Pros Slash Proliferation, Day 2
A non-slasher friend once asked me why I liked slash - with the two guys together, she said, there's no room for me in the picture; wouldn't I rather imagine one of them with me?
Well...no. :-) I never want "me" in the picture - I guess I'm just a voyeur at heart, and for me, slash is essentially voyeuristic - it satisfies my deep desire to see "behind the bedroom doors," both figuratively, in the sense of seeing into the relationship, seeing the most intimate aspects of it; and, of course, quite literally!
So it seems fitting to highlight some scenes from B/D slash stories that incorporate the concept of voyeurism in various ways...
(Here's just a taste, and there's much more behind the cut!)
Even in the dark of his room, after midnight, he flushed, his blood rising at the memory of what he had seen. It had been a high bed, with four posts--high enough to give him a view he could have had in no other circumstances. He stood there less than thirty seconds, a mere wisp of time, and then he had closed the door again, swiftly, silently, and he had run, actually run for the front door. Only when out in the crisp morning air had he been able to breathe, to take hold of his impulse to keep running. He had walked back to his car, eyes on his polished shoes, hands clenched and in his pockets. Once there, he sank gratefully down onto the plush upholstery and waited for his heart to slow. He stared straight ahead, but every man and woman on his most-wanted list could have walked by his vehicle and he would not have seen. His eyes were still full of the memory of what he had seen.
Bodie. Big Bodie, naked, his pale skin flushed to rosy pink, had been on his knees, his face buried in a big white pillow which he clutched fervently. How erotic it was, to see all that strength presented so vulnerably. The arse, all white curves and solid muscle, thrust up. Not that much of it could be seen, covered, as it was, by Ray Doyle's...Ray Doyle's....
Doyle. Upright on his knees, hands hard on Bodie's hips, holding them both in position. Curly head bent down, the better to see where his own cock sank between the two halves of Bodie's buttocks as he repeatedly thrust into him. Hard. Hard, and with every shove Bodie moaned and cried out for more or cursed in strained delight, so that there was no doubt his subjugation was voluntary, and with every snap of his hips Doyle groaned and sighed and gloried in it.
And the watcher had fought to breathe, one hand braced against the frame of the door because his legs could no longer support him, because from his angle he could see even more. He could glimpse beneath the sweat sheened bodies, balls, two sets of round shapes swinging wildly, almost but never quite touching, he could see the pubic hair, moist with their loving.
And he could hear!
He could hear the rising note in each male voice, the sounds which meant that it would come to them any minute, any second now one or the other would reach the peak and explode, to spray out a rain of seed, either onto the white sheets or into the dark clenching depths. He could hear the slap-slap of bodies coming together. He could hear them call out each other's names as they begged for the heights even as they rocketed up and....
-- From Old Man's Fantasy, by DVS
With a muffled curse and red face, he got the sweater off at long last, by the simple expedient of pulling the damned thing off with no regard for painstakingly knitted pullovers. Balling it up in his hand, he went to Doyle's room to borrow a dressing gown for after his bath. Hand on door -
[...]
- and saw Doyle.
Who was standing in front of the mirror, cock hard as steel and sticking out from his body like a weapon. Shocking, yes, to come across a friend in flagrante delicto. More than shocking to come across his friend standing there like that, the symbol and personification of manhood jutting so proudly from him, large and thick and hard, startling in contrast to the slim masculinity of hips.
More shocking still in contrast to the black silk underwear. Women's underwear, black silk panties pulled down low to frame the prominence of masculinity, the merry widow loosely laced with chest hair peeking free. Black stockings, thigh high on legs that looked suddenly slim and shapely, moulded by the highness of heel and the shimmer of patent leather. Sweater dropped and forgotten on the carpet, Bodie stumbled to a halt, suddenly needing to lean against the door jamb, knees shocked into weakness by the sight in front of him. Doyle, his partner Raymond Doyle, in drag.
Eyes bright and pupils dilated, cock still rock hard and seeping, Doyle turned to face him, hand still blurring in motion, the cum spurting from him in arcing jets to land not on himself in the mirror, but uselessly, unwanted, on the carpet between him and Bodie.
"Christ, Ray..." was all Bodie could say, head full of the cotton wool of sudden shock.
-- From In Flagrante Delicto, by M. Fae Glasgow
"Look to your right, Bodie."
Bodie did, and completely stopped his wriggling.
"You see it, Bodie?"
"Yeah," Bodie whispered roughly.
"You see us?"
Bodie nodded, and in the mirror, Doyle could see him licking his lips.
"You know what you need to do?"
Bodie's eyes were huge and dark as he stared into the mirror. Doyle thrust hard against him.
"You know what you need to do?" he repeated.
Bodie swallowed. "No."
"You need to be perfectly still. All you're allowed to do is watch me indulge myself." Doyle rolled his hips. "Oh, and Bodie?"
Bodie groaned, "Yeah?"
"You have to watch. If you stop looking at that mirror, if you stop watching us, I'll stop."
"Ray--"
"Got it, Bodie? I'll stop. I'll go into the bog and lock the door, and get myself off where you can't see."
That left Bodie speechless, and now that Doyle had his complete attention, he could begin. He moved so that he was between Bodie's legs instead of straddling them, and slid his hands up Bodie's thighs. When he reached the top, he cupped Bodie's cheeks, and then used his thumbs to spread them open.
He bent low, and then asked, "Are you watching?"
Bodie gasped.
"Ah, you must be."
He let his breath tease Bodie's flesh and watched, fascinated, as Bodie strained towards him. It was such a small movement, only a few millimetres, but it spoke so eloquently of longing and control. It was beautiful. Bodie was so beautiful with him like this.
Doyle had to kiss him. He pressed his tongue to that little stretch of skin between Bodie's arsehole and his balls.
Bodie's moan filled the room, and Doyle agreed with its sentiment whole-heartedly. This was perfect, but he needed more. He laved at his balls, cupped them, kissed them, then pulled Bodie's hips up enough that he could get under him and squeeze his cock as he pressed his tongue inside.
Bodie roared.
That's it, love, Doyle thought, unwilling to pull his mouth away long enough to encourage him out loud. That's it. And he worked him hard in his hand, and when his tongue was no longer enough, he rested his cheek on Bodie's arse and watched his reaction in the mirror as he pressed a finger in and stroked his prostate.
Bodie's control was good to the end. There was only a single second as he came that his eyes shut, and then he opened them and stared at Doyle, meeting his eyes directly in the glass.
-- From Four Days in August, by Snarkyllama
Chris was nibbling his ear now, and he was loftily amused to discover that she was also opening his shirt, pulling it free of its moorings, and playing with his nipples. Nice. Oh yeah.
He let his head fall back, arousal oozing through him like warmed treacle. Always did have sensitive nipples ... Bodie'd realized that - used to roll them and suck them like none of his birds ever did. Used to send them both sky high ...
His eyes shot open. What the fuck was wrong with him? Wallowing like that. Must be drunker then he'd thought. Was Bodie's first time in the flat since ... well, maybe that was what was getting to him ...
Inexorably, his gaze shifted across to the armchair, at right angles to the sofa, and his eyes opened wide again with shock and a kind of appalled fascination. Didn't ... expect ...
In the few hazy moments of Doyle's preoccupation, Bodie's shirt had been completely unbuttoned, his chest naked now to Doyle's stare and Jo's searching fmgers, and they were kissing deeply, oblivious to their audience, Bodie's mouth working eagerly on the woman's lips on top of his.
And the memory was there instantly - Oh Christ - the memory, so very clear of how that felt; his own astonishment at how good it had been to kiss another man, to kiss Bodie, and he couldn't even attempt to control his own exaggerated reaction to it now.
Oh God. Bodie'd been right.
This was a mistake.
Desperately, he shut his eyes and pulled Christine closer, burying his hands in her mane of dark, silky hair, and kissing her open mouth with all the passion at his command.
But it was in his mind now. Turning, racing like a mouse on a wheel; remembering, comparing, and he found reality a pale thing beside memories, so efficiently buried, of a man's mouth, and a strength that equalled his own. Finally, he pulled away, gasping for air, and he couldn't resist opening his eyes again.
Bodie's hand was in Jo's open blouse now, her bra expertly undone, rubbing and pinching a full, pink nipple with such casual expertise that Doyle wanted to howl with frustration at the memory of how that felt. He watched, slavishly, until Joanna began to fumble with the button of Bodie's trousers, pulling down his zip, and then he shut his eyes sharply before he could see her hand creep inside.
He'd never considered himself a voyeur before but, God, he was fully erect and he knew with a kind of despair that Christine had little to do with it. It was going to happen again then: himself and Bodie and their girls, side by side.
He tried to blank his mind to all but his terrified excitement as he moved his hands to Christine's stocking-clad thighs.
Determinedly, he fought to concentrate on the girl in his arms, undressing her steadily until finally only stockings and suspenders adorned her dancer's legs and she began to strip him with her own particular brand of eagerness. Seemed to love his body, Chris did. Silky hair slid over his thighs as his jeans reached his ankles, followed by his underpants.
Yeah, very ... gratifying ... very ...
He sucked in his breath as her hand found his grossly swollen penis at last - and, almost against his will, he permitted himself to open his eyes again and focus on the others, willing it all to have changed; willing it not to matter.
They were even further into the act than he and Chris, absorbed in each other as they'd been from the moment their inhibitions had slid away, absolutely unaware of Doyle's gaze. They were both naked now except, Doyle saw with an odd pang of sharp feeling, for Bodie's underpants which were caught endearingly around his left ankle. Jo was kneeling between Bodie's spread thighs, sucking him with frightening gusto, and Bodie's face was a closed-off picture of tortured desire. Doyle swallowed convulsively and looked away.
He wanted ... Oh Christ ... couldn't even say what he wanted.
He lay passively, numbed by his turmoil, as Chris finished stripping off his pants with brisk efficiency. Then she settled herself on top of him, skin on skin a sudden jolt of pleasure, and began to kiss him, and he knew with a curious detachment that he could take her like that.
But - then he wouldn't be able to see Bodie - and Jo, of course - and he knew, he had to see. In one smooth movement, he rolled Christine to the floor beneath him, turning their bodies until he had a clear view of the others.
They were also on the floor, stretched out, almost perpendicular to himself and Chris, with the armchair pushed carelessly back behind them. Bodie was lying with his back to Doyle as he played his hand gently between Jo's legs, watching her delight, and Doyle tried to focus on that too. But he knew ... oh, he knew where he wanted to look.
Bodie's perfect, muscular backside was too far away to touch, but Doyle wanted to, so badly he could barely contain it.
Desperately, he moved to push his aching length between Christine's thighs and finally inside her, as gently as he could, but he couldn't take his eyes off his partner, remembering at last what he had never allowed himself to remember.
-- From Building on Rainbows, by Kate MacLean (Unprofessional Conduct 3)
Yum.
Well...no. :-) I never want "me" in the picture - I guess I'm just a voyeur at heart, and for me, slash is essentially voyeuristic - it satisfies my deep desire to see "behind the bedroom doors," both figuratively, in the sense of seeing into the relationship, seeing the most intimate aspects of it; and, of course, quite literally!
So it seems fitting to highlight some scenes from B/D slash stories that incorporate the concept of voyeurism in various ways...
(Here's just a taste, and there's much more behind the cut!)
Even in the dark of his room, after midnight, he flushed, his blood rising at the memory of what he had seen. It had been a high bed, with four posts--high enough to give him a view he could have had in no other circumstances. He stood there less than thirty seconds, a mere wisp of time, and then he had closed the door again, swiftly, silently, and he had run, actually run for the front door. Only when out in the crisp morning air had he been able to breathe, to take hold of his impulse to keep running. He had walked back to his car, eyes on his polished shoes, hands clenched and in his pockets. Once there, he sank gratefully down onto the plush upholstery and waited for his heart to slow. He stared straight ahead, but every man and woman on his most-wanted list could have walked by his vehicle and he would not have seen. His eyes were still full of the memory of what he had seen.
Bodie. Big Bodie, naked, his pale skin flushed to rosy pink, had been on his knees, his face buried in a big white pillow which he clutched fervently. How erotic it was, to see all that strength presented so vulnerably. The arse, all white curves and solid muscle, thrust up. Not that much of it could be seen, covered, as it was, by Ray Doyle's...Ray Doyle's....
Doyle. Upright on his knees, hands hard on Bodie's hips, holding them both in position. Curly head bent down, the better to see where his own cock sank between the two halves of Bodie's buttocks as he repeatedly thrust into him. Hard. Hard, and with every shove Bodie moaned and cried out for more or cursed in strained delight, so that there was no doubt his subjugation was voluntary, and with every snap of his hips Doyle groaned and sighed and gloried in it.
And the watcher had fought to breathe, one hand braced against the frame of the door because his legs could no longer support him, because from his angle he could see even more. He could glimpse beneath the sweat sheened bodies, balls, two sets of round shapes swinging wildly, almost but never quite touching, he could see the pubic hair, moist with their loving.
And he could hear!
He could hear the rising note in each male voice, the sounds which meant that it would come to them any minute, any second now one or the other would reach the peak and explode, to spray out a rain of seed, either onto the white sheets or into the dark clenching depths. He could hear the slap-slap of bodies coming together. He could hear them call out each other's names as they begged for the heights even as they rocketed up and....
-- From Old Man's Fantasy, by DVS
With a muffled curse and red face, he got the sweater off at long last, by the simple expedient of pulling the damned thing off with no regard for painstakingly knitted pullovers. Balling it up in his hand, he went to Doyle's room to borrow a dressing gown for after his bath. Hand on door -
[...]
- and saw Doyle.
Who was standing in front of the mirror, cock hard as steel and sticking out from his body like a weapon. Shocking, yes, to come across a friend in flagrante delicto. More than shocking to come across his friend standing there like that, the symbol and personification of manhood jutting so proudly from him, large and thick and hard, startling in contrast to the slim masculinity of hips.
More shocking still in contrast to the black silk underwear. Women's underwear, black silk panties pulled down low to frame the prominence of masculinity, the merry widow loosely laced with chest hair peeking free. Black stockings, thigh high on legs that looked suddenly slim and shapely, moulded by the highness of heel and the shimmer of patent leather. Sweater dropped and forgotten on the carpet, Bodie stumbled to a halt, suddenly needing to lean against the door jamb, knees shocked into weakness by the sight in front of him. Doyle, his partner Raymond Doyle, in drag.
Eyes bright and pupils dilated, cock still rock hard and seeping, Doyle turned to face him, hand still blurring in motion, the cum spurting from him in arcing jets to land not on himself in the mirror, but uselessly, unwanted, on the carpet between him and Bodie.
"Christ, Ray..." was all Bodie could say, head full of the cotton wool of sudden shock.
-- From In Flagrante Delicto, by M. Fae Glasgow
"Look to your right, Bodie."
Bodie did, and completely stopped his wriggling.
"You see it, Bodie?"
"Yeah," Bodie whispered roughly.
"You see us?"
Bodie nodded, and in the mirror, Doyle could see him licking his lips.
"You know what you need to do?"
Bodie's eyes were huge and dark as he stared into the mirror. Doyle thrust hard against him.
"You know what you need to do?" he repeated.
Bodie swallowed. "No."
"You need to be perfectly still. All you're allowed to do is watch me indulge myself." Doyle rolled his hips. "Oh, and Bodie?"
Bodie groaned, "Yeah?"
"You have to watch. If you stop looking at that mirror, if you stop watching us, I'll stop."
"Ray--"
"Got it, Bodie? I'll stop. I'll go into the bog and lock the door, and get myself off where you can't see."
That left Bodie speechless, and now that Doyle had his complete attention, he could begin. He moved so that he was between Bodie's legs instead of straddling them, and slid his hands up Bodie's thighs. When he reached the top, he cupped Bodie's cheeks, and then used his thumbs to spread them open.
He bent low, and then asked, "Are you watching?"
Bodie gasped.
"Ah, you must be."
He let his breath tease Bodie's flesh and watched, fascinated, as Bodie strained towards him. It was such a small movement, only a few millimetres, but it spoke so eloquently of longing and control. It was beautiful. Bodie was so beautiful with him like this.
Doyle had to kiss him. He pressed his tongue to that little stretch of skin between Bodie's arsehole and his balls.
Bodie's moan filled the room, and Doyle agreed with its sentiment whole-heartedly. This was perfect, but he needed more. He laved at his balls, cupped them, kissed them, then pulled Bodie's hips up enough that he could get under him and squeeze his cock as he pressed his tongue inside.
Bodie roared.
That's it, love, Doyle thought, unwilling to pull his mouth away long enough to encourage him out loud. That's it. And he worked him hard in his hand, and when his tongue was no longer enough, he rested his cheek on Bodie's arse and watched his reaction in the mirror as he pressed a finger in and stroked his prostate.
Bodie's control was good to the end. There was only a single second as he came that his eyes shut, and then he opened them and stared at Doyle, meeting his eyes directly in the glass.
-- From Four Days in August, by Snarkyllama
Chris was nibbling his ear now, and he was loftily amused to discover that she was also opening his shirt, pulling it free of its moorings, and playing with his nipples. Nice. Oh yeah.
He let his head fall back, arousal oozing through him like warmed treacle. Always did have sensitive nipples ... Bodie'd realized that - used to roll them and suck them like none of his birds ever did. Used to send them both sky high ...
His eyes shot open. What the fuck was wrong with him? Wallowing like that. Must be drunker then he'd thought. Was Bodie's first time in the flat since ... well, maybe that was what was getting to him ...
Inexorably, his gaze shifted across to the armchair, at right angles to the sofa, and his eyes opened wide again with shock and a kind of appalled fascination. Didn't ... expect ...
In the few hazy moments of Doyle's preoccupation, Bodie's shirt had been completely unbuttoned, his chest naked now to Doyle's stare and Jo's searching fmgers, and they were kissing deeply, oblivious to their audience, Bodie's mouth working eagerly on the woman's lips on top of his.
And the memory was there instantly - Oh Christ - the memory, so very clear of how that felt; his own astonishment at how good it had been to kiss another man, to kiss Bodie, and he couldn't even attempt to control his own exaggerated reaction to it now.
Oh God. Bodie'd been right.
This was a mistake.
Desperately, he shut his eyes and pulled Christine closer, burying his hands in her mane of dark, silky hair, and kissing her open mouth with all the passion at his command.
But it was in his mind now. Turning, racing like a mouse on a wheel; remembering, comparing, and he found reality a pale thing beside memories, so efficiently buried, of a man's mouth, and a strength that equalled his own. Finally, he pulled away, gasping for air, and he couldn't resist opening his eyes again.
Bodie's hand was in Jo's open blouse now, her bra expertly undone, rubbing and pinching a full, pink nipple with such casual expertise that Doyle wanted to howl with frustration at the memory of how that felt. He watched, slavishly, until Joanna began to fumble with the button of Bodie's trousers, pulling down his zip, and then he shut his eyes sharply before he could see her hand creep inside.
He'd never considered himself a voyeur before but, God, he was fully erect and he knew with a kind of despair that Christine had little to do with it. It was going to happen again then: himself and Bodie and their girls, side by side.
He tried to blank his mind to all but his terrified excitement as he moved his hands to Christine's stocking-clad thighs.
Determinedly, he fought to concentrate on the girl in his arms, undressing her steadily until finally only stockings and suspenders adorned her dancer's legs and she began to strip him with her own particular brand of eagerness. Seemed to love his body, Chris did. Silky hair slid over his thighs as his jeans reached his ankles, followed by his underpants.
Yeah, very ... gratifying ... very ...
He sucked in his breath as her hand found his grossly swollen penis at last - and, almost against his will, he permitted himself to open his eyes again and focus on the others, willing it all to have changed; willing it not to matter.
They were even further into the act than he and Chris, absorbed in each other as they'd been from the moment their inhibitions had slid away, absolutely unaware of Doyle's gaze. They were both naked now except, Doyle saw with an odd pang of sharp feeling, for Bodie's underpants which were caught endearingly around his left ankle. Jo was kneeling between Bodie's spread thighs, sucking him with frightening gusto, and Bodie's face was a closed-off picture of tortured desire. Doyle swallowed convulsively and looked away.
He wanted ... Oh Christ ... couldn't even say what he wanted.
He lay passively, numbed by his turmoil, as Chris finished stripping off his pants with brisk efficiency. Then she settled herself on top of him, skin on skin a sudden jolt of pleasure, and began to kiss him, and he knew with a curious detachment that he could take her like that.
But - then he wouldn't be able to see Bodie - and Jo, of course - and he knew, he had to see. In one smooth movement, he rolled Christine to the floor beneath him, turning their bodies until he had a clear view of the others.
They were also on the floor, stretched out, almost perpendicular to himself and Chris, with the armchair pushed carelessly back behind them. Bodie was lying with his back to Doyle as he played his hand gently between Jo's legs, watching her delight, and Doyle tried to focus on that too. But he knew ... oh, he knew where he wanted to look.
Bodie's perfect, muscular backside was too far away to touch, but Doyle wanted to, so badly he could barely contain it.
Desperately, he moved to push his aching length between Christine's thighs and finally inside her, as gently as he could, but he couldn't take his eyes off his partner, remembering at last what he had never allowed himself to remember.
-- From Building on Rainbows, by Kate MacLean (Unprofessional Conduct 3)
Yum.