MoldaviteGreen
The world’s upside down here…
- Joined
- Dec 7, 2018
Warning:
Themes include BDSM, violence, mention or detail of drug and alcohol use, and other dark themes
Read at your own risk
Your support makes Blue Moon possible (Patreon)
Bondage of Hearts (ThenThereWereNone & MoldaviteGreen)
- Thread starter MoldaviteGreen
- Start date
Warning:
Themes include BDSM, violence, mention or detail of drug and alcohol use, and other dark themes
Read at your own risk
OP
OP
MoldaviteGreen
The world’s upside down here…
- Joined
- Dec 7, 2018
Niente.
Nothing.
That was precisely was Emiliano became as thick, olive fingers caught the heavy velvet curtain and swept it aside. Within the low light of the wide corridor, gold glinted against bronze skin; luxurious and lustrous. The threshold was crossed, and what was once nothing adopted the mask of something.
Bathed in the two-tone lights of crimson and indigo blue, the man that lingered just beyond the heavy drape of the curtain was eerily still. The obsidian dark of his hair was left a little wild, the upper half of the loose waves drawn back and secured with a metal clasp. The rest tumbled down to broad shoulders, curled against the opened collar of a shirt, brushing lightly against the sweep of partly exposed collarbones. The smooth, deep blue satin of his two-piece set was brilliant against the gold of his skin. Deep was the cut of the neckline over breastbone, but not even the slip of it would reveal the paler patch of vitiligo skin across the side of Emil's right ribs. The tailored trousers were slim at the high of his waist, a belt of the same satin fabric wrapped over the tucked shirt and tied in a loose bow. The cuffs of the sleeves were rolled up his forearms, exposing bronze skin, gold rope bracelet, and thick, corded veins.
Blue, it seemed that he'd chosen, to match the glacial pale of his almond eyes. They were cold and cutting, diamonds almost, thickly framed with dark, curling lashes and set either side of a slightly hooked nose. His eyes were the only pale thing about him, and perhaps it was for that reason alone that they seemed so wraith-like. Ice blue against shades of caramel, bronze and obsidian black. Even the five o'clock shadow upon his sharp jaw and upper lip was a dark tourmaline. Emil, a Dominant unknown to this specific Club, felt rather out of place and yet welcomed all at once.
There was not a thing about the expansive Playroom that was not luxury. The lounges within the curved and open booths were padded with thick cushioning and swathed in rich velvets. The metal legs of the occasional stool were bronze with decorative notches. Grand, towering pillars were carved from deep mahogany, and from them hung loose organza in darker shades of the bathing two-toned lights. It gave a sense of dimension, of deeper and darker shadows; places to hide in a space where one could commit to being so vulnerable. The long bar at one end had already drawn a small crowd, with the tenders mixing and passing drinks with fluid motions. Booths of various sizes absorbed most of the space; a place for viewing, for discussing terms, for communication before truly diving deep into the world of sin.
Yet, it was the grand, elevated stage that held most of the attention. The underside of the rise was illuminated in cobalt blue; eerie in its glow. The floor of the stage was the same crimson, crushed velvet of elsewhere, but the soft lighting from above illuminated the texture of it. Behind the elevated stage, along a wall that held a wide and all-encompassing mirror, was a long bench seat fashioned from leather. Risky, Emil thought, considering the purpose of that space. Leather, he supposed, was fairly easy to wipe clean.
Already there were those keen to play knelt or stretched out across the stage's soft floor. Under their knees, the velvet would have been fairly gentle when static. Complexions were cast in the same blanketing light; their highlights in blood-red and their shadows cast in deep blue. They seemed ethereal, almost, in their submissive beauty as they were handled, treated, rewarded so publicly for their keenness to please. One had been drawn over a knee, a dark gag in their mouth, as three fingers thrust deep into their rear.
Emil was no stranger to public play. He'd observed it many a time, and had participated within such less often. There were those who fancied swapping, sharing, and the public use of their subs, but Emil was not one of them. The trust between Master and Pet was something to be treated carefully, and while Emil allowed his subs the adrenaline of being watched, he had never shared. He'd never share.
Yet, it was not those upon the stage nor those within the booths that caught Emil's attention as he lingered, still, just within the dark space of the Playroom. As the glacial blue of his eyes had swept the scene before him, he'd found his gaze settling upon the profile of a shadowed face. Any attempt to look away was futile, for Emil found it impossible to drag his eyes from the thick of the man's nose, the solid slope of broad shoulders, and the firm set of a jaw. Even from where he stood, Emil could spy the dark of the man's lashes and the near midnight of his hair. A man so pretty, yet so obviously not submissive. Emil knew this from the man's posture alone.
"Try something different." The voice of his friend filtered in above the sounds of leather impacting flesh. "You've become stagnant while chasing your career. When was the last time you allowed yourself to truly, freely experience?" The answer had not come easy from Emil. "Don't think about it. Just try something other than what you'd usually."
Two crystal tumblers of whiskey were passed across the bar to Emil, the Italian having crossed to the length of it when he'd finally found himself able to peel his eyes from the stranger. Emil turned. It took less than a second for his eyes to find that man; as if the stranger, himself, were the north and Emil's gaze a magnet. He was drawn forward by the man's gravity, pulled into him, and Emil approached to stand at his side, a little distance between them, and forced his gaze up at the stage to spy what the stranger was viewing. But Emil didn't care for it as he held out a tumbler to the side, an offering in silence, that was later followed by the sweep of pale eyes as they stood side by side.
"This is no place for an empty hand," he said smoothly. Gently accented, the silk of his voice was deep. "If whiskey is not your poison of choice, I wonder what is. Another vice, perhaps? Of leather or lace or rope."
The depth of the man's complexion struck Emil then more so than it had from across the room. A rich chocolate bronze, the stranger's face was cast in the soft glow of the two-tone lights. They shifted over cheekbones, upon thick lips and dark brows, and Emil wondered whether the man had specifically chosen to linger here, within this particular space, because he knew that the lights cast across his face like swirls of galaxies within the dark of space.
Emil's cold gaze dragged away as he took a sip from his own whiskey. Try something different, indeed. Because why was it that this man had Emil's curiosity flaring?
"Then again, if you'd prefer to keep two hands free, I'll happily nurse both." Another sip was taken, slow, as a bead of liquor glistened at the seam of lips. "Which is it on the stage that's held your attention?"
Nothing.
That was precisely was Emiliano became as thick, olive fingers caught the heavy velvet curtain and swept it aside. Within the low light of the wide corridor, gold glinted against bronze skin; luxurious and lustrous. The threshold was crossed, and what was once nothing adopted the mask of something.
Bathed in the two-tone lights of crimson and indigo blue, the man that lingered just beyond the heavy drape of the curtain was eerily still. The obsidian dark of his hair was left a little wild, the upper half of the loose waves drawn back and secured with a metal clasp. The rest tumbled down to broad shoulders, curled against the opened collar of a shirt, brushing lightly against the sweep of partly exposed collarbones. The smooth, deep blue satin of his two-piece set was brilliant against the gold of his skin. Deep was the cut of the neckline over breastbone, but not even the slip of it would reveal the paler patch of vitiligo skin across the side of Emil's right ribs. The tailored trousers were slim at the high of his waist, a belt of the same satin fabric wrapped over the tucked shirt and tied in a loose bow. The cuffs of the sleeves were rolled up his forearms, exposing bronze skin, gold rope bracelet, and thick, corded veins.
Blue, it seemed that he'd chosen, to match the glacial pale of his almond eyes. They were cold and cutting, diamonds almost, thickly framed with dark, curling lashes and set either side of a slightly hooked nose. His eyes were the only pale thing about him, and perhaps it was for that reason alone that they seemed so wraith-like. Ice blue against shades of caramel, bronze and obsidian black. Even the five o'clock shadow upon his sharp jaw and upper lip was a dark tourmaline. Emil, a Dominant unknown to this specific Club, felt rather out of place and yet welcomed all at once.
There was not a thing about the expansive Playroom that was not luxury. The lounges within the curved and open booths were padded with thick cushioning and swathed in rich velvets. The metal legs of the occasional stool were bronze with decorative notches. Grand, towering pillars were carved from deep mahogany, and from them hung loose organza in darker shades of the bathing two-toned lights. It gave a sense of dimension, of deeper and darker shadows; places to hide in a space where one could commit to being so vulnerable. The long bar at one end had already drawn a small crowd, with the tenders mixing and passing drinks with fluid motions. Booths of various sizes absorbed most of the space; a place for viewing, for discussing terms, for communication before truly diving deep into the world of sin.
Yet, it was the grand, elevated stage that held most of the attention. The underside of the rise was illuminated in cobalt blue; eerie in its glow. The floor of the stage was the same crimson, crushed velvet of elsewhere, but the soft lighting from above illuminated the texture of it. Behind the elevated stage, along a wall that held a wide and all-encompassing mirror, was a long bench seat fashioned from leather. Risky, Emil thought, considering the purpose of that space. Leather, he supposed, was fairly easy to wipe clean.
Already there were those keen to play knelt or stretched out across the stage's soft floor. Under their knees, the velvet would have been fairly gentle when static. Complexions were cast in the same blanketing light; their highlights in blood-red and their shadows cast in deep blue. They seemed ethereal, almost, in their submissive beauty as they were handled, treated, rewarded so publicly for their keenness to please. One had been drawn over a knee, a dark gag in their mouth, as three fingers thrust deep into their rear.
Emil was no stranger to public play. He'd observed it many a time, and had participated within such less often. There were those who fancied swapping, sharing, and the public use of their subs, but Emil was not one of them. The trust between Master and Pet was something to be treated carefully, and while Emil allowed his subs the adrenaline of being watched, he had never shared. He'd never share.
Yet, it was not those upon the stage nor those within the booths that caught Emil's attention as he lingered, still, just within the dark space of the Playroom. As the glacial blue of his eyes had swept the scene before him, he'd found his gaze settling upon the profile of a shadowed face. Any attempt to look away was futile, for Emil found it impossible to drag his eyes from the thick of the man's nose, the solid slope of broad shoulders, and the firm set of a jaw. Even from where he stood, Emil could spy the dark of the man's lashes and the near midnight of his hair. A man so pretty, yet so obviously not submissive. Emil knew this from the man's posture alone.
"Try something different." The voice of his friend filtered in above the sounds of leather impacting flesh. "You've become stagnant while chasing your career. When was the last time you allowed yourself to truly, freely experience?" The answer had not come easy from Emil. "Don't think about it. Just try something other than what you'd usually."
Two crystal tumblers of whiskey were passed across the bar to Emil, the Italian having crossed to the length of it when he'd finally found himself able to peel his eyes from the stranger. Emil turned. It took less than a second for his eyes to find that man; as if the stranger, himself, were the north and Emil's gaze a magnet. He was drawn forward by the man's gravity, pulled into him, and Emil approached to stand at his side, a little distance between them, and forced his gaze up at the stage to spy what the stranger was viewing. But Emil didn't care for it as he held out a tumbler to the side, an offering in silence, that was later followed by the sweep of pale eyes as they stood side by side.
"This is no place for an empty hand," he said smoothly. Gently accented, the silk of his voice was deep. "If whiskey is not your poison of choice, I wonder what is. Another vice, perhaps? Of leather or lace or rope."
The depth of the man's complexion struck Emil then more so than it had from across the room. A rich chocolate bronze, the stranger's face was cast in the soft glow of the two-tone lights. They shifted over cheekbones, upon thick lips and dark brows, and Emil wondered whether the man had specifically chosen to linger here, within this particular space, because he knew that the lights cast across his face like swirls of galaxies within the dark of space.
Emil's cold gaze dragged away as he took a sip from his own whiskey. Try something different, indeed. Because why was it that this man had Emil's curiosity flaring?
"Then again, if you'd prefer to keep two hands free, I'll happily nurse both." Another sip was taken, slow, as a bead of liquor glistened at the seam of lips. "Which is it on the stage that's held your attention?"
ThenThereWereNone
Lurking One
- Joined
- Jun 22, 2019
“Dude, this isn’t just any party either! Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten what day it is.”
“Oh, fuck you.” Phone caught between his ear and shoulder, Alexis kicked the apartment door shut behind him, “What kind of best friend do you think I am?” He tugged at his tie while kicking his shoes off, “I’ll be there. Just don’t get your hopes up, Chris’ birthday or not, I’m not playing tonight.”
“Not even for Chris? You know he’d love it, and it’s been a while.” The pout could be heard clear as day through the phone.
Alexis’ expression darkened with a frown, his voice deepening dangerously low, “You’re not sulking, are you, Bunny?”
A choked inhale, “No, Sir.”
“Good. Now go give the birthday boy his pregame gift. I’ll see y’all both tonight.” Not waiting for a response he ended the call, puffing his cheeks out before releasing a hard sigh. Tossing the phone and tie in the direction of the couch, he headed for the en suite.
Chris and Bunny were fun to play with, but Alexis had found himself lacking in enthusiasm, not just with the Diabolic Duo but with anyone he’d had a scene with as of late. He’d had a fear he was outgrowing the lifestyle. But the interest was still there, the itch constant and nagging, but no one had managed to spark it to life. He’d talked about it with the two men who knew him best—he and Chris had been glued to each other since freshman year of college and then they’d met Bunny as graduation neared—and Chris had suggested it might be time he took a break, reevaluated what it was he wanted, meditate. Bunny, surprise-surprise—but not really—had pointed out that what Lex needed was to dive into the deep end of something drastically outside of his comfort zone, expand his horizons, so to speak. And unsurprisingly, he hint-hint-nudge-nudged at Lex subbing for him; and just as common as Bunny’s proposition was, Lex's response was just the same as it’d always been: He’d laugh and tell the man to keep dreaming.
It wasn’t happening.
In the end, he’d gone with Chris’ advice, and it’d been coming up on his second month being away from the club and the community. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t miss it. He did. But he didn’t miss the lacklustre scenes, the subs who didn’t hold his interest, didn’t awaken that fire in his gut. He didn’t know what the fuck was wrong with him to even begin to try and fix it, so he was staying away. Maybe Chris was right, maybe he just needed to get away from it all for a little while.
But given it was Chris’ birthday, Alexis was cutting his break shorter than he’d planned to.
~~~
Sometime after 9 PM, skin still damp from the shower, Lex stood in his closet. Bunny had mentioned the theme was ‘Come As You Are’.
Hating to overthink when it came to clothes, he settled on a pair of supple, buttery soft leather pants, black button down—with the top two buttons left undone—and a leather jacket to top it off. All facial piercings were switched out to gold and black boots finished off the look. His locs, short and buzzed around the back and sides needed the barest maintenance, a few choice retwists and he was good to go.
~~~
Upon arrival, he stopped in the front lobby, relinquishing his phone to his designated locker. He'd missed the weight of the outside world lifting away the moment his phone was out of sight; no glances at a lit screen; no distractions or interruptions from a late-night emergency call or text. He breathed out, rolled his shoulders, and nodded at Symon as he pushed through the dark double doors and the thick plush curtain beyond.
"X-man! How's it been, stranger?" The call came from one of the bartenders.
Alexis stopped at the bar to catch up with Toby and Clara, who let him know that Chris had arrived earlier and had mentioned not wanting to be disturbed.
So Lex wandered, catching up with the regulars, meeting some new faces, and turning down propositions aplenty.
As the night progressed he found himself over by the stage, still no sign of Chris or Bunny, so he lingered there, watching some truly beautiful and intricate ropework. The barely there presence of the thin fair-haired man went about his work with a meditative expression on his face, his mouth occasionally moving to speak to his sub, the voluptuous red-head who knelt with her hands bound behind her back, the black and red ropes forming the impression of a slightly curved chain of roses beneath her breasts and down the length of her abdomen.
Alexis stepped away to order a glass of water, the night was still early and while he had no plans to play, he still thought it best to pace himself. He didn’t feel like having to sleep it off in Chris’ office or his house and having to ride back for his car in the morning.
He found himself caught up in a conversation at the bar, even roping some of the newer folks into the conversation. By the time he returned to the stage, the thin man was seated on the leather bench. The woman was on her knees, sweat glistening on her skin beneath the two-toned lights as she rocked herself down on—what could be only be described as—a monster cock, the double dildo was as thick as it was long. She’d be feeling that for days after. Alexis winced in sympathy, but she took them like a champ, both her holes stuffed full.
The thought of what desperate sounds were coming from behind the ballgag muffling her soft, barely audible whines was severed right down the middle by an unfamiliar voice at his side. A deep masculine voice, slightly accented; all sinful decadence. He could feel the presence of the other, stood close enough to notice, but not close enough to count as intrusive. From his periphery, Alexis could make out the dark hair, the contrast of blue against gold skin. His gaze cut away from the stage just long enough to glance down at the offered tumbler of whiskey. He took it, “Cheers.”
"If whiskey is not your poison of choice, I wonder what is. Another vice, perhaps? Of leather or lace or rope."
His attention focused back on the stage, a low laugh tumbling out of him, “Oh, and then some.” He could feel the man’s gaze like a physical touch, but he didn’t return it. Didn’t engage. The man’s voice alone might’ve dragged smooth as silk over his skin, but he kept his attention pointedly on the stage. He wasn’t looking for anything at the moment.
“The whiskey’s fine.” He nodded his head in the direction of the woman, her cheeks now wet with tears, “The rope work is creative, I’m not nearly artistic enough to have even thought up something like that. The model isn’t hard on the eyes either.” He turned then, finally giving his attention to the man he’d no doubt have to turn down, and did a double-take, froze. “Holy sh– wow, damn!” His dark eyes drank in the temptation dressed in human skin before him, the bounce of the lights off that caramel skin, chiselled features, and those damn blue eyes. Even as his eyes dragged down to the display of bared chest, enough to tease, he found himself returning to that glacial gaze, the risk of getting lost in the arctic of them had him unable to look anywhere else, “You’re fucking gorgeous.”
A spark flickered in his chest. A familiar itch.
He took a measured swallow of whiskey then, if for nothing more than an excuse to briefly break eye contact. “You’re a new face.” Because I damn well would’ve remembered seeing you. “This your first time?”
“Oh, fuck you.” Phone caught between his ear and shoulder, Alexis kicked the apartment door shut behind him, “What kind of best friend do you think I am?” He tugged at his tie while kicking his shoes off, “I’ll be there. Just don’t get your hopes up, Chris’ birthday or not, I’m not playing tonight.”
“Not even for Chris? You know he’d love it, and it’s been a while.” The pout could be heard clear as day through the phone.
Alexis’ expression darkened with a frown, his voice deepening dangerously low, “You’re not sulking, are you, Bunny?”
A choked inhale, “No, Sir.”
“Good. Now go give the birthday boy his pregame gift. I’ll see y’all both tonight.” Not waiting for a response he ended the call, puffing his cheeks out before releasing a hard sigh. Tossing the phone and tie in the direction of the couch, he headed for the en suite.
Chris and Bunny were fun to play with, but Alexis had found himself lacking in enthusiasm, not just with the Diabolic Duo but with anyone he’d had a scene with as of late. He’d had a fear he was outgrowing the lifestyle. But the interest was still there, the itch constant and nagging, but no one had managed to spark it to life. He’d talked about it with the two men who knew him best—he and Chris had been glued to each other since freshman year of college and then they’d met Bunny as graduation neared—and Chris had suggested it might be time he took a break, reevaluated what it was he wanted, meditate. Bunny, surprise-surprise—but not really—had pointed out that what Lex needed was to dive into the deep end of something drastically outside of his comfort zone, expand his horizons, so to speak. And unsurprisingly, he hint-hint-nudge-nudged at Lex subbing for him; and just as common as Bunny’s proposition was, Lex's response was just the same as it’d always been: He’d laugh and tell the man to keep dreaming.
It wasn’t happening.
In the end, he’d gone with Chris’ advice, and it’d been coming up on his second month being away from the club and the community. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t miss it. He did. But he didn’t miss the lacklustre scenes, the subs who didn’t hold his interest, didn’t awaken that fire in his gut. He didn’t know what the fuck was wrong with him to even begin to try and fix it, so he was staying away. Maybe Chris was right, maybe he just needed to get away from it all for a little while.
But given it was Chris’ birthday, Alexis was cutting his break shorter than he’d planned to.
~~~
Sometime after 9 PM, skin still damp from the shower, Lex stood in his closet. Bunny had mentioned the theme was ‘Come As You Are’.
Hating to overthink when it came to clothes, he settled on a pair of supple, buttery soft leather pants, black button down—with the top two buttons left undone—and a leather jacket to top it off. All facial piercings were switched out to gold and black boots finished off the look. His locs, short and buzzed around the back and sides needed the barest maintenance, a few choice retwists and he was good to go.
~~~
Upon arrival, he stopped in the front lobby, relinquishing his phone to his designated locker. He'd missed the weight of the outside world lifting away the moment his phone was out of sight; no glances at a lit screen; no distractions or interruptions from a late-night emergency call or text. He breathed out, rolled his shoulders, and nodded at Symon as he pushed through the dark double doors and the thick plush curtain beyond.
"X-man! How's it been, stranger?" The call came from one of the bartenders.
Alexis stopped at the bar to catch up with Toby and Clara, who let him know that Chris had arrived earlier and had mentioned not wanting to be disturbed.
So Lex wandered, catching up with the regulars, meeting some new faces, and turning down propositions aplenty.
As the night progressed he found himself over by the stage, still no sign of Chris or Bunny, so he lingered there, watching some truly beautiful and intricate ropework. The barely there presence of the thin fair-haired man went about his work with a meditative expression on his face, his mouth occasionally moving to speak to his sub, the voluptuous red-head who knelt with her hands bound behind her back, the black and red ropes forming the impression of a slightly curved chain of roses beneath her breasts and down the length of her abdomen.
Alexis stepped away to order a glass of water, the night was still early and while he had no plans to play, he still thought it best to pace himself. He didn’t feel like having to sleep it off in Chris’ office or his house and having to ride back for his car in the morning.
He found himself caught up in a conversation at the bar, even roping some of the newer folks into the conversation. By the time he returned to the stage, the thin man was seated on the leather bench. The woman was on her knees, sweat glistening on her skin beneath the two-toned lights as she rocked herself down on—what could be only be described as—a monster cock, the double dildo was as thick as it was long. She’d be feeling that for days after. Alexis winced in sympathy, but she took them like a champ, both her holes stuffed full.
The thought of what desperate sounds were coming from behind the ballgag muffling her soft, barely audible whines was severed right down the middle by an unfamiliar voice at his side. A deep masculine voice, slightly accented; all sinful decadence. He could feel the presence of the other, stood close enough to notice, but not close enough to count as intrusive. From his periphery, Alexis could make out the dark hair, the contrast of blue against gold skin. His gaze cut away from the stage just long enough to glance down at the offered tumbler of whiskey. He took it, “Cheers.”
"If whiskey is not your poison of choice, I wonder what is. Another vice, perhaps? Of leather or lace or rope."
His attention focused back on the stage, a low laugh tumbling out of him, “Oh, and then some.” He could feel the man’s gaze like a physical touch, but he didn’t return it. Didn’t engage. The man’s voice alone might’ve dragged smooth as silk over his skin, but he kept his attention pointedly on the stage. He wasn’t looking for anything at the moment.
“The whiskey’s fine.” He nodded his head in the direction of the woman, her cheeks now wet with tears, “The rope work is creative, I’m not nearly artistic enough to have even thought up something like that. The model isn’t hard on the eyes either.” He turned then, finally giving his attention to the man he’d no doubt have to turn down, and did a double-take, froze. “Holy sh– wow, damn!” His dark eyes drank in the temptation dressed in human skin before him, the bounce of the lights off that caramel skin, chiselled features, and those damn blue eyes. Even as his eyes dragged down to the display of bared chest, enough to tease, he found himself returning to that glacial gaze, the risk of getting lost in the arctic of them had him unable to look anywhere else, “You’re fucking gorgeous.”
A spark flickered in his chest. A familiar itch.
He took a measured swallow of whiskey then, if for nothing more than an excuse to briefly break eye contact. “You’re a new face.” Because I damn well would’ve remembered seeing you. “This your first time?”
Last edited:
OP
OP
MoldaviteGreen
The world’s upside down here…
- Joined
- Dec 7, 2018
Emil stood still, unmoving as the stranger accepted the tumbler of whiskey with a graceful reach. Yet, those dark eyes never reached him, no matter how he craved for them to meet his. The man's gaze remained fixated forward, upon the woman bound, gagged, and thrusting herself backwards upon something so monstrous and silicone. Emil wondered, for several moments, whether it was the rope-work, the red hair or the entire scene that held this gentleman's attention. Perhaps he simply is not interested. The Devil within Emil would not stand to be unconsidered.
"Just fine?" Emil lifted his own tumbler, the crystal glinting in the low light as the rim was smeared over the pulp of his lower lip. Wet, it shimmered as Emil studied the profile of the gentleman's face. It was one that had the slender of Emil's fingers curling into a loose fist within the pocket of his satin pants, so very tempted and keen to reach between them and map the shape of the man's sharp jaw and broad nose. So very beautiful and, yet, so very different from what usually draws me.
The corner of Emil's mouth lifted in a smirk behind the rim, sip yet to be taken. "What a shame. I had hoped to impress you with the top shelf." That, in itself, was amusing. For while it was true, it was equally odd. Emil had never been a man who'd sought to impress another; who simply was just himself.
Only then did liquor wash over tongue, warming the back of a throat in a deep swallow. Smooth, it was, as it pooled within Emil's belly where something else had already begun to flutter. A weird thing. An odd little feeling. Emil wasn't sure the last time he had felt something such as this, or if he had ever.
Emil, a proud creature, was unabashed in his appreciative stare. The longer the gentleman looked away and to the stage, the more time Emil was granted to peruse the side of his beautiful face. Sculpted in shades of ebony, dark cocoa, and obsidian, the man before him should have absorbed the two-toned light of the space that blanketed them both. Yet, he didn't. It seemed to reflect from him—from the high points of his cheekbones, the deep of his brow bone, the broad of his nose—in shades that were not just crimson and cobalt, but opalescent. The colours danced across his skin, bathing him, but also reflecting something that seemed utterly intrinsic.
It was then, as Emil was running the rim of his tumbler across the pulp of his lower lip with a slight cock of his head in appreciative curiosity, that the gentleman finally cared to grant him the attention he, only now realised, was aching for. Those eyes… They were molten and warm, two things that had Emil fighting the urge to edge closer. The gentleman's reaction was not at all what Emil had anticipated, but he supposed that was fitting. None of this was as usual, or regular, and that was precisely what Emil had been encouraged to chase.
A laugh nearly tumbled free of him as he watched that dark gaze sweep low over the bronze of his skin, bare within the deep V cut of his shirt, before rising to meet his own. The small smirk upon his lips reached his eyes, shimmering like diamonds and ice. "You say that as if you were not crafted by Venus, herself, signore." The man was so very honest, a trait that was rare.
A question posed, and perhaps it would have been easier to look away with his answer. Emil did not do so. He couldn't, and didn't wish to. The man before him was the only thing that captivated him now, worthy of his attention and then more. Instead, Emil held the man's gaze. "New to this Club, perhaps. To others, no. I have made a recent move to this city, but have long felt…disconnected from the demands of this lifestyle." The slow lower of arctic blue to the seam of thick lips. A linger of a look. A gentle rise of that same gaze to fall back into glittering, dark abyss. "Submission can be such a wondrous thing to evoke in another, but there comes a time when the chase for something more has one's usual seeming less."
The liquor within Emil's tumbler was long forgotten, posing only as something to stimulate the pad of his forefinger as it gently swept over the pattern within the crystal. It was held at chest height, swirled a little, and then dropped down by his thigh where the rim was clasped in his hand like a claw. Emil's glacial eyes glittered with something wicked as he said, "You understand, yes? That craving for something other?"
Rhetoric, that question was, but Emil let it hang between them in a comfortable silence. The gentleman had been slow to turn and grant Emil his attention, and the wickedness the Italian possessed had him turning some towards the stage. Let him yearn for it—my gaze—like he left me aching for his own. He let the scene before him hold his eyes, but he wasn't truly watching. Emil's attention remained within his peripheries, all too aware of the man at his side.
"The rope work," he said after another beat of silence, "is indeed creative, but I do not believe what you've said to be true. Artistry is in all, it merely requires inspiration." Turning his face to his shoulder, the muscles within his neck tensing with the hold of the angle, Emil's eyes fluttered first to the man's mouth and then up into those dark, tourmaline pools. When Emil spoke next, it was low and silken, an unspoken meaning held between his words. "Perhaps you are yet to find your muse."
"Just fine?" Emil lifted his own tumbler, the crystal glinting in the low light as the rim was smeared over the pulp of his lower lip. Wet, it shimmered as Emil studied the profile of the gentleman's face. It was one that had the slender of Emil's fingers curling into a loose fist within the pocket of his satin pants, so very tempted and keen to reach between them and map the shape of the man's sharp jaw and broad nose. So very beautiful and, yet, so very different from what usually draws me.
The corner of Emil's mouth lifted in a smirk behind the rim, sip yet to be taken. "What a shame. I had hoped to impress you with the top shelf." That, in itself, was amusing. For while it was true, it was equally odd. Emil had never been a man who'd sought to impress another; who simply was just himself.
Only then did liquor wash over tongue, warming the back of a throat in a deep swallow. Smooth, it was, as it pooled within Emil's belly where something else had already begun to flutter. A weird thing. An odd little feeling. Emil wasn't sure the last time he had felt something such as this, or if he had ever.
Emil, a proud creature, was unabashed in his appreciative stare. The longer the gentleman looked away and to the stage, the more time Emil was granted to peruse the side of his beautiful face. Sculpted in shades of ebony, dark cocoa, and obsidian, the man before him should have absorbed the two-toned light of the space that blanketed them both. Yet, he didn't. It seemed to reflect from him—from the high points of his cheekbones, the deep of his brow bone, the broad of his nose—in shades that were not just crimson and cobalt, but opalescent. The colours danced across his skin, bathing him, but also reflecting something that seemed utterly intrinsic.
It was then, as Emil was running the rim of his tumbler across the pulp of his lower lip with a slight cock of his head in appreciative curiosity, that the gentleman finally cared to grant him the attention he, only now realised, was aching for. Those eyes… They were molten and warm, two things that had Emil fighting the urge to edge closer. The gentleman's reaction was not at all what Emil had anticipated, but he supposed that was fitting. None of this was as usual, or regular, and that was precisely what Emil had been encouraged to chase.
A laugh nearly tumbled free of him as he watched that dark gaze sweep low over the bronze of his skin, bare within the deep V cut of his shirt, before rising to meet his own. The small smirk upon his lips reached his eyes, shimmering like diamonds and ice. "You say that as if you were not crafted by Venus, herself, signore." The man was so very honest, a trait that was rare.
A question posed, and perhaps it would have been easier to look away with his answer. Emil did not do so. He couldn't, and didn't wish to. The man before him was the only thing that captivated him now, worthy of his attention and then more. Instead, Emil held the man's gaze. "New to this Club, perhaps. To others, no. I have made a recent move to this city, but have long felt…disconnected from the demands of this lifestyle." The slow lower of arctic blue to the seam of thick lips. A linger of a look. A gentle rise of that same gaze to fall back into glittering, dark abyss. "Submission can be such a wondrous thing to evoke in another, but there comes a time when the chase for something more has one's usual seeming less."
The liquor within Emil's tumbler was long forgotten, posing only as something to stimulate the pad of his forefinger as it gently swept over the pattern within the crystal. It was held at chest height, swirled a little, and then dropped down by his thigh where the rim was clasped in his hand like a claw. Emil's glacial eyes glittered with something wicked as he said, "You understand, yes? That craving for something other?"
Rhetoric, that question was, but Emil let it hang between them in a comfortable silence. The gentleman had been slow to turn and grant Emil his attention, and the wickedness the Italian possessed had him turning some towards the stage. Let him yearn for it—my gaze—like he left me aching for his own. He let the scene before him hold his eyes, but he wasn't truly watching. Emil's attention remained within his peripheries, all too aware of the man at his side.
"The rope work," he said after another beat of silence, "is indeed creative, but I do not believe what you've said to be true. Artistry is in all, it merely requires inspiration." Turning his face to his shoulder, the muscles within his neck tensing with the hold of the angle, Emil's eyes fluttered first to the man's mouth and then up into those dark, tourmaline pools. When Emil spoke next, it was low and silken, an unspoken meaning held between his words. "Perhaps you are yet to find your muse."
ThenThereWereNone
Lurking One
- Joined
- Jun 22, 2019
"Just fine? What a shame. I had hoped to impress you with the top shelf.”
“Not my first choice of poison but yeah, you’re right, it’s good whiskey. Chris is a bit of a snob about what he stocks in the bar. So thank you.”
When he finally did turn to look at the man, he nearly bit his tongue at the sight of the work of art standing beside him. And he pretty much blurted out as much. The man’s answering laugh had no business settling with that same smooth, liquid heat of whiskey in his stomach. Ah, Italian. “Ok," he chuckled, "what we’re not gonna do is start competing with compliments, we’d be here all night.” He pushed the conversation along with a question.
“I’d say welcome to the city, but how many of those have you heard already.” He didn’t miss the way the man’s eyes lingered on his mouth. It took concentrated effort not to drag his teeth over his bottom lip or lick at them. He almost laughed at himself, because ‘what the fuck’.
"Submission can be such a wondrous thing to evoke in another, but there comes a time when the chase for something more has one's usual seeming less."
“I don’t know what it says that I’m in the same boat as you right now, but I can’t figure if it’s burnout or something else.”
The question, rhetorical as it was, prompted a nod. Dark eyes met the wicked glitter of pale gaze, and a slow smirk touched the corner of Alexis’ mouth. “Trouble is not knowing what that other is.”
He slow blinked with a slight, barely there jerk of his head, confusion drawing his eyebrows down as the man turned away from him. It was the first instance since the stranger appeared at his side that he didn’t feel the steady weight of that stare. It was… what kind of sense did it make that it left him feeling cold. What gives? You’ve been trying to get my attention since you stopped here, and now you’ve got it. So eyes on me. Alexis didn’t consider himself greedy or needy, but in that moment, he was feeling a little bit of both. Greedy for the man’s attention. Needy to have it on him and only him. But he forced himself to look to the stage, wondering what had suddenly drawn the other’s attention to it.
They lapsed into silence.
"The rope work—"
“Huh?” It took a few seconds after the man had continued to speak before Alexis caught up with what he’d been saying. “Oh, yeah, nah man. I’m not an artist. I lack the patience for that level of introspection." The man turned those pretty-pretty eyes on him then, and a strange twinge fluttered in his stomach. The spark he’d felt crackled and popped, doubling itself. "What I am is a creative problem-solver."
His fingers itched with the urge to grab hold of the man’s jaw, stop him from turning away again. Maybe the man was a Dom, maybe neither of them were here to relinquish control to another, but he damn sure had no problem dragging the man back to his place. The sexual attraction was undeniable. The tension practically combustible.
“You loo—“
“Sexy-Lexi!” His question was interrupted by a body colliding into his back, lean arms wrapping around his midsection in a brief but firm hug.
"Bunny," he greeted flatly as the man released him.
"I was worried you'd flaked out on us, but Toby mentioned you were already here."
"You're late."
Bunny had the nerve to look sheepish, "I got stuck on picking an outfit. I know I know, I set the theme and all, so you'd think…” He spun in place. “What’d you think?” The man had dressed in cropped pants, a bandoleer crisscrossing his chest, black vambraces, a black eye mask and atop his short, cropped hair black bunny ears poked up.
“What are you,” Alexis analysed him from head to toe, “supposed to be?”
“Well, I was going for apocalyptic bunny or something, but—" Bunny abandoned his thought as he finally realised that Alexis wasn't alone, “Oh my god!” He tipped his head, one of the bunny ears flopping forward with the motion, his sparkling gaze shameless in the slow, open way he checked out the other man. “You're new. Apologies for my shitty manners." He smiled, sharp and playful, before a sudden jolt of recognition hit him and he gripped onto Alexis' arm. "So, I'm so sorry to be even more of a twat, but I need to steal this guy for few, gotta check in on the man of the house, but please help yourself, we've got quite the buffet tonight. Any drinks are on the house, just say Bunny’s got you." With a parting smile and a wink, he tugged Alexis away with an urgency the bigger man didn't understand.
But he went with an apologetic glance back at Emil. "Don't go running off on me, Blue Eyes. I wanna see you when I get back."
And the moment they were out of earshot, "What the fuck, Bunny? And what's up with Chris?"
“What'd you mean?" Tone distracted, he navigated through a few of the party goers who tried to pull him aside for a chat, "Forget Chris, that's where we’re going now, but do you know who that is!?"
"Know who, Bunny what the fuck are you talking about? I'm lost, slow down." They'd reached a frosted double glass door that muted out the sounds of the main floor as it swung shut behind them. Alexis pulled Bunny to a stop. "Talk."
The man sighed, tapped his mask and finally grappled his excitement into coherence, "Baby Blue’s out there." A pause as if Alexis was supposed to pick up anything from that not at all helpful statement.
He nodded, his hands silently urging the other man to get to the point.
"I told you about him!"
Still nothing. "You tell me about a lot of ‘Hims’." Spoken slowly, frustration bleeding through his tone.
"Well, it's been a while, I don't remember the exact date and all, but one of those times, I think it was some convention or the other, Chris was with me, but he didn't feel like going out that night."
A dark look from Alexis had Bunny rushing ahead to the point.
"Anyway! I just happened to luck out at one of the local dungeons. He was on stage, which apparently was a rare event, and ohhhhh boy!” The man fanned himself, “His stage presence is hot with a capital H. Downright hypnotic.” The slighter man shuddered, “The things I’d let that man do to me. Good God. But yeah, back to the point, he’s the one I told you about with the scary eyes and stupid hot body that had me crushing for weeks after. Unfortunately, at the time, he already had a sub, and the man is boringly monogamous. But now he’s here! And he looked like he was alone, didn’t he?”
Alexis shrugged. Mentally, he was turning over what Bunny had said, feeling equal parts disappointed and possessive. He’d had a feeling Blue Eyes was a Dominant. The man had a certain air about him, and he had pretty much spelt it out. But Alexis also refused to assume based on first-time vibes. Switches existed. And unless he outright asked, context clues only got one so far.
“Good luck with that.” He turned away, heading on to Chris’ office.
Bunny watched him go, head tilted in consideration as he watched his friend walk away. An idea brewing behind that mask.
Alexis knocked twice on the office door, before he opened it into a darkened room, the only source of light trickling through the dark textured glass behind the empty office chair. He flicked on the light.
A low hiss came from the direction of the couch, “Please turn that off.” Chris’ voice came out a pained muttered, an arm slung over his eyes.
“My bad.” Alexis slid the switch down to dim the lights.
“Headache or migraine?” Bunny ducked into the room, going to his partner’s side.
“Headache. I thought I could sleep it off real quick,” Chris was saying as Alexis shut the door and crossed over to the plush one-seater opposite the couch and sank into it. “Now, I’m just waiting for the painkillers to kick in.”
“You should’ve started with the painkillers, not the other way around,” Alexis said. A slow smile formed as his best friend lifted his arm just long enough to flip him off. “And Happy birthday, old man. Imagine getting a headache on your big day. I could've stayed home.”
“Euhh, don’t remind me.” Chris groaned.
Bunny crossed the room to grab a cold bottle of sparkling water. “But then you wouldn’t have met Baby Blues.”
Chris’ arm lifted, “Who’s that?”
Crouching down beside the couch again, Bunny handed him the glass bottle as he caught Chris up on who he’d caught Alexis flirting with.
“We weren’t flirting.”
Bunny snorted, “Bullshit.” He turned back to Chris, “If I hadn’t butted in when I did, they’d have been tearing each other’s clothes off right there.”
Alexis rolled his eyes, taking a sip from the tumbler of whiskey he still held onto. “I didn’t bring your gift here, figured I’d give it to you aft—”
“You should do it!” Bunny, interrupting as usual, popped to his feet, all excitement and wild energy like the inspiration behind his nickname.
Eyes narrowed, Alexis formed his question slowly. Cautious. “Do what?”
“Well, you’ve tried Chris’ way, right? And it doesn’t look like it’s working,” he rolled his eyes at the middle finger the man in question flipped in his direction, “So now it’s my turn!”
“Bunny,” Alexis sighed, “I’ve already told you, I’m not subbing for you. It’s not my thi—”
“I know, I know! Not me, Sheesh!” Pacing back and forth, his hands did as much talking as he did. “But you should see if Pretty Boy out there is more open than you are.”
“. . . Didn’t you just tell me the man was a fucking Dom?”
Bunny shrugged, “As far as I was told, I didn’t get a chance to ask him myself, so who knows, right? And some people are open to trying new things. And no, that wasn’t a dig, that was a dare.”
Alexis shook his head, “I want a little of whatever you’re on tonight.”
Chris muttered, “Same.”
“I’m serious, Lex! I can still smell the stench of sexual tension that was there between you two. The guy only needs the green light to jump your bones. And don’t pretend it’s any different for you. I don’t doubt the sex’ll be hot, but maybe it could be more than that.” A waggle of his eyebrows. “Now imagine if he says yes, imagine if you find that fire again. Mayyyyy-be this is what you need. An ‘eh, fuck it’ moment. And if he tells you to fuck off, you can just laugh it off as a joke, and I’d bet my ass he’d still be down to fuck.”
With no immediate response, Alexis glanced to Chris, who just gave a barely there shrug of ‘I got nothing to add’.
“The worst he could say is no,” Bunny went on. “And we all know you’re not afraid of rejection.”
Alexis shook his head. “No. I’m not going to do… that.”
“I dare you.”
“No.”
Bunny stopped in front of him. “I double dog dare you. And to sweeten the pot for ya: if you ask, I promise never again to ask that you be my submissive for a day.”
Silence.
Quiet, thoughtful silence.
“And all my drinks are on the house for the next month.”
“Deal!” Bunny grinned widely, holding out his pinky finger.
Alexis locked his pinky with Bunny’s, while Chris protested in the background, headache temporarily forgotten as he sat partially upright, “Hey! I didn’t agree to that.”
Rolling his eyes, Bunny returned to the protesting man’s side. “You just focus on that achy head of yours, babes.”
Alexis downed the last of the whiskey and pushed up out of his seat. He left the two men bickering amongst themselves and headed back out to the main floor, stopping at the bar to drop off his empty glass.
“Top up?” A bartender asked.
Alexis' gaze returned to the stage, to the spot where he’d left Blue Eyes. "Nah," searching to see if the man had run off on him, "I'm good."
“Not my first choice of poison but yeah, you’re right, it’s good whiskey. Chris is a bit of a snob about what he stocks in the bar. So thank you.”
When he finally did turn to look at the man, he nearly bit his tongue at the sight of the work of art standing beside him. And he pretty much blurted out as much. The man’s answering laugh had no business settling with that same smooth, liquid heat of whiskey in his stomach. Ah, Italian. “Ok," he chuckled, "what we’re not gonna do is start competing with compliments, we’d be here all night.” He pushed the conversation along with a question.
“I’d say welcome to the city, but how many of those have you heard already.” He didn’t miss the way the man’s eyes lingered on his mouth. It took concentrated effort not to drag his teeth over his bottom lip or lick at them. He almost laughed at himself, because ‘what the fuck’.
"Submission can be such a wondrous thing to evoke in another, but there comes a time when the chase for something more has one's usual seeming less."
“I don’t know what it says that I’m in the same boat as you right now, but I can’t figure if it’s burnout or something else.”
The question, rhetorical as it was, prompted a nod. Dark eyes met the wicked glitter of pale gaze, and a slow smirk touched the corner of Alexis’ mouth. “Trouble is not knowing what that other is.”
He slow blinked with a slight, barely there jerk of his head, confusion drawing his eyebrows down as the man turned away from him. It was the first instance since the stranger appeared at his side that he didn’t feel the steady weight of that stare. It was… what kind of sense did it make that it left him feeling cold. What gives? You’ve been trying to get my attention since you stopped here, and now you’ve got it. So eyes on me. Alexis didn’t consider himself greedy or needy, but in that moment, he was feeling a little bit of both. Greedy for the man’s attention. Needy to have it on him and only him. But he forced himself to look to the stage, wondering what had suddenly drawn the other’s attention to it.
They lapsed into silence.
"The rope work—"
“Huh?” It took a few seconds after the man had continued to speak before Alexis caught up with what he’d been saying. “Oh, yeah, nah man. I’m not an artist. I lack the patience for that level of introspection." The man turned those pretty-pretty eyes on him then, and a strange twinge fluttered in his stomach. The spark he’d felt crackled and popped, doubling itself. "What I am is a creative problem-solver."
His fingers itched with the urge to grab hold of the man’s jaw, stop him from turning away again. Maybe the man was a Dom, maybe neither of them were here to relinquish control to another, but he damn sure had no problem dragging the man back to his place. The sexual attraction was undeniable. The tension practically combustible.
“You loo—“
“Sexy-Lexi!” His question was interrupted by a body colliding into his back, lean arms wrapping around his midsection in a brief but firm hug.
"Bunny," he greeted flatly as the man released him.
"I was worried you'd flaked out on us, but Toby mentioned you were already here."
"You're late."
Bunny had the nerve to look sheepish, "I got stuck on picking an outfit. I know I know, I set the theme and all, so you'd think…” He spun in place. “What’d you think?” The man had dressed in cropped pants, a bandoleer crisscrossing his chest, black vambraces, a black eye mask and atop his short, cropped hair black bunny ears poked up.
“What are you,” Alexis analysed him from head to toe, “supposed to be?”
“Well, I was going for apocalyptic bunny or something, but—" Bunny abandoned his thought as he finally realised that Alexis wasn't alone, “Oh my god!” He tipped his head, one of the bunny ears flopping forward with the motion, his sparkling gaze shameless in the slow, open way he checked out the other man. “You're new. Apologies for my shitty manners." He smiled, sharp and playful, before a sudden jolt of recognition hit him and he gripped onto Alexis' arm. "So, I'm so sorry to be even more of a twat, but I need to steal this guy for few, gotta check in on the man of the house, but please help yourself, we've got quite the buffet tonight. Any drinks are on the house, just say Bunny’s got you." With a parting smile and a wink, he tugged Alexis away with an urgency the bigger man didn't understand.
But he went with an apologetic glance back at Emil. "Don't go running off on me, Blue Eyes. I wanna see you when I get back."
And the moment they were out of earshot, "What the fuck, Bunny? And what's up with Chris?"
“What'd you mean?" Tone distracted, he navigated through a few of the party goers who tried to pull him aside for a chat, "Forget Chris, that's where we’re going now, but do you know who that is!?"
"Know who, Bunny what the fuck are you talking about? I'm lost, slow down." They'd reached a frosted double glass door that muted out the sounds of the main floor as it swung shut behind them. Alexis pulled Bunny to a stop. "Talk."
The man sighed, tapped his mask and finally grappled his excitement into coherence, "Baby Blue’s out there." A pause as if Alexis was supposed to pick up anything from that not at all helpful statement.
He nodded, his hands silently urging the other man to get to the point.
"I told you about him!"
Still nothing. "You tell me about a lot of ‘Hims’." Spoken slowly, frustration bleeding through his tone.
"Well, it's been a while, I don't remember the exact date and all, but one of those times, I think it was some convention or the other, Chris was with me, but he didn't feel like going out that night."
A dark look from Alexis had Bunny rushing ahead to the point.
"Anyway! I just happened to luck out at one of the local dungeons. He was on stage, which apparently was a rare event, and ohhhhh boy!” The man fanned himself, “His stage presence is hot with a capital H. Downright hypnotic.” The slighter man shuddered, “The things I’d let that man do to me. Good God. But yeah, back to the point, he’s the one I told you about with the scary eyes and stupid hot body that had me crushing for weeks after. Unfortunately, at the time, he already had a sub, and the man is boringly monogamous. But now he’s here! And he looked like he was alone, didn’t he?”
Alexis shrugged. Mentally, he was turning over what Bunny had said, feeling equal parts disappointed and possessive. He’d had a feeling Blue Eyes was a Dominant. The man had a certain air about him, and he had pretty much spelt it out. But Alexis also refused to assume based on first-time vibes. Switches existed. And unless he outright asked, context clues only got one so far.
“Good luck with that.” He turned away, heading on to Chris’ office.
Bunny watched him go, head tilted in consideration as he watched his friend walk away. An idea brewing behind that mask.
Alexis knocked twice on the office door, before he opened it into a darkened room, the only source of light trickling through the dark textured glass behind the empty office chair. He flicked on the light.
A low hiss came from the direction of the couch, “Please turn that off.” Chris’ voice came out a pained muttered, an arm slung over his eyes.
“My bad.” Alexis slid the switch down to dim the lights.
“Headache or migraine?” Bunny ducked into the room, going to his partner’s side.
“Headache. I thought I could sleep it off real quick,” Chris was saying as Alexis shut the door and crossed over to the plush one-seater opposite the couch and sank into it. “Now, I’m just waiting for the painkillers to kick in.”
“You should’ve started with the painkillers, not the other way around,” Alexis said. A slow smile formed as his best friend lifted his arm just long enough to flip him off. “And Happy birthday, old man. Imagine getting a headache on your big day. I could've stayed home.”
“Euhh, don’t remind me.” Chris groaned.
Bunny crossed the room to grab a cold bottle of sparkling water. “But then you wouldn’t have met Baby Blues.”
Chris’ arm lifted, “Who’s that?”
Crouching down beside the couch again, Bunny handed him the glass bottle as he caught Chris up on who he’d caught Alexis flirting with.
“We weren’t flirting.”
Bunny snorted, “Bullshit.” He turned back to Chris, “If I hadn’t butted in when I did, they’d have been tearing each other’s clothes off right there.”
Alexis rolled his eyes, taking a sip from the tumbler of whiskey he still held onto. “I didn’t bring your gift here, figured I’d give it to you aft—”
“You should do it!” Bunny, interrupting as usual, popped to his feet, all excitement and wild energy like the inspiration behind his nickname.
Eyes narrowed, Alexis formed his question slowly. Cautious. “Do what?”
“Well, you’ve tried Chris’ way, right? And it doesn’t look like it’s working,” he rolled his eyes at the middle finger the man in question flipped in his direction, “So now it’s my turn!”
“Bunny,” Alexis sighed, “I’ve already told you, I’m not subbing for you. It’s not my thi—”
“I know, I know! Not me, Sheesh!” Pacing back and forth, his hands did as much talking as he did. “But you should see if Pretty Boy out there is more open than you are.”
“. . . Didn’t you just tell me the man was a fucking Dom?”
Bunny shrugged, “As far as I was told, I didn’t get a chance to ask him myself, so who knows, right? And some people are open to trying new things. And no, that wasn’t a dig, that was a dare.”
Alexis shook his head, “I want a little of whatever you’re on tonight.”
Chris muttered, “Same.”
“I’m serious, Lex! I can still smell the stench of sexual tension that was there between you two. The guy only needs the green light to jump your bones. And don’t pretend it’s any different for you. I don’t doubt the sex’ll be hot, but maybe it could be more than that.” A waggle of his eyebrows. “Now imagine if he says yes, imagine if you find that fire again. Mayyyyy-be this is what you need. An ‘eh, fuck it’ moment. And if he tells you to fuck off, you can just laugh it off as a joke, and I’d bet my ass he’d still be down to fuck.”
With no immediate response, Alexis glanced to Chris, who just gave a barely there shrug of ‘I got nothing to add’.
“The worst he could say is no,” Bunny went on. “And we all know you’re not afraid of rejection.”
Alexis shook his head. “No. I’m not going to do… that.”
“I dare you.”
“No.”
Bunny stopped in front of him. “I double dog dare you. And to sweeten the pot for ya: if you ask, I promise never again to ask that you be my submissive for a day.”
Silence.
Quiet, thoughtful silence.
“And all my drinks are on the house for the next month.”
“Deal!” Bunny grinned widely, holding out his pinky finger.
Alexis locked his pinky with Bunny’s, while Chris protested in the background, headache temporarily forgotten as he sat partially upright, “Hey! I didn’t agree to that.”
Rolling his eyes, Bunny returned to the protesting man’s side. “You just focus on that achy head of yours, babes.”
Alexis downed the last of the whiskey and pushed up out of his seat. He left the two men bickering amongst themselves and headed back out to the main floor, stopping at the bar to drop off his empty glass.
“Top up?” A bartender asked.
Alexis' gaze returned to the stage, to the spot where he’d left Blue Eyes. "Nah," searching to see if the man had run off on him, "I'm good."
OP
OP
MoldaviteGreen
The world’s upside down here…
- Joined
- Dec 7, 2018
Little, quick glimpses of the man before him were granted and Emil, the glutton that he was, drank each down deeply. The first name of someone who held enough power to dictate liquor and brand stocked within the Club's Playroom bar; familiar. Whiskey not being this man's first poison of choice but still able to appreciate the smooth of it; intriguing. A confession that one was in the same position as Emil described, swept away to a place in-between; vague.
Emil often cared very little to learn information of those that would hold no consequence to him. He saw it as wasted mental energy to invest in someone there for a handful of hours and then gone. Emil, however, felt differently about the stranger standing before him. This man made him curious, and that was dangerous and intriguing, all in itself.
Like a dragon greedy to add to its hoard, Emil clung to every word that formed upon the thick of the gentleman's lips. Quiet, he remained; Emily offering only a soft hum of acknowledgement or agreement as the man spoke on. He was not necessarily a man of few words, just as able to become carried away on a tangent as anyone else, but he preferred his silence in favour for this man's voice.
The song of it as it curled about his words, came deep within the thick column of his throat, and spilled over plush lips. Emil's stranger could have been reciting a passage from Darwin's "On the Origin of Species" and he'd still have eagerly listened—if only to watch the shape of the words form upon that mouth; if only to listen to the timbre of that voice; if only to give himself to the man's enchanting spell, entirely.
"Burnout, perhaps," Emil's glacial eyes slowly tracked over the gentleman's face to the pearlescent high points of his features. "Though the condition of man is the pursuit of novelty."
He'd looked away then, towards the stage and the display that did not truly hold his attention. While Emil would deny it, it had taken far more effort to drag his gaze from where it had so hotly lingered upon his stranger's face. Mine? Emil sank his molars into the inside of his cheek but did not bite firmly. Since when did I start to consider this stranger as 'mine'? An odd little thought, but one that he could not help.
It was then that Emil had permitted the return of his eyes to his stranger's face, where the dark of the gentleman's gaze was smouldering. Emil was amused at the man's words. Oh, how you could be, signore, Emil purred within his own mind. When bound and strung from a beam, you're granted nothing else besides time and sensation, allowing for introspection a'plenty. That vision struck Emil hard, and he found his breath hitching slightly. He took a swig of his whiskey. How pretty he would be strung up just for me.
His stranger professed that he wasn't an artist, and Emil tsked. "Oh, but you are," he countered. "An artist in your own way, perhaps, but still an artist nonetheless. Your mediums are simply…different than the traditional." His foot shifted over the carpet of the floor as Emil turned himself closer. The broad of his shoulders tensed as he leant forward, glacial eyes still cast up into onyx. Low in a bedroom whisper, Emil purred; "And, yet, I am left to imagine your tools of favour."
"You look—"
A voice, jarring, tore between them and it was then that the world about Emil came rushing back in a cacophony of laughter, tinkling drink glasses, the wet slop of fluid and slick skin. Too loud. Too bright. Too much. Emil hadn't realised until this leather-clad man had cut between them just how much his attention had narrowed in towards his stranger. The world hadn't faded, it had ceased to exist. There had been nothing beyond this man, and Emil didn't care for the rude reminder that reality continued to exist.
Emil didn't watch the exchange. Not truly, at least. The pale of his eyes remained upon his stranger, watching the tension in his brow and the set of his teeth. He watched how the gentleman shifted about this other man, how they interacted; fond and familiar yet a little frustrated. Emil's eyes sharpened some as he looked to those dark eyes, focused upon another's face. I look what? Look at me. Tell me. Finish what you were about to say.
A sudden exclamation, followed by the very obvious statement that Emil was new to the dark recesses of the Club, and the cold of his eyes flickered from the profile of his stranger's face. He glanced to the intruder—for that's what he was, within the space both he and this gentleman had held for one another for their conversation—and said nothing as his eyes immediately returned to those dark pools. Rude, indeed, for the lack of introduction and sudden interruption. Emil did not care to correct the leather-bound man for it.
The only thing that Emil felt worthy of absorbing were the names. His stranger had mentioned a Chris that held enough power to influence the bar's liquor stocks. This new face had exclaimed, what Emil could only assume, was his stranger's moniker; Sexy Lexi, before offering another name or title; Bunny. All pieces of information that were simply clues, taken by Emil and hoarded as his stranger turned to warn him against disappearing.
"Find me, then," was all Emil said as he watched the ebony beauty be pulled from this corner of darkness, melding into the crowd.
There, Emil lingered, staring at the blur of bodies and unfocused faces before him as if his stranger might manifest before him in the very next moment. He didn't not consider what it was between the gentleman and his leather-clad familiar. In truth, Emil cared little for it.
The time that it took for Emil to find the power to pull himself from where he stood was admittedly greater than it should have been. One shared look, one simple conversation, and Emil already felt his skin alight with the electricity of curiosity and keenness. He split through the crowd, turning to slide between the bodies of those mingling at the bar, and leant a little over the dark wood top of it to be heard as he said; "Not Bunny, but the other that runs with Chris. A bottle of his favourite, please."
Emil caught the look cast his way, and recognised it as several things—surprise, curiosity, and amusement. He paid it no mind, and mentioned nothing of the leather-clad man's promise; instead tapping his black card and purchasing the bottle passed his way. He gave no care for how much it was worth, only that his stranger liked it.
Before the stage, the booths were occupied by couples and various small groups watching in appreciation, or observing during quietly hushed conversation. Hands roamed over bare skin. Liquor flowed and shimmered within glasses and tumblers of crystal. Mouths found the expanses of skin across the sides of throats or the sweep of collarbones.
Yet, it was the booths to the side of the room that were shrouded in darkness that drew Emil forward. He cut before the stage, a blur before the act, and settled himself within one such booth. These booths, he had learned from watching those within as he'd lingered by the door at his arrival, were utilised for the discussion of terms and the signing of contracts—no matter how temporary; written or verbal. To sit within such a space with another was an outwardly accepted sign that the two would become involved in a scene with one another. Emil, sitting alone, felt the stammer and the kick of his heart as it began to speed; the significance of such action almost daunting.
This is crazy. This is foolish. To consider this at all is not like me. Emil did not crack the bottle nor pour the liquor into the single fresh tumbler, but tipped his head back and drained his own existing glass of whiskey. It burned the back of his throat and left something woody and rich across his tongue. He'll think that I'm a fool. He'll laugh at the thought of it, I'm sure. But this is…something different. And that was what his dear friend had warned him that he needed. If Emil was going to allow another to breach his body, to take him, and to steal the power to wield over him, then he wanted none other than that man. That gorgeous fucking man… Emil ran his hand down over his face and set his elbows upon the table, lacing his fingers and bringing his clasped hands over his mouth. He was hard already, just thinking of the smoke in those obsidian eyes. Fuck, why did the gods give him such eyes?
Sitting as he was, Emil's back as to the stage. The scene behind him carried on, another submissive having joined the bound redhead, her own torso laced with ribbons of blue and gold-threaded white. Tilted at a degree, their balance held by a strung rope laced over a railing, the thick silicone that had plunged deep within the redhead's pussy was taken deep by the blonde. The two of them rode in tandem— gagged, bound, blindfolded—but each downward thrust had their hips grinding together. Emil wasn't watching, because he didn't care.
Yet, the way that he sat was not because he did not appreciate the scene but, simply, because it in itself was a power move. Should his stranger find him, decide to join him within the booth, he'd be forced to look to Emil whom would be haloed by those two moaning, trembling subs upon the stage. And where will his eyes roam, I wonder. Emil was wickedly amused already, yet he still remained alone.
A hand touched the broad slope of his shoulder and Emil tensed. It was too light, too unsure, too gentle. The hot breath against his ear had the muscle as Emil's jaw jumping. "Are you waiting for someone, Sir?"
A flicker of a cold gaze to their corners and all Emil afforded the young man was a; "Not you."
The lithe man peeled away, wandered somewhere else Emil didn't care to note. Instead, Emil was left to the passage of time and, still, he waited. No matter how many booths filled and then emptied about him. No matter how many glances he received. Emil remained sitting, leant back against the velvet with an arm draped along the back of the couch and a leg crossed upon a knee.
The world shifted, carrying on around Emil. People flowed, some taking pause by him only to be met with a sharp glare that told them to walk on. The scene continued, the lights shifting. The only constant there was was Emil, himself. A stone amidst the ebb and flow of the tide.
He waited for only one individual, and would not leave until he'd been told 'no'.
Emil often cared very little to learn information of those that would hold no consequence to him. He saw it as wasted mental energy to invest in someone there for a handful of hours and then gone. Emil, however, felt differently about the stranger standing before him. This man made him curious, and that was dangerous and intriguing, all in itself.
Like a dragon greedy to add to its hoard, Emil clung to every word that formed upon the thick of the gentleman's lips. Quiet, he remained; Emily offering only a soft hum of acknowledgement or agreement as the man spoke on. He was not necessarily a man of few words, just as able to become carried away on a tangent as anyone else, but he preferred his silence in favour for this man's voice.
The song of it as it curled about his words, came deep within the thick column of his throat, and spilled over plush lips. Emil's stranger could have been reciting a passage from Darwin's "On the Origin of Species" and he'd still have eagerly listened—if only to watch the shape of the words form upon that mouth; if only to listen to the timbre of that voice; if only to give himself to the man's enchanting spell, entirely.
"Burnout, perhaps," Emil's glacial eyes slowly tracked over the gentleman's face to the pearlescent high points of his features. "Though the condition of man is the pursuit of novelty."
He'd looked away then, towards the stage and the display that did not truly hold his attention. While Emil would deny it, it had taken far more effort to drag his gaze from where it had so hotly lingered upon his stranger's face. Mine? Emil sank his molars into the inside of his cheek but did not bite firmly. Since when did I start to consider this stranger as 'mine'? An odd little thought, but one that he could not help.
It was then that Emil had permitted the return of his eyes to his stranger's face, where the dark of the gentleman's gaze was smouldering. Emil was amused at the man's words. Oh, how you could be, signore, Emil purred within his own mind. When bound and strung from a beam, you're granted nothing else besides time and sensation, allowing for introspection a'plenty. That vision struck Emil hard, and he found his breath hitching slightly. He took a swig of his whiskey. How pretty he would be strung up just for me.
His stranger professed that he wasn't an artist, and Emil tsked. "Oh, but you are," he countered. "An artist in your own way, perhaps, but still an artist nonetheless. Your mediums are simply…different than the traditional." His foot shifted over the carpet of the floor as Emil turned himself closer. The broad of his shoulders tensed as he leant forward, glacial eyes still cast up into onyx. Low in a bedroom whisper, Emil purred; "And, yet, I am left to imagine your tools of favour."
"You look—"
A voice, jarring, tore between them and it was then that the world about Emil came rushing back in a cacophony of laughter, tinkling drink glasses, the wet slop of fluid and slick skin. Too loud. Too bright. Too much. Emil hadn't realised until this leather-clad man had cut between them just how much his attention had narrowed in towards his stranger. The world hadn't faded, it had ceased to exist. There had been nothing beyond this man, and Emil didn't care for the rude reminder that reality continued to exist.
Emil didn't watch the exchange. Not truly, at least. The pale of his eyes remained upon his stranger, watching the tension in his brow and the set of his teeth. He watched how the gentleman shifted about this other man, how they interacted; fond and familiar yet a little frustrated. Emil's eyes sharpened some as he looked to those dark eyes, focused upon another's face. I look what? Look at me. Tell me. Finish what you were about to say.
A sudden exclamation, followed by the very obvious statement that Emil was new to the dark recesses of the Club, and the cold of his eyes flickered from the profile of his stranger's face. He glanced to the intruder—for that's what he was, within the space both he and this gentleman had held for one another for their conversation—and said nothing as his eyes immediately returned to those dark pools. Rude, indeed, for the lack of introduction and sudden interruption. Emil did not care to correct the leather-bound man for it.
The only thing that Emil felt worthy of absorbing were the names. His stranger had mentioned a Chris that held enough power to influence the bar's liquor stocks. This new face had exclaimed, what Emil could only assume, was his stranger's moniker; Sexy Lexi, before offering another name or title; Bunny. All pieces of information that were simply clues, taken by Emil and hoarded as his stranger turned to warn him against disappearing.
"Find me, then," was all Emil said as he watched the ebony beauty be pulled from this corner of darkness, melding into the crowd.
There, Emil lingered, staring at the blur of bodies and unfocused faces before him as if his stranger might manifest before him in the very next moment. He didn't not consider what it was between the gentleman and his leather-clad familiar. In truth, Emil cared little for it.
The time that it took for Emil to find the power to pull himself from where he stood was admittedly greater than it should have been. One shared look, one simple conversation, and Emil already felt his skin alight with the electricity of curiosity and keenness. He split through the crowd, turning to slide between the bodies of those mingling at the bar, and leant a little over the dark wood top of it to be heard as he said; "Not Bunny, but the other that runs with Chris. A bottle of his favourite, please."
Emil caught the look cast his way, and recognised it as several things—surprise, curiosity, and amusement. He paid it no mind, and mentioned nothing of the leather-clad man's promise; instead tapping his black card and purchasing the bottle passed his way. He gave no care for how much it was worth, only that his stranger liked it.
Before the stage, the booths were occupied by couples and various small groups watching in appreciation, or observing during quietly hushed conversation. Hands roamed over bare skin. Liquor flowed and shimmered within glasses and tumblers of crystal. Mouths found the expanses of skin across the sides of throats or the sweep of collarbones.
Yet, it was the booths to the side of the room that were shrouded in darkness that drew Emil forward. He cut before the stage, a blur before the act, and settled himself within one such booth. These booths, he had learned from watching those within as he'd lingered by the door at his arrival, were utilised for the discussion of terms and the signing of contracts—no matter how temporary; written or verbal. To sit within such a space with another was an outwardly accepted sign that the two would become involved in a scene with one another. Emil, sitting alone, felt the stammer and the kick of his heart as it began to speed; the significance of such action almost daunting.
This is crazy. This is foolish. To consider this at all is not like me. Emil did not crack the bottle nor pour the liquor into the single fresh tumbler, but tipped his head back and drained his own existing glass of whiskey. It burned the back of his throat and left something woody and rich across his tongue. He'll think that I'm a fool. He'll laugh at the thought of it, I'm sure. But this is…something different. And that was what his dear friend had warned him that he needed. If Emil was going to allow another to breach his body, to take him, and to steal the power to wield over him, then he wanted none other than that man. That gorgeous fucking man… Emil ran his hand down over his face and set his elbows upon the table, lacing his fingers and bringing his clasped hands over his mouth. He was hard already, just thinking of the smoke in those obsidian eyes. Fuck, why did the gods give him such eyes?
Sitting as he was, Emil's back as to the stage. The scene behind him carried on, another submissive having joined the bound redhead, her own torso laced with ribbons of blue and gold-threaded white. Tilted at a degree, their balance held by a strung rope laced over a railing, the thick silicone that had plunged deep within the redhead's pussy was taken deep by the blonde. The two of them rode in tandem— gagged, bound, blindfolded—but each downward thrust had their hips grinding together. Emil wasn't watching, because he didn't care.
Yet, the way that he sat was not because he did not appreciate the scene but, simply, because it in itself was a power move. Should his stranger find him, decide to join him within the booth, he'd be forced to look to Emil whom would be haloed by those two moaning, trembling subs upon the stage. And where will his eyes roam, I wonder. Emil was wickedly amused already, yet he still remained alone.
A hand touched the broad slope of his shoulder and Emil tensed. It was too light, too unsure, too gentle. The hot breath against his ear had the muscle as Emil's jaw jumping. "Are you waiting for someone, Sir?"
A flicker of a cold gaze to their corners and all Emil afforded the young man was a; "Not you."
The lithe man peeled away, wandered somewhere else Emil didn't care to note. Instead, Emil was left to the passage of time and, still, he waited. No matter how many booths filled and then emptied about him. No matter how many glances he received. Emil remained sitting, leant back against the velvet with an arm draped along the back of the couch and a leg crossed upon a knee.
The world shifted, carrying on around Emil. People flowed, some taking pause by him only to be met with a sharp glare that told them to walk on. The scene continued, the lights shifting. The only constant there was was Emil, himself. A stone amidst the ebb and flow of the tide.
He waited for only one individual, and would not leave until he'd been told 'no'.
Last edited:
ThenThereWereNone
Lurking One
- Joined
- Jun 22, 2019
The spot before the stage was vacant. Disappointment settled jagged and weighted like stone in his stomach. So, he left. So much for ‘find me, then.’ The thought was bitter, but most of all, it stung. He leaned against the bar with a sigh, his elbow propped against the dark countertop. Still, his eyes roamed, hoping with a foolish hope that maybe.. just may— A sickly swoop of fluttering excitement and hope replaced the stone. Even in the shadows, he could recognise the other man. Like calling to like. Cautious hope.
Caution kept Alexis stationary because his stranger may have decided he didn't feel like waiting, or he wasn't as interested as he'd first appeared and had found someone else.
You're hella invested for all that I'm not playing tonight talk, aren’t you? His fingers drummed a rhythm of uncertainty against the bartop. Who was the man waiting for? Him? Someone else?
"He's a patient one. How long you planning to make him wait?"
He glanced to the side to see Clara, black towel tossed over one shoulder, and her palms pressed against the bartop as she watched him watch his stranger. He scoffed, "You don't know who he's waiting for." he said, catching the very pointed raised eyebrow and glance over his shoulder.
She grinned, her voice a teasing sing-song, "Oh, I know who he's waiting for."
"I'll give it a minute." He turned back to the darkened booths and the man who’d somehow sparked an interest in him he hadn’t felt in too damn long. If ever.
A minute turned to five.
Just in case.
Five minutes to ten.
Clara slid a crystal tumbler of water with a lemon wedge in front of him.
Ten minutes turned to fifteen.
He nursed his water, watching as a few interested parties approached the man. And even with the distance between them, Alexis could feel the ice-cold dismissal the man turned on those brave few who dared to approach him. The hope grew, the excitement let loose a thousand fluttering wings in his stomach.
Twenty-five minutes.
Alexis’ heartbeat kicked up and he was having a hard time keeping his leg from bouncing; his fingers from tapping.
Thirty minutes.
He pushed away from the bar. It was time to put them both out of their misery. Navigating past a few bodies, he passed in front of the stage and his attention didn't so much as dart in its direction. A nagging unease that the moment he looked away from the other, the man would up and disappear kept him focused on one person. And one person only. With every step closer, calm descended, settling around his shoulders like a well-insulated coat.
“I was scared you’d run off on me,” he admitted as he slowed just within arm's reach of the other man. He slipped his hand into the pocket of his jacket to keep from pressing the flat of his palm against the back of the other’s neck, give it an affirming squeeze, and feel the other’s pulse against his fingertips. He slid into the booth, pausing as his eyes caught onto the glitter of the squat glass bottle beneath the softly pulsing lights. A dark brow rose, and his gaze lifted, settling on his stranger for a weighted moment. Haloed by the spotlight of debauchery on stage behind him, the man was temptation personified. The things Alexis wanted to do to him. With him. For him.
He relaxed fully into the booth, “Ole’ Forester, huh? You’re in for a treat.”
Caution kept Alexis stationary because his stranger may have decided he didn't feel like waiting, or he wasn't as interested as he'd first appeared and had found someone else.
You're hella invested for all that I'm not playing tonight talk, aren’t you? His fingers drummed a rhythm of uncertainty against the bartop. Who was the man waiting for? Him? Someone else?
"He's a patient one. How long you planning to make him wait?"
He glanced to the side to see Clara, black towel tossed over one shoulder, and her palms pressed against the bartop as she watched him watch his stranger. He scoffed, "You don't know who he's waiting for." he said, catching the very pointed raised eyebrow and glance over his shoulder.
She grinned, her voice a teasing sing-song, "Oh, I know who he's waiting for."
"I'll give it a minute." He turned back to the darkened booths and the man who’d somehow sparked an interest in him he hadn’t felt in too damn long. If ever.
A minute turned to five.
Just in case.
Five minutes to ten.
Clara slid a crystal tumbler of water with a lemon wedge in front of him.
Ten minutes turned to fifteen.
He nursed his water, watching as a few interested parties approached the man. And even with the distance between them, Alexis could feel the ice-cold dismissal the man turned on those brave few who dared to approach him. The hope grew, the excitement let loose a thousand fluttering wings in his stomach.
Twenty-five minutes.
Alexis’ heartbeat kicked up and he was having a hard time keeping his leg from bouncing; his fingers from tapping.
Thirty minutes.
He pushed away from the bar. It was time to put them both out of their misery. Navigating past a few bodies, he passed in front of the stage and his attention didn't so much as dart in its direction. A nagging unease that the moment he looked away from the other, the man would up and disappear kept him focused on one person. And one person only. With every step closer, calm descended, settling around his shoulders like a well-insulated coat.
“I was scared you’d run off on me,” he admitted as he slowed just within arm's reach of the other man. He slipped his hand into the pocket of his jacket to keep from pressing the flat of his palm against the back of the other’s neck, give it an affirming squeeze, and feel the other’s pulse against his fingertips. He slid into the booth, pausing as his eyes caught onto the glitter of the squat glass bottle beneath the softly pulsing lights. A dark brow rose, and his gaze lifted, settling on his stranger for a weighted moment. Haloed by the spotlight of debauchery on stage behind him, the man was temptation personified. The things Alexis wanted to do to him. With him. For him.
He relaxed fully into the booth, “Ole’ Forester, huh? You’re in for a treat.”
Last edited:
OP
OP
MoldaviteGreen
The world’s upside down here…
- Joined
- Dec 7, 2018
Life had taught Emil patience. In his youth, there had been nothing but ice-cold rage. In his early adulthood, there had been a fiery temper. The duality of Emil was what had made him his father's best extension of power, best ruthless weapon. Yet, as he'd aged, he'd found efficiency within patience. Waiting, playing the long game, provided far more satisfaction than all the times he'd been quick to become an inferno. Patience had not come innately to Emil, but had been crafted over time with self-discipline. Learned, Emil considered as he slowly spun his signet ring over his knuckle, and fucking tested.
How long it had been since he and his stranger had parted, Emil couldn't be entirely sure. It was long enough that the radiance of his aura had shifted to something icy; the booths either side of the one he'd nestled himself into suddenly empty and left vacant. It was long enough that his peripheries began to blur, the world streaming by in dull colours, as his gaze was cast down at the blank slate of his gold signet ring. Blank, for new beginnings.
The heat that began to rise in him was archaically familiar. How long has it been since I've felt this? It brewed. It simmered and bubbled and rose within the centre of his chest as his internal clock ticked on. There was no true perception of time, but Emil didn't need it. He'd been left waiting, perhaps forgotten, by a man he found himself wanting.
The desire to possess and to had sparked hotly within him as they'd conversed quietly within their shadows. Yet, what took hold of Emil now was something entirely different. His impatience, his flaring temper, was an uncharacteristic crack in Emil's armour. He hated it about as much as he hated craving his stranger and how being left waiting allowed something like this frustration to fester. Emil hadn't been impatient for anything, not for years.
It's nothing, Emil gripped the edge of the table. That man has every right to forget me. To change his mind. Perhaps this isn't what he wants. Muscles tensed, a bent and crossed leg dropped from where it had perched casually upon a knee. Within the second that Emil's body had grown tense in preparation to stand, his stranger manifested from the darkness. Emil felt him before that smooth voice was heard, a heat at his back. He hoped for a moment that his stranger would reach out and touch him. The man didn't.
The cool of his eyes shifted as his stranger slipped into the booth and nestled himself comfortably. So much grace and fluidity for a man of bulk. It had Emil thinking of the shadows he'd found this man wrapped in, and how the darkness seemed to cling to the obsidian leather of his clothes. He had not noticed how his gaze had fallen to the seam of the man's mouth as he watched the man speak. Emil wasn't ashamed enough to force his eyes away either as he reached for the bottle.
"If my patience is to be rewarded with a treat, it will not be in the form of the liquor but, instead, you." Emil, blunt and so very forward, finally forced his eyes upwards to meet the man's own dark pools. Careful, he saw the bottle opened and began to pour the bourbon whiskey into a crystal tumbler. "Your favourite, presumably. Unless the bartender had malicious intentions and lied when I asked after you."
Whatever anger had begun to form in him as he was left to wait slowly ebbed from him. He found his foot shifting across the floor and coming dangerously close to nudging in against the other man's arch.
What seemed like the beginnings of a smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth, a wickedness forming in the glacial pools of his eyes as Emil said; "Worry not. I know nothing of you besides your favourite liquor, and…what was it that your friend called you?" A tumbler was passed slowly across the table, but Emil drew forward in a lean with it. Closer, he became, tilted in towards the heat of his stranger as he kept his fingers upon the cool of the glass. If the man was to take it, there'd be no way they wouldn't touch.
There was a glimmer in those cold eyes as Emil purred; "Sexy-Lexi, no? I've been left to wonder if that is some play upon your name, or if it is something else entirely. Then again," Emil spoke low, "when I try to imagine you named anything else, the only thing that comes to mind is celestiale bellezza, and that is no name at all." Heavenly beautiful. "So, perhaps it is your name after all."
The olive of Emil's fingers slipped away, leaving that tumbler before his stranger as he leant back into the plush of the booth's seat. "Are we to be interrupted again?" The liquor was poured into another tumbler, Emil granting himself just as generous a serve as he had his stranger. Ice blue flickered up to obsidian. "Or do I truly have you to myself?"
How long it had been since he and his stranger had parted, Emil couldn't be entirely sure. It was long enough that the radiance of his aura had shifted to something icy; the booths either side of the one he'd nestled himself into suddenly empty and left vacant. It was long enough that his peripheries began to blur, the world streaming by in dull colours, as his gaze was cast down at the blank slate of his gold signet ring. Blank, for new beginnings.
The heat that began to rise in him was archaically familiar. How long has it been since I've felt this? It brewed. It simmered and bubbled and rose within the centre of his chest as his internal clock ticked on. There was no true perception of time, but Emil didn't need it. He'd been left waiting, perhaps forgotten, by a man he found himself wanting.
The desire to possess and to had sparked hotly within him as they'd conversed quietly within their shadows. Yet, what took hold of Emil now was something entirely different. His impatience, his flaring temper, was an uncharacteristic crack in Emil's armour. He hated it about as much as he hated craving his stranger and how being left waiting allowed something like this frustration to fester. Emil hadn't been impatient for anything, not for years.
It's nothing, Emil gripped the edge of the table. That man has every right to forget me. To change his mind. Perhaps this isn't what he wants. Muscles tensed, a bent and crossed leg dropped from where it had perched casually upon a knee. Within the second that Emil's body had grown tense in preparation to stand, his stranger manifested from the darkness. Emil felt him before that smooth voice was heard, a heat at his back. He hoped for a moment that his stranger would reach out and touch him. The man didn't.
The cool of his eyes shifted as his stranger slipped into the booth and nestled himself comfortably. So much grace and fluidity for a man of bulk. It had Emil thinking of the shadows he'd found this man wrapped in, and how the darkness seemed to cling to the obsidian leather of his clothes. He had not noticed how his gaze had fallen to the seam of the man's mouth as he watched the man speak. Emil wasn't ashamed enough to force his eyes away either as he reached for the bottle.
"If my patience is to be rewarded with a treat, it will not be in the form of the liquor but, instead, you." Emil, blunt and so very forward, finally forced his eyes upwards to meet the man's own dark pools. Careful, he saw the bottle opened and began to pour the bourbon whiskey into a crystal tumbler. "Your favourite, presumably. Unless the bartender had malicious intentions and lied when I asked after you."
Whatever anger had begun to form in him as he was left to wait slowly ebbed from him. He found his foot shifting across the floor and coming dangerously close to nudging in against the other man's arch.
What seemed like the beginnings of a smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth, a wickedness forming in the glacial pools of his eyes as Emil said; "Worry not. I know nothing of you besides your favourite liquor, and…what was it that your friend called you?" A tumbler was passed slowly across the table, but Emil drew forward in a lean with it. Closer, he became, tilted in towards the heat of his stranger as he kept his fingers upon the cool of the glass. If the man was to take it, there'd be no way they wouldn't touch.
There was a glimmer in those cold eyes as Emil purred; "Sexy-Lexi, no? I've been left to wonder if that is some play upon your name, or if it is something else entirely. Then again," Emil spoke low, "when I try to imagine you named anything else, the only thing that comes to mind is celestiale bellezza, and that is no name at all." Heavenly beautiful. "So, perhaps it is your name after all."
The olive of Emil's fingers slipped away, leaving that tumbler before his stranger as he leant back into the plush of the booth's seat. "Are we to be interrupted again?" The liquor was poured into another tumbler, Emil granting himself just as generous a serve as he had his stranger. Ice blue flickered up to obsidian. "Or do I truly have you to myself?"
ThenThereWereNone
Lurking One
- Joined
- Jun 22, 2019
"If my patience is to be rewarded with a treat, it will not be in the form of the liquor but, instead, you." So very blunt and straightforward.
“Mm, I appreciate a man who knows what he wants.” Unguarded interest, the heat of wanting shadowed dark eyes as they met pale gaze. A slow smile touched Alexis’ lips as he held that gaze, steady on.
"Your favourite, presumably. Unless the bartender had malicious intentions and lied when I asked after you."
So his stranger had asked after him. Alexis had entertained for the briefest of moments that the choice of liquor was just a creepy coincidence. But a healthy dose of paranoia had yet to lead him wrong.
"Worry not. I know nothing of you besides your favourite liquor, and…what was it that your friend called you?"
A knot of tension that he hadn’t realised he’d been holding onto unravelled itself with the other man’s assurance that the only thing he happened to be privy to was his first choice of liquor. It had been a subject of their previous conversation. His attention didn’t so much as glance at the offered whiskey or the way the man’s hand on the tumbler lingered, a silent invitation to take and to touch.
'Sexy-Lexi.'
He rolled his eyes with a groan: Part consternation at the stupid moniker, and partly because the rolling purr of his stranger’s voice when he said it made Alexis aware of just how snug his leather pants were. “Don’t you go start pickin' up Bunny’s bad habits.”
The low dip of the man’s voice had Alexis fighting not to lean forward. Resisting the raw magnetism of the other, the silent force of him that made one want to get closer, to be granted the privilege of occupying his space.
“celestiale bellezza”
The words were familiar enough that it took no more than a second for him to mentally tweak word order and pronunciation for comprehension to dawn. Alexis shook his head, amusement warm and open in his answering smile, “You’re a shameless fuckin’ flirt.” Leaning back, he stretched out his legs, his foot bumping into his stranger’s.
“No more interruptions,” he said, reaching forward to pick up his glass, bringing it beneath his nose for a slow, deliberate inhale: Tropical notes with hints of oak and spice—I’m thinking cinnamon and pepper—and the signature darker sweetness; chocolate and fruit, baked apples and cherries, and something else that was warm, toasted, and slightly bitter. “I’m all yours tonight. Speaking of which… ”
He took a sip of bourbon whisky. The rich amber liquid danced across his tongue, a party of baking spices, leather, old oak, and cigars in his mouth. Smooth and dark and bright, it went down easy. He hummed to himself, “Yep, that’s good.” Beneath the table, his foot drew unhurriedly up the side of his stranger’s leg, pushing up the satin of his pants.
“Like I was saying,” he set the tumbler down, his fingers rubbing over the textured surface. “All cards on the table? I want to fuck you, or have you fuck me, I’m versatile either way, and I’m going to assume you didn’t wait around this long if you didn’t want the same thing. But before that,” he leaned forward, the tumbler disappearing between his clasped hands, “I want to play a little. Nothing too crazy or complicated, I don’t have my full toolkit on hand. But I want you on your knees for me.”
His body ran hot, then cold, and back again, a steady fluctuation that thrummed in time to his drumming pulse. The possibilities and the not knowing which way the cards would fall now that he’d laid them out. “Is that something you’d be open to?”
“Mm, I appreciate a man who knows what he wants.” Unguarded interest, the heat of wanting shadowed dark eyes as they met pale gaze. A slow smile touched Alexis’ lips as he held that gaze, steady on.
"Your favourite, presumably. Unless the bartender had malicious intentions and lied when I asked after you."
So his stranger had asked after him. Alexis had entertained for the briefest of moments that the choice of liquor was just a creepy coincidence. But a healthy dose of paranoia had yet to lead him wrong.
"Worry not. I know nothing of you besides your favourite liquor, and…what was it that your friend called you?"
A knot of tension that he hadn’t realised he’d been holding onto unravelled itself with the other man’s assurance that the only thing he happened to be privy to was his first choice of liquor. It had been a subject of their previous conversation. His attention didn’t so much as glance at the offered whiskey or the way the man’s hand on the tumbler lingered, a silent invitation to take and to touch.
'Sexy-Lexi.'
He rolled his eyes with a groan: Part consternation at the stupid moniker, and partly because the rolling purr of his stranger’s voice when he said it made Alexis aware of just how snug his leather pants were. “Don’t you go start pickin' up Bunny’s bad habits.”
The low dip of the man’s voice had Alexis fighting not to lean forward. Resisting the raw magnetism of the other, the silent force of him that made one want to get closer, to be granted the privilege of occupying his space.
“celestiale bellezza”
The words were familiar enough that it took no more than a second for him to mentally tweak word order and pronunciation for comprehension to dawn. Alexis shook his head, amusement warm and open in his answering smile, “You’re a shameless fuckin’ flirt.” Leaning back, he stretched out his legs, his foot bumping into his stranger’s.
“No more interruptions,” he said, reaching forward to pick up his glass, bringing it beneath his nose for a slow, deliberate inhale: Tropical notes with hints of oak and spice—I’m thinking cinnamon and pepper—and the signature darker sweetness; chocolate and fruit, baked apples and cherries, and something else that was warm, toasted, and slightly bitter. “I’m all yours tonight. Speaking of which… ”
He took a sip of bourbon whisky. The rich amber liquid danced across his tongue, a party of baking spices, leather, old oak, and cigars in his mouth. Smooth and dark and bright, it went down easy. He hummed to himself, “Yep, that’s good.” Beneath the table, his foot drew unhurriedly up the side of his stranger’s leg, pushing up the satin of his pants.
“Like I was saying,” he set the tumbler down, his fingers rubbing over the textured surface. “All cards on the table? I want to fuck you, or have you fuck me, I’m versatile either way, and I’m going to assume you didn’t wait around this long if you didn’t want the same thing. But before that,” he leaned forward, the tumbler disappearing between his clasped hands, “I want to play a little. Nothing too crazy or complicated, I don’t have my full toolkit on hand. But I want you on your knees for me.”
His body ran hot, then cold, and back again, a steady fluctuation that thrummed in time to his drumming pulse. The possibilities and the not knowing which way the cards would fall now that he’d laid them out. “Is that something you’d be open to?”
OP
OP
MoldaviteGreen
The world’s upside down here…
- Joined
- Dec 7, 2018
That groan. Fuck. Honeyed. Smooth. It shot through Emil's chest like a hot bolt, and pierced, electrified, low into his loins. In all that he had imagined, in all the words they had shared, Emil had felt the silk of his tailored trousers begin to pull tight over his groin. But that fucking sound that spilled free of his stranger had the fabric straining, hard. Bad habits? How about granting a man that sound from you when nothing else is guaranteed? How cruel of a habit is that? Emil's knuckles had turned pale as he'd clenched his tumbler. "No," he said lowly, almost quiet. "I have enough bad habits as it stands."
This man before him was a test sent from the gods, Emil was sure. The wait he had suffered through for this (a wait that he would give himself to time and time again even if it amounted to nothing). The way that his stranger did not draw himself close and did not touch when every subtle movement of Emil beckoned him to do so. For a moment, he was not sure whether it was extreme self-discipline or sheer disinterest which held his stranger leant against the back of the booth, so far away. Too far away, Emil thought as his jaw clenched and the muscle at the angle jumped.
Yet, there came a shake of a head, those dark locs shifting about his forehead, and a broad, white-toothed smile. Emil would have shared the sentiment if he did not feel his heart stammer and something tear through him like a breath stolen. It took everything within Emil to gather enough breath to smoothly say; "Just a man who knows what he wants."
"No more interruptions…I'm all yours tonight."
An unspoken promise of the hours stretching out before them, dedicated purely to the company of each other. Emil could have fucking groaned at the hot, sticky thought of it. This man is no test, he mused, taking a deep swig of the bourbon whiskey and setting the tumbler down atop the wood with a soft knock. This man is beautiful, fucking torture.
Where the darkness within Emil would have swirled and twisted and seeded something akin to revulsion within him, it manifested something other. A ravenous, possessive want. To take. To have. To give. Foreign to him, Emil would have become uneasy in his revelation of what this man was entailing within him if it hadn't been for the smooth hum of his stranger's voice, praise for the liquor that he longed to hear for himself, and the run of a foot up the length of his calf. The fire in Emil's glacial eyes was infernal.
Words spilled free of those gorgeously thick lips and Emil pressed himself harder against the plush of the booth to keep himself still. The hand upon his own thigh was curled, nails digging harshly into the meat of the muscle deep enough to leave marks beneath silk. The other clenched harder upon the tumbler, white-knuckled and tense. Emil's restraint had always been marvelled by others as being steel-hardened, but this man was undoing him.
"I want to fuck you…fuck me…versatile…play a little…"
Emil's teeth were grit as his breath came a little ragged. "Merda." A curse slipping free of him, unrestrained, as he began to battle with himself. The seven rings of hell could not be as hot as he felt right then, engulfed in the flames stoked by his stranger so wondrously. He'd leave himself to simmer, for his flesh to melt from his bones, if it meant basking in the inferno that was their desire. Never had Emil felt this, and it was maddening.
"But I want you on your knees for me."
Ice.
Ice cold, lashing and frigid. It crashed over the heat that had been building into a rage within him, dousing the flames and leaving a frozen tundra in its wake. Another wash of tension ran through Emil, but he did not move. Still, almost eerily so, he did not even seem to take a breath.
He should have anticipated this. He had, in a way. His search for something novel, something other and exciting, had been precisely what had drawn him to this Club. It had been this man, however, that had twisted everything else. This stranger had stolen Emil's carefully crafted control, tore it from him, and now presented it back laced with dangerous desire. Emil had come to search for something different, but what he had found himself drawn to within the shadows was a being so heavenly beautiful and so infernally wicked. A man whom, in their world, he should not have been compatible.
"I do not take to my knees for anyone." Harsh and firm, Emil's words were unwavering in their boundary. They mirrored the strength of his grasp as he caught the back of his stranger's ankle, squeezing the limb he drew higher across his knee. Words were one thing, but actions were another, and Emil was drawing this man's foot up between the slight spread of his knees to nestle within the heat of his lap. A point of a toe, and the tip of his stranger's shoe would press into something marble-hard. The flesh under the unforgiving grip of his fingers dimpled.
Emil's other hand drew the tumbler to his mouth, the crystal perched between his lips as he drank it dry. Three swallows and that tumbler was empty, set down and refilled with one hand. What he was doing was insane. What he was agreeing to was crazy. He was a Dom, not a submissive. Then why the fuck do I want to be the one granted that same praise that he gave the whiskey?
"No marks above a shirt's collar or beneath a long cuff. At least, none that will last longer than the night." Those cold eyes held the obsidian of his stranger's still. Emil squeezed at the man's ankle before slipping his hand higher, beginning to knead at the back of his calf. "You will have me to yourself, only—physically and visually. I want nothing public. What happens when we leave this table is to remain between us, alone; a respect we will mutually share."
Emil reached behind his shoulder, olive fingers moving to his hair and the golden pin holding half of his curls up and in place. He held his stranger's gaze, unable to truly look at anything else as he said; "Mark me with teeth, cum, nails, belt, or weapon, but nothing else." The golden arrow slipped from the dark curls of his hair, held between fingers as it was pulled. Within the low light, it glinted brilliantly, a bolt from Eros, himself, before it was set down atop the dark wood of the table. The dark of Emil's loose curls fell from the messy half-up top knot, spilling down to fall over the satin collar of his shirt.
Over the polished surface the arrow hairpin slid, held before his stranger and pinned down by two fingers. A silent offer for his stranger to take it, to use it, perhaps, even, to keep it. "I am not averse to you leaving a wound for me to remember you by, but it must be shallow, and must hold no risk."
The wild beat of his heart was loud within his ears. "I do not take to my knees for anyone," Emil had said a little harshly. He took a breath, steady and deep, as Emil affirmed now; "You are not just anyone, mio caro. You want me on my knees before you…"
The heat of before returned, wanton. It ran through him, stoked embers roaring to life. Yet, it was not the same red-hot inferno as before. It was something different, something other, something that Emil could not entirely name nor define. It rippled through him, flashes of hot and cold, but remained constant in its source. The man before him was what Emil had been searching for. His stranger was the very man that he needed.
"For you, I will kneel. Do not make me regret it."
This man before him was a test sent from the gods, Emil was sure. The wait he had suffered through for this (a wait that he would give himself to time and time again even if it amounted to nothing). The way that his stranger did not draw himself close and did not touch when every subtle movement of Emil beckoned him to do so. For a moment, he was not sure whether it was extreme self-discipline or sheer disinterest which held his stranger leant against the back of the booth, so far away. Too far away, Emil thought as his jaw clenched and the muscle at the angle jumped.
Yet, there came a shake of a head, those dark locs shifting about his forehead, and a broad, white-toothed smile. Emil would have shared the sentiment if he did not feel his heart stammer and something tear through him like a breath stolen. It took everything within Emil to gather enough breath to smoothly say; "Just a man who knows what he wants."
"No more interruptions…I'm all yours tonight."
An unspoken promise of the hours stretching out before them, dedicated purely to the company of each other. Emil could have fucking groaned at the hot, sticky thought of it. This man is no test, he mused, taking a deep swig of the bourbon whiskey and setting the tumbler down atop the wood with a soft knock. This man is beautiful, fucking torture.
Where the darkness within Emil would have swirled and twisted and seeded something akin to revulsion within him, it manifested something other. A ravenous, possessive want. To take. To have. To give. Foreign to him, Emil would have become uneasy in his revelation of what this man was entailing within him if it hadn't been for the smooth hum of his stranger's voice, praise for the liquor that he longed to hear for himself, and the run of a foot up the length of his calf. The fire in Emil's glacial eyes was infernal.
Words spilled free of those gorgeously thick lips and Emil pressed himself harder against the plush of the booth to keep himself still. The hand upon his own thigh was curled, nails digging harshly into the meat of the muscle deep enough to leave marks beneath silk. The other clenched harder upon the tumbler, white-knuckled and tense. Emil's restraint had always been marvelled by others as being steel-hardened, but this man was undoing him.
"I want to fuck you…fuck me…versatile…play a little…"
Emil's teeth were grit as his breath came a little ragged. "Merda." A curse slipping free of him, unrestrained, as he began to battle with himself. The seven rings of hell could not be as hot as he felt right then, engulfed in the flames stoked by his stranger so wondrously. He'd leave himself to simmer, for his flesh to melt from his bones, if it meant basking in the inferno that was their desire. Never had Emil felt this, and it was maddening.
"But I want you on your knees for me."
Ice.
Ice cold, lashing and frigid. It crashed over the heat that had been building into a rage within him, dousing the flames and leaving a frozen tundra in its wake. Another wash of tension ran through Emil, but he did not move. Still, almost eerily so, he did not even seem to take a breath.
He should have anticipated this. He had, in a way. His search for something novel, something other and exciting, had been precisely what had drawn him to this Club. It had been this man, however, that had twisted everything else. This stranger had stolen Emil's carefully crafted control, tore it from him, and now presented it back laced with dangerous desire. Emil had come to search for something different, but what he had found himself drawn to within the shadows was a being so heavenly beautiful and so infernally wicked. A man whom, in their world, he should not have been compatible.
"I do not take to my knees for anyone." Harsh and firm, Emil's words were unwavering in their boundary. They mirrored the strength of his grasp as he caught the back of his stranger's ankle, squeezing the limb he drew higher across his knee. Words were one thing, but actions were another, and Emil was drawing this man's foot up between the slight spread of his knees to nestle within the heat of his lap. A point of a toe, and the tip of his stranger's shoe would press into something marble-hard. The flesh under the unforgiving grip of his fingers dimpled.
Emil's other hand drew the tumbler to his mouth, the crystal perched between his lips as he drank it dry. Three swallows and that tumbler was empty, set down and refilled with one hand. What he was doing was insane. What he was agreeing to was crazy. He was a Dom, not a submissive. Then why the fuck do I want to be the one granted that same praise that he gave the whiskey?
"No marks above a shirt's collar or beneath a long cuff. At least, none that will last longer than the night." Those cold eyes held the obsidian of his stranger's still. Emil squeezed at the man's ankle before slipping his hand higher, beginning to knead at the back of his calf. "You will have me to yourself, only—physically and visually. I want nothing public. What happens when we leave this table is to remain between us, alone; a respect we will mutually share."
Emil reached behind his shoulder, olive fingers moving to his hair and the golden pin holding half of his curls up and in place. He held his stranger's gaze, unable to truly look at anything else as he said; "Mark me with teeth, cum, nails, belt, or weapon, but nothing else." The golden arrow slipped from the dark curls of his hair, held between fingers as it was pulled. Within the low light, it glinted brilliantly, a bolt from Eros, himself, before it was set down atop the dark wood of the table. The dark of Emil's loose curls fell from the messy half-up top knot, spilling down to fall over the satin collar of his shirt.
Over the polished surface the arrow hairpin slid, held before his stranger and pinned down by two fingers. A silent offer for his stranger to take it, to use it, perhaps, even, to keep it. "I am not averse to you leaving a wound for me to remember you by, but it must be shallow, and must hold no risk."
The wild beat of his heart was loud within his ears. "I do not take to my knees for anyone," Emil had said a little harshly. He took a breath, steady and deep, as Emil affirmed now; "You are not just anyone, mio caro. You want me on my knees before you…"
The heat of before returned, wanton. It ran through him, stoked embers roaring to life. Yet, it was not the same red-hot inferno as before. It was something different, something other, something that Emil could not entirely name nor define. It rippled through him, flashes of hot and cold, but remained constant in its source. The man before him was what Emil had been searching for. His stranger was the very man that he needed.
"For you, I will kneel. Do not make me regret it."
His hand settled upon the back of his stranger’s knee, feeling for the pulse that would surely bound there. Does your heart race for me like mine does for you? How desperately do you ache for this?
"The next time that the threads of Fate have our paths crossing, you will bend to me, willing and wanting and so beautifully submissive. That is my deal."
Last edited:
ThenThereWereNone
Lurking One
- Joined
- Jun 22, 2019
Alexis noticed the exact moment when his words hit home. A chilled stillness descended upon the booth, snuffing out the flickering flames in the other man's ice-pale gaze. What lay left in its wake was reminiscent of a lifeless, frozen landscape. His stranger had turned to stone. Or perhaps an ice sculpture would be more accurate. A carved work of art void of warmth.
Knowing rejection was almost guaranteed, he'd stepped into the risk of that possibility with his eyes wide open. So when it came, swift and sharp as a blade's edge—the icy shards of which would've felled a weaker mind right where they sat—Alexis only nodded, slowly, "Okay." His tone was calm, even. It wasn't his place to try to convince or coerce. A boundary had been set, he wouldn't cross it.
He counted it as a win that the man hadn't just told him to 'fuck right off' while making himself scarce. Frankly, he didn't know what he'd expected, but it sure wasn't the man grasping him by the ankle in nearly the same breath as he'd uttered those frost-coated words. The same firmness in his tone resonated in his grip as he drew Alexis’ leg up to settle between his legs. Even with the layers between them, he could still feel the heat of the other man, and it took more effort than he wanted to admit not to flex his foot, to press forward, to discover what he would feel there between the man’s legs.
Having adopted a stillness of his own, feeling somehow like both predator and prey, he watched the man drain his glass and immediately refill it. The first sign of a chink in that ice-hardened armour. Alexis had been expecting rejection; what he hadn’t been expecting was to rattle the man. It made his pulse jump. What do you look like when you allow yourself to let go? He wanted to unwrap his stranger like a present, slowly, carefully, methodically, one layer at a time, until he was gifted with the gorgeously vulnerable man beneath.
Dark eyes incapable of looking anywhere but back into the crystalline gaze that held him not only in the metaphorical sense, but in the physical, the man’s hand sliding up to grasp at Alexis’ calf, strong fingers massaging as he spoke. Possibilities offered up that had his breath slowing in direct opposition to how his whole body flared to life. Any words of acceptance he thought to utter sat trapped in his throat. The hypnotic pull of the other man prompted a wordless nod. Whatever you want, so long as I get to have you. Gold glittered on the edge of his attention, and with it came the ridiculous momentary impression of a halo. But he knew already that his stranger was no angelic being, though his appearance and the severity of his presence could easily fool one into believing so. If Blue Eyes were an angel, he was one of the fallen. A darkness that oozed of danger and sinful temptation lurked like a beast lying in wait behind those eyes. And the words out of that mouth were anything but holy.
Alexis broke his gaze away from the other, catching and holding onto the first silken lock of dark hair that fell free of the pin’s withdrawing embrace. As the man’s hair tumbled down to settle past the collar of his shirt, he could think of nothing other than combing his fingers through those curls, his grip tightening to expose the column of his stranger’s throat.
The soft rasp of something hard dragging across the wood of the table pulled him away from the lust-fueled ravings of his mind and he looked down at the offered pin. A beat of contemplation and a nod later, he said, “That’s fair.” Pressing the tip of his index and middle finger against the pin, he noted the dangerously sharp point of the arrow’s tip. The gold was warm to the touch, and he had to stop himself from drawing it up to his nose, instead, he spun it between his fingers. Sleek and thin and perfect for taking some unfortunate bastard’s eye out.
A brief moment of stillness had his gaze drawing up, where he took note of the other man appearing to centre himself. Should Alexis thank him for the pin? Should he give it back by the end of the night?
"You are not just anyone, mio caro. You want me on my knees before you…"
Alexis held himself back. Back from words, allowing the man space to speak. Back from action, from leaning forward—table be damned—to silence any more words with a taste of those whiskey stained lips.
"For you, I will kneel. Do not make me regret it."
“Ay Dios, where the fuck did you come from?” His words were a tremulous exhalation of disbelief and roaring lust. How the night had taken such a turn, he had no fucking clue. He’d been on his way out once he’d had a chance to stop in on Chris and Bunny, and no there he sat, across from a man he’d met not even an hour earlier, his body a thruming instrument of want and need so strong it almost scared him. His pulse drummed out of control, and he could barely focus over the rush of blood in his ears. The press of man’s fingers at the back of his knee made his cock jump. He almost laughed in disbelief. He wasn’t even especially sensitive or ticklish behind his knees. What the fuck are you doing to me?
Time slowed, comprehension taking a moment to catch up. So when what the man said next finally hit home, Alexis was already mid-shake of his head.
No deal. The thought came without hesitation. Sudden, but lacking in conviction. It brought him up short, and reality quickly sharpened back into focus. Alexis blinked, his thoughts pausing and skipping as a sticky unease clung to his insides. He dragged his thumb, slowly, back and forth over the sharpened point of the golden arrow. Now that hadn’t crossed his mind as a possibility at any point. It just simply wasn’t something that he did, or ever entertained for that matter.
'You don't get to ask for what you can't give.' The ghost of his mentor's voice echoed through his head. She’d been of the opinion that every Dominant should submit at least once, to fully understand and appreciate the vulnerability and trust that was being entrusted to them. The only person he'd ever subbed for; she'd been his anchor and his guide when he was still a baby Dom. That’d been a long time ago. Alexis had never submitted to anyone else since.
He grabbed up his tumbler, drained the whiskey in one deep swallow and set the glass back down with a hard thump and a sigh. Dark gaze held pale, and he nodded. Once. “You’ve got yourself a deal.” Flexing his foot, the tip of his shoe pressed into the hardness between his stranger’s slightly spread legs. Applied with firm pressure, he kept it there.
“Aftercare is a non-negotiable, by the way. I know some people don’t care for it, and that’s fine; we just don’t play together. But I need the physical and verbal reassurance. And at the bare minimum, I need to know where your head's at; that you’re safe to be left on your own.”
He leaned forward then, forearms resting on the table as his foot against the man's crotch applied pressure. "Speaking of safe. You're familiar with the traffic light system, yes? If you'd prefer your own personal safeword, that works just fine; in which case you'd use that if you want everything to stop immediately, othewise it's Red. Yellow is if you want to slow down, change something up, check in. Green is obvious, but I expect to hear it from you if I check in, and you're good to keep going." All of this, he was confident the other man was more than familiar with. But it was something of a personal rule that he always laid it out with a new play partner. It didn't matter how familiar they were with the lifestyle. Always better safe than sorry, and to be certain that they all were on the same page, even if during a scene no colour was ever uttered. It was always there, and they both needed to be open to use it if such a moment arose.
Knowing rejection was almost guaranteed, he'd stepped into the risk of that possibility with his eyes wide open. So when it came, swift and sharp as a blade's edge—the icy shards of which would've felled a weaker mind right where they sat—Alexis only nodded, slowly, "Okay." His tone was calm, even. It wasn't his place to try to convince or coerce. A boundary had been set, he wouldn't cross it.
He counted it as a win that the man hadn't just told him to 'fuck right off' while making himself scarce. Frankly, he didn't know what he'd expected, but it sure wasn't the man grasping him by the ankle in nearly the same breath as he'd uttered those frost-coated words. The same firmness in his tone resonated in his grip as he drew Alexis’ leg up to settle between his legs. Even with the layers between them, he could still feel the heat of the other man, and it took more effort than he wanted to admit not to flex his foot, to press forward, to discover what he would feel there between the man’s legs.
Having adopted a stillness of his own, feeling somehow like both predator and prey, he watched the man drain his glass and immediately refill it. The first sign of a chink in that ice-hardened armour. Alexis had been expecting rejection; what he hadn’t been expecting was to rattle the man. It made his pulse jump. What do you look like when you allow yourself to let go? He wanted to unwrap his stranger like a present, slowly, carefully, methodically, one layer at a time, until he was gifted with the gorgeously vulnerable man beneath.
Dark eyes incapable of looking anywhere but back into the crystalline gaze that held him not only in the metaphorical sense, but in the physical, the man’s hand sliding up to grasp at Alexis’ calf, strong fingers massaging as he spoke. Possibilities offered up that had his breath slowing in direct opposition to how his whole body flared to life. Any words of acceptance he thought to utter sat trapped in his throat. The hypnotic pull of the other man prompted a wordless nod. Whatever you want, so long as I get to have you. Gold glittered on the edge of his attention, and with it came the ridiculous momentary impression of a halo. But he knew already that his stranger was no angelic being, though his appearance and the severity of his presence could easily fool one into believing so. If Blue Eyes were an angel, he was one of the fallen. A darkness that oozed of danger and sinful temptation lurked like a beast lying in wait behind those eyes. And the words out of that mouth were anything but holy.
Alexis broke his gaze away from the other, catching and holding onto the first silken lock of dark hair that fell free of the pin’s withdrawing embrace. As the man’s hair tumbled down to settle past the collar of his shirt, he could think of nothing other than combing his fingers through those curls, his grip tightening to expose the column of his stranger’s throat.
The soft rasp of something hard dragging across the wood of the table pulled him away from the lust-fueled ravings of his mind and he looked down at the offered pin. A beat of contemplation and a nod later, he said, “That’s fair.” Pressing the tip of his index and middle finger against the pin, he noted the dangerously sharp point of the arrow’s tip. The gold was warm to the touch, and he had to stop himself from drawing it up to his nose, instead, he spun it between his fingers. Sleek and thin and perfect for taking some unfortunate bastard’s eye out.
A brief moment of stillness had his gaze drawing up, where he took note of the other man appearing to centre himself. Should Alexis thank him for the pin? Should he give it back by the end of the night?
"You are not just anyone, mio caro. You want me on my knees before you…"
Alexis held himself back. Back from words, allowing the man space to speak. Back from action, from leaning forward—table be damned—to silence any more words with a taste of those whiskey stained lips.
"For you, I will kneel. Do not make me regret it."
“Ay Dios, where the fuck did you come from?” His words were a tremulous exhalation of disbelief and roaring lust. How the night had taken such a turn, he had no fucking clue. He’d been on his way out once he’d had a chance to stop in on Chris and Bunny, and no there he sat, across from a man he’d met not even an hour earlier, his body a thruming instrument of want and need so strong it almost scared him. His pulse drummed out of control, and he could barely focus over the rush of blood in his ears. The press of man’s fingers at the back of his knee made his cock jump. He almost laughed in disbelief. He wasn’t even especially sensitive or ticklish behind his knees. What the fuck are you doing to me?
Time slowed, comprehension taking a moment to catch up. So when what the man said next finally hit home, Alexis was already mid-shake of his head.
No deal. The thought came without hesitation. Sudden, but lacking in conviction. It brought him up short, and reality quickly sharpened back into focus. Alexis blinked, his thoughts pausing and skipping as a sticky unease clung to his insides. He dragged his thumb, slowly, back and forth over the sharpened point of the golden arrow. Now that hadn’t crossed his mind as a possibility at any point. It just simply wasn’t something that he did, or ever entertained for that matter.
'You don't get to ask for what you can't give.' The ghost of his mentor's voice echoed through his head. She’d been of the opinion that every Dominant should submit at least once, to fully understand and appreciate the vulnerability and trust that was being entrusted to them. The only person he'd ever subbed for; she'd been his anchor and his guide when he was still a baby Dom. That’d been a long time ago. Alexis had never submitted to anyone else since.
He grabbed up his tumbler, drained the whiskey in one deep swallow and set the glass back down with a hard thump and a sigh. Dark gaze held pale, and he nodded. Once. “You’ve got yourself a deal.” Flexing his foot, the tip of his shoe pressed into the hardness between his stranger’s slightly spread legs. Applied with firm pressure, he kept it there.
“Aftercare is a non-negotiable, by the way. I know some people don’t care for it, and that’s fine; we just don’t play together. But I need the physical and verbal reassurance. And at the bare minimum, I need to know where your head's at; that you’re safe to be left on your own.”
He leaned forward then, forearms resting on the table as his foot against the man's crotch applied pressure. "Speaking of safe. You're familiar with the traffic light system, yes? If you'd prefer your own personal safeword, that works just fine; in which case you'd use that if you want everything to stop immediately, othewise it's Red. Yellow is if you want to slow down, change something up, check in. Green is obvious, but I expect to hear it from you if I check in, and you're good to keep going." All of this, he was confident the other man was more than familiar with. But it was something of a personal rule that he always laid it out with a new play partner. It didn't matter how familiar they were with the lifestyle. Always better safe than sorry, and to be certain that they all were on the same page, even if during a scene no colour was ever uttered. It was always there, and they both needed to be open to use it if such a moment arose.
OP
OP
MoldaviteGreen
The world’s upside down here…
- Joined
- Dec 7, 2018
"Okay." Spoken so calmly and so evenly, despite what was surely initial rejection. Emil went on to deliver his boundaries, to lay it out bare upon the table between them, but something festered in him. His mind was a duality in its war—one half a sour wickedness that wondered whether this man wanted him at all if he was so willing to concede to the rejection, where a messy piece of Emil wanted to be fought for; and the other half an appreciative warmth that admired the man's simple acceptance and unwillingness to push another into discomfort for one's own gain.
All said and done, Emil's terms spoken, he was forced to sink his teeth into the soft inside of his cheek as the man before him exhaled those words. His own blood ran hot, the man's sigh striking like a bolt straight into his loins. Your nightmares. Your dreams. I come from across the sea, where pleasure like this is revered and not made so covert. Emil said nothing.
He said nothing still as he watched the beginning of a shake of a head 'no'. No deal. No dice. Emil wondered if his stranger felt the same ice cold that had torn through him just moments before at the prospect of submitting to the other. A vulnerable thing that he had never done and had believed he'd never give to another, Emil wondered if the shock of it held the same type of cold resistance within the man before him. Like calling to like, he had thought before when he'd first drawn himself into the man's presence earlier. If his stranger were to reject his counter offer, Emil would understand why; for he'd felt it flash through him all the same.
The silence stretched, and Emil began to lean away into the plush of the booth. The hand at the back of his stranger's knee did not retreat, however, as the other moved to smear down the top of his own thigh. Sometimes space and time was all that it took, and he provided so in the way of gentle silence. Hell, Emil had felt how his initial instinct had lashed and was privy to how that, too, could be tamed by his desire. Perhaps he…
His stranger drank the remaining whiskey within his glass in one swallow, letting the tumbler knock hard against dark wood. Emil's heart stuttered and stopped, he was sure, as he waited with bated breath. Yes? No? Absolutely never? Tell me, please. A nod. Just once. Acceptance. Emil released a breath through his nose that he had not realised he'd been holding and gripped the back of his stranger's knee tighter.
More, his stranger spoke, but Emil was enamoured by the movement of his lips, enraptured by the future before he and this man, both. Aftercare, yes. Traffic light system, absolutely. It was surprising that Emil could hear anything beyond the bound of his own pulse within his ears at that moment.
Pale eyes lifted to fall into darker gaze as Emil's thumb stroked over the tumbler just as the other dug into the soft back of a knee. "Your requirement for aftercare goes both ways, mio caro. I know how it feels to experience the drop as a Dom, and that isn't something that should be ignored. I want you to tell me what works for you best, and to let me provide you with it." Emil's hand left the tumbler and disappeared beneath the table. "I will give you the reassurance you need, just as much as I will communicate with you throughout and after. I'll use that system, rather than a word."
Aftercare could be a myriad of things between them—a bath, a touch, gentler sex, first aid, a discussion, a massage. Emil held no true preference for himself, but felt the need to speak his next words in the uncertainty of what his stranger would provide.
"I should warn you that I'm allergic to lavender." It was easier that way. Allergies weren't questioned. While Emil's stranger had proven himself accepting of rejection—and he no doubt expected the man to be as equally accepting of another boundary—his own self feared speaking it aloud of what it truly was; a trigger.
The pressure of his stranger's toe against the apex of his groin had an electric thrill rushing through him. Perhaps others would have leant away, dragged their hips over the seat to grant themselves an inch of space to themselves beneath the other's foot. There was an ache to it, yes, but it was nothing against the fire of the ache within Emil's chest to be closer.
Instead, the hand that had been kneading the back of his stranger's knee clenched tighter. He used the man's own mass to pull himself forward to the very edge of the booth's seat. If it was not for the table, he'd have slipped to his knees then and there, between this man's feet. Emil was kept apart from him, and the hard knock of the table against his diaphragm had the breath racing free of him as he leant forward and clasped his stranger's ankle in his other, warm hand.
"I want to touch you," Emil confessed, low and wanton with his next breath. Thick fingers slipped under the cuff of his stranger's pants, climbing over the soft ripple of a dress sock to sneak high to that lush, dark skin. Emil found it, the heat of this man's skin, as he brushed two fingers higher within the pant leg and over the man's calf. It was scorching—the heat of this man's skin; the radiance of him; the crackling tension undeniable between them. Emil basked in it like a goanna seeking the sun. He wanted to burn beneath it.
"I want to touch you without restraint. Without hindrance of layers and clothes," Emil's eyes fell to the seam of those thick lips, to the pink there between the tiers. There, his gaze lingered for a heartbeat or more before the cold blue of his eyes flickered back up to meet smoky obsidian. "Be it here within one of the rooms, or a hotel room, I do not care. Choose the backdrop, mio caro, and I will follow. Just grant me a taste of you, now, before we go."
The trouser leg bunched over Emil's wrist as he slid his hand to grip and squeeze at the man's calf. The other, having held the back of a slightly bent knee, smoothed upward and around to stroke and squeeze at the front of his stranger's thigh. Bold, blatant, if a little presumptive. Further, he leaned, and the dark curls of his hair shifted forward over his silken shirt and the sweep of his collarbone. Emil reached higher, squeezed at the muscle near the junction between leg and hip, and drew the firm grip downward in a slow stroke of his stranger's entire thigh. The table groaned in its effort to hold Emil back.
Icicle eyes sparkled as Emil said in a voice as deep as their shared whisky; "Please."
All said and done, Emil's terms spoken, he was forced to sink his teeth into the soft inside of his cheek as the man before him exhaled those words. His own blood ran hot, the man's sigh striking like a bolt straight into his loins. Your nightmares. Your dreams. I come from across the sea, where pleasure like this is revered and not made so covert. Emil said nothing.
He said nothing still as he watched the beginning of a shake of a head 'no'. No deal. No dice. Emil wondered if his stranger felt the same ice cold that had torn through him just moments before at the prospect of submitting to the other. A vulnerable thing that he had never done and had believed he'd never give to another, Emil wondered if the shock of it held the same type of cold resistance within the man before him. Like calling to like, he had thought before when he'd first drawn himself into the man's presence earlier. If his stranger were to reject his counter offer, Emil would understand why; for he'd felt it flash through him all the same.
The silence stretched, and Emil began to lean away into the plush of the booth. The hand at the back of his stranger's knee did not retreat, however, as the other moved to smear down the top of his own thigh. Sometimes space and time was all that it took, and he provided so in the way of gentle silence. Hell, Emil had felt how his initial instinct had lashed and was privy to how that, too, could be tamed by his desire. Perhaps he…
His stranger drank the remaining whiskey within his glass in one swallow, letting the tumbler knock hard against dark wood. Emil's heart stuttered and stopped, he was sure, as he waited with bated breath. Yes? No? Absolutely never? Tell me, please. A nod. Just once. Acceptance. Emil released a breath through his nose that he had not realised he'd been holding and gripped the back of his stranger's knee tighter.
More, his stranger spoke, but Emil was enamoured by the movement of his lips, enraptured by the future before he and this man, both. Aftercare, yes. Traffic light system, absolutely. It was surprising that Emil could hear anything beyond the bound of his own pulse within his ears at that moment.
Pale eyes lifted to fall into darker gaze as Emil's thumb stroked over the tumbler just as the other dug into the soft back of a knee. "Your requirement for aftercare goes both ways, mio caro. I know how it feels to experience the drop as a Dom, and that isn't something that should be ignored. I want you to tell me what works for you best, and to let me provide you with it." Emil's hand left the tumbler and disappeared beneath the table. "I will give you the reassurance you need, just as much as I will communicate with you throughout and after. I'll use that system, rather than a word."
Aftercare could be a myriad of things between them—a bath, a touch, gentler sex, first aid, a discussion, a massage. Emil held no true preference for himself, but felt the need to speak his next words in the uncertainty of what his stranger would provide.
"I should warn you that I'm allergic to lavender." It was easier that way. Allergies weren't questioned. While Emil's stranger had proven himself accepting of rejection—and he no doubt expected the man to be as equally accepting of another boundary—his own self feared speaking it aloud of what it truly was; a trigger.
The pressure of his stranger's toe against the apex of his groin had an electric thrill rushing through him. Perhaps others would have leant away, dragged their hips over the seat to grant themselves an inch of space to themselves beneath the other's foot. There was an ache to it, yes, but it was nothing against the fire of the ache within Emil's chest to be closer.
Instead, the hand that had been kneading the back of his stranger's knee clenched tighter. He used the man's own mass to pull himself forward to the very edge of the booth's seat. If it was not for the table, he'd have slipped to his knees then and there, between this man's feet. Emil was kept apart from him, and the hard knock of the table against his diaphragm had the breath racing free of him as he leant forward and clasped his stranger's ankle in his other, warm hand.
"I want to touch you," Emil confessed, low and wanton with his next breath. Thick fingers slipped under the cuff of his stranger's pants, climbing over the soft ripple of a dress sock to sneak high to that lush, dark skin. Emil found it, the heat of this man's skin, as he brushed two fingers higher within the pant leg and over the man's calf. It was scorching—the heat of this man's skin; the radiance of him; the crackling tension undeniable between them. Emil basked in it like a goanna seeking the sun. He wanted to burn beneath it.
"I want to touch you without restraint. Without hindrance of layers and clothes," Emil's eyes fell to the seam of those thick lips, to the pink there between the tiers. There, his gaze lingered for a heartbeat or more before the cold blue of his eyes flickered back up to meet smoky obsidian. "Be it here within one of the rooms, or a hotel room, I do not care. Choose the backdrop, mio caro, and I will follow. Just grant me a taste of you, now, before we go."
The trouser leg bunched over Emil's wrist as he slid his hand to grip and squeeze at the man's calf. The other, having held the back of a slightly bent knee, smoothed upward and around to stroke and squeeze at the front of his stranger's thigh. Bold, blatant, if a little presumptive. Further, he leaned, and the dark curls of his hair shifted forward over his silken shirt and the sweep of his collarbone. Emil reached higher, squeezed at the muscle near the junction between leg and hip, and drew the firm grip downward in a slow stroke of his stranger's entire thigh. The table groaned in its effort to hold Emil back.
Icicle eyes sparkled as Emil said in a voice as deep as their shared whisky; "Please."
ThenThereWereNone
Lurking One
- Joined
- Jun 22, 2019
That they were on the same page as far as aftercare was concerned, and whatever that would mean for either of them when the time came, smoothed away the last fragment of tension that came with Alexis’ agreeing to submit to the man across from him. His head still couldn't quite grasp the enormity of what he'd agreed to. He’d been denying Bunny for years. But this man had asked him only once, and he’d said yes almost on the spot. He shoved the thought aside. He'd have plenty of time for that later when he was alone. For the moment there was only now, and the man's grip pressing firmer behind his knee and the bemused discovery that he was so damn sensitive to it.
Allergic to lavender. Alexis nodded, "Thank you for letting me know." His voice though low, was thick and sticky with a restraint hard fought for. He didn't think he’d ever had such antagonistic feelings toward a table before.
The silent force of his stranger as he not only pressed himself forward into the less than light pressure of Alexis' foot against his groin, but that he used his leg as leverage to do so had him shaking his head on a low huff of amusement. The table shook beneath the impact of his stranger’s forward momentum, and Alexis winced in sympathy. That had to fucking hurt. The man's eagerness was contagious. But Alexis kept himself still. His skin lit with a sizzling current of electricity that went right to the rising tent in the front of his pants.
It only grew worse, and Alexis parted his lips to tell the man to cut it out. But the words caught in his throat, as that low, wanton confession licked against his ear. The man’s fingers pressing against his skin had him biting the inside of his cheek. You and me and both, Blue Eyes. But his tongue wouldn't work. He swallowed hard, the tip of his tongue dragging over his bottom lip.
The pin in his hand, he pressed it against the meat of his thumb, hard enough for a pinch of pain to bloom from its point, a warning that if he pressed any harder, he'd pierce skin. It centred him. Barely. "What happened to nothing public?" His tone, heavy with amusement, came out in a breathless rush, and he would have very much been eager for a taste of the man. Right then and there. He wanted it so bad it manifested as a physical ache that crawled and tightened around his chest before it trickled down to the core of him. He shifted slightly in his seat, muscles bunching beneath the firm squeeze and drag of the man's hand against his thigh. That ‘Please’ nearly broke him.
Alexis shook his head. "No.”
How was it possible to be so turned that it began to morph into something dark—almost angry—with a maw full of razor-edged teeth? Cruel, sadistic teeth that wanted to sink into flesh and taste blood.
“You want a taste, you’ll have to earn it.” And just like that, he found that fraying edge of control and coiled it up tight. “You can start by letting go of me and redirecting that lack of restraint into finding us a room you like here.” A hotel room was just a little too far away, and Alexis' patience didn’t go that far. Not right then, when all he could think about was undoing the man sat opposite him, who’d already began to unravel the both of them and they hadn’t even left the damn table yet.
Once he was released, he slid free of the booth, maintaining a deliberate distance and pocketing the gold pin as he tipped his head in the direction of the stage. “The Dungeon is through the door on the opposite side. After you.”
Allergic to lavender. Alexis nodded, "Thank you for letting me know." His voice though low, was thick and sticky with a restraint hard fought for. He didn't think he’d ever had such antagonistic feelings toward a table before.
The silent force of his stranger as he not only pressed himself forward into the less than light pressure of Alexis' foot against his groin, but that he used his leg as leverage to do so had him shaking his head on a low huff of amusement. The table shook beneath the impact of his stranger’s forward momentum, and Alexis winced in sympathy. That had to fucking hurt. The man's eagerness was contagious. But Alexis kept himself still. His skin lit with a sizzling current of electricity that went right to the rising tent in the front of his pants.
It only grew worse, and Alexis parted his lips to tell the man to cut it out. But the words caught in his throat, as that low, wanton confession licked against his ear. The man’s fingers pressing against his skin had him biting the inside of his cheek. You and me and both, Blue Eyes. But his tongue wouldn't work. He swallowed hard, the tip of his tongue dragging over his bottom lip.
The pin in his hand, he pressed it against the meat of his thumb, hard enough for a pinch of pain to bloom from its point, a warning that if he pressed any harder, he'd pierce skin. It centred him. Barely. "What happened to nothing public?" His tone, heavy with amusement, came out in a breathless rush, and he would have very much been eager for a taste of the man. Right then and there. He wanted it so bad it manifested as a physical ache that crawled and tightened around his chest before it trickled down to the core of him. He shifted slightly in his seat, muscles bunching beneath the firm squeeze and drag of the man's hand against his thigh. That ‘Please’ nearly broke him.
Alexis shook his head. "No.”
How was it possible to be so turned that it began to morph into something dark—almost angry—with a maw full of razor-edged teeth? Cruel, sadistic teeth that wanted to sink into flesh and taste blood.
“You want a taste, you’ll have to earn it.” And just like that, he found that fraying edge of control and coiled it up tight. “You can start by letting go of me and redirecting that lack of restraint into finding us a room you like here.” A hotel room was just a little too far away, and Alexis' patience didn’t go that far. Not right then, when all he could think about was undoing the man sat opposite him, who’d already began to unravel the both of them and they hadn’t even left the damn table yet.
Once he was released, he slid free of the booth, maintaining a deliberate distance and pocketing the gold pin as he tipped his head in the direction of the stage. “The Dungeon is through the door on the opposite side. After you.”