Fic: Tonight (Original Slash, NC-17)
Title: Tonight
Pairing: M/M
Rating: NC-17 (sex, bdsm, fisting)
Length: 4,116 words
A/N: Two posts in one night... this is a little fic I wrote for fun, thought I'd pass it along. :)
Summary: Tonight, they can be together.
***
Matthew stretched across the pool table, lithe and long, expertly bracing the cue stick above the the red felt with slim, dark fingers. He held there for one long moment, frozen with his gaze fixed on the line between the cue ball and racked-up triangle. His eyes reflected the low-hanging lights above him. In that moment, he was something more than human; he was a creature of pure focus, a predator crouched to take down his prey.
Then he struck with one quick stab of the cue. I jumped at the sharp clack. The triangle shattered, sending the balls to the far corners of the table, and two stripes and one solid into the pockets.
"Nice break," I said.
He just gave me a one-sided smile and walked around the table, where he leaned down and took his next shot, freeing up the ten ball from the cluster it was in.
I could see the lines of exhaustion on his face, pinching his eyes.
I was the lawyer who worked 60 hour weeks and Matthew was a social worker, but he was the one who would stumble home every day to his studio apartment like a soldier back from a tour of duty in a losing war. No twenty-six-year-old should look that defeated.
I didn't ask. He'd talk when he wanted to. I just took my shots, and let him take his.
It wasn't until the 8 ball stood alone in the center of the table that he said, "The judge gave the Delaney kids back to their mom."
I stayed silent. Tonight was not the night to try to talk him out of his chosen career. Tonight, I wouldn't say the words "law school." He braced his arms on the table, leaning in, his shoulderblades coming together and his arm muscles tighening against his rolled-up white shirt sleeves.
"Look, man," he said, but not really to me, more to the table--or to that judge. "Nobody knows better than me that foster care isn't what it's cracked up to be, but that woman is not able to take care of those kids. They deserve something better. This system is so fucked up, though--" He turned around sharply and slammed his hand down on the hardwood bar behind him. "Fuck. God. Sometimes I just want to--"
Hit something.
Someone.
He turned again and this time looked straight at me, pinning me with his gaze.
I looked back.
No one won a staring contest with me: not a judge, not a prosecutor, not a witness, not the press. I'd built my life on that.
No one but him.
When I raised my eyes again, there was a small smile on his lips. I shuddered inside.
That was what tonight was all about.
"How many cases you working on this week?" he asked, leaning back against the bar, almost relaxing. Changing the subject, but not really.
"Three," I said. "Well. Four, if you count the Anderson case I'm consulting on." I chuckled. "Sounds like a lot when I say it like that."
"It is a lot," he said, not smiling.
That was how one got to be the second-youngest junior partner ever at Lehrner and Sommers. It occurred to me that tonight was the first break I'd taken for anything more than eating or sleeping all week.
I shrugged. I do what I have to, to keep my wife in the latest fashions and week-long trips to Swedish spas, my kids in private school, the mortgage on this mansion in McLean paid, and myself on track to be Virginia's next Senator or Governor. Governors have a better shot at the White House. Senators have more power right away.
Every domino in place, and none of them could fall at the wrong time or it would all come down.
He cocked his head and didn't say anything. There was something assessing and dehumanizing in the way he looked me over. Something possessive.
I felt myself shiver again, and I covered it with a quick swallow of scotch, hoping the burn would soothe my nerves and bring back my sense of balance--my sense of control.
He came around the table and lifted the tumbler from my hand.
"No more of that, now," he said.
He went back to the bar and poured the dregs down the sink and, going for a light tone even though that simple gesture had started a fire of mixed protest and excitement in my stomach, I said, "You're not my mother."
He just turned back to me and said, "Tonight, I am."
"That's a thoroughly disturbing image," I said. I'd crossed my arms over my chest. A mantra went through my head: Surely I don't want this. I don't need this. This is crazy.
His steady gaze never faltered.
"Go get cleaned up," he said. "Stuff's in the bathroom in the guest suite."
This was the moment of choice. My last moment of choice. This was the moment I could walk away, and this could simply go on being nothing more than two friends spending an evening playing pool and drinking whiskey.
I was a straight-A student by second grade. I was class president all through high school. I was valedictorian.
Tonight, for a few hours, if I wanted--if I chose--I could just be.
I exhaled and picked up my pool cue. I put it back in the rack on the wall. I stayed there, with my hand on the cue for what felt like a long time, just breathing. I could feel his eyes on me, but he still wasn't saying anything.
I knew he wanted it.
I knew he wanted it as much as I wanted it.
I closed my eyes and a thousand things were running through my head: bills, investments, meetings, cases. He could make it stop, for a little while--but I was afraid to let it stop. Afraid if I stopped juggling, all the balls would scatter, and I'd never get them back together again.
I flinched as his arms suddenly slipped around my stomach and he leaned against my back. I hadn't even heard him approaching. The point of his chin dug into the sweep of muscle between my neck and my shoulder and he said, "It's been too long."
"Yeah," I said.
"I just miss touching you," he said, his voice a low purr. He ran his hands up my chest, down my arms, his touch firm and strong and sure.
I felt my body relax, even as my mind kept racing.
I can't, I can't.
He exhaled, long and slow, warm against my jaw and throat. The smell of his breath was comfort and home. His hands curled around mine, lightly holding my arms against my sides. He forced his fingers in between mine, tightly interlacing them, curling his closed until the tips brushed against the soft insides of my palms. His shirt rested against mine. I was shivering.
I started to raise my hand, just to scratch an itch.
His grip tightened: trapping me, holding me.
My body shuddered and I sucked in a hard breath. Something roared inside me, rushed up my spine, and exploded in my brain like a transformer blowing. I tilted my head back, feeling the knob of his shoulder there to catch me.
He kissed my exposed throat, over that soft pulse point. His hands were still firm. Restraining.
"Go," he said, releasing me.
I went: up the stairs and across the house.
All was still and empty; the housekeeper had the weekend off, my wife was in Sweden, the kids were with their grandparents. We were alone.
The only light in the attached guest suite came from the far end, past the kitchenette and living area, spilling out in a wedge from the cracked-open door to the bedroom. I followed it without touching the other switches. I knew my way through the darkened space.
Inside the bedroom, all was dim but for the light from the bathroom. A dark line cut through the gray over the bed: a chain, hung from the hook that usually held an innocuous plant far lighter than the weight it could truly bear. I paused there beside the bed and reached out, catching the carabiner at the end with the tips of my fingers. The metal was cool and smooth.
I let it go and watched for a moment as the chain swung in slowly tightening circles.
My wife had no idea. My friends would never believe it. How could they? I didn't believe it. I didn't understand it.
On the marble countertop in the bathroom, a small collection of things that made my stomach tighten were arrayed. A bar of soap anchored a small list of instructions written in his sprawling, backward-slanting script. Even the sight of his handwriting did something to me, something complicated like bad legalese, endless loops with no clear conclusion.
I undressed myself quickly, trying not to think about how the smooth buttons felt under my fingers or the way the slick microfiber of my boxer-briefs slid over my just-barely-swelling cock. As I turned on the sink and adjusted the temperature of the water, I was hyperaware of the warm whisper of it on my wrist, and the fiery tickle of an errant stream running back along the inside of my arm, bright and sharp on that soft, sensitive skin.
As I picked up the soft plastic of the enema bag, the loops of tubing slipping around my fingers, I only wished for a moment it was shame I felt. It wasn't. It was anticipation.
The last instruction on the sheet said, "Kneel on the towel in the bedroom and wait."
I did, kneeling with my knees shoulder-width apart, my head bowed, and my arms behind my back, loosely clasping one wrist with the other hand like a soldier at ease. I could smell the cedar-and-patchouli soap. I was naked but for broad, padded, black leather cuffs on my ankles and wrists. My face was cool and sensitive from the close cut of a straight razor and the tingle of aftershave.
He didn't come in right away, though I could see light coming from the other room, so I knew he was nearby and had to have heard the shower turn off and the bathroom door shut behind me. He always said I needed to learn some patience. Nights like these, he had the power to try and teach me. I breathed slowly, trying to keep calm. He'd be here soon.
But as always, a moment of quiet only meant spare time for my mind to begin working, puzzling over the pieces of my latest case, obsessing over my recent mistakes, thinking about how my latest client wasn't just some embezzler trying to get away with it, he was a murderer.
He said he didn't do it, but he did, I could tell. The police report said his wife caught him with their little girl and he killed her and the daughter. Then he went and calmly picked up his ten-year-old son from soccer practice, brought him home, and let him find the naked, bloody bodies, to lend verisimilitude to his account to the police. The first words out of his mouth were "I'm willing to let my son testify."
No parent does that. No parent would put their child through that so willingly.
The sudden touch of Matthew's hand on my chin made me startle. He turned my face up but I couldn't let it go, even for him. I could still see that man's eyes, how blank they were when he smiled. The crime scene photos of the things that little boy had seen. The boy who couldn't testify, because since then the boy hadn't said a word.
My eyes lost focus.
Matthew slapped me across the face.
I gasped, stunned by the sudden strike, my cheek stinging and my eye tearing up on the side he'd hit. Now I could see him, more clearly even in spite of the wet blur.
"You're miles away," he said, stroking a tear away and caressing my cheek with his thumb like an apology for doing something necessary.
It was, though. Necessary.
"I'm sorry," I said.
He sighed softly. Disappointed. I felt something like grief, just one single, powerful flash, there and then gone but leaving behind a slow-fading, gleaming negative image. Giving in to some infantile, desperate instinct, I leaned into him, pressing the length of my bare torso to the rough fabric of his khakis, craving the hard knobs of his knees pressing against my ribs, the meat of his thighs against my nipples. God, it was ridiculous what he made me want, what he made me do, even when he wasn't making me do anything. Anyone else, and the shame of doing what I did with him would have been too much. With him, it simply wasn't there. Need was all I felt.
He clasped his hands behind my head and drew my face in closer, pressing it between his legs, to where I could faintly smell his body through his pants. I didn't fight him. Even as he began gently rutting against my cheek, humping me like a dog, I didn't even try to pull away. My body was alive with the scent of him, the feel of him, the tight grip he had on my skull, holding me where he needed me to be to use me.
My arms, still held behind me, shook. Something rattled loose inside of me, breaking the tight leash I usually kept on that part of myself that wanted and needed and felt, and the very first thing I felt was disgust. Self-loathing. A powerful desire to be punished for all the times I didn't care, all the wrong things I'd done without qualm, because I'd believed the ends were worth the means.
Somehow, he sensed the shift in me.
"Shh," he whispered, his hips swaying slow and easy, rocking his ever-hardening, clothing-covered cock against my cheek. "Easy now. I'm right here. It's okay. You're okay."
Then: sudden violence.
He shoved me, sending me to the floor on my back, sprawled and undignified. Before I could move, he was on me; his heel dug into my balls and sent sparks of incredible, intense pain up my spine. Yes. Yes, yes, yes. This was what I wanted. Oh, it hurt, but God, yes. This. Hurt me, own me, break me. In my real life I relied on words to keep me alive, but here and now all I could manage was a strangled howl.
"You still think this is all about you, don't you?" he said--snarled, lips drawn back--straddling me now, looking down at me from what seemed ten feet tall. "What do I have to do to get your head out of your own ass, anyway?"
I panted, trying to catch my breath, still dizzy with the pain from my testicles.
"Get on the bed," he snapped, stepping off from over me. "On your knees."
I squirmed, trying to get up.
Not fast enough.
A hard, bare-footed kick to my ribs sent a new shower of sparks through me and half-rolled me over. It hurt, but it got my hands under me, which got me up to my knees, then up to my feet. My joints popped on the way up and a stab of pain went through my back: reminders that I wasn't as young as he was anymore.
His hand pressed, briefly but firmly, against the small of my back, easing that unintended pain and gently pushing me towards the bed.
I didn't deserve it. Just that one moment of compassion was more than I let myself show most days.
The covers burned my knees as I crawled across the shifting mattress to the center of the bed. I almost lost my balance as he got on behind me, but then he grabbed my wrists, yanked my hands up over my head, and with a quiet 'click,' I was hitched to the chain hanging down from the ceiling. I could feel the way the position drew me up taller, expanding and exposing my back and my chest.
"Spread your knees," he said. I complied and shuddered at the sound of his voice, how it was rough and husky and quick with desire.
He laid something across my ankles, something long and round and thin. I realized it was a spreader a moment before he latched my first ankle cuff to it.
Spreader. Enema. Lube on the nightstand.
I'd never thought I could enjoy receiving anal sex until that revelatory night. Now, just these bits of evidence were enough to make my cock rock hard. Fuck me. Fuck me, Matthew. Hammer into me, make me feel it in court tomorrow, make me come.
His hands were suddenly on my hips, fingers digging into the flesh and bone--I knew there'd be bruises tomorrow when I showered--and then he was kissing my asscheeks, then biting them. First, just tiny nips that were like little fishes sipping at the surface of a pond, then harder, until he was biting down and holding and I was instinctively, unintentionally trying to get away, pushing my hips forward but not able to escape from the chain or the bar or his hands. Another incoherent sound escaped me and then his mouth was gone, replaced by a sudden, stinging slap.
I heard him exhale hard, but he said nothing. I knew him well enough to know he'd be too deep into it right now to speak, as deep into it as I was.
Then his hands spread my asscheeks and his mouth was back, tonguing up my crack and then over my hole. I jerked my hips forward again, flushing all over with the shame of this act, from knowing just where his mouth was, what it was doing, that it was touching this shameful, secret part of me... violating it, almost, with its own relative purity. I got dizzy and loquacious in my head as I sank deeper into his grasp, and then lost track of everything beyond single syllables as his tongue pushed not just over but into my anus. Good, so good, so wrong, so bad, stop, don't stop, oh fuck, Matthew.
Then he was gone: off the bed, away somewhere behind me. I couldn't crane my neck enough to see him, but I could hear the duffle bag he'd brought unzipping and rustling.
The first strike of the leather whip across the backs of my thighs was fast and unexpected. He hadn't made a sound to warn me, had barely stopped rustling in his bag. My shout smashed the quiet of the empty house, but no one would hear--the neighbors were a good quarter mile away through forested land. That was good. It was good to be able to make a fuss when something hurt.
I didn't try to hold back anything through the series of lashes that followed. My throat burned as badly as my ass from the shouting.
He was panting when he stopped. I could hear him over my own sudden silence.
"Fuck," he whispered, breathless. "Fuck, do you know how good you sound? How good you look right now?" His fingertips trailed down my back, gathering the drops of sweat, and I shuddered just from that. "So fucking beautiful," he whispered, fiercely, grabbing me under the armpits and hauling me back, suddenly straddling my legs, pressing his clothed body to my bare skin. I could feel his erection prodding my ass; it felt hard enough to ache, and that thought made my own dick stiffen a bit more in sympathy. A drop of precome ran down the underside of my shaft and I shifted my hips, as if I could thrust against that tiny bit of contact.
He slipped his arms around me and grabbed my nipples between thumb and forefinger--pulling up and twisting--and I groaned and simultaneously tried to push into and pull away from the feeling.
"So beautiful when you're in pain," he breathed across my ear, his breath cooling the sweat caught under my sideburn.
I was trembling all over, needing it now, totally ready for it. Ready enough to say it, out loud, "Fuck me. Please, Matthew, fuck me. Don't make me wait tonight, please."
"Not just yet."
I groaned.
"Shh," he said. "I got something I want to try."
That got my attention.
He reached up to my trapped hands and rubbed them between his own quickly, warming them. Then he undid the latch, saying, "Hands and knees."
I fell forward onto my palms, feeling myself quivering in odd places, wanting to know what he had in mind but also not wanting to know, enjoying the fearful, exciting anticipation, liking the scenarios I was coming up with.
After another bit of rustling in the bag, he was back, kneeling or sitting between my calves. He slapped my ass once, and even though it wasn't hard, my ass was hurting and so it still made me jump and cry out.
I heard him breathe out a small laugh, but before I could comment on that, he was sliding two fingers into my ass, smooth as a knife through warm butter. I moaned and forgot about petty things like dignity.
God, I loved that. His fingers inside me, thrusting in and out with a sure abandon, a seeming disregard for my well-being that made me clench inside and tingle with pleasure.
"Yeah, that's it," he murmured.
I gasped, "I love you."
Instantly, he returned, "I love you, too."
Then he had a third finger in me, and the stretch became a bit intense. It didn't quite hurt, but it felt on the edge of hurting. I unintentionally held my breath for a thrust or two until he reminded me softly, "Breathe."
I exhaled heavily and he shoved in, getting in deeper than before, fingertips sliding over my prostate, sending that familiar-but-not shower of sparks through my stomach. He kept on pulling out and pressing in deep, until it got to be meditative almost, until my body was wide open to him, completely relaxed. I could hear him breathing fast, as though it were his cock he was thrusting deep into me rather than his fingers... hell, almost his hand.
I suddenly realized where this was going, and when I exhaled again it came out as a long groan. Yes.
"Yeah, that's it," he murmured. "You let me in. Good boy. You're mine, you know it. Mine."
My ass stretched around his knuckles and now it hurt, sharp and strong. I shuddered and felt my cock stiffen again. I kept breathing, I kept bearing down, letting him in. Whatever he wanted. Anything.
My body ran with sweat; it burned my freshly shaven cheeks like fire. I breathed deep through my open mouth and he pressed and kept pressing. My whole world narrowed down to nothing but that hugeness trying to breach me. His hand was almost all I could feel, aside from the covers, rough under my knees and knuckles.
"Yeah," he sighed. "Yeah, baby. That's it."
And then his hand was inside me. All of it. Jesus.
"Oh, honey," he purred, and it was okay, it was good to be called those names, those words of endearment, that made me into something smaller, something weaker. His hand pulsed very slowly deeper in and a little bit out, and there was nothing in the world but him. Him, him, him. Mine. My love, my reason for being, my Matthew.
He pulled his hand out--sharp flare of pain, a whispered, "sorry, sweetheart"--and replaced it, finally, thank God, with his cock. I groaned wildly, bucking back into him, marveling at how easy it was, how smoothly he fit inside me now, stretched and ready as I was. His hand pressed down hard between my shoulder blades, firm and steadying. His thrusts were long and smooth but his breathing was beautifully harsh.
Me and him. Him and me. Joined, a circuit unending. Nothing else in the universe, nothing wrong in the world, just us us us. It was so hot in the room. Sweltering, meltingly hot. Sweat rolled down my ribs, gathered under the burning heat of his hand on my back.
"Come," he said, "Come from this, come on, baby."
And I did. Just from him saying it.
We spent the rest of the night in each other's arms, and that kept the world at bay until morning.
---
End
Pairing: M/M
Rating: NC-17 (sex, bdsm, fisting)
Length: 4,116 words
A/N: Two posts in one night... this is a little fic I wrote for fun, thought I'd pass it along. :)
Summary: Tonight, they can be together.
***
Matthew stretched across the pool table, lithe and long, expertly bracing the cue stick above the the red felt with slim, dark fingers. He held there for one long moment, frozen with his gaze fixed on the line between the cue ball and racked-up triangle. His eyes reflected the low-hanging lights above him. In that moment, he was something more than human; he was a creature of pure focus, a predator crouched to take down his prey.
Then he struck with one quick stab of the cue. I jumped at the sharp clack. The triangle shattered, sending the balls to the far corners of the table, and two stripes and one solid into the pockets.
"Nice break," I said.
He just gave me a one-sided smile and walked around the table, where he leaned down and took his next shot, freeing up the ten ball from the cluster it was in.
I could see the lines of exhaustion on his face, pinching his eyes.
I was the lawyer who worked 60 hour weeks and Matthew was a social worker, but he was the one who would stumble home every day to his studio apartment like a soldier back from a tour of duty in a losing war. No twenty-six-year-old should look that defeated.
I didn't ask. He'd talk when he wanted to. I just took my shots, and let him take his.
It wasn't until the 8 ball stood alone in the center of the table that he said, "The judge gave the Delaney kids back to their mom."
I stayed silent. Tonight was not the night to try to talk him out of his chosen career. Tonight, I wouldn't say the words "law school." He braced his arms on the table, leaning in, his shoulderblades coming together and his arm muscles tighening against his rolled-up white shirt sleeves.
"Look, man," he said, but not really to me, more to the table--or to that judge. "Nobody knows better than me that foster care isn't what it's cracked up to be, but that woman is not able to take care of those kids. They deserve something better. This system is so fucked up, though--" He turned around sharply and slammed his hand down on the hardwood bar behind him. "Fuck. God. Sometimes I just want to--"
Hit something.
Someone.
He turned again and this time looked straight at me, pinning me with his gaze.
I looked back.
No one won a staring contest with me: not a judge, not a prosecutor, not a witness, not the press. I'd built my life on that.
No one but him.
When I raised my eyes again, there was a small smile on his lips. I shuddered inside.
That was what tonight was all about.
"How many cases you working on this week?" he asked, leaning back against the bar, almost relaxing. Changing the subject, but not really.
"Three," I said. "Well. Four, if you count the Anderson case I'm consulting on." I chuckled. "Sounds like a lot when I say it like that."
"It is a lot," he said, not smiling.
That was how one got to be the second-youngest junior partner ever at Lehrner and Sommers. It occurred to me that tonight was the first break I'd taken for anything more than eating or sleeping all week.
I shrugged. I do what I have to, to keep my wife in the latest fashions and week-long trips to Swedish spas, my kids in private school, the mortgage on this mansion in McLean paid, and myself on track to be Virginia's next Senator or Governor. Governors have a better shot at the White House. Senators have more power right away.
Every domino in place, and none of them could fall at the wrong time or it would all come down.
He cocked his head and didn't say anything. There was something assessing and dehumanizing in the way he looked me over. Something possessive.
I felt myself shiver again, and I covered it with a quick swallow of scotch, hoping the burn would soothe my nerves and bring back my sense of balance--my sense of control.
He came around the table and lifted the tumbler from my hand.
"No more of that, now," he said.
He went back to the bar and poured the dregs down the sink and, going for a light tone even though that simple gesture had started a fire of mixed protest and excitement in my stomach, I said, "You're not my mother."
He just turned back to me and said, "Tonight, I am."
"That's a thoroughly disturbing image," I said. I'd crossed my arms over my chest. A mantra went through my head: Surely I don't want this. I don't need this. This is crazy.
His steady gaze never faltered.
"Go get cleaned up," he said. "Stuff's in the bathroom in the guest suite."
This was the moment of choice. My last moment of choice. This was the moment I could walk away, and this could simply go on being nothing more than two friends spending an evening playing pool and drinking whiskey.
I was a straight-A student by second grade. I was class president all through high school. I was valedictorian.
Tonight, for a few hours, if I wanted--if I chose--I could just be.
I exhaled and picked up my pool cue. I put it back in the rack on the wall. I stayed there, with my hand on the cue for what felt like a long time, just breathing. I could feel his eyes on me, but he still wasn't saying anything.
I knew he wanted it.
I knew he wanted it as much as I wanted it.
I closed my eyes and a thousand things were running through my head: bills, investments, meetings, cases. He could make it stop, for a little while--but I was afraid to let it stop. Afraid if I stopped juggling, all the balls would scatter, and I'd never get them back together again.
I flinched as his arms suddenly slipped around my stomach and he leaned against my back. I hadn't even heard him approaching. The point of his chin dug into the sweep of muscle between my neck and my shoulder and he said, "It's been too long."
"Yeah," I said.
"I just miss touching you," he said, his voice a low purr. He ran his hands up my chest, down my arms, his touch firm and strong and sure.
I felt my body relax, even as my mind kept racing.
I can't, I can't.
He exhaled, long and slow, warm against my jaw and throat. The smell of his breath was comfort and home. His hands curled around mine, lightly holding my arms against my sides. He forced his fingers in between mine, tightly interlacing them, curling his closed until the tips brushed against the soft insides of my palms. His shirt rested against mine. I was shivering.
I started to raise my hand, just to scratch an itch.
His grip tightened: trapping me, holding me.
My body shuddered and I sucked in a hard breath. Something roared inside me, rushed up my spine, and exploded in my brain like a transformer blowing. I tilted my head back, feeling the knob of his shoulder there to catch me.
He kissed my exposed throat, over that soft pulse point. His hands were still firm. Restraining.
"Go," he said, releasing me.
I went: up the stairs and across the house.
All was still and empty; the housekeeper had the weekend off, my wife was in Sweden, the kids were with their grandparents. We were alone.
The only light in the attached guest suite came from the far end, past the kitchenette and living area, spilling out in a wedge from the cracked-open door to the bedroom. I followed it without touching the other switches. I knew my way through the darkened space.
Inside the bedroom, all was dim but for the light from the bathroom. A dark line cut through the gray over the bed: a chain, hung from the hook that usually held an innocuous plant far lighter than the weight it could truly bear. I paused there beside the bed and reached out, catching the carabiner at the end with the tips of my fingers. The metal was cool and smooth.
I let it go and watched for a moment as the chain swung in slowly tightening circles.
My wife had no idea. My friends would never believe it. How could they? I didn't believe it. I didn't understand it.
On the marble countertop in the bathroom, a small collection of things that made my stomach tighten were arrayed. A bar of soap anchored a small list of instructions written in his sprawling, backward-slanting script. Even the sight of his handwriting did something to me, something complicated like bad legalese, endless loops with no clear conclusion.
I undressed myself quickly, trying not to think about how the smooth buttons felt under my fingers or the way the slick microfiber of my boxer-briefs slid over my just-barely-swelling cock. As I turned on the sink and adjusted the temperature of the water, I was hyperaware of the warm whisper of it on my wrist, and the fiery tickle of an errant stream running back along the inside of my arm, bright and sharp on that soft, sensitive skin.
As I picked up the soft plastic of the enema bag, the loops of tubing slipping around my fingers, I only wished for a moment it was shame I felt. It wasn't. It was anticipation.
The last instruction on the sheet said, "Kneel on the towel in the bedroom and wait."
I did, kneeling with my knees shoulder-width apart, my head bowed, and my arms behind my back, loosely clasping one wrist with the other hand like a soldier at ease. I could smell the cedar-and-patchouli soap. I was naked but for broad, padded, black leather cuffs on my ankles and wrists. My face was cool and sensitive from the close cut of a straight razor and the tingle of aftershave.
He didn't come in right away, though I could see light coming from the other room, so I knew he was nearby and had to have heard the shower turn off and the bathroom door shut behind me. He always said I needed to learn some patience. Nights like these, he had the power to try and teach me. I breathed slowly, trying to keep calm. He'd be here soon.
But as always, a moment of quiet only meant spare time for my mind to begin working, puzzling over the pieces of my latest case, obsessing over my recent mistakes, thinking about how my latest client wasn't just some embezzler trying to get away with it, he was a murderer.
He said he didn't do it, but he did, I could tell. The police report said his wife caught him with their little girl and he killed her and the daughter. Then he went and calmly picked up his ten-year-old son from soccer practice, brought him home, and let him find the naked, bloody bodies, to lend verisimilitude to his account to the police. The first words out of his mouth were "I'm willing to let my son testify."
No parent does that. No parent would put their child through that so willingly.
The sudden touch of Matthew's hand on my chin made me startle. He turned my face up but I couldn't let it go, even for him. I could still see that man's eyes, how blank they were when he smiled. The crime scene photos of the things that little boy had seen. The boy who couldn't testify, because since then the boy hadn't said a word.
My eyes lost focus.
Matthew slapped me across the face.
I gasped, stunned by the sudden strike, my cheek stinging and my eye tearing up on the side he'd hit. Now I could see him, more clearly even in spite of the wet blur.
"You're miles away," he said, stroking a tear away and caressing my cheek with his thumb like an apology for doing something necessary.
It was, though. Necessary.
"I'm sorry," I said.
He sighed softly. Disappointed. I felt something like grief, just one single, powerful flash, there and then gone but leaving behind a slow-fading, gleaming negative image. Giving in to some infantile, desperate instinct, I leaned into him, pressing the length of my bare torso to the rough fabric of his khakis, craving the hard knobs of his knees pressing against my ribs, the meat of his thighs against my nipples. God, it was ridiculous what he made me want, what he made me do, even when he wasn't making me do anything. Anyone else, and the shame of doing what I did with him would have been too much. With him, it simply wasn't there. Need was all I felt.
He clasped his hands behind my head and drew my face in closer, pressing it between his legs, to where I could faintly smell his body through his pants. I didn't fight him. Even as he began gently rutting against my cheek, humping me like a dog, I didn't even try to pull away. My body was alive with the scent of him, the feel of him, the tight grip he had on my skull, holding me where he needed me to be to use me.
My arms, still held behind me, shook. Something rattled loose inside of me, breaking the tight leash I usually kept on that part of myself that wanted and needed and felt, and the very first thing I felt was disgust. Self-loathing. A powerful desire to be punished for all the times I didn't care, all the wrong things I'd done without qualm, because I'd believed the ends were worth the means.
Somehow, he sensed the shift in me.
"Shh," he whispered, his hips swaying slow and easy, rocking his ever-hardening, clothing-covered cock against my cheek. "Easy now. I'm right here. It's okay. You're okay."
Then: sudden violence.
He shoved me, sending me to the floor on my back, sprawled and undignified. Before I could move, he was on me; his heel dug into my balls and sent sparks of incredible, intense pain up my spine. Yes. Yes, yes, yes. This was what I wanted. Oh, it hurt, but God, yes. This. Hurt me, own me, break me. In my real life I relied on words to keep me alive, but here and now all I could manage was a strangled howl.
"You still think this is all about you, don't you?" he said--snarled, lips drawn back--straddling me now, looking down at me from what seemed ten feet tall. "What do I have to do to get your head out of your own ass, anyway?"
I panted, trying to catch my breath, still dizzy with the pain from my testicles.
"Get on the bed," he snapped, stepping off from over me. "On your knees."
I squirmed, trying to get up.
Not fast enough.
A hard, bare-footed kick to my ribs sent a new shower of sparks through me and half-rolled me over. It hurt, but it got my hands under me, which got me up to my knees, then up to my feet. My joints popped on the way up and a stab of pain went through my back: reminders that I wasn't as young as he was anymore.
His hand pressed, briefly but firmly, against the small of my back, easing that unintended pain and gently pushing me towards the bed.
I didn't deserve it. Just that one moment of compassion was more than I let myself show most days.
The covers burned my knees as I crawled across the shifting mattress to the center of the bed. I almost lost my balance as he got on behind me, but then he grabbed my wrists, yanked my hands up over my head, and with a quiet 'click,' I was hitched to the chain hanging down from the ceiling. I could feel the way the position drew me up taller, expanding and exposing my back and my chest.
"Spread your knees," he said. I complied and shuddered at the sound of his voice, how it was rough and husky and quick with desire.
He laid something across my ankles, something long and round and thin. I realized it was a spreader a moment before he latched my first ankle cuff to it.
Spreader. Enema. Lube on the nightstand.
I'd never thought I could enjoy receiving anal sex until that revelatory night. Now, just these bits of evidence were enough to make my cock rock hard. Fuck me. Fuck me, Matthew. Hammer into me, make me feel it in court tomorrow, make me come.
His hands were suddenly on my hips, fingers digging into the flesh and bone--I knew there'd be bruises tomorrow when I showered--and then he was kissing my asscheeks, then biting them. First, just tiny nips that were like little fishes sipping at the surface of a pond, then harder, until he was biting down and holding and I was instinctively, unintentionally trying to get away, pushing my hips forward but not able to escape from the chain or the bar or his hands. Another incoherent sound escaped me and then his mouth was gone, replaced by a sudden, stinging slap.
I heard him exhale hard, but he said nothing. I knew him well enough to know he'd be too deep into it right now to speak, as deep into it as I was.
Then his hands spread my asscheeks and his mouth was back, tonguing up my crack and then over my hole. I jerked my hips forward again, flushing all over with the shame of this act, from knowing just where his mouth was, what it was doing, that it was touching this shameful, secret part of me... violating it, almost, with its own relative purity. I got dizzy and loquacious in my head as I sank deeper into his grasp, and then lost track of everything beyond single syllables as his tongue pushed not just over but into my anus. Good, so good, so wrong, so bad, stop, don't stop, oh fuck, Matthew.
Then he was gone: off the bed, away somewhere behind me. I couldn't crane my neck enough to see him, but I could hear the duffle bag he'd brought unzipping and rustling.
The first strike of the leather whip across the backs of my thighs was fast and unexpected. He hadn't made a sound to warn me, had barely stopped rustling in his bag. My shout smashed the quiet of the empty house, but no one would hear--the neighbors were a good quarter mile away through forested land. That was good. It was good to be able to make a fuss when something hurt.
I didn't try to hold back anything through the series of lashes that followed. My throat burned as badly as my ass from the shouting.
He was panting when he stopped. I could hear him over my own sudden silence.
"Fuck," he whispered, breathless. "Fuck, do you know how good you sound? How good you look right now?" His fingertips trailed down my back, gathering the drops of sweat, and I shuddered just from that. "So fucking beautiful," he whispered, fiercely, grabbing me under the armpits and hauling me back, suddenly straddling my legs, pressing his clothed body to my bare skin. I could feel his erection prodding my ass; it felt hard enough to ache, and that thought made my own dick stiffen a bit more in sympathy. A drop of precome ran down the underside of my shaft and I shifted my hips, as if I could thrust against that tiny bit of contact.
He slipped his arms around me and grabbed my nipples between thumb and forefinger--pulling up and twisting--and I groaned and simultaneously tried to push into and pull away from the feeling.
"So beautiful when you're in pain," he breathed across my ear, his breath cooling the sweat caught under my sideburn.
I was trembling all over, needing it now, totally ready for it. Ready enough to say it, out loud, "Fuck me. Please, Matthew, fuck me. Don't make me wait tonight, please."
"Not just yet."
I groaned.
"Shh," he said. "I got something I want to try."
That got my attention.
He reached up to my trapped hands and rubbed them between his own quickly, warming them. Then he undid the latch, saying, "Hands and knees."
I fell forward onto my palms, feeling myself quivering in odd places, wanting to know what he had in mind but also not wanting to know, enjoying the fearful, exciting anticipation, liking the scenarios I was coming up with.
After another bit of rustling in the bag, he was back, kneeling or sitting between my calves. He slapped my ass once, and even though it wasn't hard, my ass was hurting and so it still made me jump and cry out.
I heard him breathe out a small laugh, but before I could comment on that, he was sliding two fingers into my ass, smooth as a knife through warm butter. I moaned and forgot about petty things like dignity.
God, I loved that. His fingers inside me, thrusting in and out with a sure abandon, a seeming disregard for my well-being that made me clench inside and tingle with pleasure.
"Yeah, that's it," he murmured.
I gasped, "I love you."
Instantly, he returned, "I love you, too."
Then he had a third finger in me, and the stretch became a bit intense. It didn't quite hurt, but it felt on the edge of hurting. I unintentionally held my breath for a thrust or two until he reminded me softly, "Breathe."
I exhaled heavily and he shoved in, getting in deeper than before, fingertips sliding over my prostate, sending that familiar-but-not shower of sparks through my stomach. He kept on pulling out and pressing in deep, until it got to be meditative almost, until my body was wide open to him, completely relaxed. I could hear him breathing fast, as though it were his cock he was thrusting deep into me rather than his fingers... hell, almost his hand.
I suddenly realized where this was going, and when I exhaled again it came out as a long groan. Yes.
"Yeah, that's it," he murmured. "You let me in. Good boy. You're mine, you know it. Mine."
My ass stretched around his knuckles and now it hurt, sharp and strong. I shuddered and felt my cock stiffen again. I kept breathing, I kept bearing down, letting him in. Whatever he wanted. Anything.
My body ran with sweat; it burned my freshly shaven cheeks like fire. I breathed deep through my open mouth and he pressed and kept pressing. My whole world narrowed down to nothing but that hugeness trying to breach me. His hand was almost all I could feel, aside from the covers, rough under my knees and knuckles.
"Yeah," he sighed. "Yeah, baby. That's it."
And then his hand was inside me. All of it. Jesus.
"Oh, honey," he purred, and it was okay, it was good to be called those names, those words of endearment, that made me into something smaller, something weaker. His hand pulsed very slowly deeper in and a little bit out, and there was nothing in the world but him. Him, him, him. Mine. My love, my reason for being, my Matthew.
He pulled his hand out--sharp flare of pain, a whispered, "sorry, sweetheart"--and replaced it, finally, thank God, with his cock. I groaned wildly, bucking back into him, marveling at how easy it was, how smoothly he fit inside me now, stretched and ready as I was. His hand pressed down hard between my shoulder blades, firm and steadying. His thrusts were long and smooth but his breathing was beautifully harsh.
Me and him. Him and me. Joined, a circuit unending. Nothing else in the universe, nothing wrong in the world, just us us us. It was so hot in the room. Sweltering, meltingly hot. Sweat rolled down my ribs, gathered under the burning heat of his hand on my back.
"Come," he said, "Come from this, come on, baby."
And I did. Just from him saying it.
We spent the rest of the night in each other's arms, and that kept the world at bay until morning.
---
End