Here's another one of those little 3-line things. This one off the prompt: fast.
It's been a month, and Casey is nearly frantic. There's only so much he can take, aching to use his hand, and his frustration is tripled by having to see Zeke in the halls every day, that infuriating little smile on his face as he plays another of his mindfuck games. The feel of those laughing lips on his, talented fingers tightening painfully in his hair and the rough whisper, "Not until I say," all sear his dreams, and in the middle of the night he clutches his pillow to keep from disobeying, his futile thoughts of revenge no comfort against the knowledge of being owned.