Leather restraints were looped around each of his ankles, those restraints were chained to Maxwell’s bedroom ceiling …
He was erect - quite possibly the hardest he had ever been; a cock ring buzzed around his shaft, his balls swollen with the need to release.
His teeth were clenched, his eyes watered, his curls of hair grazing the floor as he swayed slightly from side to side.
Beside him stood a wooden stool with an open bottle of massage oil on its surface.
Tim’s challenge was to not reach out, with his unbound hands - he must wait, he must not grab the lubrication, he must not douse it over his arousal and give himself the thing he had been denied for over two months …
He must not beg, he must not ask, he must not make a noise …
As the sun lit his toned and hanging torso, highlighting the many muscles he had developed since training with Maxwell, Maxwell himself sat rather casually in an armchair wearing slippers, a satin gown and oversized sunglasses.
He sipped a coffee, smoked a cigarette, he read the morning paper.
Outside, crickets and bugs chirped and buzzed throughout the gardens of the French mansion he occupied.
—knock knock—
Smoke puffed out of Maxwell’s lips as he spoke.
“What?”
From behind his closed bedroom door, a Horned Devil pressed his lips against it, to further enhance the urgency.
“We have it.”
Maxwell’s eyes lifted from his newspaper.
The doors nudged open.
A Horned Devil, wearing a black mask with two tall horns extending from his scalp, entered Maxwell’s bedroom with several sheets of printed paper in his leather gloved hands.
He arrived before Maxwell, dropped to one knee and then bowed his head.
“How?” Maxwell asked, taking the sheets of paper, where he neatened them into a pile on his lap and began to look through prints of photos taken on an iPhone.
“DiCaprio,” The Horned Devil kept his eyes to the ground, “John’s drinking has gotten worse. He left the key in the drawer to the blueprints. Whilst unconscious, Leo saw an opportunity. He was able to take photographs of the initial designs, the plans, the concepts …”
Maxwell’s eyes widened as he took in the details of the blueprints, the bondage devices currently being built, the level of traps and architectural brilliance that made up The House of White Feathers ultimate project …
“… The date The Games start …” Maxwell slowly stood from his seat.
He turned to Timothée and dropped the sheets of paper to the floor, informing him of when the end begins.
