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
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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'.
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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.”
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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."
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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.”
OP
OP
MoldaviteGreen
The world’s upside down here…
- Joined
- Dec 7, 2018
The tip of a tongue slipped between thick lips, dragging over the pulp of a lower tier to leave it glistening wet. How easy it would have been to drag this man into his lap if it were not for that table. How easy it would have been for Emil to find himself upon his knees between his stranger's feet, a position of submission the man yearned for but with Emil's hands in his hair stealing him down into that kiss. Emil thought it cruel, for his stranger to submit him to watching the slow trail of that tongue between the seam of his lips. That's what I want, Emil thought, the satin of his trousers doing nothing to hide the growing thick of him. That's the taste that I want. Your mouth. Your spit. Your tongue. Let me have it.
His stranger's mention of his earlier boundary drew, at first, a soft frown between those dark brows. A kiss was what he ached for; to feel the shape of those thick lips crush against his own until he felt the shape of them even in sleep and separation. Yet, another shake of a head came, the beads within the locs glinting in the low light, and that frown deepened. Emil had been denied so much, and yet granted far more. It was selfish of him to grow dark from it, but it festered all the same.
"You want a taste, you'll have to earn it."
Emil was no longer thinking of the taste of this man's mouth. "Santo cielo…" a breathless prayer, barely above a whisper, as he thrust himself back into the cushion of the booth. The reminder of his lack of restraint did not serve as the cold rush it may have been from anyone else. Emil's heart was hammering against his ribs, his pulse rushing through his ears, and for a moment it was all that he could hear. A man so usually distant and cold, Emil had found himself thrust into fire and consumed by the inferno. This man shall be the end of me.
This dangerous game of theirs should have been enough for Emil to see reason. Yet, as he lingered within the booth and watched his stranger come to stand and loom over him, he considered his unusual lack of self-discipline. Inspired, Emil knew, by the sheer gravitational pull of this man above him and a need festering within him that he'd never considered to be real.
Emil should have been acting nonchalant to avoid frightening of his stranger so early, or seeming too keen. He should not have asked for such or confessed as much in order to avoid the transfer of power. He certainly should not have risen from the booth, moved to stand so very close to his stranger, and reached to brush his thumb over a dark cheek as he said; "Those on the stage are beautiful, but they are nothing compared to you." Emil captured a hand, stole it upwards to turn and reveal the soft ebony of an inner wrist. There, he pressed his lips in a lingering kiss, glacial eyes cast upwards before he murmured against skin; "I can't wait to have you bound, another night, all pretty for me."
A single squeeze to his stranger's hand, and Emil lowered it between them; brushing the pad of his thumb over a little finger before drawing away. To hold his stranger's hand and lead him through the space across the front of the stage might have been too much. Restraint, this man had asked for. Emil would deny them both the tentative touches. He filled his hand, instead, with the bottle of bourbon whiskey.
"Come then," Emil said over his shoulder as he began to move forth. "Let me find something for us."
The broad door to the Dungeon was met with a firm press of a hand, held open for his stranger before Emil slipped past. The deep crimson and cobalt blue of the space stretched on into the corridors. Winding and narrow, the carpet underfoot was plush as they walked. Emil took a corner, the wall before them at the intersection of hallways decorated with a large, lounging leopard. Two options lay before them; to the left, a corridor illuminated in blue, and to the right, one illuminated in red. There, Emil lingered.
Red, it was.
The Dungeon, so it was, was divided by taste. The large room that spilled out before them was grand; illuminated crimson and furnished in black leather and silver hardware. What lay beyond the other corridor cast in a blue glow would remain unknown. Instead, Emil observed the myriad of play before them; public and rough. There was a man in a cage, his face bound in a leather mask akin to a dog's muzzle; on his knees beneath a women sat atop the cold iron bars. There was another strapped into a swing, their head tossed back in gagged ecstasy as a line of people formed behind the leather-bound man drilling hard into their hole. Public was not what Emil wanted for he and his stranger, but he could appreciate the beauty of it.
Yet, he slipped by and stalked smoothly to a darkened corridor at the corner of the space. A hallway, shadowy, that housed several doors. Four were locked, three were not. Emil slowed before the first but continued on, considered the second, and then reached for the silver of the third doorknob. He paused, casting a look to his stranger. No true hesitancy. No regret. Simply sheer, wondrous thrill and anticipation.
The door creaked as it opened, revealing a low-lot room. A swing stood in one corner, a cross within another. A rack filled with whips, paddles, ropes and cuffs lined an entire wall. The bed was central, its sheets untouched, with metal hoops drilled into the headboard for attachments. All things that Emil had used but never felt upon himself.
Emil held the door wide as he lingered upon the threshold. With a glimmer of wickedness in his eyes, he said; "After you, il mio tesoro." His stranger would have to press by him to step inside.
His stranger's mention of his earlier boundary drew, at first, a soft frown between those dark brows. A kiss was what he ached for; to feel the shape of those thick lips crush against his own until he felt the shape of them even in sleep and separation. Yet, another shake of a head came, the beads within the locs glinting in the low light, and that frown deepened. Emil had been denied so much, and yet granted far more. It was selfish of him to grow dark from it, but it festered all the same.
"You want a taste, you'll have to earn it."
Emil was no longer thinking of the taste of this man's mouth. "Santo cielo…" a breathless prayer, barely above a whisper, as he thrust himself back into the cushion of the booth. The reminder of his lack of restraint did not serve as the cold rush it may have been from anyone else. Emil's heart was hammering against his ribs, his pulse rushing through his ears, and for a moment it was all that he could hear. A man so usually distant and cold, Emil had found himself thrust into fire and consumed by the inferno. This man shall be the end of me.
This dangerous game of theirs should have been enough for Emil to see reason. Yet, as he lingered within the booth and watched his stranger come to stand and loom over him, he considered his unusual lack of self-discipline. Inspired, Emil knew, by the sheer gravitational pull of this man above him and a need festering within him that he'd never considered to be real.
Emil should have been acting nonchalant to avoid frightening of his stranger so early, or seeming too keen. He should not have asked for such or confessed as much in order to avoid the transfer of power. He certainly should not have risen from the booth, moved to stand so very close to his stranger, and reached to brush his thumb over a dark cheek as he said; "Those on the stage are beautiful, but they are nothing compared to you." Emil captured a hand, stole it upwards to turn and reveal the soft ebony of an inner wrist. There, he pressed his lips in a lingering kiss, glacial eyes cast upwards before he murmured against skin; "I can't wait to have you bound, another night, all pretty for me."
A single squeeze to his stranger's hand, and Emil lowered it between them; brushing the pad of his thumb over a little finger before drawing away. To hold his stranger's hand and lead him through the space across the front of the stage might have been too much. Restraint, this man had asked for. Emil would deny them both the tentative touches. He filled his hand, instead, with the bottle of bourbon whiskey.
"Come then," Emil said over his shoulder as he began to move forth. "Let me find something for us."
The broad door to the Dungeon was met with a firm press of a hand, held open for his stranger before Emil slipped past. The deep crimson and cobalt blue of the space stretched on into the corridors. Winding and narrow, the carpet underfoot was plush as they walked. Emil took a corner, the wall before them at the intersection of hallways decorated with a large, lounging leopard. Two options lay before them; to the left, a corridor illuminated in blue, and to the right, one illuminated in red. There, Emil lingered.
Red, it was.
The Dungeon, so it was, was divided by taste. The large room that spilled out before them was grand; illuminated crimson and furnished in black leather and silver hardware. What lay beyond the other corridor cast in a blue glow would remain unknown. Instead, Emil observed the myriad of play before them; public and rough. There was a man in a cage, his face bound in a leather mask akin to a dog's muzzle; on his knees beneath a women sat atop the cold iron bars. There was another strapped into a swing, their head tossed back in gagged ecstasy as a line of people formed behind the leather-bound man drilling hard into their hole. Public was not what Emil wanted for he and his stranger, but he could appreciate the beauty of it.
Yet, he slipped by and stalked smoothly to a darkened corridor at the corner of the space. A hallway, shadowy, that housed several doors. Four were locked, three were not. Emil slowed before the first but continued on, considered the second, and then reached for the silver of the third doorknob. He paused, casting a look to his stranger. No true hesitancy. No regret. Simply sheer, wondrous thrill and anticipation.
The door creaked as it opened, revealing a low-lot room. A swing stood in one corner, a cross within another. A rack filled with whips, paddles, ropes and cuffs lined an entire wall. The bed was central, its sheets untouched, with metal hoops drilled into the headboard for attachments. All things that Emil had used but never felt upon himself.
Emil held the door wide as he lingered upon the threshold. With a glimmer of wickedness in his eyes, he said; "After you, il mio tesoro." His stranger would have to press by him to step inside.
ThenThereWereNone
Lurking One
- Joined
- Jun 22, 2019
"Those on the stage are beautiful, but they are nothing compared to you."
Alexis’ skin burned beneath the flattery, and the thumb brushing against his cheek not helping any. He knew how to graciously take a compliment. But something about the man before him left him feeling like he was on unsteady ground. Like was being thrust right back to his younger years, floundering and still finding himself.
“All that flattery hasn’t gotten you in trouble yet?” His tone was teasing, an undertone of breathlessness catching as the man pressed his lips against sensitive inner wrist. It was an electric shock straight to his cock. He tried to breathe through it. The promise of what the future held presented as both exciting and terrifying in equal measure, and he didn’t know what to do with it.
Compartmentalise.
Stay present.
The release of his hand left him with a brief but acute sense of loss. He clenched his hand into a fist before flexing his fingers with a shake, trying to dispel the phantom presence of the other’s grasp. What’d it say that he was feeling envious of a damned whiskey bottle; preferring that were his hand clasped in the other man’s instead.
Alexis shook his head at his foolishness as he followed after his stranger, keeping close enough not to lose him, but not so close as to crowd. The path through the Dungeon was a familiar one that he'd traversed frequently. The public play room, spacious and filled with all flavour of carnal delights, was usually where he stopped. The majority of his play at the club had been of the public variety. What could he say: he loved an audience.
Not to say he didn’t enjoy and appreciate the more intimate play of a private setting. It was all about time and place, and partner.
The sounds from the main room began to muffle and dim as they progressed deeper down the hall. A level of quiet intimacy lent itself to the shadowy passageway. Alexis wasn’t the overly superstitious type, but there was something almost reassuring about the other man choosing the third door. If asked about it, he wouldn’t be able to explain it. Only that it just felt right, in a universe-affirming sort of way.
The pause drew a raised brow. Not quite a question, so much as recognition. His pulse kicking up a nervous beat—anticipation sharp and breathless—he stepped closer, a faint knowing smile tugging at his lips as he met the wickedness in that crystalline gaze. Cheeky bastard.
Instead of pressing past, he pressed close as he slipped sideways over the threshold, hooking two fingers behind the loosely tied bow of the man’s silk belt as he stepped backwards, tugging his stranger with him. Dark gaze held that of glacial blue as he reached over the man’s shoulder to push the door closed, before backing him into the solid surface. And just as he'd been itching to do since the moment those locks had tumbled free from their pinned prison, he reached up, the tips of his fingers sliding through the silken strands to tuck behind the man's ear.
Leaning forward, the thick of his lips brushed against the man’s temple. Lingered. "You keep it up with all the nicknames, we're gonna have ourselves a problem when I come to expect it. You call all your playmates that?" Murmured against warm skin—light and teasing— there was no spite in the question. He inhaled softly as he combed his fingers through the man’s hair, grasping firmly. The scent of the man was dark, earthy, warm, with a sensual afternote. And something else. He dipped his head, nuzzling the man’s neck just beneath his jaw. Ink or the scent of a new car, or was it leather? He couldn’t place it. And that was almost frustrating. But he could inhale the man all day, the scent of him made Alexis’ mouth water.
He hummed quietly as he straightened up and pressed a lingering kiss to the corner of his stranger’s mouth, the stubble slightly ticklish against his lips. Pulling away, his voice was thick with restrained need, “Why do you smell so damn good? I just want to lick you all over.”
Alexis’ skin burned beneath the flattery, and the thumb brushing against his cheek not helping any. He knew how to graciously take a compliment. But something about the man before him left him feeling like he was on unsteady ground. Like was being thrust right back to his younger years, floundering and still finding himself.
“All that flattery hasn’t gotten you in trouble yet?” His tone was teasing, an undertone of breathlessness catching as the man pressed his lips against sensitive inner wrist. It was an electric shock straight to his cock. He tried to breathe through it. The promise of what the future held presented as both exciting and terrifying in equal measure, and he didn’t know what to do with it.
Compartmentalise.
Stay present.
The release of his hand left him with a brief but acute sense of loss. He clenched his hand into a fist before flexing his fingers with a shake, trying to dispel the phantom presence of the other’s grasp. What’d it say that he was feeling envious of a damned whiskey bottle; preferring that were his hand clasped in the other man’s instead.
Alexis shook his head at his foolishness as he followed after his stranger, keeping close enough not to lose him, but not so close as to crowd. The path through the Dungeon was a familiar one that he'd traversed frequently. The public play room, spacious and filled with all flavour of carnal delights, was usually where he stopped. The majority of his play at the club had been of the public variety. What could he say: he loved an audience.
Not to say he didn’t enjoy and appreciate the more intimate play of a private setting. It was all about time and place, and partner.
The sounds from the main room began to muffle and dim as they progressed deeper down the hall. A level of quiet intimacy lent itself to the shadowy passageway. Alexis wasn’t the overly superstitious type, but there was something almost reassuring about the other man choosing the third door. If asked about it, he wouldn’t be able to explain it. Only that it just felt right, in a universe-affirming sort of way.
The pause drew a raised brow. Not quite a question, so much as recognition. His pulse kicking up a nervous beat—anticipation sharp and breathless—he stepped closer, a faint knowing smile tugging at his lips as he met the wickedness in that crystalline gaze. Cheeky bastard.
Instead of pressing past, he pressed close as he slipped sideways over the threshold, hooking two fingers behind the loosely tied bow of the man’s silk belt as he stepped backwards, tugging his stranger with him. Dark gaze held that of glacial blue as he reached over the man’s shoulder to push the door closed, before backing him into the solid surface. And just as he'd been itching to do since the moment those locks had tumbled free from their pinned prison, he reached up, the tips of his fingers sliding through the silken strands to tuck behind the man's ear.
Leaning forward, the thick of his lips brushed against the man’s temple. Lingered. "You keep it up with all the nicknames, we're gonna have ourselves a problem when I come to expect it. You call all your playmates that?" Murmured against warm skin—light and teasing— there was no spite in the question. He inhaled softly as he combed his fingers through the man’s hair, grasping firmly. The scent of the man was dark, earthy, warm, with a sensual afternote. And something else. He dipped his head, nuzzling the man’s neck just beneath his jaw. Ink or the scent of a new car, or was it leather? He couldn’t place it. And that was almost frustrating. But he could inhale the man all day, the scent of him made Alexis’ mouth water.
He hummed quietly as he straightened up and pressed a lingering kiss to the corner of his stranger’s mouth, the stubble slightly ticklish against his lips. Pulling away, his voice was thick with restrained need, “Why do you smell so damn good? I just want to lick you all over.”
OP
OP
MoldaviteGreen
The world’s upside down here…
- Joined
- Dec 7, 2018
The silver of the doorknob was cool against his palm as Emil lingered upon the threshold of the space. Their space, soon to be, and that was what had Emil's skin flushed and feverish. Oh, how he craved to take his stranger's hand within his own to lead him through the space. Emil still craved it now, as he held the door wide open and observed that devious smile pull at his stranger's thick lips. But it was restraint this man had wanted from him, and in doing so, Emil had provided his first act of submission: obedience.
So, as his stranger drew close and hooked his fingers within the tie between his hips, a groan spilled free from Emil. Low, wanton, a fracture of that very same restraint as their bodies pressed close and their heat mingled. This was what he'd wanted within the booth, if it hadn't been for that fucking table. Emil's hand captured the wrist by his stomach, loose enough to feel the corded tendons flex and strain as fingers held him by the loose bow of silk. Emil licked at his lower lip as he allowed himself to be pulled across the threshold and pressed back against the door.
The wind wasn't knocked free from Emil's lungs by the impact, but it left him in the form of a shaky exhale all the same. He pressed back into the door, a hand having found purchase upon his stranger's hips, fingers digging in to draw him closer. Together, they moved so fluidly. Where Emil was manoeuvred by strong, dark hands, he captured and pulled with his own. A knee bent, creating space for his stranger to press closer if he wished. God, did Emil hope that his stranger would fill it.
His touch slid under the leather of the man's jacket, but paused as he felt a gentle touch against the side of his face. Emil hadn't looked down, he couldn't look anywhere else but into that enigmatic gaze, but found himself refocusing as he realised his stranger was brushing fingertips through his hair and over the shell of an ear. Fond, it seemed. Tender, it could have been misinterpreted as. Perhaps Emil's heart stuttered then because he had always worn his hair tied up or braided back when in play. His hair had never been touched in a manner as intimate as this.
His quiet seemed to embolden his stranger. Thick lips brushed against his temple, and Emil's fingers beneath the man's jacket curled, instead, down over the waistband. He wondered whether the hammer of his own pulse within his ears could be heard as his stranger leant closer, still. The man's heat was radiant, and it washed over Emil and seeped down into his bones. He felt it within his sternum, spreading out like rays of the sun across his ribs, to bury deeper into the tissues and viscera. Everything else in existence from that moment forward, Emil knew, would never feel hot enough.
It took a heartbeat longer before Emil could be sure that the velvet of his voice would come smooth. "Will that become a problem?" He turned his face just a little, pressing his cheek into the heat of the man's own; a cold-blooded reptile seeking the sun. "You coming to expect it?"
Emil wanted it. He wanted the man to yearn for his words spoken in his mother tongue; glimpses and pieces of praise and appreciation. He wanted there to be times beyond this and the next for this man against him to become so utterly used to it that its absence would leave him starved. A weapon, perhaps, but one Emil would not choose to wield. He merely wanted this softness to be usual between them, if ever time beyond this was granted.
"No." Hard, firm. Emil's confession was spoken bluntly because he wished for the man against him to know that this was not usual. "No, I do not." As his fingers curled a little deeper beyond the waistband of his stranger's trousers, he applied pressure with his knuckles and smeared his thumb over skin. He'd venture no further until his stranger proved just as bold, but the warmth against his fingers had him gritting his teeth against a shiver. "But you are not just a playmate, are you, mio caro? You are something else. Something other." Emil slipped his hand free and smeared his palm up over his stranger's stomach. "I'm not sure what you are, but I am enthralled by you. A siren, perhaps. My final lure. And how gladly I shall drown in you."
Thick fingers skimmed up through his hair, curled in at their roots to tug and to hold. His stranger held Emil's head entirely at his will, and a hiss of breath came between clenched teeth. Grit not because of the sting and the bloom of warmth that came so deliciously across his scalp, but because this was electric and the man's deep breath at his throat was fucking cruel. There, his stranger nuzzled, and Emil's hungry hand smoothed over the subtle angle of the man's waist to sink blunt nails into his flank. Emil groaned as his other hand clenched hard upon the neck of the liquor bottle. "Oh, sei un fottuto diavolo."
The door at his back was, then, the only reason that Emil was still standing. Molten, that bent leg slowly swept his knee up along the outside of a thigh, a heel lazily tucking in against calf. He wanted to become tangled, to become so entertained that not even the gods themselves would be able to discern where one man began and the other ended. The hand in his hair, fisted and tight, was like a switch Emil hadn't known existed. It had something hot and syrupy forming in his core, as he tried to press his nose into his stranger's locs.
"Not there," Emil seethed, but it was only half complaint. My mouth. He wanted their noses to be crushed together, a kiss to his mouth finally granted. Instead, he was left wrapping a leg over the man's thigh, pressing his hips forward until their lower halves collided, and drinking his stranger's scent deeply. Intoxicating, it was, and utterly nameless. It was only him, this man, unable to be likened to anything else Emil knew simply because nothing else was good enough. Deep. Rich. Like cardamom, and petrichor. The scent before a raging storm, and Emil was throwing himself into the fray of it.
When his stranger granted him a moment of reprieve—though, not quite long enough for Emil to school his breathing into something far more even and nonchalant—he met the man's gaze with a sharpness in his own. "You should." His fingers slipped to press in against the small of his stranger's back. "You should lick me all over, beginning at my mouth, right where I want you."
Submission, clearly, did not come easy to either of them, but Emil didn't care to pretend. He'd been the one to settle himself in the booth and wait for far longer than he should have. He'd been the one to capture the man's knee, to draw them closer, to learn his favourite drink. It had been his stranger who had spoken plainly of their mutual desire and laid out the initial offer upon the table. Like Lucifer, Emil's fall was destined after their collision. It was only a matter of bending himself to the other's will and allowing himself to feel that free-fall.
A dark brow arched. He might have seemed smug if it wasn't for the restraint he was so desperately clutching onto; his last little shred of obedience. "Or do you plan to preach patience and restraint to me, and leave us both aching? You want to lick me. Do it."
Emil angled his hips forward and peeled his rear from the door. The thick of him ground hard against his stranger's thigh, the silk of his trousers doing nothing to hide the hard swell. "Are you a masochist, Amore?" He tried to tilt his head, but felt the pull of his hair within the thick of his stranger's fingers. The sharp inhale wasn't meant to be heard. "Oh, how I adore them," he teased, pressing his heel harder into the man's firm calf. Emil's nails dragged down over the valley of the man's back. "But now isn't the time for your pain, as per our deal. I'll grant you all that and more, come soon."
An arm wrapped around his stranger's back, bottle still held in hand, while Emil's other finding its way to the side of the man's throat. "Right now, I want you to fucking kiss me; hard and fucking rough."
There was mischief in the cold of his eyes as his pupils stretched wider in blatant need. "Give a man an incentive to get on his knees for you, yes?" A smirk, devious, as he fought the hand in his hair and leaned forward an inch. Hot breath over thick lips, Emil searched those obsidian eyes deep as he purred; "I'll be so good for you, angiolo."
So, as his stranger drew close and hooked his fingers within the tie between his hips, a groan spilled free from Emil. Low, wanton, a fracture of that very same restraint as their bodies pressed close and their heat mingled. This was what he'd wanted within the booth, if it hadn't been for that fucking table. Emil's hand captured the wrist by his stomach, loose enough to feel the corded tendons flex and strain as fingers held him by the loose bow of silk. Emil licked at his lower lip as he allowed himself to be pulled across the threshold and pressed back against the door.
The wind wasn't knocked free from Emil's lungs by the impact, but it left him in the form of a shaky exhale all the same. He pressed back into the door, a hand having found purchase upon his stranger's hips, fingers digging in to draw him closer. Together, they moved so fluidly. Where Emil was manoeuvred by strong, dark hands, he captured and pulled with his own. A knee bent, creating space for his stranger to press closer if he wished. God, did Emil hope that his stranger would fill it.
His touch slid under the leather of the man's jacket, but paused as he felt a gentle touch against the side of his face. Emil hadn't looked down, he couldn't look anywhere else but into that enigmatic gaze, but found himself refocusing as he realised his stranger was brushing fingertips through his hair and over the shell of an ear. Fond, it seemed. Tender, it could have been misinterpreted as. Perhaps Emil's heart stuttered then because he had always worn his hair tied up or braided back when in play. His hair had never been touched in a manner as intimate as this.
His quiet seemed to embolden his stranger. Thick lips brushed against his temple, and Emil's fingers beneath the man's jacket curled, instead, down over the waistband. He wondered whether the hammer of his own pulse within his ears could be heard as his stranger leant closer, still. The man's heat was radiant, and it washed over Emil and seeped down into his bones. He felt it within his sternum, spreading out like rays of the sun across his ribs, to bury deeper into the tissues and viscera. Everything else in existence from that moment forward, Emil knew, would never feel hot enough.
It took a heartbeat longer before Emil could be sure that the velvet of his voice would come smooth. "Will that become a problem?" He turned his face just a little, pressing his cheek into the heat of the man's own; a cold-blooded reptile seeking the sun. "You coming to expect it?"
Emil wanted it. He wanted the man to yearn for his words spoken in his mother tongue; glimpses and pieces of praise and appreciation. He wanted there to be times beyond this and the next for this man against him to become so utterly used to it that its absence would leave him starved. A weapon, perhaps, but one Emil would not choose to wield. He merely wanted this softness to be usual between them, if ever time beyond this was granted.
"No." Hard, firm. Emil's confession was spoken bluntly because he wished for the man against him to know that this was not usual. "No, I do not." As his fingers curled a little deeper beyond the waistband of his stranger's trousers, he applied pressure with his knuckles and smeared his thumb over skin. He'd venture no further until his stranger proved just as bold, but the warmth against his fingers had him gritting his teeth against a shiver. "But you are not just a playmate, are you, mio caro? You are something else. Something other." Emil slipped his hand free and smeared his palm up over his stranger's stomach. "I'm not sure what you are, but I am enthralled by you. A siren, perhaps. My final lure. And how gladly I shall drown in you."
Thick fingers skimmed up through his hair, curled in at their roots to tug and to hold. His stranger held Emil's head entirely at his will, and a hiss of breath came between clenched teeth. Grit not because of the sting and the bloom of warmth that came so deliciously across his scalp, but because this was electric and the man's deep breath at his throat was fucking cruel. There, his stranger nuzzled, and Emil's hungry hand smoothed over the subtle angle of the man's waist to sink blunt nails into his flank. Emil groaned as his other hand clenched hard upon the neck of the liquor bottle. "Oh, sei un fottuto diavolo."
The door at his back was, then, the only reason that Emil was still standing. Molten, that bent leg slowly swept his knee up along the outside of a thigh, a heel lazily tucking in against calf. He wanted to become tangled, to become so entertained that not even the gods themselves would be able to discern where one man began and the other ended. The hand in his hair, fisted and tight, was like a switch Emil hadn't known existed. It had something hot and syrupy forming in his core, as he tried to press his nose into his stranger's locs.
"Not there," Emil seethed, but it was only half complaint. My mouth. He wanted their noses to be crushed together, a kiss to his mouth finally granted. Instead, he was left wrapping a leg over the man's thigh, pressing his hips forward until their lower halves collided, and drinking his stranger's scent deeply. Intoxicating, it was, and utterly nameless. It was only him, this man, unable to be likened to anything else Emil knew simply because nothing else was good enough. Deep. Rich. Like cardamom, and petrichor. The scent before a raging storm, and Emil was throwing himself into the fray of it.
When his stranger granted him a moment of reprieve—though, not quite long enough for Emil to school his breathing into something far more even and nonchalant—he met the man's gaze with a sharpness in his own. "You should." His fingers slipped to press in against the small of his stranger's back. "You should lick me all over, beginning at my mouth, right where I want you."
Submission, clearly, did not come easy to either of them, but Emil didn't care to pretend. He'd been the one to settle himself in the booth and wait for far longer than he should have. He'd been the one to capture the man's knee, to draw them closer, to learn his favourite drink. It had been his stranger who had spoken plainly of their mutual desire and laid out the initial offer upon the table. Like Lucifer, Emil's fall was destined after their collision. It was only a matter of bending himself to the other's will and allowing himself to feel that free-fall.
A dark brow arched. He might have seemed smug if it wasn't for the restraint he was so desperately clutching onto; his last little shred of obedience. "Or do you plan to preach patience and restraint to me, and leave us both aching? You want to lick me. Do it."
Emil angled his hips forward and peeled his rear from the door. The thick of him ground hard against his stranger's thigh, the silk of his trousers doing nothing to hide the hard swell. "Are you a masochist, Amore?" He tried to tilt his head, but felt the pull of his hair within the thick of his stranger's fingers. The sharp inhale wasn't meant to be heard. "Oh, how I adore them," he teased, pressing his heel harder into the man's firm calf. Emil's nails dragged down over the valley of the man's back. "But now isn't the time for your pain, as per our deal. I'll grant you all that and more, come soon."
An arm wrapped around his stranger's back, bottle still held in hand, while Emil's other finding its way to the side of the man's throat. "Right now, I want you to fucking kiss me; hard and fucking rough."
There was mischief in the cold of his eyes as his pupils stretched wider in blatant need. "Give a man an incentive to get on his knees for you, yes?" A smirk, devious, as he fought the hand in his hair and leaned forward an inch. Hot breath over thick lips, Emil searched those obsidian eyes deep as he purred; "I'll be so good for you, angiolo."
ThenThereWereNone
Lurking One
- Joined
- Jun 22, 2019
There was no thought, only instinct, that had Alexis fitting himself with the ease and perfection of a puzzle piece in the space the other man created. He pressed close into the heat of the other, which radiated outwards, licking at every inch of him, seeping beneath the layers of clothes, leaving his skin singing, begging to have the barriers between them removed.
Would it be a problem? The expectation of those words, sweet in their seduction, spoken in a tongue that held only a semblance of familiarity? “Yes and no.” Yes, it’d be a problem that he could potentially get spoiled, expecting it always. And no, because a part of him didn’t mind the fact that he could get hooked on it. A high he might crave like a bad habit. Already, he loved the way it settled like a flurry of chaos low in his gut, making him feel something he didn’t know how to name.
The blunt adamance of that ‘No’ could have been misconstrued as defensive in the wrong way. Dishonest even. But what reason did the man have to lie? Alexis breathed out, unsteady, his skin burning where the man touched just below the waistband of his pants. He’s telling the truth. A flutter of excitement at being the only one—something other—set up roots in the vacant spaces between his ribs. The man’s words fed the insatiable darkness that forever craved to be possessed and to possess. His stranger was going to prove a danger to his well-being.
There was a subconscious knowing that if he allowed himself to, Alexis would find himself hooked on the other man. A self-fulfilling prophecy of destruction, the only thing awaiting him down that path. "Me vas a arruinar." Barely a whisper, spoken against his stranger’s throat as he inhaled the scent of him. A low groan rumbled in his chest at the press of nails into his side. The jittery huff of a laugh that followed in direct response to the other’s groaned words had Alexis finally pulling back. Granted, he didn’t understand exactly what was said, but he got the gist of it.
If his stranger just knew how much his seething, unfettered display of frustration was a turn-on that only made Alexis all the more adamant not to kiss him, would he still be so demanding of it?
“Oh, I should, should I?” Dark eyes sparkling with mirth, he could feel the unsteady rise and fall of the other man’s chest with how close they were pressed; this, the man had made damn sure of, trapping Alexis against his body with the hook of a muscular leg and strong fingers pressing at his back.
Even despite his stranger’s best efforts to restrain himself, the struggle to fully relinquish control was plain to see. His actions as commanding as his words. Alexis bit the inside of his cheek to keep from adjusting his stance to meet the hardness that ground against his thigh. But what the man said next brought him up short, and he stared at the other for a breathless moment, tightening his fingers in the man’s hair, drawing forth a sharp inhale that he felt as much as he heard.
His eyes searched the other man's, his dark gaze filled with equal parts awe and hunger. “Most people don’t pick up on that unless I explicitly spell it out." He shook his head. Disbelieving. His masochistic urges weren’t something he ever openly advertised; aside from being notoriously picky to the point of being snobbish about it, most who wanted to play explicitly wanted the Sadist, and he was more than happy to oblige.
"Oh you, Diablo are a piece of fucking work." His laugh was a low rumbling exhalation of breathless amusement. The flaming inferno beneath his skin demanded that he inhale in one fell swoop all that the man was willing to give and more. His eyes dropped to the other’s mouth, the only exposure of a break in his resolve. His gaze lingered there, and he ached with the need to do just as the man demanded. To kiss that mouth hard and fucking rough. To leave those plush lips reddened and tender to the touch. The flutter of his pulse, no doubt felt against the man’s hand at his throat, spoke of a want his body couldn’t hide. But there was a delicious ache in restraint, in forcing himself to take his time.
That rumbling purr; the man’s breath hot against his mouth almost broke him. Almost. Alexis leaned forward, licking a slow vertical stripe up across his stranger’s lips, lingering close enough that his words brushed against the man’s mouth, "I meant what I said about you earning it." His hand still hooked at the man's belt loosened to grab hold of one of the loose ends, pulling gently.
The bow came undone with a soft whisper.
"That’s all the incentive you need." He stepped back, untangling himself from the man’s commanding grasp and taking the belt with him as he moved just out of arm's reach. And farther still. At no point did he take his eyes off his stranger. Not that he could have if he wanted to. The man was a magnetic force that demanded one’s full and undivided attention. Made one want to give it willingly.
“Clothes off.” He stopped partway between the bed and the door, “And then I want you to pick,” he nodded his head towards the ‘Wall of Possibilities’ while winding the blue silk fabric about his knuckles, “your weapon of choice and bring it to me.”
Would it be a problem? The expectation of those words, sweet in their seduction, spoken in a tongue that held only a semblance of familiarity? “Yes and no.” Yes, it’d be a problem that he could potentially get spoiled, expecting it always. And no, because a part of him didn’t mind the fact that he could get hooked on it. A high he might crave like a bad habit. Already, he loved the way it settled like a flurry of chaos low in his gut, making him feel something he didn’t know how to name.
The blunt adamance of that ‘No’ could have been misconstrued as defensive in the wrong way. Dishonest even. But what reason did the man have to lie? Alexis breathed out, unsteady, his skin burning where the man touched just below the waistband of his pants. He’s telling the truth. A flutter of excitement at being the only one—something other—set up roots in the vacant spaces between his ribs. The man’s words fed the insatiable darkness that forever craved to be possessed and to possess. His stranger was going to prove a danger to his well-being.
There was a subconscious knowing that if he allowed himself to, Alexis would find himself hooked on the other man. A self-fulfilling prophecy of destruction, the only thing awaiting him down that path. "Me vas a arruinar." Barely a whisper, spoken against his stranger’s throat as he inhaled the scent of him. A low groan rumbled in his chest at the press of nails into his side. The jittery huff of a laugh that followed in direct response to the other’s groaned words had Alexis finally pulling back. Granted, he didn’t understand exactly what was said, but he got the gist of it.
If his stranger just knew how much his seething, unfettered display of frustration was a turn-on that only made Alexis all the more adamant not to kiss him, would he still be so demanding of it?
“Oh, I should, should I?” Dark eyes sparkling with mirth, he could feel the unsteady rise and fall of the other man’s chest with how close they were pressed; this, the man had made damn sure of, trapping Alexis against his body with the hook of a muscular leg and strong fingers pressing at his back.
Even despite his stranger’s best efforts to restrain himself, the struggle to fully relinquish control was plain to see. His actions as commanding as his words. Alexis bit the inside of his cheek to keep from adjusting his stance to meet the hardness that ground against his thigh. But what the man said next brought him up short, and he stared at the other for a breathless moment, tightening his fingers in the man’s hair, drawing forth a sharp inhale that he felt as much as he heard.
His eyes searched the other man's, his dark gaze filled with equal parts awe and hunger. “Most people don’t pick up on that unless I explicitly spell it out." He shook his head. Disbelieving. His masochistic urges weren’t something he ever openly advertised; aside from being notoriously picky to the point of being snobbish about it, most who wanted to play explicitly wanted the Sadist, and he was more than happy to oblige.
"Oh you, Diablo are a piece of fucking work." His laugh was a low rumbling exhalation of breathless amusement. The flaming inferno beneath his skin demanded that he inhale in one fell swoop all that the man was willing to give and more. His eyes dropped to the other’s mouth, the only exposure of a break in his resolve. His gaze lingered there, and he ached with the need to do just as the man demanded. To kiss that mouth hard and fucking rough. To leave those plush lips reddened and tender to the touch. The flutter of his pulse, no doubt felt against the man’s hand at his throat, spoke of a want his body couldn’t hide. But there was a delicious ache in restraint, in forcing himself to take his time.
That rumbling purr; the man’s breath hot against his mouth almost broke him. Almost. Alexis leaned forward, licking a slow vertical stripe up across his stranger’s lips, lingering close enough that his words brushed against the man’s mouth, "I meant what I said about you earning it." His hand still hooked at the man's belt loosened to grab hold of one of the loose ends, pulling gently.
The bow came undone with a soft whisper.
"That’s all the incentive you need." He stepped back, untangling himself from the man’s commanding grasp and taking the belt with him as he moved just out of arm's reach. And farther still. At no point did he take his eyes off his stranger. Not that he could have if he wanted to. The man was a magnetic force that demanded one’s full and undivided attention. Made one want to give it willingly.
“Clothes off.” He stopped partway between the bed and the door, “And then I want you to pick,” he nodded his head towards the ‘Wall of Possibilities’ while winding the blue silk fabric about his knuckles, “your weapon of choice and bring it to me.”
OP
OP
MoldaviteGreen
The world’s upside down here…
- Joined
- Dec 7, 2018
A masochist, indeed. Emil did not miss the micro-expression that flickered across his stranger's face before it was shoved away. He observed closely with cold eyes as the man leant closer, searched Emil's eyes and shook his head. A piece of him that Emil, perhaps, was not meant to have seen. Carefully, Emil said earnestly between them; "Why else would you refuse something we both so very clearly want? Only a masochist would deny himself the pleasure of a kiss he craves so much."
With the drop of that tourmaline gaze to his mouth, Emil's grip tightened at the side of the man's throat but did not pull. He had not needed to when his stranger leant forward and licked a stripe over the tiers of his lips. Emil's cold eyes fluttered closed as a silken moan spilled free. Those lips, wet from his stranger's tongue, parted with the honeyed sound and the shake of an inhale after. And when those icy eyes opened, Emil licking the taste of the man from his lips, they were almost wholly black. "I will have it. I will earn it. I promise you this much, amore."
The pull of the bow and the steal of the ribbon was not enough to pull Emil from the door. Instead, he pressed himself against it, feeling behind himself with one hand as he blindly flicked the lock. He watched as the satin belt was wrapped over dark knuckles and mused at how pretty the colour was against such beautiful, ebony skin. How gorgeous that dark would be against the patchy two-tone of his own.
Emil's fingers were pulling at the lapels of his shirt before he'd registered his decision to comply. Fucking Devil, he mused, and the smirk nearly played across his mouth as he shrugged himself free of clinging silk. Upon the floor, it pooled like liquid. Emil took a breath as the slight cool of the room struck against his skin. The sculpted musculature of his torso was athletic, and the bulk of his pectorals tensed as he began to work his trousers free; one hand still holding the bottle of whiskey. Emil's skin was caramel, but there lay patches of stark cream; his vitiligo. One lay on his breastbone, another upon his right breast. The edge of another could be seen over his iliac furrow, curling forward from his flank.
"You're a cruel man, mio caro." A glitter of mischief in Emil's glacial eyes as he teased. Silk spilled over thick thighs, pooled about his ankles, left to linger there as he dragged his black briefs down over the bulk of his legs by his thumb. Emil stood utterly naked, emboldened by the desire that lingered within his stranger's gaze. What had ground so boldly into the man's thigh stood swollen from his hips, shaded gently with a dusting of dark hair. The tip, flushed pink, glimmered with a bead of pre. "Do you intend to make me work for your nudity, too?"
He did not wait for an answer. Emil's footsteps across the floor were quiet as he crossed to his stranger. The cold bottle of whiskey was pressed in against the centre of his stranger's chest. There was nothing but wickedness in Emil's glacial eyes. "Hold this for me." The air that was left in his wake was scented softly of him, and something earthier.
"And what is it that I should call you, mio caro?" He moved along the racks, languid and slow. There was no rush now. The door was sealed, locking them away; two predators in a single cage. His stranger had held fast to his demand for restraint; not only of Emil but also of himself. Perhaps, Emil considered, it is he that needs to work for it. To finally gift himself what we both crave. Emil's fingertips skimmed over leather and steel and feathers, as he smiled darkly to himself. Stubborn little creature.
"Should I call you 'Sir'? Master? Boss? Signore?" Emil turned his face slowly over the bare slope of his shoulder. Ice blue found the dark of those gemstone eyes, falling within the shadow of them; magnetised. The corner of Emil's mouth quirked upwards, a sly little smirk pulling at the plush of his mouth as he added; "Daddy?"
Several heartbeats came, thundering against his ribs, before Emil dared to steal his gaze away. He turned his back, casting his eyes down upon the myriad of tools and toys before him. None of these truly interested him, and that in itself was rather curious. Emil enjoyed the craftsmanship of floggers and paddles, preferred those that allowed short range strikes and more intense pain. Yet, as he stopped to twirl a cane between his fingers upon the rack, Emil realised that he cared for nothing but the man so very far away. Too far away.
Emil's hand fisted over his choice.
He did not linger. Emil turned, his choice dangling at his side as he cut across the room and stood just a little out of arm's length from his stranger. Between them, that electricity surged through the charged air before Emil held out his selection. It dangled from his fist, all black straps and steel hardware. The harness would keep even the most bulky secure, trapping their biceps by their sides and their wrists at their rear, but the uppermost strap was short enough to also collar. The dark leather of it matched the gleam of his stranger's eyes.
"This."
[NSFW link]
But there was more to Emil's decision than being bound and used, as many might expect. Restraint was so often used in play to leave a sub feeling that cold rush of helplessness. They could struggle, they could writhe, but they had no choice but to give in to the pleasure, or the pain, gifted to them. Binders granted the Dom power by removing use of limbs or bent limbs. Emil's choice was not made on the same basis as what was usual.
Emil, showing more restraint than he had ever in the last while, took a slow breath through his lips. Submission did not come easy to him. Neither did asking for something. Pleading for it. He stood before his stranger all straight-backed, postured shoulders, and sharp gaze. Not an ounce of him was meek as he looked boldly up into those dark eyes. Another breath was taken, and Emil steeled himself against the odd flutter of something within his gut as he said; "Please."
The word tasted odd in his mouth, but he was urged on by the burning need to be closer. Restraint, he was showing, only because his stranger had asked such or him and because he so desperately wanted to taste this man's mouth. All of this for a fucking proper kiss. I must be mad. Emil tightened his grip upon the harness and tried to ignore the thunder of his own pulse within his ears.
"Please, amore, will you bind me with it so that you are out of my reach? So that I cannot feel you, and you are denied my touch?" Emil would be unable to reach and grapple at the body he wanted crushed in against his own. So, too, would his stranger be denied the feeling of his hands over his skin; learning the inches and shape of him.
Emil's heart was hammering. This idea was insane. Perhaps the man might even think it stupid considering there were tools a-plenty for Emil's own pain and pleasure back upon the racks. But he didn't want that. Not yet. He'd promised to grant this man his submission, but Emil craved to gift him pain. He wondered how often his stranger was ever treated to it.
"Please, as I kneel before you, will you tell me precisely where to lay each bite over your skin, so I can taste you while you feel my teeth?" Instructions of where, of how many, of how long to hold the bite. Emil would be able to taste the man's skin, but so, too, would his stranger be given the sting of his blunt teeth and the pressure of a bite; if he wished it. Pain, for his stranger, and submission. "I will count each bite and thank you, mio caro."
It took everything within him for his body to bend. Something so innate and so engrained fought against Emil as he slowly lowered himself down onto a single knee. He breathed, hot and heavy, through the flash of unease. Only the beauty of the man over him held him there where everything within him warred. Stay. Breathe. Let the discomfort pass and give himself to this. To him.
The look within Emil's eye was defiance, but not to his stranger. That defiance was at himself as he tilted his chin higher, baring the thick column of his throat and said smoothly; "My weapon of choice is denial."
The harness was held upwards in both hands; a sacrifice to a god.
"Let us suffer, each."
With the drop of that tourmaline gaze to his mouth, Emil's grip tightened at the side of the man's throat but did not pull. He had not needed to when his stranger leant forward and licked a stripe over the tiers of his lips. Emil's cold eyes fluttered closed as a silken moan spilled free. Those lips, wet from his stranger's tongue, parted with the honeyed sound and the shake of an inhale after. And when those icy eyes opened, Emil licking the taste of the man from his lips, they were almost wholly black. "I will have it. I will earn it. I promise you this much, amore."
The pull of the bow and the steal of the ribbon was not enough to pull Emil from the door. Instead, he pressed himself against it, feeling behind himself with one hand as he blindly flicked the lock. He watched as the satin belt was wrapped over dark knuckles and mused at how pretty the colour was against such beautiful, ebony skin. How gorgeous that dark would be against the patchy two-tone of his own.
Emil's fingers were pulling at the lapels of his shirt before he'd registered his decision to comply. Fucking Devil, he mused, and the smirk nearly played across his mouth as he shrugged himself free of clinging silk. Upon the floor, it pooled like liquid. Emil took a breath as the slight cool of the room struck against his skin. The sculpted musculature of his torso was athletic, and the bulk of his pectorals tensed as he began to work his trousers free; one hand still holding the bottle of whiskey. Emil's skin was caramel, but there lay patches of stark cream; his vitiligo. One lay on his breastbone, another upon his right breast. The edge of another could be seen over his iliac furrow, curling forward from his flank.
"You're a cruel man, mio caro." A glitter of mischief in Emil's glacial eyes as he teased. Silk spilled over thick thighs, pooled about his ankles, left to linger there as he dragged his black briefs down over the bulk of his legs by his thumb. Emil stood utterly naked, emboldened by the desire that lingered within his stranger's gaze. What had ground so boldly into the man's thigh stood swollen from his hips, shaded gently with a dusting of dark hair. The tip, flushed pink, glimmered with a bead of pre. "Do you intend to make me work for your nudity, too?"
He did not wait for an answer. Emil's footsteps across the floor were quiet as he crossed to his stranger. The cold bottle of whiskey was pressed in against the centre of his stranger's chest. There was nothing but wickedness in Emil's glacial eyes. "Hold this for me." The air that was left in his wake was scented softly of him, and something earthier.
"And what is it that I should call you, mio caro?" He moved along the racks, languid and slow. There was no rush now. The door was sealed, locking them away; two predators in a single cage. His stranger had held fast to his demand for restraint; not only of Emil but also of himself. Perhaps, Emil considered, it is he that needs to work for it. To finally gift himself what we both crave. Emil's fingertips skimmed over leather and steel and feathers, as he smiled darkly to himself. Stubborn little creature.
"Should I call you 'Sir'? Master? Boss? Signore?" Emil turned his face slowly over the bare slope of his shoulder. Ice blue found the dark of those gemstone eyes, falling within the shadow of them; magnetised. The corner of Emil's mouth quirked upwards, a sly little smirk pulling at the plush of his mouth as he added; "Daddy?"
Several heartbeats came, thundering against his ribs, before Emil dared to steal his gaze away. He turned his back, casting his eyes down upon the myriad of tools and toys before him. None of these truly interested him, and that in itself was rather curious. Emil enjoyed the craftsmanship of floggers and paddles, preferred those that allowed short range strikes and more intense pain. Yet, as he stopped to twirl a cane between his fingers upon the rack, Emil realised that he cared for nothing but the man so very far away. Too far away.
Emil's hand fisted over his choice.
He did not linger. Emil turned, his choice dangling at his side as he cut across the room and stood just a little out of arm's length from his stranger. Between them, that electricity surged through the charged air before Emil held out his selection. It dangled from his fist, all black straps and steel hardware. The harness would keep even the most bulky secure, trapping their biceps by their sides and their wrists at their rear, but the uppermost strap was short enough to also collar. The dark leather of it matched the gleam of his stranger's eyes.
"This."
[NSFW link]
But there was more to Emil's decision than being bound and used, as many might expect. Restraint was so often used in play to leave a sub feeling that cold rush of helplessness. They could struggle, they could writhe, but they had no choice but to give in to the pleasure, or the pain, gifted to them. Binders granted the Dom power by removing use of limbs or bent limbs. Emil's choice was not made on the same basis as what was usual.
Emil, showing more restraint than he had ever in the last while, took a slow breath through his lips. Submission did not come easy to him. Neither did asking for something. Pleading for it. He stood before his stranger all straight-backed, postured shoulders, and sharp gaze. Not an ounce of him was meek as he looked boldly up into those dark eyes. Another breath was taken, and Emil steeled himself against the odd flutter of something within his gut as he said; "Please."
The word tasted odd in his mouth, but he was urged on by the burning need to be closer. Restraint, he was showing, only because his stranger had asked such or him and because he so desperately wanted to taste this man's mouth. All of this for a fucking proper kiss. I must be mad. Emil tightened his grip upon the harness and tried to ignore the thunder of his own pulse within his ears.
"Please, amore, will you bind me with it so that you are out of my reach? So that I cannot feel you, and you are denied my touch?" Emil would be unable to reach and grapple at the body he wanted crushed in against his own. So, too, would his stranger be denied the feeling of his hands over his skin; learning the inches and shape of him.
Emil's heart was hammering. This idea was insane. Perhaps the man might even think it stupid considering there were tools a-plenty for Emil's own pain and pleasure back upon the racks. But he didn't want that. Not yet. He'd promised to grant this man his submission, but Emil craved to gift him pain. He wondered how often his stranger was ever treated to it.
"Please, as I kneel before you, will you tell me precisely where to lay each bite over your skin, so I can taste you while you feel my teeth?" Instructions of where, of how many, of how long to hold the bite. Emil would be able to taste the man's skin, but so, too, would his stranger be given the sting of his blunt teeth and the pressure of a bite; if he wished it. Pain, for his stranger, and submission. "I will count each bite and thank you, mio caro."
It took everything within him for his body to bend. Something so innate and so engrained fought against Emil as he slowly lowered himself down onto a single knee. He breathed, hot and heavy, through the flash of unease. Only the beauty of the man over him held him there where everything within him warred. Stay. Breathe. Let the discomfort pass and give himself to this. To him.
The look within Emil's eye was defiance, but not to his stranger. That defiance was at himself as he tilted his chin higher, baring the thick column of his throat and said smoothly; "My weapon of choice is denial."
The harness was held upwards in both hands; a sacrifice to a god.
"Let us suffer, each."
ThenThereWereNone
Lurking One
- Joined
- Jun 22, 2019
It was unnerving, being seen like that when it hadn’t been his intention. And that the man was observant enough that his observation appeared like he’d plucked it out of thin air was... Alexis could only shake his head. Compartmentalize. This wasn't about him right now. Well, it was, but it wasn't. And he sorted his thoughts accordingly. Besides, it was much more fun to lick at his stranger’s lips, to taste him—more tease than anything—and let that silken sound that spilt from the man's lips tiptoe across his senses and settle as a shiver up his spine. "I don't doubt that you will." Spoken with a smile against the other's mouth, before he dragged himself away. One of the hardest things he'd done since first encountering this strange creature that masqueraded as a man. His stranger was walking temptation, and if Alexis were still as deeply ensnared in his previous years of Catholic guilt, his stranger would’ve been his own internal demon made flesh and blood.
El Diablo.
And yet, he could say it felt like a self-inflicted punishment to drag himself away from the other. His steps were steady, but his insides felt warm, gooey, trembling with a want so gnawing he didn't trust himself to keep his hands to himself in that instant. But he did. Barely. Focusing instead on the cool slide of silk over his skin as he smoothed the blue fabric about his knuckles.
A satisfied smile tugged at plush lips as the man responded to his command almost before he'd fully registered the words. Good boy. The praise almost slipped beyond thought to manifest on his tongue. But he held it at bay. Not yet. Let him work for it. Really work for it.
Somewhere between the slip of silk over broad shoulders and his stranger working his trousers down one-handed, Alexis' breathing had slowed, stopping entirely. It sat trapped, burning in his lungs as he drank in the sight of bare caramel skin, with splatters of cream. An artist's careless slip of the brush, or perhaps a deliberate artistic choice.
"You're a cruel man, mio caro."
It took a second too long for Alexis to refocus on what the other had said. A second longer still for him to swallow the pooling saliva as one thought ran on a loop: Fuck! I want to taste all of him. Tone distracted, he said, “I've yet to receive any complaints." He raised his eyes then, briefly, mirroring the mischief in glacial blues, “You’ll be thanking me before this is over.”
Granted, the unhurried ease of the man’s movements forced Alexis’ attention back to the man’s further state of undress. The tension mounted, inching along as he watched the silk slide down from around the man's waist; more skin exposed to his hungry gaze. Thick muscular thighs that Alexis wanted to feel quiver beneath his touch. He dragged his bottom lip between his teeth to keep from groaning outright. A tortured keening stifled. He swallowed again, hard. The soft step of the other approaching had him finally releasing a breath. A rough exhale that morphed into a low chuckle. His hand gratefully closing around the cool neck of the bottle, pressed into his chest. It gave him something to anchor his fingers to. Better that than to allow himself to give in to temptation; to grab the other by the hips as he lowered himself to his knees and took the flushed pink tip of the man’s shaft into his mouth. Tasted his desire.
Alexis shut his eyes and inhaled a centring breath. A mistake. That mouthwatering scent that was all the other man lingered in the wake of his departure. Mierda! His eyes snapped open. Breathe. Focus. Jesus, Alexis! You’re acting worse than a fucking teenager. At the question, he took a pause. A moment to collect himself. To consider the question, as he stood trapped in those gemstone blue eyes. What he required his sub to call him, depended on the scene. Sometimes that was Sir, Boss, Daddy; sometimes it was just Lex. But this wasn’t any of those times. And he…
"Daddy?"
The arch of a dark brow met the question. “Only Good boys get that privilege, and you’ve been anything but up until this point.” The moment hung there charged between them for several beats, Alexis’ pulse a roar in his ears. And then his stranger looked away, leaving him bereft of that focused attention. Thumb stroking over silk, he watched the man’s careful perusal of the choices available to him. Having no idea where the man’s tastes might take him, the seconds multiplied the anticipation till it was a living, buzzing creature in its own right. Alexis shifted, the hand not wrapped in silk dipping into the pocket of his jacket to thumb over the gold pin that lay there.
Much longer than it felt, his stranger finally made a selection and returned to him. Just a touch out of reach. Too far. But Alexis was more focused on what dangled from the man’s hand. Leather and steel. Recognition came slowly. But when it came, it hit with the targeted aim of a lightning bolt.
“Diablo.” The single word rushed out harsh and low and breathless. Dark eyes found pale blue. Drank in the strength, confliction, and dogged determination that met him head on. The man stood before him with the staunch fortitude of a pillar—a force immovable.
"Please."
That one word, made all the sweeter for the struggle that it took to be uttered, had him taking a slow step forward. And then he froze. Not for a need of restraint, but because the words uttered took him by surprise. Off guard and off balance. And there it was again. That sickening swoop of his stomach; of being seen. Of being offered without having to ask. Pain and denial. Of all the things the man could have chosen, for all the reasons he could’ve settled on, this was not one of them that Alexis expected. His ears rang, and his body hummed in time with the hammering of his heart.
The grace with which his stranger lowered himself to one knee was hard fought. And even kneeling, the war raged on, reflected in the diamond cold of his eyes. Alexis’ fingers ached around the death grip he held about the bottle neck of bourbon whiskey.
Love at first sight was bullshit. But what pierced him square in the chest with the finality of an arrow finding its mark as he studied the man kneeling before him went beyond just lust. Warmth bloomed in his chest, blossoming outwards. Recognition and appreciation. It wasn’t lost on Alexis that his stranger did not submit easily. Presenting himself as the sacrificial lamb. Offering not only his body, but the weapon of his undoing. It was beautiful to behold. And an honour to witness.
He was beautiful.
Alexis fought the urge to drop to his knees; to take the man’s face in his hands and express his gratitude in a brutal kiss that’d leave them both aching and breathless. A nonverbal recognition of their exchange of trust that neither had yet earned, but both so freely gave in this space.
But ‘denial’ was the name of the game.
And if there was one thing Alexis understood as a sadomasochist, it was that pain came in more ways than just the physical. He offered no praise: verbal or otherwise. No indication of what he thought of his stranger’s choice. He just left him there to hold his position of supplication. He turned away, moving to the sturdy wooden table left bare for one to lay out their choice tools of trade. There, he set down the bottle of bourbon whiskey before unfurling the blue silk from his hand and setting that aside as well. The jacket, he shrugged out of, tossing it neatly atop the table as his other hand plucked unhurriedly at the buttons of his shirt.
Tugging at the bottom of his now open shirt eased the slide of black fabric off broad shoulders, revealing a back marked in a cross-hatch of scattered scars; thin pale barely visible lines amongst deeper scar tissue, dark, raised, and shiny. Black ink marked the circumference of both arms, from shoulder to wrist: Geometric shapes and whorls, a stalking snake creeping down one arm.
“I know what I want you to call me.” The shirt was folded in two and left on top of the jacket before he returned to his stranger. The glint of gold rings stood out against dark nipples, and more scars were scattered across the solid, defined expanse of his chest and abdomen. Taking the offered harness in hand, he smoothed his fingers over leather and steel, checking for wear and tear and any sharp edges on the buckles.
Satisfied, he nodded.
“Stand up.” Only then did he step closer, close enough to feel the concentrated heat of the other man’s skin. “Mio caro. That’s what I want you to call me.” He touched his hand to the side of the man’s neck, his thumb pressing gently into the dip beneath the other’s chin, tilting his head. “What’s your colour right now?”
El Diablo.
And yet, he could say it felt like a self-inflicted punishment to drag himself away from the other. His steps were steady, but his insides felt warm, gooey, trembling with a want so gnawing he didn't trust himself to keep his hands to himself in that instant. But he did. Barely. Focusing instead on the cool slide of silk over his skin as he smoothed the blue fabric about his knuckles.
A satisfied smile tugged at plush lips as the man responded to his command almost before he'd fully registered the words. Good boy. The praise almost slipped beyond thought to manifest on his tongue. But he held it at bay. Not yet. Let him work for it. Really work for it.
Somewhere between the slip of silk over broad shoulders and his stranger working his trousers down one-handed, Alexis' breathing had slowed, stopping entirely. It sat trapped, burning in his lungs as he drank in the sight of bare caramel skin, with splatters of cream. An artist's careless slip of the brush, or perhaps a deliberate artistic choice.
"You're a cruel man, mio caro."
It took a second too long for Alexis to refocus on what the other had said. A second longer still for him to swallow the pooling saliva as one thought ran on a loop: Fuck! I want to taste all of him. Tone distracted, he said, “I've yet to receive any complaints." He raised his eyes then, briefly, mirroring the mischief in glacial blues, “You’ll be thanking me before this is over.”
Granted, the unhurried ease of the man’s movements forced Alexis’ attention back to the man’s further state of undress. The tension mounted, inching along as he watched the silk slide down from around the man's waist; more skin exposed to his hungry gaze. Thick muscular thighs that Alexis wanted to feel quiver beneath his touch. He dragged his bottom lip between his teeth to keep from groaning outright. A tortured keening stifled. He swallowed again, hard. The soft step of the other approaching had him finally releasing a breath. A rough exhale that morphed into a low chuckle. His hand gratefully closing around the cool neck of the bottle, pressed into his chest. It gave him something to anchor his fingers to. Better that than to allow himself to give in to temptation; to grab the other by the hips as he lowered himself to his knees and took the flushed pink tip of the man’s shaft into his mouth. Tasted his desire.
Alexis shut his eyes and inhaled a centring breath. A mistake. That mouthwatering scent that was all the other man lingered in the wake of his departure. Mierda! His eyes snapped open. Breathe. Focus. Jesus, Alexis! You’re acting worse than a fucking teenager. At the question, he took a pause. A moment to collect himself. To consider the question, as he stood trapped in those gemstone blue eyes. What he required his sub to call him, depended on the scene. Sometimes that was Sir, Boss, Daddy; sometimes it was just Lex. But this wasn’t any of those times. And he…
"Daddy?"
The arch of a dark brow met the question. “Only Good boys get that privilege, and you’ve been anything but up until this point.” The moment hung there charged between them for several beats, Alexis’ pulse a roar in his ears. And then his stranger looked away, leaving him bereft of that focused attention. Thumb stroking over silk, he watched the man’s careful perusal of the choices available to him. Having no idea where the man’s tastes might take him, the seconds multiplied the anticipation till it was a living, buzzing creature in its own right. Alexis shifted, the hand not wrapped in silk dipping into the pocket of his jacket to thumb over the gold pin that lay there.
Much longer than it felt, his stranger finally made a selection and returned to him. Just a touch out of reach. Too far. But Alexis was more focused on what dangled from the man’s hand. Leather and steel. Recognition came slowly. But when it came, it hit with the targeted aim of a lightning bolt.
“Diablo.” The single word rushed out harsh and low and breathless. Dark eyes found pale blue. Drank in the strength, confliction, and dogged determination that met him head on. The man stood before him with the staunch fortitude of a pillar—a force immovable.
"Please."
That one word, made all the sweeter for the struggle that it took to be uttered, had him taking a slow step forward. And then he froze. Not for a need of restraint, but because the words uttered took him by surprise. Off guard and off balance. And there it was again. That sickening swoop of his stomach; of being seen. Of being offered without having to ask. Pain and denial. Of all the things the man could have chosen, for all the reasons he could’ve settled on, this was not one of them that Alexis expected. His ears rang, and his body hummed in time with the hammering of his heart.
The grace with which his stranger lowered himself to one knee was hard fought. And even kneeling, the war raged on, reflected in the diamond cold of his eyes. Alexis’ fingers ached around the death grip he held about the bottle neck of bourbon whiskey.
Love at first sight was bullshit. But what pierced him square in the chest with the finality of an arrow finding its mark as he studied the man kneeling before him went beyond just lust. Warmth bloomed in his chest, blossoming outwards. Recognition and appreciation. It wasn’t lost on Alexis that his stranger did not submit easily. Presenting himself as the sacrificial lamb. Offering not only his body, but the weapon of his undoing. It was beautiful to behold. And an honour to witness.
He was beautiful.
Alexis fought the urge to drop to his knees; to take the man’s face in his hands and express his gratitude in a brutal kiss that’d leave them both aching and breathless. A nonverbal recognition of their exchange of trust that neither had yet earned, but both so freely gave in this space.
But ‘denial’ was the name of the game.
And if there was one thing Alexis understood as a sadomasochist, it was that pain came in more ways than just the physical. He offered no praise: verbal or otherwise. No indication of what he thought of his stranger’s choice. He just left him there to hold his position of supplication. He turned away, moving to the sturdy wooden table left bare for one to lay out their choice tools of trade. There, he set down the bottle of bourbon whiskey before unfurling the blue silk from his hand and setting that aside as well. The jacket, he shrugged out of, tossing it neatly atop the table as his other hand plucked unhurriedly at the buttons of his shirt.
Tugging at the bottom of his now open shirt eased the slide of black fabric off broad shoulders, revealing a back marked in a cross-hatch of scattered scars; thin pale barely visible lines amongst deeper scar tissue, dark, raised, and shiny. Black ink marked the circumference of both arms, from shoulder to wrist: Geometric shapes and whorls, a stalking snake creeping down one arm.
“I know what I want you to call me.” The shirt was folded in two and left on top of the jacket before he returned to his stranger. The glint of gold rings stood out against dark nipples, and more scars were scattered across the solid, defined expanse of his chest and abdomen. Taking the offered harness in hand, he smoothed his fingers over leather and steel, checking for wear and tear and any sharp edges on the buckles.
Satisfied, he nodded.
“Stand up.” Only then did he step closer, close enough to feel the concentrated heat of the other man’s skin. “Mio caro. That’s what I want you to call me.” He touched his hand to the side of the man’s neck, his thumb pressing gently into the dip beneath the other’s chin, tilting his head. “What’s your colour right now?”
OP
OP
MoldaviteGreen
The world’s upside down here…
- Joined
- Dec 7, 2018
"Only Good boys get that privilege, and you've been anything but up until this point."
Emil sank the blunt of his teeth into the bourbon-stained pulp of his lower lip, stalking the length of the racks. He wondered whether his stranger knew of the restraint he'd shown, despite the man believing otherwise, when Emil had allowed that table to remain unbroken between them. He wondered whether his stranger would appreciate the exertion of Emil's self-control when he'd watched his stranger leave with that bunny-eared man; no true promise of ever returning.
Oh, with that rude interruption, how Emil had wanted to capture his stranger by the nape of his neck and drag him down into a kiss. To brand those thick lips with the shape of his teeth and the taste of his tongue. To send his stranger off with his friend with his spit shimmering on his lips and the flavour of him haunting his mouth. How he still yearned for it now, but obeyed the man at his back in the hopes of earning it. Emil had been good, by his standard, for far longer than just this short little while.
How things have changed. For Emil did not beg, nor plead, nor supplicate himself to another's whim. Upon the soil of Italy, Emil had taken what he pleased, stolen what he'd liked, ravaged what was denied to him. His journey across the Atlantic had severed such a wield of power, but that hungry, possessive beast in him remained the same. It wanted. It hunted. It took what it craved, but did not ever beg. It certainly did not ever love.
Yet, that nameless, wild thing reared its ugly head in a manner so twisted and foreign. I'll show him, it said. I'll prove that I can be good, it seethed. I'll earn the right to call him any and all of it. Sir. Boss. Master. Daddy. I'll show him I can be good enough to call him everything.
Emil had gone to war against himself, and it had been his want for this man that had won. It saw him finding the strength to bend himself into a kneel, his hands raised in offering of the harness that dangled like a dead sacrifice to his god. High, his chin was held. High, those cold eyes gazed upward into dark gemstones; because Emil could not tear his gaze away, to break their stare and look down at the floor. He could not look at anything besides the glory of the man above him.
Diablo, his stranger had said. A language unfamiliar, but a word similar. Devil. Emil thought it fitting. He saw the man above him as a living, breathing god; celestial in his beauty, magnetic in his draw, so entirely ethereal that it inspired devotion among all. The Devil was just an angel, fallen. God's favourite, it was alleged, with wings stripped from his fall from grace. Emil craved to be that—his stranger's favourite, even if it had him on his bruised knees begging for forgiveness of all that he'd done before. Diablo, Emil had been and was. He longed to be his stranger's Lucifer, with absence of rebellion and banishment.
The pause of his stranger had not gone unnoticed, and it had the beat of Emil's heart thrown into a wild rhythm. Glacial blue eyes searched that lovely face, not lingering to appreciate the glimmer of small hoops and studs beneath the low light of the room and against such beautiful skin, but in a manner of searching. Emil needed answers, needed a hint, but he found nothing upon his stranger's features. It had an ache nestling in against his heart as he was left upon his knee as his stranger turned from him. The snap of their eye contact had Emil recoiling visibly.
No. Choked down, swallowed, Emil's pride was the only thing that kept that word from being snarled aloud. How quickly he had become used to his stranger's attention and the depth of that gaze. Foolish. Dangerous. Emil craved it now like the hardest drug to ever slice through his veins. I want you. Come back. Look at me. He did not fear that his choice had been wrong, for he knew that what he held in his hand did not truly matter. Nor did he fear his offer of pain and denial had been too forward. Emil, on a single knee, held his breath. He felt neglected.
Fuck. That's…This is insane! Emil's breaths came ragged and short through his nose as he watched his stranger pace to the table, granted only the man's back. He watched as the leather was peeled back from a broad set of shoulders and placed carefully atop wood. The silk of Emil's own belt was unravelled from about a dark wrist—when had that become twisted there?—and was set aside neatly. Thick, gorgeous fingers worked down over buttons; things that Emil could not see but could imagine from the flex of the muscles within a forearm. There, upon the floor in his kneel, Emil was made to imagine.
Searing, infernal hot whipped through Emil with such vengeance he nearly swayed. The burn coiled in his chest, slid lower between the grooves of his iliac furrow, flushed into the swollen length of his cock. Hot, so hellishly hot, Emil's want had transformed into a need so feral that pre beaded from the eyelet, wept down along the blushed tip, and drooled like the dangling edge of a spider's web glistening with mid-morning dew. It didn't snap, just hung there from his tip even as the thick of him twitched as Emil was made to watch that shirt be peeled back from dark skin. What the fuck is he doing to me?
The haphazard cross-stitch of scars across the broad expanse of the man's back had a breath rushing in through grit teeth. Shallow, some lay pearlescent across the man's skin. It was the ragged ones, the stretched ones, that Emil's cold eyes lingered upon. How deep did this man's love of pain go? Were these crafted from kink, or from a past far darker than the man's beauty would suggest? A few lay circular over softer parts of his stranger's torso, familiar to Emil for reasons sinful. Were they bullet wounds dug into his flesh? Pock marks from cigarette burns? So many questions, such little understanding. Emil's own back was not scarless, but even with the decades he'd spent tangled in crime he had not earned as many as what lay over his stranger's flesh. He wondered if the deeper ones often ached in the cold weather like his own.
The smooth of the man's voice pulled Emil to the present, and his gaze smeared over the serpentine wrap of ink along his stranger's arm as the man turned. Gold glinted in each nipple, and Emil fought hard at the smirk. Of course he is pierced elsewhere. He wanted to feel the cold of those rings within his mouth as he worked each nipple to a tight point. More scars littered his stranger's front, cloaking him in a darker mystery. Who are you? What have you been, and what shall you become? Emil fought the urge to sink his teeth into the man's knuckles as he returned and took the harness in hand.
His stranger did not need to ask twice.
Emil pushed up from the ground and stood, his shoulders still pressed backwards in the same effortless posture as before. The drooling string of pre snapped, wetting the caramel of a thigh that Emil did not make move to wipe away. Let him see what he's done to me. Let him see how much I want him. His own want never shamed him.
Closer, they edged, and Emil held still as the man before him moved. The hand upon the side of his throat was hot; impossibly so to be felt against the fever of Emil's own lust-flushed skin. The heel of that palm pressed in a little just as the pad of a thumb slipped under his chin. Emil hadn't realised that he'd been staring at the man's plush mouth until his face was forced to tilt and his gaze snapped upward.
The soft-accent of his voice was heavy, silken, in the inferno of his want. "Green," Emil purred. He shifted his weight into his toes and pressed in against the hand at his throat. "So very fucking green, mio caro. What colour are you?"
Firmer, he pressed. Closer, he tilted. Emil did not dare touch the other, for denial was their game tonight, but he challenged a little all the same. Of his own will, Emil tipped his head back and bared the column of his throat, his voice raspy from the pressure he'd welcomed. "Do you know what it means? 'Mio caro'. Do you know what it is that I call you?" A swallow saw the thick of his Adam's apple nudging in against the heel of his stranger's hand. Emil's smirk was devilish as he whispered, taunting; "Only good boys get the privilege of learning."
Glacial blue flickered between dark eyes, so very close. Emil was struck then by the glimmer of colour there, and how he'd been denied those chocolate and caramel tones by the shadows of the club. His stranger's eyes were, indeed, endless as he'd thought, but for a reason very different. Layers upon layers of rich colour; warm and gilded and deep. Chestnut. Umber. Flecks of russet and cinnamon.
"Oh, mio dio più celeste," [oh, my most heavenly god] Emil whispered, reverent. "How am I to ever look at anything else when there is such beauty in the depths of you?"
A slow inhale through his nose; grounding. A steady exhale from between his lips; Emil's lungs aching with the absence of his stranger's scent. The heat at the front of his throat from the man's palm was not enough, but it would have to be for now as Emil's gaze flickered between those deep chocolate eyes. "Please bind me, mio caro. Steal my hands from me before I beg to touch you. Make me kneel at the altar of you."
Closer, Emil pressed as the final threads of his pride's resistance began to fray. Dominant, Emil had always been. Dominant, he'd always known. But for his stranger, his beautiful deity, Emil set aside all that was himself. "Let me pray to you, mio caro, with throat, teeth and tongue."
ThenThereWereNone
Lurking One
- Joined
- Jun 22, 2019
Alexis’ fingers tingled where they pressed against his stranger’s skin. It was like touching an open flame: all the heat but none of the pain. “Good.” Spoken with a nod of acknowledgement, a smirk formed on full lips at the man’s adamance. The silence that followed was brief and heavy, before he answered in turn, “Green.”
As the other man tilted closer—a silent dare in the firm press of his throat beneath his touch—Alexis’ eyes lowered, tracing the pattern of marks he ached to colour into the man’s skin. It begged for the soft press of his lips, the sting of his teeth.
“No marks above a shirt's collar or beneath a long cuff.”
Nothing that would last beyond the night. The reminder was a good thing because Alexis wanted his marks to linger. To leave a reminder of himself to haunt the man throughout his day.
"Do you know what it means? 'Mio caro'. Do you know what it is that I call you?"
Alexis shook his head, “ I don’t. But I love the way you say it with such reverence.” His thumb dragged down the taut line of the man's neck, over the swell of his Adam's apple, to press into the hollow of his throat, as his fingers tightened. His eyes rose, surprise and incredulity in their dark depths. He laughed, low and caught off guard. “You, Diablo, are a cheeky little bastard. Using my words against me, if I didn’t want your mouth on me, I’d be sorely tempted to see what those pretty lips look like around a gag.” His voice trailed away into silence as he found himself once again dragged down into the bottomless depths of ocean eyes. It was all kinds of fucked up that the threat of drowning in such frigid waters, blades of ice cutting into his lungs, dragging reason and thought from his mind, and sensation from his body, appealed to him. Fucked up.
He blinked, an unsteady inhale drawing him back up to the surface. And there it was again: the breathless, worshipful tone of his stranger’s words, both familiar and alien. Is this what God feels like? The thought was blasphemous, but it was a cold shot of fire straight into his veins. His stranger’s words, heard but left unanswered. "Your tongue is a dangerous weapon. Has no one ever warned you about it?" And warn, they should have. The man’s words sought out the vulnerable, dark places in his chest, seeped in like the sweetest poison. The risk of a high that could never be replicated, keeping his unwitting victims hooked on the burn of ice.
"You will, Diablo." Unconsciously, Alexis pressed closer, his breath a hot whisper against the other's mouth before he bit down into the tier of his stranger's bottom lip, blunt teeth punishing, but not enough to break skin. His chest felt tight, trapped in a state of want that ached down to the very tips of his fingers. He'd been honest about ‘Green’, but how quickly he could've stopped it all right there, to have the man, to ravage him, to get the worst of the monstrous need out of both their systems. Instead, he pulled away, teeth dragging over lower tier as he slowly released his stranger.
Alexis’ fingers were slow to let go. An incremental release of muscles as fingers slid down over collarbone, featherlight over a nipple, to skip over the dips and shallows of defined abdominal muscles. His fingers stopped just short of the dark hairs that nestled the man’s weeping cock. "Hold your hair up for me."
He pulled away fully, taking the smallest strap of leather and steel to circle about the man’s throat. His fingers brushed lightly against skin as he buckled the loop. "Too tight? Too loose?"
A moment of calm settled around him as he moved on, knuckles smearing down over warm skin as he circled the man, pressing close. Close enough to bask in the furnace that was his body heat, but not close enough to eradicate the distance for skin-to-skin contact, regardless of how badly he wanted it. He situated the harness to fall down the man’s back, centred down the curve of his spine. Leaving the harness to dangle down his back and sides, held up by the fastened collar, Alexis' palms pressed flat against the other man's shoulders, sliding down his stranger’s arms, which he pulled gently, but firmly, into position at his back.
Reaching around to situate the first of the longer straps across the man's pectorals, he pressed his mouth just below where the collar circled throat and nipped at hot skin. There he lingered, inhaling the scent of his stranger. With a parting nuzzle, he pulled away, refocusing his attention on tightening the strap. Attention focused on the firm supple, slide of leather through the steel buckle. "How’s your arms feel? Anything painful, strained?"
Once given the green light, he continued to the next strap. His question the same. Adjusting and readjusting. His fingers skimming unhurriedly over warm skin as he reached around to bind the man. “Anything above the waist is fair game. And don't worry about biting too hard. You're free to bite as hard as you like, so long as you don't break skin.” His fingers closed around the man's wrists before he looped the final strap through. Time stood still for a moment, a breathless pause of anticipation. “How many bites?” Taking his time to examine his work, his fingers traced the circumference of the bound straps. Even tugged firmly to test their hold, unworried if it drew his bound stranger off balance. There was no risk of his falling anywhere but back into Alexis. “I’ll tell you when to stop.”
He spun the man round to face him, hand firmly grasping a bicep.
Heat flowed, molten through his veins as he inspected his prize. And the man was just that. Temptation and denial all wrapped up in leather and steel. "Perfect." Whispered appreciation mirrored in dark eyes as his gaze found that of frigid blue.
"The way I could have my way with you, and all you could do is beg for more." He reached down between them and wrapped his fingers around the man's length, thumbing over the glistening eyelet, “Or less.” Pre-cum glistened shiny against his thumb, which he smeared across his stranger’s lips, a fevered intensity in his eyes as he watched. "What's your colour?
As the other man tilted closer—a silent dare in the firm press of his throat beneath his touch—Alexis’ eyes lowered, tracing the pattern of marks he ached to colour into the man’s skin. It begged for the soft press of his lips, the sting of his teeth.
“No marks above a shirt's collar or beneath a long cuff.”
Nothing that would last beyond the night. The reminder was a good thing because Alexis wanted his marks to linger. To leave a reminder of himself to haunt the man throughout his day.
"Do you know what it means? 'Mio caro'. Do you know what it is that I call you?"
Alexis shook his head, “ I don’t. But I love the way you say it with such reverence.” His thumb dragged down the taut line of the man's neck, over the swell of his Adam's apple, to press into the hollow of his throat, as his fingers tightened. His eyes rose, surprise and incredulity in their dark depths. He laughed, low and caught off guard. “You, Diablo, are a cheeky little bastard. Using my words against me, if I didn’t want your mouth on me, I’d be sorely tempted to see what those pretty lips look like around a gag.” His voice trailed away into silence as he found himself once again dragged down into the bottomless depths of ocean eyes. It was all kinds of fucked up that the threat of drowning in such frigid waters, blades of ice cutting into his lungs, dragging reason and thought from his mind, and sensation from his body, appealed to him. Fucked up.
He blinked, an unsteady inhale drawing him back up to the surface. And there it was again: the breathless, worshipful tone of his stranger’s words, both familiar and alien. Is this what God feels like? The thought was blasphemous, but it was a cold shot of fire straight into his veins. His stranger’s words, heard but left unanswered. "Your tongue is a dangerous weapon. Has no one ever warned you about it?" And warn, they should have. The man’s words sought out the vulnerable, dark places in his chest, seeped in like the sweetest poison. The risk of a high that could never be replicated, keeping his unwitting victims hooked on the burn of ice.
"You will, Diablo." Unconsciously, Alexis pressed closer, his breath a hot whisper against the other's mouth before he bit down into the tier of his stranger's bottom lip, blunt teeth punishing, but not enough to break skin. His chest felt tight, trapped in a state of want that ached down to the very tips of his fingers. He'd been honest about ‘Green’, but how quickly he could've stopped it all right there, to have the man, to ravage him, to get the worst of the monstrous need out of both their systems. Instead, he pulled away, teeth dragging over lower tier as he slowly released his stranger.
Alexis’ fingers were slow to let go. An incremental release of muscles as fingers slid down over collarbone, featherlight over a nipple, to skip over the dips and shallows of defined abdominal muscles. His fingers stopped just short of the dark hairs that nestled the man’s weeping cock. "Hold your hair up for me."
He pulled away fully, taking the smallest strap of leather and steel to circle about the man’s throat. His fingers brushed lightly against skin as he buckled the loop. "Too tight? Too loose?"
A moment of calm settled around him as he moved on, knuckles smearing down over warm skin as he circled the man, pressing close. Close enough to bask in the furnace that was his body heat, but not close enough to eradicate the distance for skin-to-skin contact, regardless of how badly he wanted it. He situated the harness to fall down the man’s back, centred down the curve of his spine. Leaving the harness to dangle down his back and sides, held up by the fastened collar, Alexis' palms pressed flat against the other man's shoulders, sliding down his stranger’s arms, which he pulled gently, but firmly, into position at his back.
Reaching around to situate the first of the longer straps across the man's pectorals, he pressed his mouth just below where the collar circled throat and nipped at hot skin. There he lingered, inhaling the scent of his stranger. With a parting nuzzle, he pulled away, refocusing his attention on tightening the strap. Attention focused on the firm supple, slide of leather through the steel buckle. "How’s your arms feel? Anything painful, strained?"
Once given the green light, he continued to the next strap. His question the same. Adjusting and readjusting. His fingers skimming unhurriedly over warm skin as he reached around to bind the man. “Anything above the waist is fair game. And don't worry about biting too hard. You're free to bite as hard as you like, so long as you don't break skin.” His fingers closed around the man's wrists before he looped the final strap through. Time stood still for a moment, a breathless pause of anticipation. “How many bites?” Taking his time to examine his work, his fingers traced the circumference of the bound straps. Even tugged firmly to test their hold, unworried if it drew his bound stranger off balance. There was no risk of his falling anywhere but back into Alexis. “I’ll tell you when to stop.”
He spun the man round to face him, hand firmly grasping a bicep.
Heat flowed, molten through his veins as he inspected his prize. And the man was just that. Temptation and denial all wrapped up in leather and steel. "Perfect." Whispered appreciation mirrored in dark eyes as his gaze found that of frigid blue.
"The way I could have my way with you, and all you could do is beg for more." He reached down between them and wrapped his fingers around the man's length, thumbing over the glistening eyelet, “Or less.” Pre-cum glistened shiny against his thumb, which he smeared across his stranger’s lips, a fevered intensity in his eyes as he watched. "What's your colour?