Prisoner
Feliciano’s eyes fluttered open to the sounds of muffled ruffling and thumping. Heaving a tired sigh, he blinked a few times, trying to clear the haze of sleep from his head. His bed was cold, empty, and he realized that all the noise was coming from Alfred fumbling about in the dark in an attempt to get ready for work.
“Damn it, Alfred, it’s still dark out,” he said through a yawn, sitting upright and watching his boyfriend’s fingers slip on his tie.
Alfred shot him a guilty look over his shoulder.
“Sorry, Feliciano,” he said ruefully, his American accent coloring the Italian words, “I tried not to wake you up.”
“No problem,” Feliciano sighed, reaching over and flicking the light switch. Instantly, the tiny bedroom was filled with electric light, illuminating Alfred’s rumpled hair and clothing.
Feliciano smiled, watching Alfred struggle with his tie in the mirror, his attempts at dressing himself little better now that he could see. Leaving the bed, he wrapped his arms around his lover from behind, looking at his own tousled hair in the mirror over Alfred’s shoulder.
“Why do you have to go, hm?” he purred, nipping playfully at the American’s earlobe. “If you have to teach, stay here and teach me to speak English.”
Alfred laughed at that, just a little too loud for this time of the morning. Feliciano smiled again, tenderly kissing the skin of Alfred’s neck just above the collar of his shirt. Everything about Alfred was just a little too loud it seemed, but it didn’t bother him in the slightest. If anything, it was what attracted him to Alfred in the first place. His apparent lack of basic social graces made him all the more adorable (and very popular with his students).
“I have to go, today is the Unit 4 test,” Alfred said, though he tilted his head as he spoke to expose more neck to Feliciano’s kisses.
Feliciano pouted, making his face at the mirror so that Alfred could see it too.
“Don’t worry, baby,” Alfred said, kissing Feliciano on the cheek, “I’m taking you out tonight, remember?”
Feliciano heaved an exaggerated sigh of disappointment. “I don’t know if I can wait until then,” he teased, “maybe I’ll just have to make do with the barber until you get out of school…”
Alfred rolled his eyes.
“If you’re still going to that Jap around the corner, I know that’s a lie.”
Finally done with his tie, he turned around and kissed Feliciano on the lips.
“Though I am glad you’re going to the barber,” he smirked, running his fingers teasingly over the sharp barbs of stubble that darkened Feliciano’s jaw, “kissing you is starting to hurt.”
…
Lazily, Feliciano made his way down the street, occasionally taking a hit from the joint between his fingers. The sun was slowly climbing up over the rooftops of Milan, though most people, like Alfred, were already in work. It was nice to have these days off; the ten 24-hour shifts he was required to work a month at the firehouse really took their toll. His first shift for the month of October wasn’t until the eighth; he still had a week of rest before this month’s madness began, and he planned to fully enjoy it.
Turning the corner, he saw the painted sign before he saw the entrance to the building: Barbiere Honda. Hunched between two restaurants, the barbershop had opened last year, right around the corner from his apartment. Though he’d been skeptical at first of a barbershop owned by a Japanese immigrant, the few times he came, he had not been disappointed. Standing out on the sidewalk, he savored the smoke in his lungs, soaking up the morning sun. No one looked twice as they passed by; at a glance, he just looked like he was smoking a cigarette, and by the time they could smell it, they had already passed him by.
“How ironic. A smoking firefighter.”
Feliciano turned to face the man who had spoken with a mischievous grin.
“Who’s gonna catch me, huh? Is it you, Signore Kirkland? Or perhaps your fuck buddy, Signore Oxenstierna?”
Arthur Kirkland scowled, his thick eyebrows coming together menacingly. As usual, the British businessman looked impeccable in his suit,
cutting a far more gentlemanly figure than the tall Swede behind him.
“That’s enough, Mr. Vargas,” he snapped in English, his eyes darting around suspiciously, “I would have preferred a more… secluded spot.” He refused to do this kind of business in Italian, claiming that he wanted to make sure he understood everything Feliciano said. Feliciano thought he was just too lazy to learn Italian, but he wasn’t about to say so. Signore Kirkland paid far too handsomely for Feliciano to piss him off.
Feliciano shrugged.
“Like I said, who’s gonna catch me?” he asked, tossing the last remains of the smoking joint to the sidewalk, crushing the bits of paper and plant matter under his shoe. “I’ve got your stuff right here,” he continued, pulling a small brown paper package out of his pocket, “That’ll be 270,000 lire.”
“Are you insane?” Kirkland hissed, grabbing the package and hastily stuffing it into the breast pocket of his coat, “We are out on the street in broad daylight.”
Feliciano waved a hand dismissively, too high to really care about the Brit’s anxiety. “Relax, signore. You’re too… what’s the word? Paranoid?”
Kirkland didn’t answer. Quickly, he opened up his wallet and stuffed the contents into Feliciano’s hands.
“Take 400,000, and pick a better spot next time!” he spat.
“Of course, whatever you wish,” Feliciano said with a mocking bow, delicately tucking the wad of bills into his own wallet.
“Come on, Berwald,” Kirkland snapped at his companion, who had watched the entire transaction in silence. Smiling to himself, Feliciano watched them turn the corner.
A tiny bell rang as he entered the little barbiere. The place had just opened; it looked like he was the first customer of the morning. Three leather chairs faced their matching mirrors along one wall, and on the opposite wall sat the cash register and the customary green bottle of absinthe next to it on the desk. That bottle had made Feliciano nervous the first time he came, but if the barber was intoxicated while he worked, it certainly didn’t show.
“You’re early, Vargas san,” the soft voice of Signore Honda came from behind the desk, and within moments, the small man had bowed him into one of the three chairs lining the wall. Feliciano watched him in the mirror as he flitted around the shop, getting everything ready for his customer. Despite Alfred’s teasing, he couldn’t help but think that the man was attractive, if in a strange sort of way. His stature was small and delicate, making him look much younger than he probably was, and the oriental curve of his eyelids gave his dark eyes an exotic beauty.
“What can I do for you today?” he asked, tying a long white sheet around Feliciano’s neck. “Just the usual shave?”
“Si, gratzie,” Feliciano said. The barber’s Italian had a smooth, silky quality to it, the words rounded and softened by the Japanese accent, very different from the way Alfred pronounced things.
Gently, almost lovingly, he spread the thick, white cream over Feliciano’s rough jaw. He worked silently, not with the happy chatter of most Italian barbers. The only sound in the little shop was the scratching of the hair beneath the barber’s blade. People walked back and forth past the little shop, chattering happily in Italian, but Feliciano remained the only customer until, finally, the barber cleaned the last remaining bits of white cream from Feliciano’s skin.
He was definitely feeling the after effects of his high, and was thinking hungrily of the restaurant next to the shop when he saw the barber’s fingers curl around a thick chunk of his hair in the mirror. There was a sharp pain in his scalp, and suddenly he was looking up at the ceiling, with the barber’s blade pressed threateningly against his neck.
“You may think you can fool me, Vargas san,” the barber breathed, “but I’m no idiot. I’ve seen you and the American teacher together. I know the looks you give each other, I’ve seen the quick kisses when you think no one is watching. Your antics may be legal, but if I were to accidentally let slip your little secret,” he pressed down ever so slightly with the razor, “your American friend would certainly be fired from his job. No parents would want a homosexual man teaching their boys.”
His breath was warm against Feliciano’s ear, making the hairs stand up on the back of his neck.
“And what about you?” the barber continued, “you’d certainly be let go from the fire brigade. None of the other firemen would want to live in the
firehouse with a homosexual, an orecchione, now would they?”
Feliciano didn’t move, didn’t dare to even breathe. The barber was right, of course, and he wondered briefly if the money Signore Kirkland had just given him would be enough to bribe the barber into silence. How could he and Alfred have been so stupid? They had been so sure that no one knew about their relationship, so confidant that no one would catch on.
“But I won’t keep quiet out of good will,” the barber continued, “you’ll have to do something for me if I’m to keep your little game to myself.”
“Anything you want,” Feliciano breathed, his heart pounding beneath the white sheet, his eyes watering from the barber’s painful grip on his hair.
“I want you pleasure me,” the barber whispered, “Please me as if I were your American lover, and I’ll never say anything to anyone.”
Feliciano stared up at the ceiling, astonished by the barber’s heated request.
“I-I-”
He knew he would do it, he had to. But Alfred could never know.
“Ok,” he said, “I’ll do it.”
Instantly, the barber released his head, the razor blade going back in its sheath with a metallic shick. Deftly, Signore Honda crossed the little shop in three strides, flipping around the OPEN sign and letting the shade fall down over the window, throwing the shop into darkness.
With shaking fingers, Feliciano untied the white covering around his neck. The frantic beating of his heart was almost painful against his ribcage as he stood and turned to face the barber. His dark eyes were glittering as he silently crossed the room. Feliciano felt himself tense as the man came closer but he merely sat down in the very chair that Feliciano had just stood up from.
“S-signore…” he started, but the barber shook his head.
“For now, I’m Kiku,” he said. With astonishing speed, he reached up and grabbed Feliciano by the collar. Feliciano choked as he was yanked downward by the scruff of the neck. His knees smarted as they hit the floor, and once again he felt Kiku’s delicate fingers in his hair, pressing down and forcing his head between the barber’s legs.
“Suck,” Kiku commanded, his voice low and husky. It was just one word, but it burned with the silent power of blackmail. Do as I say, or else. Obediently, Feliciano slowly undid the button of the man’s pants. Heart pounding, he pulled down the zipper, reaching in with his fingers and freeing the flaccid cock.
He heard the slight catch in Kiku’s breath as he touched the sensitive skin, felt the muscle working even under that brief touch. Taking a deep breath, hardly daring to think about what he was doing, he closed his lips around the pink head.
He felt Kiku shiver as he tightened his lips, the skin hardening under his fingers and tongue as he worked the barber to full erection. Kiku’s moans were low and husky, his back arching ever so slightly as Feliciano continued to pleasure him. Feliciano felt the slender fingers tangling in his hair for the third time, but this time it wasn’t aggressive, just insistent.
Kiku’s cock was slick with saliva, and his groans of pleasure became louder as Feliciano tasted pre-cum. The pressure increased on the back of his head, and the message was clear; swallow, bitch.
Feliciano felt Kiku’s body tense, heard the barber cry out before he felt the sticky burst of semen shoot violently into his mouth. Trying not to choke, he swallowed as much of it as he could, keeping his head still as Kiku rode out his climax, fucking himself between Feliciano’s tight lips.
Finally, wiping his mouth on his sleeve, Feliciano got unsteadily to his feet. Kiku remained in the barber’s chair, chest heaving, almond-shaped eyes closed. Feliciano watched him for a few moments in silence. All he needed to do was grab his coat and leave. His and Alfred’s secret was safe, and Kiku had what he wanted. And yet, the image of the barber in his own chair, enjoying the last remnants of the pleasure he’d exacted at Feliciano’s expense-
No.
Kiku’s eyes flew open in shock as Feliciano yanked him to his feet by the arm. He felt a vicious sort of pleasure at the brief flicker of fear in the barber’s eyes as Feliciano dragged him over to the desk. If he was going to go through with this barber’s little scheme, then he was going to get something out of it for himself.
Roughly, he threw Kiku down next to the cash register, and pinned him there, face down, bent over the desk, with one hand between the small man’s shoulder blades. With the other hand, he tugged down the barber’s pants. Still unbuttoned and unzippered, they slid down Kiku’s legs, bunching around his knees and exposing his ass and thighs to the empty shop.
“Now brace yourself, Kiku,” he said, deftly unzipping his own pants, “because this is probably going to hurt.”
His cock was already hard at the prospect of what was to come as he pushed two fingers between Kiku’s lips, aggressively wetting them on the barber’s saliva. Though a tiny part of him hated to admit it, this is what he loved. Being the dominant partner, the aggressor, (literally) bending another man to his will. No one would ever suspect it from the happy, carefree manner he had in public. Even Alfred had been shocked when they first had sex.
Kiku gasped as Feliciano pushed his moist fingers into his tight entrance, his knuckles white as he gripped the side of the desk. The sound sent a little tingle of pleasure shooting down Feliciano’s spine. Doing his best to coax more groans of pain from the barber’s throat, he worked the sensitive flesh, stretching, rubbing, violating.
Satisfied, his erection throbbing with want, he entered his captive. Kiku moaned, but this sound was very different from the ones he made while Feliciano was giving him head. This moan was that delicious mixture of pain and pleasure that Feliciano loved to hear, the moan that wondered how something so painful could feel so fucking good.
Kiku’s cries only grew louder and more ragged as Feliciano found his rhythm, stifling a few of his own little moans as he fucked himself in the barber’s tight heat. Kiku’s back arched, his fingers clawing at the wood of his own desk as Feliciano drove deeper and deeper, the sweat cleaving his shirt to his back.
“Fuck, fuck, yes, ah…” Feliciano hissed, feeling that tight coil of heat winding tighter and tighter in his belly until he could no longer stand it any more. And then there was the final rush of pleasure, the painful tensing of every muscle as he came, emptying himself in spurts of ecstasy into his prisoner. He heard Kiku cry out beneath him, and that gave him the most satisfaction of all.
Yes, you enjoyed it, didn’t you? You loved being fucked over your own desk, you son of a bitch.
Breathing heavily, he pulled out, zipping himself back up as Kiku slowly pushed himself upright.
“Gratzie, signore,” Feliciano said, pulling the money he owed the man for the shave out of his pocket and tossing it onto the desk. And without another word, he grabbed his coat and left, taking care to close the door behind him.
“Damn it, Alfred, it’s still dark out,” he said through a yawn, sitting upright and watching his boyfriend’s fingers slip on his tie.
Alfred shot him a guilty look over his shoulder.
“Sorry, Feliciano,” he said ruefully, his American accent coloring the Italian words, “I tried not to wake you up.”
“No problem,” Feliciano sighed, reaching over and flicking the light switch. Instantly, the tiny bedroom was filled with electric light, illuminating Alfred’s rumpled hair and clothing.
Feliciano smiled, watching Alfred struggle with his tie in the mirror, his attempts at dressing himself little better now that he could see. Leaving the bed, he wrapped his arms around his lover from behind, looking at his own tousled hair in the mirror over Alfred’s shoulder.
“Why do you have to go, hm?” he purred, nipping playfully at the American’s earlobe. “If you have to teach, stay here and teach me to speak English.”
Alfred laughed at that, just a little too loud for this time of the morning. Feliciano smiled again, tenderly kissing the skin of Alfred’s neck just above the collar of his shirt. Everything about Alfred was just a little too loud it seemed, but it didn’t bother him in the slightest. If anything, it was what attracted him to Alfred in the first place. His apparent lack of basic social graces made him all the more adorable (and very popular with his students).
“I have to go, today is the Unit 4 test,” Alfred said, though he tilted his head as he spoke to expose more neck to Feliciano’s kisses.
Feliciano pouted, making his face at the mirror so that Alfred could see it too.
“Don’t worry, baby,” Alfred said, kissing Feliciano on the cheek, “I’m taking you out tonight, remember?”
Feliciano heaved an exaggerated sigh of disappointment. “I don’t know if I can wait until then,” he teased, “maybe I’ll just have to make do with the barber until you get out of school…”
Alfred rolled his eyes.
“If you’re still going to that Jap around the corner, I know that’s a lie.”
Finally done with his tie, he turned around and kissed Feliciano on the lips.
“Though I am glad you’re going to the barber,” he smirked, running his fingers teasingly over the sharp barbs of stubble that darkened Feliciano’s jaw, “kissing you is starting to hurt.”
…
Lazily, Feliciano made his way down the street, occasionally taking a hit from the joint between his fingers. The sun was slowly climbing up over the rooftops of Milan, though most people, like Alfred, were already in work. It was nice to have these days off; the ten 24-hour shifts he was required to work a month at the firehouse really took their toll. His first shift for the month of October wasn’t until the eighth; he still had a week of rest before this month’s madness began, and he planned to fully enjoy it.
Turning the corner, he saw the painted sign before he saw the entrance to the building: Barbiere Honda. Hunched between two restaurants, the barbershop had opened last year, right around the corner from his apartment. Though he’d been skeptical at first of a barbershop owned by a Japanese immigrant, the few times he came, he had not been disappointed. Standing out on the sidewalk, he savored the smoke in his lungs, soaking up the morning sun. No one looked twice as they passed by; at a glance, he just looked like he was smoking a cigarette, and by the time they could smell it, they had already passed him by.
“How ironic. A smoking firefighter.”
Feliciano turned to face the man who had spoken with a mischievous grin.
“Who’s gonna catch me, huh? Is it you, Signore Kirkland? Or perhaps your fuck buddy, Signore Oxenstierna?”
Arthur Kirkland scowled, his thick eyebrows coming together menacingly. As usual, the British businessman looked impeccable in his suit,
cutting a far more gentlemanly figure than the tall Swede behind him.
“That’s enough, Mr. Vargas,” he snapped in English, his eyes darting around suspiciously, “I would have preferred a more… secluded spot.” He refused to do this kind of business in Italian, claiming that he wanted to make sure he understood everything Feliciano said. Feliciano thought he was just too lazy to learn Italian, but he wasn’t about to say so. Signore Kirkland paid far too handsomely for Feliciano to piss him off.
Feliciano shrugged.
“Like I said, who’s gonna catch me?” he asked, tossing the last remains of the smoking joint to the sidewalk, crushing the bits of paper and plant matter under his shoe. “I’ve got your stuff right here,” he continued, pulling a small brown paper package out of his pocket, “That’ll be 270,000 lire.”
“Are you insane?” Kirkland hissed, grabbing the package and hastily stuffing it into the breast pocket of his coat, “We are out on the street in broad daylight.”
Feliciano waved a hand dismissively, too high to really care about the Brit’s anxiety. “Relax, signore. You’re too… what’s the word? Paranoid?”
Kirkland didn’t answer. Quickly, he opened up his wallet and stuffed the contents into Feliciano’s hands.
“Take 400,000, and pick a better spot next time!” he spat.
“Of course, whatever you wish,” Feliciano said with a mocking bow, delicately tucking the wad of bills into his own wallet.
“Come on, Berwald,” Kirkland snapped at his companion, who had watched the entire transaction in silence. Smiling to himself, Feliciano watched them turn the corner.
A tiny bell rang as he entered the little barbiere. The place had just opened; it looked like he was the first customer of the morning. Three leather chairs faced their matching mirrors along one wall, and on the opposite wall sat the cash register and the customary green bottle of absinthe next to it on the desk. That bottle had made Feliciano nervous the first time he came, but if the barber was intoxicated while he worked, it certainly didn’t show.
“You’re early, Vargas san,” the soft voice of Signore Honda came from behind the desk, and within moments, the small man had bowed him into one of the three chairs lining the wall. Feliciano watched him in the mirror as he flitted around the shop, getting everything ready for his customer. Despite Alfred’s teasing, he couldn’t help but think that the man was attractive, if in a strange sort of way. His stature was small and delicate, making him look much younger than he probably was, and the oriental curve of his eyelids gave his dark eyes an exotic beauty.
“What can I do for you today?” he asked, tying a long white sheet around Feliciano’s neck. “Just the usual shave?”
“Si, gratzie,” Feliciano said. The barber’s Italian had a smooth, silky quality to it, the words rounded and softened by the Japanese accent, very different from the way Alfred pronounced things.
Gently, almost lovingly, he spread the thick, white cream over Feliciano’s rough jaw. He worked silently, not with the happy chatter of most Italian barbers. The only sound in the little shop was the scratching of the hair beneath the barber’s blade. People walked back and forth past the little shop, chattering happily in Italian, but Feliciano remained the only customer until, finally, the barber cleaned the last remaining bits of white cream from Feliciano’s skin.
He was definitely feeling the after effects of his high, and was thinking hungrily of the restaurant next to the shop when he saw the barber’s fingers curl around a thick chunk of his hair in the mirror. There was a sharp pain in his scalp, and suddenly he was looking up at the ceiling, with the barber’s blade pressed threateningly against his neck.
“You may think you can fool me, Vargas san,” the barber breathed, “but I’m no idiot. I’ve seen you and the American teacher together. I know the looks you give each other, I’ve seen the quick kisses when you think no one is watching. Your antics may be legal, but if I were to accidentally let slip your little secret,” he pressed down ever so slightly with the razor, “your American friend would certainly be fired from his job. No parents would want a homosexual man teaching their boys.”
His breath was warm against Feliciano’s ear, making the hairs stand up on the back of his neck.
“And what about you?” the barber continued, “you’d certainly be let go from the fire brigade. None of the other firemen would want to live in the
firehouse with a homosexual, an orecchione, now would they?”
Feliciano didn’t move, didn’t dare to even breathe. The barber was right, of course, and he wondered briefly if the money Signore Kirkland had just given him would be enough to bribe the barber into silence. How could he and Alfred have been so stupid? They had been so sure that no one knew about their relationship, so confidant that no one would catch on.
“But I won’t keep quiet out of good will,” the barber continued, “you’ll have to do something for me if I’m to keep your little game to myself.”
“Anything you want,” Feliciano breathed, his heart pounding beneath the white sheet, his eyes watering from the barber’s painful grip on his hair.
“I want you pleasure me,” the barber whispered, “Please me as if I were your American lover, and I’ll never say anything to anyone.”
Feliciano stared up at the ceiling, astonished by the barber’s heated request.
“I-I-”
He knew he would do it, he had to. But Alfred could never know.
“Ok,” he said, “I’ll do it.”
Instantly, the barber released his head, the razor blade going back in its sheath with a metallic shick. Deftly, Signore Honda crossed the little shop in three strides, flipping around the OPEN sign and letting the shade fall down over the window, throwing the shop into darkness.
With shaking fingers, Feliciano untied the white covering around his neck. The frantic beating of his heart was almost painful against his ribcage as he stood and turned to face the barber. His dark eyes were glittering as he silently crossed the room. Feliciano felt himself tense as the man came closer but he merely sat down in the very chair that Feliciano had just stood up from.
“S-signore…” he started, but the barber shook his head.
“For now, I’m Kiku,” he said. With astonishing speed, he reached up and grabbed Feliciano by the collar. Feliciano choked as he was yanked downward by the scruff of the neck. His knees smarted as they hit the floor, and once again he felt Kiku’s delicate fingers in his hair, pressing down and forcing his head between the barber’s legs.
“Suck,” Kiku commanded, his voice low and husky. It was just one word, but it burned with the silent power of blackmail. Do as I say, or else. Obediently, Feliciano slowly undid the button of the man’s pants. Heart pounding, he pulled down the zipper, reaching in with his fingers and freeing the flaccid cock.
He heard the slight catch in Kiku’s breath as he touched the sensitive skin, felt the muscle working even under that brief touch. Taking a deep breath, hardly daring to think about what he was doing, he closed his lips around the pink head.
He felt Kiku shiver as he tightened his lips, the skin hardening under his fingers and tongue as he worked the barber to full erection. Kiku’s moans were low and husky, his back arching ever so slightly as Feliciano continued to pleasure him. Feliciano felt the slender fingers tangling in his hair for the third time, but this time it wasn’t aggressive, just insistent.
Kiku’s cock was slick with saliva, and his groans of pleasure became louder as Feliciano tasted pre-cum. The pressure increased on the back of his head, and the message was clear; swallow, bitch.
Feliciano felt Kiku’s body tense, heard the barber cry out before he felt the sticky burst of semen shoot violently into his mouth. Trying not to choke, he swallowed as much of it as he could, keeping his head still as Kiku rode out his climax, fucking himself between Feliciano’s tight lips.
Finally, wiping his mouth on his sleeve, Feliciano got unsteadily to his feet. Kiku remained in the barber’s chair, chest heaving, almond-shaped eyes closed. Feliciano watched him for a few moments in silence. All he needed to do was grab his coat and leave. His and Alfred’s secret was safe, and Kiku had what he wanted. And yet, the image of the barber in his own chair, enjoying the last remnants of the pleasure he’d exacted at Feliciano’s expense-
No.
Kiku’s eyes flew open in shock as Feliciano yanked him to his feet by the arm. He felt a vicious sort of pleasure at the brief flicker of fear in the barber’s eyes as Feliciano dragged him over to the desk. If he was going to go through with this barber’s little scheme, then he was going to get something out of it for himself.
Roughly, he threw Kiku down next to the cash register, and pinned him there, face down, bent over the desk, with one hand between the small man’s shoulder blades. With the other hand, he tugged down the barber’s pants. Still unbuttoned and unzippered, they slid down Kiku’s legs, bunching around his knees and exposing his ass and thighs to the empty shop.
“Now brace yourself, Kiku,” he said, deftly unzipping his own pants, “because this is probably going to hurt.”
His cock was already hard at the prospect of what was to come as he pushed two fingers between Kiku’s lips, aggressively wetting them on the barber’s saliva. Though a tiny part of him hated to admit it, this is what he loved. Being the dominant partner, the aggressor, (literally) bending another man to his will. No one would ever suspect it from the happy, carefree manner he had in public. Even Alfred had been shocked when they first had sex.
Kiku gasped as Feliciano pushed his moist fingers into his tight entrance, his knuckles white as he gripped the side of the desk. The sound sent a little tingle of pleasure shooting down Feliciano’s spine. Doing his best to coax more groans of pain from the barber’s throat, he worked the sensitive flesh, stretching, rubbing, violating.
Satisfied, his erection throbbing with want, he entered his captive. Kiku moaned, but this sound was very different from the ones he made while Feliciano was giving him head. This moan was that delicious mixture of pain and pleasure that Feliciano loved to hear, the moan that wondered how something so painful could feel so fucking good.
Kiku’s cries only grew louder and more ragged as Feliciano found his rhythm, stifling a few of his own little moans as he fucked himself in the barber’s tight heat. Kiku’s back arched, his fingers clawing at the wood of his own desk as Feliciano drove deeper and deeper, the sweat cleaving his shirt to his back.
“Fuck, fuck, yes, ah…” Feliciano hissed, feeling that tight coil of heat winding tighter and tighter in his belly until he could no longer stand it any more. And then there was the final rush of pleasure, the painful tensing of every muscle as he came, emptying himself in spurts of ecstasy into his prisoner. He heard Kiku cry out beneath him, and that gave him the most satisfaction of all.
Yes, you enjoyed it, didn’t you? You loved being fucked over your own desk, you son of a bitch.
Breathing heavily, he pulled out, zipping himself back up as Kiku slowly pushed himself upright.
“Gratzie, signore,” Feliciano said, pulling the money he owed the man for the shave out of his pocket and tossing it onto the desk. And without another word, he grabbed his coat and left, taking care to close the door behind him.