Fandom: Hockey || The Devil Lives in Hell's Kitchen - part One
Title: The Devil Lives in Hell’s Kitchen - part One
Author: Aleczandra, of the bagelmuffin_luv girls
Fandom: Professional Hockey of the NHL
Characters: Martin Brodeur and Henrik Lundqvist
Genre: Unashamed PWP
Rating: NC-17
Warning: Intense?
Disclaimer: "I've all the demons of Hell in my mind. My only salvation is to vent them on paper!" - Le Marquis de Sade -- Quills
Summary: In 2006, Martin Brodeur and the Devils eliminated the Rangers swiftly. In 2008 though, the story was completely different.
Author’s Note: Here is the first installment of something that is destined to move from salvage need to... (there shall be no spoilers! *evil laugh*) Just let them work their witchcraft. And by the way, Hell's Kitchen is where Henrik Lundqvist's apartment is. Also, the tattoo is REAL.
It was a blow to Martin Brodeur’s heart. Or more like a splinter in his foot. Actually, it was annoying like a pebble stuck in your shoe. That pretty much summed up how irritating it was to lose to the Rangers and to that useless Sean Avery. It hurt too, to lose in the first round, and worse, to the Devils’ natural enemy. They hadn’t played their best, and won only one game, but he had actually dared to think they might just be able to regroup if they were able to move forward into the next round. But the reality was painful, to him and to the whole team. And it wasn’t just that little pest, or the fact that they hadn’t played their best, it was also that young goalie at the other end of the ice.
Henrik Lundqvist had only been in the league for two years, but it had only taken him a few weeks to claim the crease. It hadn’t been long before he had turned into the new sensation and what had previously been a duel for the goalie supremacy in the Big Apple between Rick DiPietro and himself had turned into a three-way fight. Not that it really mattered anyway. Actually, he had welcomed the challenge of playing against talented goalies. What was nagging him was the fact that after his brilliant and expedient sweep of the New York Rangers in round 1 of the 2006 Stanley Cup series - his, and the Devils’, very first win against the Rangers in the history of the Stanley Cup series - he hadn’t even been able to win a single game against them in the 2007-2008 season! No matter how great he had played, Henrik Lundqvist had always managed to outplay him in each of the eight games in which they had played. Even in the one overtime win the team had against the Rangers, Martin hadn’t even been a determinant player. It made him grind his teeth: there was no other single player in his whole career that showed such blatant domination over him.
Maybe that was exactly what had triggered Martin’s reactions when the Rangers’ star player had showed up just beside him at the bar: a need to reclaim dominance. Or maybe it was just the many beers he had had, first at the club where the Devils had headed after the team meal to forget the bitter loss and then here, a bar he had found while roaming through the streets of NYC once he had left the boys and didn’t exactly feel like returning home right away. He was quite drunk by the time the Swede had showed up beside him, all smile after his recent victory, a few of the top buttons of his crisp white shirt undone, his hair damp and tousled after so much dancing. His long fingers were curled around the neck of his recently ordered drink, his pupils dilated and his cheeks red from the excitement of the win. Or perhaps these were just the effects of alcohol. He was beaming, still running high on the sweet intoxication of victory, his chest heaving under that shirt after all the dancing.
When he had recognized Martin sitting at the bar, a flood of words had left his lips, his accent suddenly thicker under the mixed effects of alcohol and excitement. Martin had interrupted him in the middle of a sentence by grabbing his wrists hard and pulling him forward to plant a hard and bruising kiss on his lips. As a matter of fact, it didn’t really feel like kissing. It was more like raping because of how he kept thrusting his tongue into that hot cavity. It was silencing and invading, and when Lundqvist pulled back, his tongue darted out to lick Martin’s taste on his parted lips. There was something dark and wanton playing in his eyes when their eyes locked, his cheeks a more crimson shade than they had been just before. Martin had gotten the immediate feeling that was he to reach forward to Henrik’s crotch, he could jerk and release him right there without a single protest from the man. A grin stretched his lips at the thought, a grin that caught Lundqvist’s eyes and though there was some distance between them, Martin felt something stir in the narrower frame.
He wasn’t really surprised when the Swede reached within his vest for a pen in his shirt and wrote an address in his palm. When Henrik leaned forward to speak in his ear, his hot breath in the crook of his neck, his voice was husky against his skin, his accent thicker. “I’ll leave the doors open.”
He didn’t look at him again when he pulled back, but his fingers stayed in his hand just a little longer than needed. Martin grinned as he watched him walk back to his teammates, leaning closer to Gomez, probably excusing himself for the night. Martin didn’t stay to watch: he had no interest in watching. Instead, he made his way out of the bar and to his car. Getting behind the wheel, he started the engine and drove off. Alone, illuminated by the lights of the city that never grew dark, he knew exactly where that address was leading to.
He was going to fuck himself some little Swedish goalie tonight and he didn’t intend to let much of it standing after.
Henrik had done as promised: a brick laid thrust between the two doors to the entrance lobby of his apartment building and upstairs, his door had also been left unlocked. When he walked in, he heard a muffled bark and whimpers coming from the far side of the apartment, followed by scratches. Obviously, Henrik’s dog was trying to escape from one of the rooms. When he locked the door behind him, he heard Henrik’s voice in the next room, probably silencing the dog in Swedish. Perhaps he knew his guest had walked into his apartment already, but if he did, he didn’t let any of it transpire. It didn’t matter anyway. Just the same way it didn’t matter that the apartment was carefully decorated in a clearly European style, or that the flat was impeccably clean. What mattered was the narrow frame he found standing in the kitchen area, uncapping a beer. Henrik eventually turned around, the raw want and desire in his eyes obvious as Henrik’s pupils immediately dilated when they looked at him. Henrik’s blue eyes seized up the broadness of his shoulders, the strength of his chest and the power of his legs. It made Martin grin wider as he approached him, looking down the only inch that separated them, and when Henrik handed him the beer, it wasn’t to his lips that Martin pressed it, it was to Henrik’s.
Martin watched avidly as a trail of clear liquid escaped his lips and slowly made its way down his neck. Once the Swede had finished the entire bottle, he leaned in and slowly licked the trail up, eliciting a moan from the other man. He looked down at him in their proximity, thinking that he was still as fucking wanton as before. The thought triggered something primal and not exactly caring in him and when the image of a plan formed in his head, another of his long grins spread on his lips. At that moment, Martin could have sworn Henrik twitched when he saw it. As if to further tease him, his voice grew devoid of any emotions save from some cold calculation. Looking straight into his eyes, he let the words out: “Undress.” It was all he said, his lips hovering over Henrik’s.
As Henrik stared into his eyes, Martin could see the man was fighting following the order. There were confrontation and challenge in those clear blue orbs. When Henrik reached to unbutton his crisp white shirt and slide it off his shoulders, Martin knew that Henrik wasn’t conceding anything in the power struggle in which they were both involved. On the contrary, if he was undressing, it was because he wanted it, not because Martin had told him. Somewhere deep inside, the strength in those eyes stirred something new in him. His eyes narrowing, he leaned in so his lips were just hovering over the crook of his neck. After inhaling the man’s scent, he blew softly on that hot skin and felt the tremors rushing down Henrik’s body. As his lips grazed the shell of his ear, he told him he should now walk to his dining table.
He watched Henrik as again the Swede hesitated between complying or not. It pleased Martin that just like on the ice, Henrik wasn’t backing down. At length, he complied and walked to his dining table, granting Martin the liberty to appreciate the powerful muscles of his back and buttocks, which joined in an inviting curve. He grinned as he followed him, watching those same muscles move under the taut skin until eventually Henrik reached the table and turned to face him again. Martin, who had stopped a few steps away, walked closer, keeping his eyes locked with his. The grin that was splitting his lips was still appreciative, but it was now filled with wicked calculation. He loosened his tie and once he was close enough, he pressed the soft fabric to Henrik’s delicate lips. He leaned in, their blue eyes locking, and licked that small mouth through the tie. Henrik’s pupils dilated in obvious pleasure, reducing the irises to two thin blue rings. In answer, Martin’s lips parted as well, his tongue darting out to meet his if it weren’t for the expensive piece of clothing. Martin grinned interiorly: it was so easy to trigger this man, so easy to have him do the things he wanted.
He pushed the tie against his lips and tied it behind his head, leaving Henrik gagged. But even silenced, the strength in his eyes never wavered. Martin felt the challenge in them and even when he was told to turn, it never left them. The man was holding up to him, was challenging him on each move. It was then that he realized that what had always irked Martin about Henrik Lundqvist was the fact that he was the only one who fought him. Henrik was a fellow goalie: he didn’t charge his net with the puck, scoring past his defense with a clever move of the wrist. He was in the opposite crease, playing aggressively, deeply positioned in his net and better than him in a style that was the complete opposite of him. It was as if, game after game, Henrik were telling him that he wasn’t the best out there, despite his stats, his Cups and all the talk of the specialists. It sent a flare of rage through his body, rage and raw desire to overtake this man.
And perhaps hurt him in the process.
He pressed against Henrik’s back immediately, trapping him between the table and the broadness of his frame. His hands on the wood surface, on each side of those narrow and naked hips, his lips were pressed on the tattoo he found nestled at the top of the other goalie’s back, just under a strong yet fine neck. He had been surprised to find such a thing there, surprised that the man they all described to be elegant and more akin to the Hollywood stars of old than to hockey players would be wearing such a thing. It had made him raise an eyebrow, as he wondered what else his conventional demeanors hid. Perhaps, he thought, the younger man wasn’t as conformist as he looked. As if to test this theory, he bit down into the dark pattern. It elicited a deep moan from the man, clearly one of pleasure. It made Martin grin: naked whilst pressed against a fully clothed man, gagged by that other man’s piece of clothing and enjoying the sharp bite of teeth into sensitive skin, Henrik Lundqvist was still asking for more. Clearly, he didn’t mind having his limits pushed.
Martin wasn’t about to lose the opportunity to test how far he could push them.
He reached forward, passing his thumb on the teeth marks, earning a soft moan from that gagged mouth and then a longer one when his hand trailed down his spine. He traced the curve of his buttocks, admiring the pale skin, the strong muscles and the two inviting Venus’ dimples. He pushed both thumbs into them, pressing down, and watched as Henrik’s hips buckled, thrashing against the table and Martin’s frame for contact, and something else too. There had been a promise in the kiss they had shared at the bar, and now Henrik was demanding for it to be fulfilled. In answer to his plea, he slapped him hard, which obviously didn’t please Henrik, who started squirming as an answer, trying to move from under him. Martin stopped him however, grabbing one of his wrists and hooking it behind his back, securing it as he pressed against him, trapping him once again, using his size. He heard the growl building in his silenced throat. The obvious annoyance made his still clothed cock jerk and leak, already asking to be buried inside that resisting frame.
“Stop it,” he snarled against his ear, using his larger frame to neutralizing him again. He saw the fire in those darkened blue orbs as the younger man looked over his shoulder, anger shining in those eyes. Grinning interiorly, he reached his arm around Henrik and grabbed his chin. “Shhh, little Kitten. Be a good kitten and you’ll get what you’ve been asking for.”
Martin watched as the Swede’s eyes narrowed and his body thrashed under him. Obviously, he hadn’t loved the nickname either. Again, the fierceness in the young man both surprised and pleased him. And when he reached down to grab the hardening member between his thighs, its hardness was proof enough that his objections were only half-meant. He gave him a few strokes, watching his body’s immediate reactions as he melt almost instantly in his hands. Keeping him trapped between his body and the table, he reached a few fingers to his mouth, wetting them as he kept stroking him. Every single silenced mewl and moan Henrik produced sent direct jolts of electricity to his still clothed groin. He leaned forward and licked the top of his back again as he pushed a finger through tight muscles, the responsive cock twitching in his hand, making Martin grin again. Pumping him a few more strokes, he added a second finger. He pushed against fighting defenses and scissored his fingers to open him for what was to come. When Henrik’s insides suddenly clamped down on him, hungry and demanding, he knew he had hit that sensitive spot inside of him, but the strength with which Henrik claimed him made him ever more aware of how hard he’d become watching and feeling Henrik’s reactions. He wanted him, wanted to be buried inside of him, ripping him apart with the strength of his assault. Whatever desire had awoken in him tonight was nothing gentle, nothing caring.
It was nothing he had ever experienced or felt before.
Before he was even aware of it, he had squeezed lube from the tube of lubricant he had earlier fetched from his car. He was coating himself with it, mixing the thick liquid with his own precum. He didn’t bother with his clothes, didn’t bother taking them off. It wasn’t about discovering each other through the contact of the other’s body anyway, it was about conquering them. And when Martin finally entered him, tearing flesh apart, he felt the cry on Henrik’s lips, muffled by his tie, as it spread through his whole body. But the moment of weakness didn’t last: before long, Henrik pulled his hips forward and away from Martin, almost completely unsheathing him, and then pushed back, burying him to the hilt swiftly, his unashamed hunger waking more feral need.
Martin grabbed his hips with one hand, his thumb fitting perfectly into one Venus’ dimple. He pressed into it, thrusting into him again and again. The other hand closed on Henrik’s neck, pushing him forward onto the table, pressing him down onto it. In the light that filtered from the street and through carefully drawn curtains, Martin noticed wetness at the corner of Henrik’s eyes, as the side of his face laid pressed to the table. He watched him in that position through half-lidded eyes. The pain to which he was subjecting him was great, even greater for he wasn’t giving him the distraction the strokes on his sensitive member could have granted him. Henrik’s hands were crawling onto the table’s surface, bracing him against the assault. The new position changed their angle, changed how Martin was hitting Henrik inside: Martin’s head was now brushing over and over again against that sweet spot.
The succession of thrusts and pulls made Henrik cry out, his insides clamping down on Martin again, which made him grow even thicker - if possible - while inside of him. Martin’s rhythm increased and both his hands moved to his hips, taking hold of him possessively as he pounded hard into that narrow frame. Their movements soon grew frantic, uncontrolled and the volume of the sounds they produced increased with each thrust. When the orgasm hit, they rode wave after wave, milking each other until they were spent and emptied.
When they came back to their senses, they were both braced against the table, Martin’s chest tightly pressed against Henrik’s back, their bodies still panting for much needed air. Conscious once again of his surroundings, he reached up and pulled his tie free. As the fabric gathered in his palm, he found it drenched with what could only be tears. Something started forming in his heart then, but he was only able to catch the shape of it before Henrik moved and caused Martin to shift inside of him, the sensations pulling Martin back to the reality of the New York flat. Henrik straightened a little and reached up to rub at his sore cheeks and lips. Doing so, he turned back a little and the grin Martin found on those lips along with the mischief that shone in those eyes both annoyed and set him afire again.
“I hope that was only the first period, Marty.”
There was a little change in his tone, the last part of the sentence turning up as if this affirmation was more of a question. Martin grinned, biting down hard on his shoulder, eliciting a hiss from those delicate kitten lips, which made his dick twitch while he was still inside of him. He turned him around, planting a deep kiss on his lips. As they both fought for domination, seeking to caress the other’s tongue with their own, Henrik pressed himself against him. A moan of protest clearly indicated he was now finding Martin’s clothes too rough against his skin. In a new fury of movements, he pulled Martin’s shirt off his body and then backed toward the bedroom, inviting him to follow him, which Martin did. Doing so, he removed pants and underwear before he even reached the bedroom. They crossed the doorframe and Martin pushed Henrik against the wall, covering him immediately with his body. They kissed again, hands traveling their bodies, and together they stroked each other, their mouths seeking the other until Henrik broke the kiss and pushed Martin toward the bed. As the lean body of the Swede climbed the bed, moved over him and came to impale himself down on his hard and proudly standing cock, riding it slowly at first and eventually claiming him with more strength, Martin was unconsciously wishing for only one thing…
That this game would go to overtime.
Fin
Alecki
Author: Aleczandra, of the bagelmuffin_luv girls
Fandom: Professional Hockey of the NHL
Characters: Martin Brodeur and Henrik Lundqvist
Genre: Unashamed PWP
Rating: NC-17
Warning: Intense?
Disclaimer: "I've all the demons of Hell in my mind. My only salvation is to vent them on paper!" - Le Marquis de Sade -- Quills
Summary: In 2006, Martin Brodeur and the Devils eliminated the Rangers swiftly. In 2008 though, the story was completely different.
Author’s Note: Here is the first installment of something that is destined to move from salvage need to... (there shall be no spoilers! *evil laugh*) Just let them work their witchcraft. And by the way, Hell's Kitchen is where Henrik Lundqvist's apartment is. Also, the tattoo is REAL.
It was a blow to Martin Brodeur’s heart. Or more like a splinter in his foot. Actually, it was annoying like a pebble stuck in your shoe. That pretty much summed up how irritating it was to lose to the Rangers and to that useless Sean Avery. It hurt too, to lose in the first round, and worse, to the Devils’ natural enemy. They hadn’t played their best, and won only one game, but he had actually dared to think they might just be able to regroup if they were able to move forward into the next round. But the reality was painful, to him and to the whole team. And it wasn’t just that little pest, or the fact that they hadn’t played their best, it was also that young goalie at the other end of the ice.
Henrik Lundqvist had only been in the league for two years, but it had only taken him a few weeks to claim the crease. It hadn’t been long before he had turned into the new sensation and what had previously been a duel for the goalie supremacy in the Big Apple between Rick DiPietro and himself had turned into a three-way fight. Not that it really mattered anyway. Actually, he had welcomed the challenge of playing against talented goalies. What was nagging him was the fact that after his brilliant and expedient sweep of the New York Rangers in round 1 of the 2006 Stanley Cup series - his, and the Devils’, very first win against the Rangers in the history of the Stanley Cup series - he hadn’t even been able to win a single game against them in the 2007-2008 season! No matter how great he had played, Henrik Lundqvist had always managed to outplay him in each of the eight games in which they had played. Even in the one overtime win the team had against the Rangers, Martin hadn’t even been a determinant player. It made him grind his teeth: there was no other single player in his whole career that showed such blatant domination over him.
Maybe that was exactly what had triggered Martin’s reactions when the Rangers’ star player had showed up just beside him at the bar: a need to reclaim dominance. Or maybe it was just the many beers he had had, first at the club where the Devils had headed after the team meal to forget the bitter loss and then here, a bar he had found while roaming through the streets of NYC once he had left the boys and didn’t exactly feel like returning home right away. He was quite drunk by the time the Swede had showed up beside him, all smile after his recent victory, a few of the top buttons of his crisp white shirt undone, his hair damp and tousled after so much dancing. His long fingers were curled around the neck of his recently ordered drink, his pupils dilated and his cheeks red from the excitement of the win. Or perhaps these were just the effects of alcohol. He was beaming, still running high on the sweet intoxication of victory, his chest heaving under that shirt after all the dancing.
When he had recognized Martin sitting at the bar, a flood of words had left his lips, his accent suddenly thicker under the mixed effects of alcohol and excitement. Martin had interrupted him in the middle of a sentence by grabbing his wrists hard and pulling him forward to plant a hard and bruising kiss on his lips. As a matter of fact, it didn’t really feel like kissing. It was more like raping because of how he kept thrusting his tongue into that hot cavity. It was silencing and invading, and when Lundqvist pulled back, his tongue darted out to lick Martin’s taste on his parted lips. There was something dark and wanton playing in his eyes when their eyes locked, his cheeks a more crimson shade than they had been just before. Martin had gotten the immediate feeling that was he to reach forward to Henrik’s crotch, he could jerk and release him right there without a single protest from the man. A grin stretched his lips at the thought, a grin that caught Lundqvist’s eyes and though there was some distance between them, Martin felt something stir in the narrower frame.
He wasn’t really surprised when the Swede reached within his vest for a pen in his shirt and wrote an address in his palm. When Henrik leaned forward to speak in his ear, his hot breath in the crook of his neck, his voice was husky against his skin, his accent thicker. “I’ll leave the doors open.”
He didn’t look at him again when he pulled back, but his fingers stayed in his hand just a little longer than needed. Martin grinned as he watched him walk back to his teammates, leaning closer to Gomez, probably excusing himself for the night. Martin didn’t stay to watch: he had no interest in watching. Instead, he made his way out of the bar and to his car. Getting behind the wheel, he started the engine and drove off. Alone, illuminated by the lights of the city that never grew dark, he knew exactly where that address was leading to.
He was going to fuck himself some little Swedish goalie tonight and he didn’t intend to let much of it standing after.
Henrik had done as promised: a brick laid thrust between the two doors to the entrance lobby of his apartment building and upstairs, his door had also been left unlocked. When he walked in, he heard a muffled bark and whimpers coming from the far side of the apartment, followed by scratches. Obviously, Henrik’s dog was trying to escape from one of the rooms. When he locked the door behind him, he heard Henrik’s voice in the next room, probably silencing the dog in Swedish. Perhaps he knew his guest had walked into his apartment already, but if he did, he didn’t let any of it transpire. It didn’t matter anyway. Just the same way it didn’t matter that the apartment was carefully decorated in a clearly European style, or that the flat was impeccably clean. What mattered was the narrow frame he found standing in the kitchen area, uncapping a beer. Henrik eventually turned around, the raw want and desire in his eyes obvious as Henrik’s pupils immediately dilated when they looked at him. Henrik’s blue eyes seized up the broadness of his shoulders, the strength of his chest and the power of his legs. It made Martin grin wider as he approached him, looking down the only inch that separated them, and when Henrik handed him the beer, it wasn’t to his lips that Martin pressed it, it was to Henrik’s.
Martin watched avidly as a trail of clear liquid escaped his lips and slowly made its way down his neck. Once the Swede had finished the entire bottle, he leaned in and slowly licked the trail up, eliciting a moan from the other man. He looked down at him in their proximity, thinking that he was still as fucking wanton as before. The thought triggered something primal and not exactly caring in him and when the image of a plan formed in his head, another of his long grins spread on his lips. At that moment, Martin could have sworn Henrik twitched when he saw it. As if to further tease him, his voice grew devoid of any emotions save from some cold calculation. Looking straight into his eyes, he let the words out: “Undress.” It was all he said, his lips hovering over Henrik’s.
As Henrik stared into his eyes, Martin could see the man was fighting following the order. There were confrontation and challenge in those clear blue orbs. When Henrik reached to unbutton his crisp white shirt and slide it off his shoulders, Martin knew that Henrik wasn’t conceding anything in the power struggle in which they were both involved. On the contrary, if he was undressing, it was because he wanted it, not because Martin had told him. Somewhere deep inside, the strength in those eyes stirred something new in him. His eyes narrowing, he leaned in so his lips were just hovering over the crook of his neck. After inhaling the man’s scent, he blew softly on that hot skin and felt the tremors rushing down Henrik’s body. As his lips grazed the shell of his ear, he told him he should now walk to his dining table.
He watched Henrik as again the Swede hesitated between complying or not. It pleased Martin that just like on the ice, Henrik wasn’t backing down. At length, he complied and walked to his dining table, granting Martin the liberty to appreciate the powerful muscles of his back and buttocks, which joined in an inviting curve. He grinned as he followed him, watching those same muscles move under the taut skin until eventually Henrik reached the table and turned to face him again. Martin, who had stopped a few steps away, walked closer, keeping his eyes locked with his. The grin that was splitting his lips was still appreciative, but it was now filled with wicked calculation. He loosened his tie and once he was close enough, he pressed the soft fabric to Henrik’s delicate lips. He leaned in, their blue eyes locking, and licked that small mouth through the tie. Henrik’s pupils dilated in obvious pleasure, reducing the irises to two thin blue rings. In answer, Martin’s lips parted as well, his tongue darting out to meet his if it weren’t for the expensive piece of clothing. Martin grinned interiorly: it was so easy to trigger this man, so easy to have him do the things he wanted.
He pushed the tie against his lips and tied it behind his head, leaving Henrik gagged. But even silenced, the strength in his eyes never wavered. Martin felt the challenge in them and even when he was told to turn, it never left them. The man was holding up to him, was challenging him on each move. It was then that he realized that what had always irked Martin about Henrik Lundqvist was the fact that he was the only one who fought him. Henrik was a fellow goalie: he didn’t charge his net with the puck, scoring past his defense with a clever move of the wrist. He was in the opposite crease, playing aggressively, deeply positioned in his net and better than him in a style that was the complete opposite of him. It was as if, game after game, Henrik were telling him that he wasn’t the best out there, despite his stats, his Cups and all the talk of the specialists. It sent a flare of rage through his body, rage and raw desire to overtake this man.
And perhaps hurt him in the process.
He pressed against Henrik’s back immediately, trapping him between the table and the broadness of his frame. His hands on the wood surface, on each side of those narrow and naked hips, his lips were pressed on the tattoo he found nestled at the top of the other goalie’s back, just under a strong yet fine neck. He had been surprised to find such a thing there, surprised that the man they all described to be elegant and more akin to the Hollywood stars of old than to hockey players would be wearing such a thing. It had made him raise an eyebrow, as he wondered what else his conventional demeanors hid. Perhaps, he thought, the younger man wasn’t as conformist as he looked. As if to test this theory, he bit down into the dark pattern. It elicited a deep moan from the man, clearly one of pleasure. It made Martin grin: naked whilst pressed against a fully clothed man, gagged by that other man’s piece of clothing and enjoying the sharp bite of teeth into sensitive skin, Henrik Lundqvist was still asking for more. Clearly, he didn’t mind having his limits pushed.
Martin wasn’t about to lose the opportunity to test how far he could push them.
He reached forward, passing his thumb on the teeth marks, earning a soft moan from that gagged mouth and then a longer one when his hand trailed down his spine. He traced the curve of his buttocks, admiring the pale skin, the strong muscles and the two inviting Venus’ dimples. He pushed both thumbs into them, pressing down, and watched as Henrik’s hips buckled, thrashing against the table and Martin’s frame for contact, and something else too. There had been a promise in the kiss they had shared at the bar, and now Henrik was demanding for it to be fulfilled. In answer to his plea, he slapped him hard, which obviously didn’t please Henrik, who started squirming as an answer, trying to move from under him. Martin stopped him however, grabbing one of his wrists and hooking it behind his back, securing it as he pressed against him, trapping him once again, using his size. He heard the growl building in his silenced throat. The obvious annoyance made his still clothed cock jerk and leak, already asking to be buried inside that resisting frame.
“Stop it,” he snarled against his ear, using his larger frame to neutralizing him again. He saw the fire in those darkened blue orbs as the younger man looked over his shoulder, anger shining in those eyes. Grinning interiorly, he reached his arm around Henrik and grabbed his chin. “Shhh, little Kitten. Be a good kitten and you’ll get what you’ve been asking for.”
Martin watched as the Swede’s eyes narrowed and his body thrashed under him. Obviously, he hadn’t loved the nickname either. Again, the fierceness in the young man both surprised and pleased him. And when he reached down to grab the hardening member between his thighs, its hardness was proof enough that his objections were only half-meant. He gave him a few strokes, watching his body’s immediate reactions as he melt almost instantly in his hands. Keeping him trapped between his body and the table, he reached a few fingers to his mouth, wetting them as he kept stroking him. Every single silenced mewl and moan Henrik produced sent direct jolts of electricity to his still clothed groin. He leaned forward and licked the top of his back again as he pushed a finger through tight muscles, the responsive cock twitching in his hand, making Martin grin again. Pumping him a few more strokes, he added a second finger. He pushed against fighting defenses and scissored his fingers to open him for what was to come. When Henrik’s insides suddenly clamped down on him, hungry and demanding, he knew he had hit that sensitive spot inside of him, but the strength with which Henrik claimed him made him ever more aware of how hard he’d become watching and feeling Henrik’s reactions. He wanted him, wanted to be buried inside of him, ripping him apart with the strength of his assault. Whatever desire had awoken in him tonight was nothing gentle, nothing caring.
It was nothing he had ever experienced or felt before.
Before he was even aware of it, he had squeezed lube from the tube of lubricant he had earlier fetched from his car. He was coating himself with it, mixing the thick liquid with his own precum. He didn’t bother with his clothes, didn’t bother taking them off. It wasn’t about discovering each other through the contact of the other’s body anyway, it was about conquering them. And when Martin finally entered him, tearing flesh apart, he felt the cry on Henrik’s lips, muffled by his tie, as it spread through his whole body. But the moment of weakness didn’t last: before long, Henrik pulled his hips forward and away from Martin, almost completely unsheathing him, and then pushed back, burying him to the hilt swiftly, his unashamed hunger waking more feral need.
Martin grabbed his hips with one hand, his thumb fitting perfectly into one Venus’ dimple. He pressed into it, thrusting into him again and again. The other hand closed on Henrik’s neck, pushing him forward onto the table, pressing him down onto it. In the light that filtered from the street and through carefully drawn curtains, Martin noticed wetness at the corner of Henrik’s eyes, as the side of his face laid pressed to the table. He watched him in that position through half-lidded eyes. The pain to which he was subjecting him was great, even greater for he wasn’t giving him the distraction the strokes on his sensitive member could have granted him. Henrik’s hands were crawling onto the table’s surface, bracing him against the assault. The new position changed their angle, changed how Martin was hitting Henrik inside: Martin’s head was now brushing over and over again against that sweet spot.
The succession of thrusts and pulls made Henrik cry out, his insides clamping down on Martin again, which made him grow even thicker - if possible - while inside of him. Martin’s rhythm increased and both his hands moved to his hips, taking hold of him possessively as he pounded hard into that narrow frame. Their movements soon grew frantic, uncontrolled and the volume of the sounds they produced increased with each thrust. When the orgasm hit, they rode wave after wave, milking each other until they were spent and emptied.
When they came back to their senses, they were both braced against the table, Martin’s chest tightly pressed against Henrik’s back, their bodies still panting for much needed air. Conscious once again of his surroundings, he reached up and pulled his tie free. As the fabric gathered in his palm, he found it drenched with what could only be tears. Something started forming in his heart then, but he was only able to catch the shape of it before Henrik moved and caused Martin to shift inside of him, the sensations pulling Martin back to the reality of the New York flat. Henrik straightened a little and reached up to rub at his sore cheeks and lips. Doing so, he turned back a little and the grin Martin found on those lips along with the mischief that shone in those eyes both annoyed and set him afire again.
“I hope that was only the first period, Marty.”
There was a little change in his tone, the last part of the sentence turning up as if this affirmation was more of a question. Martin grinned, biting down hard on his shoulder, eliciting a hiss from those delicate kitten lips, which made his dick twitch while he was still inside of him. He turned him around, planting a deep kiss on his lips. As they both fought for domination, seeking to caress the other’s tongue with their own, Henrik pressed himself against him. A moan of protest clearly indicated he was now finding Martin’s clothes too rough against his skin. In a new fury of movements, he pulled Martin’s shirt off his body and then backed toward the bedroom, inviting him to follow him, which Martin did. Doing so, he removed pants and underwear before he even reached the bedroom. They crossed the doorframe and Martin pushed Henrik against the wall, covering him immediately with his body. They kissed again, hands traveling their bodies, and together they stroked each other, their mouths seeking the other until Henrik broke the kiss and pushed Martin toward the bed. As the lean body of the Swede climbed the bed, moved over him and came to impale himself down on his hard and proudly standing cock, riding it slowly at first and eventually claiming him with more strength, Martin was unconsciously wishing for only one thing…
That this game would go to overtime.
Fin
Alecki