my school years because there had been none of that. I had been popular, I was still popular, perhaps it was that, the need to feel unpopular but that sounded so flimsy, stupid and unconvincing that I shrugged off all the guesswork psychoanalysis and made coffee for everyone instead.

And as I carried the hot, swilling mugs back into the office, only one thought battled supreme through the cloud of concern about to envelop me, that of the exciting five digit code that would soon let me into his office building.

It was a balmy, London afternoon in which the office, sticky and sweet with breath, had mostly slumped into a languid daydreaming state. Work had been abandoned in favour of Internet sites that made everyone laugh privately at their screens. And then, in no time at all, everyone had gone and I walked to the men's bathroom, undressed and stepped into the shower.

The walk to him was leisurely; I was too early but I was impatient, excited and growing increasingly nervous. From a bench in Soho Square I waited until the very minute instruction began, then tapped the code in. My fingers white, thin, ringless.

Inside, standing aloof at the entrance of a luxurious foyer, lit like a futuristic art installation, the type featured in architectural magazines frequented by those blessed with money, prestige or fame.

I was not be allowed through there, I was to slip around the sensors, then use the tradesman staircase, a tough cement, echoing stairwell, that was fitting for my lowely rank in life. It was narrow, just wide enough for an evacuation and it was noisy; my shoes made a scuffing sound, he echo like grinding sand against pavement.

Up I climbed, the lift forbidden, so that again I was reminded of my place, that of a lesser man, born of, as I had been forced to admit, a lesser father than other men, with lineage that I should bring to a definite end. Panting, I stopped for a break and sat mid-flight to catch my breath and regain composure.

He did not like me to arrive flustered. My job was to ensure the punctual, smooth running of these exchanges.

It had already been the most eventful day of the year and now, with an aching cheekbone and the denunciation of my father weighing uncomfortably on my mind, I inspected myself in a darkening window, straightened my tie and pressed down unruly hair. Then when I deemed myself of offering respectable presentation and high standards: shoes polished, cuffs straight, bag in my right hand to place down in the waiting room, where it would remain until I left, I climbed the last flight, let myself into the impressive glass fronted entrance to his offices, pressed the buzzer on the desk and sat, breathing nervously.

He kept me waiting for twenty minutes which weakened my confidence and jabbed at my nerves. Then, his office door opened and two elegantly dressed New Yorkers stepped happily out, reaching in and shaking his hand eagerly, thanking him for everything, they would return the contracts upon their return to the office they assured him again.

He was wearing a Hugo Boss navy blue suit, at least that's what I guessed from seeing the glimpse of the sleeve, a crisp white shirt cuff and bezels of a Tag Hoyer on display beneath it during his firm handshake with both.

They offered smiles to me, which I returned, then, privileged, took the lift down and were gone. In an instant, the outer office doors locked shut with a loud clunk, the lights dimmed and silence fell.

There was the rush of water, presumably from his office shower and following the sound of a hairdryer and the slam of a drawer, the door opened and his dismissive, business-like, masculine voice said simply "Come".

I stood, nervous but excited.

How beautiful he was, how accomplished and fine and at the young age of 28, when I was 28 the most I had accomplished was clawing my way onto the first rung of the corporate ladder. He had the best clothes, an expensive haircut and exclusive colognes, the life structure and all the details were in place, so that now he had the freedom, money and time to find and explore the world's more hidden treasures. But of course, he would not be resting on his laurels for decades yet, his eyes were on longer-term wealth; that's how focused and driven he was. He was a man that everyone wanted to be seen with or associate with. Not yet on the Forbs list but that unwavering direction that would arrive and be of little interest to him.


My suit seemed cheap now, even in comparison to the leather, chrome seats that apparently would never go out of style, ever.

He didn't say kneel, he didn't even look at me, just pointed to a rug and swirled a finger. Obediently I moved to it, pinching and lifting the legs of my trousers a little, so as not to make the knees saggy, despite their poor quality. He flicked a switch and the blinds snapped shut behind him. He poured a glass of water and in the tips of his perfectly manicured fingers, placed it in front of me on a side table upon which a silver table mat had been placed in advance.

"Thank you," I said and he nodded.

His damp hair was black and slicked back, full and lustrous. His accent and diction were perhaps his only flaw, what should have been perfect Queen's English had the tinge of some warmer, friendlier accent.

His demeanor, however, was far from friendly. From his pocket he took two keys and placed them neatly, side by side on the expensive leather topped coffee table. For a moment, I panicked wondering where they would lead and if I was about to be cuffed or collared. But they were not to be discussed it seemed and imminently his eyes looked questioningly into mine.

From my pocket, I took out a printout of my bank statement and my wallet while he watched me expectantly. Then leaning back into his desk chair, lifted and stretched his legs, crossing them at the ankles so that his immaculate, black, Italian workshoes rested on the corner of his desk, a splash of red from a sock catching my eye.


I handed him my bank statement which he studied in silence, before reaching for a pen and circling things on it. He shook his head at the wage I made, looking at me with a mix of sadness and disgust. Then, holding out his hand, accepted my wallet. From it, he took my entire month's wage, including the shrapnel in a small transparent money bag that made up the £3.76 in addition to the notes.

Although I had wanted this moment badly and was thrilled to be in it for a third time, aware it only came around once every three months, I now felt a very real sense of panic. I had a mortgage to pay, bills, engagements and two family birthdays.

Noticing me watching him, he lifted a finger and pointed to the rug so that my eyes followed and I returned my focus to the submission. I could hear him begin to divide the money, then he moved forward, standing before me, the tips of his toes facing me. I pressed my palms against the floor and lowered my head, kissing both in turn.

"Clean them," he said.

So using my tongue, I set about licking every inch of them before he sat again and offered me the soles.


While I distracted myself, He began to separate the notes again. It had taken me several trips to the cashpoint to withdraw every penny of my monthly wage and seeing it being treated with such flippancy simultaneously thrilled, aroused and worried me.


"Perhaps this time I will keep it all," he said and I felt the sting of that immediately.

"Make you fall behind with your mortgage, stop you from eating, have you walk to work instead of taking the tube, stop you from socialising, create a knock-on effect that will take you until our next meeting to recover from. Making sure I am always uppermost in your mind. Would you like that?"

I was silent.

He laughed.

"Ask me to take it all," he ordered me. "Ask me to take every last penny. Show me your devotion."

"I..."

"Speak up."

"I..."

"Louder, nice and clear."

"Sir, I..."

He raised his eyebrows impatiently, then reaching out, lifted my chin and inspected my bruises, letting out a disappointed sigh."

He was so handsome, so alpha. I was honoured that he showed me any acknowledgement at all. He could have anyone and probably had several more pathetic males just like me, vying for his attention.

"Say it," he laughed, thrilling himself with his control over me, enjoying the wide, loving, bessotted eyes glowing up at him.

"I want you to keep all of my wage sir, every penny."

"Good boy," he said and walked behind his desk. Scooping up all of my money and placing it immediately in a drawer, which he locked.

"That's all," he said and turned his attention away from me, busying himself with his phone on which he dialled someone and said. "I want you to go out and buy yourself something extravagant, then meet me in one hour at the bar next to my office, I'm taking you out for dinner, anything you like."

Then reaching into the drawer, took out the bundle of notes and flicked through it, pulling out one single £30 which he extended toward me. "Your bus home."

I stood and took it.

"Go," he said and I turned hating myself, hating this was arousing me, hating that I would not be able to buy my two family members cards let alone birthday presents, that I would have to safeguard my mortgage and would have to make every item of food in my kitchen stretch. I reached for the door handle.

"I almost forgot," he said and pointed to the two keys he'd laid out on the table. "My gate, my house key."

I looked at him confused.

Now he slid a card across the table. "My address."

He looked directly into my eyes and I felt myself fall in love with him. He saw that look too and laughed, delighted by it.

"This weekend I am away. Let yourself in at 8 am. Do my washing, ironing, vacuuming, cleaning, water my plants, clean my windows. You do not put a foot on the stairs. You do not go up the stairs. Your area is downstairs only. Understand?"

"Yes, sir,"

I felt the strangest mix of utter despair and hatred of myself, of my stupidity and weakness but all of these reproaches were now smothered with the exhilaration of this new twist in fresh servitude.

He was straight, at least that was the performance he put on for me. He knew that being unreachable and being so good looking was a poweful drug to gay men and he liked to flirt.

Now, watching my expression, he turned away from me, tugged off his tie, hung his jacket on the back of his seat, kicked off his shoes, then began to unbutton his shirt. I was still on my knees, transfixed. I had never seen his body, not so much as a glimpse and now suddenly, he took off his shirt so that a tanned, lean, muscular back was all mine to study.

Next he unbuckled his belt and undid the top button of his trousers so that they relaxed and slid down fractionally, revealing an inch more of flesh. Then he turned, looked at me and said.

"Are you still here? Leave."

Surprised and disappointed I rose to my feet, and walked toward the door, looking back over my shoulder to see his trousers slide down his legs and tight red briefs cling to the firm muscle of his arse. I wanted to stay, to see more, to watch him turn but momentum kept me moving. I reached for the door handle and turned again, to see him walk to his chair and sit in it, legs splayed, facing me, showing me himself and with a finger, flicked me out of the room, his hand sliding down his body until they reached the generous mound of genitals arranged so snugly that I could make out the shapes.

He no longer looked my way but I could not disobey and let the door click behind me.

 

[Subtle_Domination]