FILL: Got To Sin To Get Saved 7/? (WARNINGS: slavery, dubcon) (CONTAINS: BDSM)almostneverJuly 10 2011, 00:32:45 UTC
That mind-whispered anything might be Charles's promise before, that he'd convince Erik to believe in him, or it might be what he wants to do with Erik now. There are images racing through Erik's mind, and he doesn't know who to blame for them-- the thought of biting Charles's neck until he can see scratches and marks and bruises, is that him? Or Charles? The thought of bending over the side of the bed and having Charles fuck into him until he begs for mercy, is that Charles? Or him?
It could be him, Erik knows. Charles is beautiful in a way that speaks of having lived through very little pain, his body firm and graceful under his expensive suit, and in his weeks here Erik has most definitely fucked worse-looking men with less talented mouths, less addictive flavors against Erik's tongue. The taste of Charles's throat makes Erik wonder what the rest of Charles tastes like, if the hint of aftershave gives way to some darker, headier musk at his armpits, between his legs.
Yes, yes, want, need burns through him, and there's no way of knowing whose thought it is. Charles drags Erik away from his neck and kisses him again, his tongue pressing deeply into Erik's mouth, hot and demanding. God, yes; Erik's had men whose mouths gave him less pleasure than this when they had their lips wrapped around his cock.
Thoughts of what Charles's openly enthusiastic mouth could do to him fill Erik's mind, and Charles's eyes stutter up to Erik's, even as Charles gets his hands back under Erik's shirt and finally drags it off him. He meets Erik's eyes and licks his lips, tongue rubbing invitingly along his lower lip; Erik wonders if Charles even realizes he's doing it.
He takes his eyes off Charles's and looks down at his own chest, trailing his hand up his body and teasing at his own bruises. Some of the marks are small, some large, but it's Erik's back that's the true prize, at least for a man who claimed to want to see lovely marks and bruises.
There's no time like now to try that mind-reading trick again. Charles caught it when Erik asked about Shaw, sent words of his own, picked up perhaps subconsciously when Erik thought of holding Charles's head still and fucking deeply into his mouth, but words, hearing real words from Erik, not just sending them-- holding a mental conversation-- is Charles that powerful?
«If you were really that interested in seeing my marks,» Erik thinks-- and there, Charles meets his eyes, holds steady as Erik keeps forming words in his mind-- «you'd be telling me to turn over.»
«Yes, I know,» Charles thinks, and then he pulls away, going up on his knees on the bed. «I-- saw. Earlier. I'm sorry.»
Erik clenches his jaw at the pity, unneeded, unwanted. That it's an insult is bad enough; that it pulled Charles away from him makes the hair on the back of Erik's neck stand on end, and he's careful not to look up at the camera. A break, it might only be that Charles wanted a break, the security guards here aren't good enough to know when the mood's lost.
He looks Charles up and down. Perhaps the mood isn't lost at all. Pity or no, Charles is still hard.
"I see," Erik says, forming more words in his mind: «So you come by your reputation as a voyeur honestly.»
Charles's lips thin out into a straight line. He's not taking the initiative, though, so Erik turns, puts himself face-down on the bed with his arms crossed under his chin. He's craned his neck around to look in the mirror, but hasn't seen it with his own eyes; he mostly knows it by feel, by familiarity with what those implements can do to him.
He doesn't need pity, not from Charles, not from anyone. He has a lattice of still-raw scratches from the last man's sharp-toothed gloves down the center of his back, a collection of pinpoint bruises from all those clothespins to either side. Brass teeth on the gloves. Metal hinges forming the rows of those zippers. Erik could have killed his last client with his own chosen implements of pain and blood and fear. Pity is the last thing he needs.
Right now he needs something from Charles, something to keep security from wondering what in hell is going on in this room.
It could be him, Erik knows. Charles is beautiful in a way that speaks of having lived through very little pain, his body firm and graceful under his expensive suit, and in his weeks here Erik has most definitely fucked worse-looking men with less talented mouths, less addictive flavors against Erik's tongue. The taste of Charles's throat makes Erik wonder what the rest of Charles tastes like, if the hint of aftershave gives way to some darker, headier musk at his armpits, between his legs.
Yes, yes, want, need burns through him, and there's no way of knowing whose thought it is. Charles drags Erik away from his neck and kisses him again, his tongue pressing deeply into Erik's mouth, hot and demanding. God, yes; Erik's had men whose mouths gave him less pleasure than this when they had their lips wrapped around his cock.
Thoughts of what Charles's openly enthusiastic mouth could do to him fill Erik's mind, and Charles's eyes stutter up to Erik's, even as Charles gets his hands back under Erik's shirt and finally drags it off him. He meets Erik's eyes and licks his lips, tongue rubbing invitingly along his lower lip; Erik wonders if Charles even realizes he's doing it.
He takes his eyes off Charles's and looks down at his own chest, trailing his hand up his body and teasing at his own bruises. Some of the marks are small, some large, but it's Erik's back that's the true prize, at least for a man who claimed to want to see lovely marks and bruises.
There's no time like now to try that mind-reading trick again. Charles caught it when Erik asked about Shaw, sent words of his own, picked up perhaps subconsciously when Erik thought of holding Charles's head still and fucking deeply into his mouth, but words, hearing real words from Erik, not just sending them-- holding a mental conversation-- is Charles that powerful?
«If you were really that interested in seeing my marks,» Erik thinks-- and there, Charles meets his eyes, holds steady as Erik keeps forming words in his mind-- «you'd be telling me to turn over.»
«Yes, I know,» Charles thinks, and then he pulls away, going up on his knees on the bed. «I-- saw. Earlier. I'm sorry.»
Erik clenches his jaw at the pity, unneeded, unwanted. That it's an insult is bad enough; that it pulled Charles away from him makes the hair on the back of Erik's neck stand on end, and he's careful not to look up at the camera. A break, it might only be that Charles wanted a break, the security guards here aren't good enough to know when the mood's lost.
He looks Charles up and down. Perhaps the mood isn't lost at all. Pity or no, Charles is still hard.
"I see," Erik says, forming more words in his mind: «So you come by your reputation as a voyeur honestly.»
Charles's lips thin out into a straight line. He's not taking the initiative, though, so Erik turns, puts himself face-down on the bed with his arms crossed under his chin. He's craned his neck around to look in the mirror, but hasn't seen it with his own eyes; he mostly knows it by feel, by familiarity with what those implements can do to him.
He doesn't need pity, not from Charles, not from anyone. He has a lattice of still-raw scratches from the last man's sharp-toothed gloves down the center of his back, a collection of pinpoint bruises from all those clothespins to either side. Brass teeth on the gloves. Metal hinges forming the rows of those zippers. Erik could have killed his last client with his own chosen implements of pain and blood and fear. Pity is the last thing he needs.
Right now he needs something from Charles, something to keep security from wondering what in hell is going on in this room.
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