Kinky Boots 10
“Are you sure, Miles?” Phoenix breathed, as they came up for air between kisses. “I mean, we don’t have to …”
Miles silenced him with a finger on his lips. “I’m sure. Neither of us are children, Phoenix … or virgins, for that matter.”
“Speak for yourself!” Phoenix looked suitably scandalised for precisely five seconds before his demeanour cracked and he collapsed back onto the bed in a fit of giggles. The fact that they were already half-undressed and the bed was already rumpled beyond recovery gave the lie to his protestations.
“Quite,” Miles couldn’t help a wry smile and a shake of the head. There was just something about Phoenix, hapless as he was, that made him remember how to be happy, how to relax and even, sometimes … made him remember what it was like to be free. It was that feeling that made him think that maybe he could do this. Maybe this time it would be okay. Maybe this time he would be free of that carved walnut desk pressing into his skin, the shame, the nausea in his stomach. Maybe.
“So, by how many are you not a virgin?” Phoenix interrupted his thoughts with a cheeky grin, one eye open and an eyebrow cocked.
“Shut up, Wright.”
“Single figures? Double? Tr… um? Mmm …”
Anything else he was going to say was lost in a kiss as Miles pulled him in by the shirt collar and pressed their bodies together once more.
They struggled with the remainder of their clothing, too new to each other to be choreographed; too desperate to keep touching, to feel warm hands on even warmer skin, to kiss; their attention span for buttons or zips minimal. But finally they were naked. Phoenix leaned in with a deep kiss, pinning Miles' wrists above his head with one hand as Miles felt a slick finger pressing into him tenderly and deliberately. “Close your eyes,” Phoenix murmured gently, and his breath fluttered softly against Miles’ cheek.
“Close your eyes, Miles,” someone whispered, only this time it wasn’t Phoenix. It was another voice - deeper, softer, accented. It was no longer Phoenix’s hand that he could feel around his wrists - now, the fingers gripping him were tighter, bonier, stronger, and he didn’t have the strength (or perhaps the will) to fight back. It was no longer Phoenix’s hesitant questing that he could feel inside - now, it was the abrupt invasion of long fingers that brought the burn of tears behind closed eyelids as they twisted into him, his gasp of pain only being met with a soft chuckle.
Perspiration slicked his body but he couldn’t stop shivering. He turned his head to one side; pretended he wasn’t here, that this wasn’t happening; that the breath he could feel on his face didn’t smell of Earl Grey and the sweat that dripped onto his cheek and trickled onto his lips didn’t taste of lavender.
Then suddenly he was back in Phoenix’s bed, and Miles felt his pulse leap and he knew, he knew that the half-sob he heard came from his own throat as he drew in a desperate breath. “Phoenix, please stop. I can’t do this,” but his voice was little more than a whisper, his throat dry from the horror of it all.
He struggled under the weight of the other man’s body and could feel panic starting to build in his stomach as the sensation of being trapped flooded his limbs. Phoenix wasn’t responding, hadn’t heard, was too lost in the moment. Darkness covered everything.
The hard wood of the walnut desk crushed into his back and he tried to concentrate on that ache, that dull, pressing pain; not on the jabbing and the burning down there. He’d learned not to struggle - struggling only made it worse, made it hurt more. Now he tried to lay still, to make no movements, to grit his teeth against it and wish it all away.
But those fingers didn’t even leave him the refuge of stoicism - they found that place inside his body that shredded his resolve, his composure, his self-will - destroying the last scraps of his dignity with an overwhelming rush of pleasure and shame that dragged a traitorous moan from his own lips. “Good boy, Miles,” he heard, faintly, through the rushing of blood in his ears. The fingers withdrew, replaced swiftly by something else, something that he tried to block out of his mind, that stretched him impossibly and made him gasp again, biting his lip against the renewed pain.
A sudden explosion of pleasure and he cried out. His hips jerked, his back arched away from the desk into that rigid, muscular body; he felt the press of his bare skin against the silk and the wool and the ivory buttons, his fingernails digging sharply into his own palms. His eyes had fluttered open for a second with the shock of the sensation and they captured an image of a pale blue gaze smirking down at him victoriously that remained vivid even after they closed again.
Miles hated himself in that instant, and he hated himself again and again as the thrusts came deeper and pressed harder and he gasped at the intensity, writhed and twisted involuntarily as if electric currents were being passed through his body. He could taste the salt of tears on his face, hear his own voice in his ears begging incoherently for it to stop, that he didn’t like it, for him to please stop, while his treacherous body betrayed him, shamefully revealing him for the liar he was.
“Miles!” The stinging pain across his face replaced all other sensation and he sucked in a lungful of air as if he had just surfaced from water. The face above him belonged to Phoenix, again, leaning over him, blue eyes dark with worry, face pale with shock and wet with perspiration.
Miles was shivering, and he could feel his own hand trembling as he raised it to push the dampened hair back from Phoenix’s temple. “I’m sorry,” he said, weakly. “It’s not your fault. I know you’re not him.”
“Why the hell didn’t you tell me, Miles?” His eyes were sad, reproachful. “How old were you? Christ, I would never have …”
Miles interrupted him. “Too young. And I was ashamed. I am ashamed. I don’t talk about it - I try not to think about it.” It was a simple answer. And it was the truth. Miles looked away, bit his lip. “I thought this time it might be different. I’m sorry.”
Phoenix didn’t reply. Miles could tell that he didn’t know what to say. No one ever did. But the strong arms that pulled him close and the soft hair that pressed into his neck were enough. This time when he closed his eyes he felt safe.
Miles silenced him with a finger on his lips. “I’m sure. Neither of us are children, Phoenix … or virgins, for that matter.”
“Speak for yourself!” Phoenix looked suitably scandalised for precisely five seconds before his demeanour cracked and he collapsed back onto the bed in a fit of giggles. The fact that they were already half-undressed and the bed was already rumpled beyond recovery gave the lie to his protestations.
“Quite,” Miles couldn’t help a wry smile and a shake of the head. There was just something about Phoenix, hapless as he was, that made him remember how to be happy, how to relax and even, sometimes … made him remember what it was like to be free. It was that feeling that made him think that maybe he could do this. Maybe this time it would be okay. Maybe this time he would be free of that carved walnut desk pressing into his skin, the shame, the nausea in his stomach. Maybe.
“So, by how many are you not a virgin?” Phoenix interrupted his thoughts with a cheeky grin, one eye open and an eyebrow cocked.
“Shut up, Wright.”
“Single figures? Double? Tr… um? Mmm …”
Anything else he was going to say was lost in a kiss as Miles pulled him in by the shirt collar and pressed their bodies together once more.
They struggled with the remainder of their clothing, too new to each other to be choreographed; too desperate to keep touching, to feel warm hands on even warmer skin, to kiss; their attention span for buttons or zips minimal. But finally they were naked. Phoenix leaned in with a deep kiss, pinning Miles' wrists above his head with one hand as Miles felt a slick finger pressing into him tenderly and deliberately. “Close your eyes,” Phoenix murmured gently, and his breath fluttered softly against Miles’ cheek.
“Close your eyes, Miles,” someone whispered, only this time it wasn’t Phoenix. It was another voice - deeper, softer, accented. It was no longer Phoenix’s hand that he could feel around his wrists - now, the fingers gripping him were tighter, bonier, stronger, and he didn’t have the strength (or perhaps the will) to fight back. It was no longer Phoenix’s hesitant questing that he could feel inside - now, it was the abrupt invasion of long fingers that brought the burn of tears behind closed eyelids as they twisted into him, his gasp of pain only being met with a soft chuckle.
Perspiration slicked his body but he couldn’t stop shivering. He turned his head to one side; pretended he wasn’t here, that this wasn’t happening; that the breath he could feel on his face didn’t smell of Earl Grey and the sweat that dripped onto his cheek and trickled onto his lips didn’t taste of lavender.
Then suddenly he was back in Phoenix’s bed, and Miles felt his pulse leap and he knew, he knew that the half-sob he heard came from his own throat as he drew in a desperate breath. “Phoenix, please stop. I can’t do this,” but his voice was little more than a whisper, his throat dry from the horror of it all.
He struggled under the weight of the other man’s body and could feel panic starting to build in his stomach as the sensation of being trapped flooded his limbs. Phoenix wasn’t responding, hadn’t heard, was too lost in the moment. Darkness covered everything.
The hard wood of the walnut desk crushed into his back and he tried to concentrate on that ache, that dull, pressing pain; not on the jabbing and the burning down there. He’d learned not to struggle - struggling only made it worse, made it hurt more. Now he tried to lay still, to make no movements, to grit his teeth against it and wish it all away.
But those fingers didn’t even leave him the refuge of stoicism - they found that place inside his body that shredded his resolve, his composure, his self-will - destroying the last scraps of his dignity with an overwhelming rush of pleasure and shame that dragged a traitorous moan from his own lips. “Good boy, Miles,” he heard, faintly, through the rushing of blood in his ears. The fingers withdrew, replaced swiftly by something else, something that he tried to block out of his mind, that stretched him impossibly and made him gasp again, biting his lip against the renewed pain.
A sudden explosion of pleasure and he cried out. His hips jerked, his back arched away from the desk into that rigid, muscular body; he felt the press of his bare skin against the silk and the wool and the ivory buttons, his fingernails digging sharply into his own palms. His eyes had fluttered open for a second with the shock of the sensation and they captured an image of a pale blue gaze smirking down at him victoriously that remained vivid even after they closed again.
Miles hated himself in that instant, and he hated himself again and again as the thrusts came deeper and pressed harder and he gasped at the intensity, writhed and twisted involuntarily as if electric currents were being passed through his body. He could taste the salt of tears on his face, hear his own voice in his ears begging incoherently for it to stop, that he didn’t like it, for him to please stop, while his treacherous body betrayed him, shamefully revealing him for the liar he was.
“Miles!” The stinging pain across his face replaced all other sensation and he sucked in a lungful of air as if he had just surfaced from water. The face above him belonged to Phoenix, again, leaning over him, blue eyes dark with worry, face pale with shock and wet with perspiration.
Miles was shivering, and he could feel his own hand trembling as he raised it to push the dampened hair back from Phoenix’s temple. “I’m sorry,” he said, weakly. “It’s not your fault. I know you’re not him.”
“Why the hell didn’t you tell me, Miles?” His eyes were sad, reproachful. “How old were you? Christ, I would never have …”
Miles interrupted him. “Too young. And I was ashamed. I am ashamed. I don’t talk about it - I try not to think about it.” It was a simple answer. And it was the truth. Miles looked away, bit his lip. “I thought this time it might be different. I’m sorry.”
Phoenix didn’t reply. Miles could tell that he didn’t know what to say. No one ever did. But the strong arms that pulled him close and the soft hair that pressed into his neck were enough. This time when he closed his eyes he felt safe.