And I Shall Be There [3/?]
anonymous
July 12 2009, 15:15:10 UTC
“I can do that.”
He hangs up after a quick promise to think of something by the time they meet and a quiet goodbye. He sinks into sleep after that. He is thankful upon waking that he did not dream. ___
One month later, Toris swallows the spit welling up in his mouth as he walks up the stairs of Alfred’s porch.
It’s been so long since he’s walked on this wood, since he first knocked on this door with a ratty suitcase in hand and asked for a place to stay. The door and the knocker are new, but for some reason, it doesn’t feel that different.
Well, it doesn’t feel any different aside from the nerves coiling in his gut and beating through his blood.
It takes a few moments, but Toris hears the locks on the door clicking undone, save for a single gold chain that stays in place as the door cracks open and a green eye peeks out to look.
He knows Arthur’s already seen him. But this is part of the deal.
“Safeword?” he murmurs, voice muffled behind stained oak wood.
Toris has given this some thought. His eyes drift over to the gate on the left side of Alfred’s house, to the bushes and vines overflowing the edges. He remembers the 20s, of spending warm summer days sitting out there with Alfred. “Coffee,” he says, and imagines the rich flavor flooding his mouth.
The green eye glints and appraises him before Arthur grunts and disappears from sight again. One more sharp, defined click, and the door swings open to reveal Arthur.
Arthur, who is dressed in a fancy red coat with all manners of buttons and embroidery, who wears a cravat fastened just below his Adam’s apple, who wears thigh-high boots and white, tight gloves. “Any limits that I need to know about?” he asks, raising his voice, and Toris realizes the gentleness in Arthur’s voice was just his quiet tone, and nothing more.
He licks his lips. “Only Alfred,” Toris says, and his voice falls flat. He draws breath. Tries again. “Only Alfred can…can touch me,” he says, his voice picking up in pitch and panic. “…I’m sorry.”
“What did I tell you, boy? You have nothing to be sorry for. If you don’t want me to fuck you, Alfred shall do it instead.” He gives Toris a quick smile that isn’t quite reassuring, but still manages to set his face aflame. “I can do that much.”
“I - all right, I -”
“If you’re ready,” Arthur says, “then step over the threshold and put your duffel bag over there.”
Toris swallows, arms himself with the knowledge that he has his safe word, and steps into Alfred’s house. Alfred’s carpet was different before, and he’s pretty sure Alfred didn’t have that shoe mat the last time he came here. But it’s just the same, Toris thinks, smiling as he removes his shoes and drops his duffel. “It’s like coming home,” Toris says, smiling over his shoulder at Arthur.
Arthur doesn’t respond. Doesn’t even look at him.
Toris feels his smile fade as his confidence flickers; he shakes his head and firms his face. He warned me it would be this way, he thinks. I know what I’m up against.
Arthur doesn’t say a word as he starts walking down the hall, towards the staircase. Toris frowns, because he thought Alfred’s room was on this floor. But no, he’s not the one in charge here; whether things have changed, whether they haven’t, is irrelevant to the scene.
Toris follows him up the stairs, swallows as they climb into growing darkness. Even Toris has to admit Arthur’s done a splendid job with making the area completely black.
In a room off to their left, Toris sees flickering light. Arthur walks towards that room and its light, beckoning Toris to follow with a slight tilt of his head.
They turn and walk into the room, and Toris feels his mouth go dry when he sees Alfred. He’s so used to associating Alfred with strength and noise. To see him so quiet and complacent is…different.
Toris lets his eyes drift over the ropes that bind Alfred’s wrists, elbows, knees, and ankles to the chair. Alfred’s dark gray vest is unbuttoned, parted; the long-sleeved shirt underneath that is undone for the first few buttons. His eyes trail down to the dark pants, to the unmistakable bulge between those legs.
Re: And I Shall Be There [3/?]
anonymous
July 13 2009, 04:54:31 UTC
Oh, wow, anon. Wow. OP is very happy, and very much still looking for more. Toris's point of view makes this seem both surreal and raw, I think, even at this point in time. Lovely!
He hangs up after a quick promise to think of something by the time they meet and a quiet goodbye. He sinks into sleep after that. He is thankful upon waking that he did not dream.
___
One month later, Toris swallows the spit welling up in his mouth as he walks up the stairs of Alfred’s porch.
It’s been so long since he’s walked on this wood, since he first knocked on this door with a ratty suitcase in hand and asked for a place to stay. The door and the knocker are new, but for some reason, it doesn’t feel that different.
Well, it doesn’t feel any different aside from the nerves coiling in his gut and beating through his blood.
It takes a few moments, but Toris hears the locks on the door clicking undone, save for a single gold chain that stays in place as the door cracks open and a green eye peeks out to look.
He knows Arthur’s already seen him. But this is part of the deal.
“Safeword?” he murmurs, voice muffled behind stained oak wood.
Toris has given this some thought. His eyes drift over to the gate on the left side of Alfred’s house, to the bushes and vines overflowing the edges. He remembers the 20s, of spending warm summer days sitting out there with Alfred. “Coffee,” he says, and imagines the rich flavor flooding his mouth.
The green eye glints and appraises him before Arthur grunts and disappears from sight again. One more sharp, defined click, and the door swings open to reveal Arthur.
Arthur, who is dressed in a fancy red coat with all manners of buttons and embroidery, who wears a cravat fastened just below his Adam’s apple, who wears thigh-high boots and white, tight gloves. “Any limits that I need to know about?” he asks, raising his voice, and Toris realizes the gentleness in Arthur’s voice was just his quiet tone, and nothing more.
He licks his lips. “Only Alfred,” Toris says, and his voice falls flat. He draws breath. Tries again. “Only Alfred can…can touch me,” he says, his voice picking up in pitch and panic. “…I’m sorry.”
“What did I tell you, boy? You have nothing to be sorry for. If you don’t want me to fuck you, Alfred shall do it instead.” He gives Toris a quick smile that isn’t quite reassuring, but still manages to set his face aflame. “I can do that much.”
“I - all right, I -”
“If you’re ready,” Arthur says, “then step over the threshold and put your duffel bag over there.”
Toris swallows, arms himself with the knowledge that he has his safe word, and steps into Alfred’s house. Alfred’s carpet was different before, and he’s pretty sure Alfred didn’t have that shoe mat the last time he came here. But it’s just the same, Toris thinks, smiling as he removes his shoes and drops his duffel. “It’s like coming home,” Toris says, smiling over his shoulder at Arthur.
Arthur doesn’t respond. Doesn’t even look at him.
Toris feels his smile fade as his confidence flickers; he shakes his head and firms his face. He warned me it would be this way, he thinks. I know what I’m up against.
Arthur doesn’t say a word as he starts walking down the hall, towards the staircase. Toris frowns, because he thought Alfred’s room was on this floor. But no, he’s not the one in charge here; whether things have changed, whether they haven’t, is irrelevant to the scene.
Toris follows him up the stairs, swallows as they climb into growing darkness. Even Toris has to admit Arthur’s done a splendid job with making the area completely black.
In a room off to their left, Toris sees flickering light. Arthur walks towards that room and its light, beckoning Toris to follow with a slight tilt of his head.
They turn and walk into the room, and Toris feels his mouth go dry when he sees Alfred. He’s so used to associating Alfred with strength and noise. To see him so quiet and complacent is…different.
Toris lets his eyes drift over the ropes that bind Alfred’s wrists, elbows, knees, and ankles to the chair. Alfred’s dark gray vest is unbuttoned, parted; the long-sleeved shirt underneath that is undone for the first few buttons. His eyes trail down to the dark pants, to the unmistakable bulge between those legs.
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B...DSM? Is that what this is? Oh snap. OoO
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