Decadence (cont.)
Decadence (cont.)
The bottle pops, a shower of champagne foam shoots out, and Yamapi almost feels proud at his aiming skills because it hits Kitayama right in the face, from where it runs down and drips from his chin. Some of it gets in his hair; but only enough for the ends to stick together, making it look a bit spiky. Then he pours himself a glass, before pushing the bottle to Kitayama's lips. Contact is all it takes for him to part them, and the champagne flows into his mouth faster than he can swallow. It overflows and runs down from his lower lip, down his chin, from where it continues onto his chest. But he keeps on trying to swallow, and Yamapi doesn't stop, doesn't take it away until he can see tears forming in Kitayama's eyes. When it's gone Kitayama draws a deep breath, calms his body down, while the last drops of alcohol drips from his face, until Yamapi wipes his face with a wet towel. Sticky isn't his thing, he thinks as he leans down, presses his own lips to Kitayama's in a way that is more forceful than he has ever kissed anyone before; there is some kind of sound coming from Kitayama, though, and he doesn't doubt that it's positive.
He tastes like expensive champagne and delicious submission; a mix that Yamapi hadn't expected he would enjoy as much as he does. But he pulls away rather quickly, sits back and starts fumbling with his belt, and Kitayama turns his gaze back to the floor. When he gets the belt open and the pants unzipped he squeezes himself through his underwear a couple time, then pulls his cock out, and this time he notices that Kitayama reacts. He's not hard all the way yet, but getting there, and just a hand on Kitayama's shoulder makes him lift his arm to let Yamapi grab it. He places the hand on himself, makes it curl around him and move, and once Kitayama is doing it on his own, he reaches for his glass of champagne. It tastes even better in the glass than from Kitayama's mouth, especially when he's getting physical stimulation at the same time.
He sips on it slowly, pours some more when the glass is half empty; he does feel the effects of the alcohol, but with his years of clubbing it takes a lot for him to get drunk enough that he can't control himself properly. On the floor, Kitayama seems to be eyeing his erection as he strokes it, but there's no change in his general behavior. He stiffens a little when Yamapi nestles a hand in his hair, but follows his silent orders obediently until he's in between his legs instead of beside, and he knows what to do. Yamapi spreads his legs some more, gets comfortable, and takes another sip of champagne as Kitayama starts lapping at his cock.
-
The performance is about two start; the girl Tamamori had bumped into is getting up on the stage, closely followed by the shorter girl, and she winks at both him and Miyata when she notices them in the crowd. They aren't all the way up next to the stage, more like on the third row, but Tamamori is tall and has no problem seeing the ropes that she leaves by her feet. The music switches, and that seems to be her cue; she bends over, shows the audience what she's got under her short skirt, and when she straightens up she has a neatly rolled bunch of rope that she throws over one shoulder before she gets to work. She runs fingertips down the front of the other girl, slower between her breasts, tightly pushed together with a push-up bra that fits her perfectly, and it looks like she's about to kiss her. Tamamori shifts a little, and he's sure Miyata notices, but he ignores him in favor of watching. To his disappointment, the two girls don't kiss. Instead she takes a hold of the rope, pulls a length of it free from the rest, wraps it around the other girl. He has to shift again; he feels his cheeks heating, and that's not the only part of his body that is starting to react. Then hands on his sides, over his clothes, the heat of another body against his back, and he now knows that Miyata is aware of exactly what's going on.
“You think it's hot?” his voice mumbles against Tamamori's neck, and Tamamori doesn't respond, just nods. Miyata knows it anyway, isn't asking to get confirmation.
On stage the shorter girl is spreading her legs and bending forward a little, getting ropes tied around her thighs. Her arms are already tied together behind her back, and when her thighs are done she gets pulled up by the rope connecting her wrists, only to get turned around again. The rope continues to get tied around her, now on the front, neat knots on her stomach and below her breasts, then between them and up to get finished off with a knot in the back of her neck.
“Is it the girl on girl action?” Miyata asks him, “or is it the bondage?” He gets pulled back against Miyata, feels that he's not the only one at least slightly interested in what's going on up on the stage. “You wanna fuck her, when she's all tied up like that?” He can't say he's the least surprised at what's coming from Miyata by now. He's an otaku with somewhat questionable interests, he's at least a little drunk, and he knows Tamamori likes the dirty talk.
“I could do that,” he answers, head turned towards Miyata to make sure he catches it, but he doesn't take his eyes off the performers. The girl he had talked to is now pushing the other one down on the floor; she ends up with her face against the stage floor, ass up in the air, and the first girl settles on her knees behind her. She moves in time with the music, slow thrusts against the immobilized girl, almost as though she's fucking her in the most teasing way possible.
The way Miyata grinds his hips against Tamamori's ass isn't the slightest subtle. “You'd do her better. She'd be so impatient, if you were inside her.” The further this goes, the more sensitive his nerves get, the better Miyata's hands and lips feel on him. “Or maybe you'd rather get tied up? Would you take it from a girl?”
“Miyacchi,” he nearly moans, because even though that's not at all what he is thinking about, he can tell that Miyata thinks it would be hot as fuck.
“Maybe I should tie you up and fuck you instead. You'd like that, wouldn't you?”
Further away, Nikaido is leaving Yokoo where he is, not even considering interrupting him in whatever twisted thing he is doing. More important is that Senga, who was right behind him, is gone. Senga is gone, lost somewhere in a fetish club, a fetish club he doesn't even want to be at. And that he hasn't followed Nikaido all the way there worries him, because it means something must have happened. He hurries away from the darkest corner of the club, heads for the bar because from there it's possible to get a decent view of the rest of the club. That's where he finds Senga, talking to a girl of his own height (a quick look to the floor and he finds that she's wearing high heels with quite a platform, too). She's looking at him with eyes that remind of Fujigaya's when he sees someone he wants to fuck, ones that know that they will get what they want if they just try hard enough. Because she is pretty, he will admit that, and she looks confident too, like she knows exactly what she's going to do. And he doesn't like it at all.
Senga squirms under her gaze when she looks him up and down more often then necessary. She's talking about relatively normal things, but it shines through easily that she's not looking to be friends. Just the one fingertip down his upper arm tells him what she wants, but it's still weird. It's not like he hasn't been hit on by girls before. This time it's just so different. Because he has never been hit on by a girl and at the same time felt so dominated, and this one is dominating him with body language and nothing else.
“You usually don't come to places like these, do you?” she smirks, knows she's making him uncomfortable with her questions. “I can tell.” The next move she does is discrete, but she makes sure Senga catches it. She moves one hand to her hip, and makes the handcuffs locked in her faux leather shorts rattle. Senga flinches a little at it, because even though she doesn't say it out loud at first, she is being obvious. But she just laughs, a short laugh that hardly sounds amused. “You're cute. Bet you'd be even cuter cuffed to my bed with your head between my thighs.”
Nikaido knows Senga well enough to see that he isn't even a little bit comfortable with the situation, even from afar. When he finally reaches the bar Senga is about to accept a cocktail that woman bought him, and suddenly the only important thing he knows is keeping him from her. Nothing is the slightest platonic anymore when Nikaido comes up behind Senga, slides his arms around his waist and presses a kiss to his neck. Senga stiffens at first, but relaxes in Nikaido's arms and turns his head enough that if he didn't have a purpose in holding him, Nikaido wouldn't have hesitated a second to kiss him breathless.
“Baby, let's go home soon?” he asks, loud enough that the girl in front of them lifts an eyebrow.
“Yeah,” he nods, and something jumps inside Nikaido when Senga tilts his head up to press soft lips against his. The girl gets the hint, rolls her eyes and looks very annoyed, but she doesn't leave just yet.
“I'd be rougher with him, if I were you.” She speaks directly to Nikaido, not sparing a glance to Senga. “He needs to get rid of some of that innocence. Tie him up and tease him, to begin with.” It's not hard to tell that she's just sharing exactly what she would have loved to do with him, and she glares Nikaido straight in the eyes before she leaves them alone.
“You won't be rough with me, right?” Senga mumbles, almost too quiet for Nikaido to hear it.
“Of course not,” he responds on autopilot before he realizes that Senga just agreed to sleeping with him, and there's a heat spreading through his chest that doesn't have a lot to do with plain arousal.
-
“Massu,” Fujigaya pants against his lips, “Massu, the rules...”
Massu tilts his head, frustratingly composed even though he's the one leading their rhythm. “What about them? We're not having sex yet, are we?” Fujigaya moans at the “yet”, a kind of suppressed one but a moan nevertheless. “It's just you humping me like a drunk little slut, isn't it?”
“Yes,” he gets out, lips forming the word without him giving them the instruction to. A clumsy hand moves from Massu's shoulder to his firm chest, stays there as Fujigaya lets his head lean against Massu, just next to his neck as he puts some force into his next couple thrusts. He thinks he can hear the pulse beating under Massu's skin; if he had been thinking clearly he would have realized it is the bass from the music. Not that it matters, the hands are still there, one on his hip and one making its way down the back of his pants, and he slides his own down further. It gets stuck in the flowy fabric of Massu's top, but he manages to free it without ruining the piece of clothing. Instead he makes it down to Massu's pants; they're loose, like the ones he's usually wearing, and a belt is holding them in place.
“No.” He's not teasing now. The hands on him leave his body and Fujigaya finds his wrist held in a strong grip as it's pulled away from between them. His head is pulled up by his hair; he winces a little at it, but more because it's a natural reaction rather than for the fact that it actually hurts; he's too intoxicated for it to be more than a small itch. Massu's eyes are dark, and he doesn't look particularly happy. Fujigaya expects him to give an explanation, wants to know what he did wrong (and be told what he should to do to make up for it), but he gets none of it. He only gets told not to move, and his hand is placed back on Massu's shoulder.
Just seconds after Massu finishes talking to him he has forgotten what he was told, and he tries to press their lips together again. The next thing he knows is that his cheek is stinging; it's not until he feels pain through the blur in his mind that he realizes Massu slapped him.
“I said don't move.” From there on, he does stay still, just focuses on his balance while he studies Massu's face. There's a touch to his stomach, just above the hem of his pants, and his abs jump a little at it. Something else jumps when fingers slide over his pants down between his legs; the fabric is so thin that he feels it almost as if there was just one layer between his erection and Massu's hand. The pressure on it increases, he groans in his throat, but the faint sting remaining on his skin from the hit reminds him to not act on his instincts. He's torturingly slow as he gets Fujigaya's belt open, unzips his jeans, and the gasp that slips at the warm contact of Massu's hand through his underwear just can't be helped. It's a light touch, not at all enough, before Massu wraps his free arm around the small of his back, pulls him even closer. They are so close now that Fujigaya is breathing into Massu's styled hair, hands locked in the back of his neck again because when a hand curls around his cock, skin to skin, he needs something to hold on to. It's almost a little painful to angle his head so that he can see Massu's hand touching him, and there's no way he can stop the thrust his hips give when he realizes that Massu has him all out of his pants, thumbing at the head.
A hand connects to his side with enough force that it must have made a sound; no one hears it though, around them the entire club is too loud. Fujigaya feels it, though, and next he has Massu hissing at him.
“You move, and they'll notice.” He squeezes his cock tighter than he perhaps should, he knows it, and it has Fujigaya biting his lip as he nods frantically. When he does, he relaxes his hand, starts jerking him up and down, and Fujigaya starts hoping that he's not planning to finish him off right there, with people everywhere and only shadows hiding what they're doing.
-
A light tug on his hair and Kitayama drags his lips along Yamapi's erection. It feels good enough that he sighs in pleasure, although it's not what he wanted; Kitayama knows it as well, but doesn't take it into his mouth just yet.
“Open your mouth.” Yamapi orders, lips brushing the edge of the glass. He hesitates, doesn't want to be rougher than what Kitayama likes, but then the whipping flashes through his mind, followed by a wave of heat through his body, and he tugs harder. This time Kitayama obediently opens up, lets Yamapi pull him down until he's got the head of his cock sliding in between his lips.
He's in complete control over what Kitayama is doing, guiding his head up and down with a firm grip, and Kitayama lets himself be lead, flicks his tongue against what he can reach. In the glass the champagne is still bubbling slowly, and alcohol has never been as good as when it runs down his throat, still tingling in his mouth, while he's got Kitayama's plush lips stretched around his cock. He leans his head back, empties the tall glass; a low moan turns the transparent surface of it foggy as Kitayama sucks harder on purpose. The fingers in his hair tighten, enough that he stops at the tip, licks at it instead of taking it into his mouth again and Yamapi knows that he's pulling too hard. So he lets go, Kitayama picks up the rhythm again, and Yamapi leans over him towards the table. He finds it surprisingly easy to fill the glass again despite how good he feels and how hot Kitayama looks between his legs, willingly sucking his cock into his mouth, but once he has put the half empty bottle down he has to steady himself.
For a moment he wants to put the glass down too, because he can barely stop his hips from rolling towards Kitayama's mouth when he realizes that he's all down his throat and that it is Kitayama's nose that bumps against his skin as he tries to stay still. So he makes him pull back, and the slide is almost torturous now that his cock is slick with saliva all the way, air cool against the base of it. Kitayama turns his eyes down towards the floor again, and Yamapi makes him face upwards with fingers under his chin.
“You're good,” he says, knows he has his superior tone on, the one that makes him sound like he's on top of the world, like no one will deny him anything he wants. And he doesn't pull him back again, only looks into his submissive eyes as he tips the glass, lets champagne splash onto the back of his neck, watches it bubble as it continues down his naked back. Kitayama winces at the cool liquid on his whip-bruised skin, but then stays still, stays silent. The champagne takes its time running from the glass, the last drops falling calmly onto him, and when he finally thinks it's enough, Yamapi sets it down on the table and pushes Kitayama backwards. He rises while fumbling with his pants, shoves them down to mid-thigh before he reaches for Kitayama's messy hair again. It's sticky with alcohol in the back, but he honestly doesn't care, with those dark eyes looking up at him like he's all that means anything; like there's nothing Kitayama wants more than to please him.
-
“Massu, Massu, Massu,” Fujigaya whimpers into hair that smells like hairspray and smoke as he struggles both to stay still and not to fall out of his lap. The alcohol is running freely through his veins and he's sure that if he has to rise up, his legs won't hold him up.
“You wanna come?” Lips against his jawline, and Fujigaya tries to chase them with his own even though they're already gone by the time his brain catches up with his nerves.
“Please,” he tries, close to tears because Massu's hand is so tight around him, he's leaking and ready, so close he can almost taste his orgasm, but for some reason, that single word makes him stop entirely. The hand is still there, but it doesn't move; he still moans at the touch when Massu's hold on his cock changes, but his breathing gradually goes back to somewhat normal as he's tucked back into his pants.
“Stand.” Massu's voice is firm, and Fujigaya obeys as well as he can; luckily Massu is also rising up, right there for him to hold on to instead of falling to the floor. “I'll take you home.” He runs a hand along the crotch of Fujigaya's pants, where his erection is obvious through the tight, glossy pants, and he earns a gasp for it.
Fujigaya thinks he hears Massu speak on the phone, but it's all so blurry, the flashing lights and the people passing by are distracting him, and he remembers his cap just in time for Massu to hang up, and he manages to tell him that it should be somewhere around. He does find it, pushes it onto Fujigaya's head and pulls him close with a strong grip on the back of his neck.
“There'll be a taxi waiting for us in the underground parking. We're going now.” His arm is guided around Massu's broad shoulders, the hand around his waist on the opposite side is strong, and he's led towards the exit, all while he hopes none of the members see him. And when they finally reach the door, that hope dies entirely.
Because by the door is Senga and Nikaido, putting on their jackets and getting ready to head out, and even though he doesn't look them in the eyes, he hears by the tone in their voices that they're worried about him.
“Gaya, are you okay?” Senga asks, but quiets at the dark glare Massu sends him, and they let them pass without another word when they realize who is it that walks with him. That doesn't stop them from talking to each other, though, and as if they're in a far distance Fujigaya hears what they're saying.
“But Nika, he's drunk off his ass! We shouldn't let him, should we?”
“Did you see his pants?” Nikaido hisses. “That was nothing but a full blown hard-on. And Gaya says no if there's something he doesn't want. He wasn't drunk when we came. You think Massu would force him to do things in public?”
“So you don't care?”
“I just hope they don't get into a scandal for it.”
The next voice is much clearer, right next to his head. “Don't worry, guys. I'll take care of him.” The next thing he knows is fresh air going down his lungs, and something jumps inside of him, both in anticipation and slight worry as they get into the elevator; it's empty, Massu speaks dirty to him all the way down, and by the time he's being helped into the taxi he no longer cares what plans Massu has in mind. He'll take anything.
-
Kitayama bites into his lower lip as he removes his t-back on order, hissing as the fabric slides against his erection. A hand on his shoulder and he gets back on his knees, cock bobbing heavily as he moves.
“No touching.” Yamapi never thought he actually would, but the way he lets his arms fall to his sides in an almost helpless manner makes him glad he said it. It makes it so painfully clear that Kitayama won't do anything unless told to, and Yamapi thinks he might get high on the control he has over him.
Even though he won't look up at him, even though he can't see his eyes, he can tell that Kitayama's glancing at where Yamapi is touching himself, up and down, slowly, right in front of his face.
"I want to fuck your mouth," he says then, purposely not making it an order because he's not sure what Kitayama can handle and what he can't; all he gets is a nod, though, still without any eye contact. With a hand Yamapi makes him face upwards, thumbs his lower lip until he opens his mouth; instead of pulling him forwards immediately he lets his finger slip inside, and Kitayama flicks his tongue against it. But he doesn't linger, only uses his thumb to open his mouth up further, then angles his cock down and slides it in between his lips.
In the beginning, when he's still moving slowly, Kitayama puts in an effort, swirls his tongue over the head of Yamapi's cock, sucks around it, bobs his head on his own, and the stimulation has him groaning out loud. It's not just the physical pleasure; it looks hot too, the way he's gradually taking it deeper each time he moves down, willing but somehow with a lack of emotion, eyes still cast down and hair disheveled, tips still pointy with the remains of champagne in them. Entirely submitting to Yamapi, he looks as though he's ready to do anything he's told. It takes only the movement of a hand to the side of his head, twisting into his hair towards the back of it, for him to reduce his own actions, the playing of his tongue and the suction on Yamapi's cock. He's waiting. The next time Yamapi's hips move he does it slow, testing, pulling Kitayama towards him as well, and there's no reaction from him even as his lips wrap around the very base of his erection. Not a sound, no reaction, he just relaxes his throat, almost seems to prepare for what's to come.
Then he he pulls back out all the way; probably on reflex, Kitayama licks his swollen lips when he's able to, and the way it looks like he does it unconsciously makes Yamapi twitch in his own hand for a reason he's not sure he could explain even if he wanted to. Yamapi lets his other hand settle on the opposite side of Kitayama's head, holding it still as he pushes back in, slightly faster this time, and he can't help but sneak a glance down towards the floor. Just as he suspected, Kitayama's cock twitches every time he thrusts, every time he forces himself down his throat, and the idea of him being so turned on by it has a wave of heat run through his entire body.
Before he realizes it himself, Yamapi is fucking his mouth like he would fuck Kitayama's ass, rougher than he's ever been with anyone with their lips around his cock, but there's still no sign to hint that Kitayama is getting tired of it. There's only his occasional flicks with the tongue, and the moans, sounds that vibrate through his mouth and if this goes on much longer, Yamapi is positive he won't last. So he stops, pulls out and away, and Kitayama nearly looks like he's about to choke on his breath when his mouth is left empty and he can breathe through it again, instead of through his nose.
“You liked that, didn't you?” Yamapi says, voice deep and lips nearly moving as he speaks; he feels a faint spark of pleasure inside himself when Kitayama nods and finally turns his eyes up. They're a little watery, but pleading, and suddenly he's not sure if the wetness in them is because of the face-fucking, or that he's just so turned that it's getting frustrating to not be touched. “Slut.” The word slips out before he has had time to think it through; luckily it seems like Kitayama doesn't mind. If anything, the look in his eyes seem to encourage it.
He reaches down for Kitayama's neck, for the chain that's still attached to his collar. There's not a lot of force put into the way he pulls him up, but Kitayama is on his feet, obedient like a well-trained dog, and again he hesitates to look straight into Yamapi's eyes. He pulls again, harsher this time, and Kitayama glances up at him from under the sticky tips of his fringe. With one finger he traces the underside of Kitayama's erection; his breath hitches audibly at finally getting touched, a teasing touch that is barely any stimulation at all. Yamapi smirks as Kitayama does his best to control himself, even though it's clearly written on his face that he wants relief, any kind of it, and soon.
"Get on the couch," and he pushes him towards it. "On your knees. Hands on the backrest." While Kitayama positions himself Yamapi pulls lube and a condom from the pockets of his pants; he's glad he listened to Massu back when he first found out about the place, because he wouldn't have brought either of it if he hadn't. And he's about to open the small tube once he's got his pants pulled back up but left open, eyes on Kitayama's ass, when his foot hits something on the floor. When he realizes what it is, he can't help but put the tube next to the condom package on the table, and instead pick up the whip that he forgot he even brought along to the VIP room. He suspects Kitayama isn't aware of what's going on behind him, confirms it when he places a palm against one of his buttcheeks and the reaction is one of surprise. He squeezes it gently, enjoys how soft and plump it is under his touch, and he does catch the light moan that escapes Kitayama's throat. But then he lifts the hand with the whip, brings it down with force as he stops playing gentle, and this time, Kitayama actually wails when the leather straps strike his already bruised skin. He goes lower once, twice, and before he knows it there's more than a few red lines across his ass. For a moment Yamapi thinks he overdid it, but a quick look further down and he sees Kitayama's balls drawn tight to him, and the tiniest touch to them has his hips jerking involuntarily.
Kitayama is finally getting riled up enough that his breathing has taken a less normal pace, and he has a hard time staying still when Yamapi leans around him, puts the whip down next to him on the couch. It's almost amusing to Yamapi how he hasn't told him not to move, but he's staying anyway, not throwing a single glance backwards as Yamapi gets the tube open and covers his fingers with its content. The first finger slides inside without much of a warning; he doesn't feel the need to tease anymore, and judging by the state between his legs Kitayama wouldn't be too happy about it either.
“You want another one?” he asks, to see if Kitayama is so far gone that he might break character and speak. But he doesn't; there's just a nod, a small movement that Yamapi wouldn't have noticed unless he had been watching him for reactions. Knowing he won't get more of a response he pulls the finger out, adds some lube to it and another finger, then pushes both of them back inside Kitayama. This time he hears a moan, low and suppressed, but a moan nonetheless, and it makes his own cock twitch in anticipation. The rhythm he picks up is slow at first, but as soon as the initial resistance is gone he goes faster, a smirk finding its way onto his face as Kitayama's back arches. He doesn't ask about the third finger, just pushes it in along with the others, then keeps up the rougher pace until Kitayama slips an actual whimper. At first he's not sure what kind of whimper it is, if it's impatience or if something hurts, but then he does it again and there's no doubt that it's out of pleasure.
Soon Kitayama is breathing so hard that Yamapi starts suspecting that he might just end up coming without direct stimulation to his cock; he does all he can to keep his noises down, though, and it just triggers Yamapi more. He sneaks his free hand down between Kitayama's legs, traces a finger along the sensitive skin on his inner thigh before he moves on to his erection, finds it hot and heavy. When he reaches the head of it, it's wet with pre-come, and he hears Kitayama's breath hitch at the light touch. He's so sensitive that Yamapi almost feels sorry for him, having been denied pleasure for so long that he's literally dripping; there's a wet spot on the leather couch right underneath him, and when he notices that, he figures enough is enough. He pulls his fingers away, wipes them on one of Kitayama's thighs, then shoves his pants out of the way, pulls his cock out, and reaches for the condom.
He takes his time rolling it on, watches as Kitayama's hole clenches around nothing while he waits, sees his full body shiver when Yamapi groans at his own touch. Then he places a hand on the small of his back; Kitayama automatically readies himself, places his knees a little bit further from each other, and it looks like he holds his breath while Yamapi positions his cock and pushes inside.
He's hot, tight, slippery with lube, and it's so good and finally that Yamapi forgets to listen to the sound Kitayama makes as he exhales when he's filled all the way. The thrusts are smooth and slow when he begins moving, hissing at the pleasure that is as much of a tease to himself as it is to Kitayama, but he wants it to last, at least a little longer. For a moment he plays with the thought of letting him come only to keep fucking him, to just have him take it like he's taken everything else so far. But he doesn't act on it, figures it will be more interesting to see if Kitayama might lose it if he's denied his climax much longer.
He brings his hand up to the back of Kitayama's head, strokes through his hair, makes him jerk at the initial touch, then trails a soft touch down his spine, feels the ridges remaining by the reddish lines left on his skin. Feeling them under his fingertips has him wanting more, wants to hold the whip and hear it strike again, but he pushes the thought away. Instead he puts some force into his thrusts, harder but not a lot faster, reaches for the collar to grab the chain, and he hears Kitayama choke on his breath when he pulls lightly on it.
Letting the chain go slack for a second, Yamapi twists it around his hands, then gives a particularly hard thrust and simultaneously yanks on the chain, forces Kitayama's head up. It makes him groan, deep in his throat and it's the first real sound of pleasure he makes, sending sparks of further arousal along Yamapi's skin. He keeps the chain taut, and now that he has started, Kitayama can't seem to hold his noises in. Still not loud, not the slightest, but along with every creak of the leather couch he's making a small, whiny sound, a little high pitched and breathy.
Then, without letting go of the chain Yamapi pulls out, hears Kitayama's reaction to the suddenness of it. He sits down next to where Kitayama stays on his knees, and yanks on the chain again to make him move. A pat to his lap and Kitayama is on him immediately, straddling him, but then he waits.
“Ride,” is all Yamapi says; still gets no eye contact, even though they are face to face now. But Kitayama obeys eagerly without any change to his facial expression, except when he sinks down on Yamapi's cock and his eyes fall shut as his lips part for a heavy breath to come through. Yamapi just leans back against the couch when he starts moving; he runs hands up his thighs, feels the strong muscles work under the skin.
Now that he can see Kitayama's face it's much more obvious that he's so ready to come, that he's just waiting to be allowed to. His hips are working on their own, going faster and faster in pace with his breathing, alternating an up and down movement with hard grinding, and every now and then he tightens so much that Yamapi almost thinks Kitayama is going to come like that, without a touch to his cock. But then he opens his eyes under his sweaty bangs, looks Yamapi straight in the eyes. Pleading, yet he's still refusing to beg vocally. Yamapi silently agrees, at last, teases with a finger from base to tip of his cock before he wraps his hand around it, moves it in quick, firm strokes. Just a few of them, while his other hand finds its way to his back where it scratches downwards, over the welts left by the whip, and Kitayama's entire body tenses, stops moving; he just pants as he reaches his climax. His come hits Yamapi's vest as well as the skin not covered by the straps holding it together in the front, stains the black fabric with transparent white. Yamapi lets go of him, moves both of his hands to his ass, holds him up a little as he begins thrusting into him, into the squeeze that's nearly too tight. The sounds that leave Kitayama now are less desperate, less out of breath, ones he just partly unconsciously makes, but they're still hot and Yamapi feels his orgasm closing in on him with every thrust.
Kitayama's hands are cautiously placed on his shoulders in order to keep himself steady against the movements from below, and almost like that simple touch was all Yamapi needed, he finishes inside Kitayama. He has him stay there for a minute, just catches his breath and lets Kitayama do the same before he takes him by the waist, guides him up and back down onto his knees on the floor. Yamapi pulls the condom off, ties it and drops it to the floor, then spreads his legs as far as the pants he's still wearing will allow; Kitayama gets the hint and settles between them.
“Clean up.” He wouldn't be mad if Kitayama refused, but he wants to try and see how he deals with the command. It doesn't look like he's opposed to it; he brings his hands up and takes Yamapi's still mostly hard cock in his hands, takes it between his lips and sucks, bobbing his head, and when he pulls back there's only a sheet of saliva left covering it. He lets go of it, drops his hands to the seat of the couch and leans further up. Yamapi watches in amusement as he flicks his tongue out against his vest, traces it along the straps, laps up his own come and swallows it down. When it comes down between the straps, moist and warm against his skin, Yamapi feels his abs twitch and tense, can't quite hold back the low groan he makes.
When he's done he sits back, eyes downcast as he waits; Yamapi tucks himself back into his pants as he pulls them up, then leans forwards and ruffles him in the hair.
“Thanks,” he mumbles, and he's not entirely sure why he saying it; he just feels like he should. As he had suspected he gets no answer, not any vocal answer, at least. He gets a barely noticeable bow, more like a nod with his head, then a glance up at his face, and he thinks he can see in his eyes that Kitayama is thankful too. “Good enough?” he continues, because really, he has no idea if what he did was what Kitayama had been looking for.
A moment of silence. “Yeah.” Kitayama is speaking, voice almost breaking a little, unused except for moans and a whisper.
It's as if the spell is gone; Kitayama stretches his arms, winces a little when the skin on his bruised back stretches as well, but it doesn't seem like he dislikes it.
“It's late,” he says, an obvious statement, but Yamapi gets the hint, rises up from the couch, gets himself in order, puts his hat back on. Then he gives a pointed look at Kitayama, who's still on the floor, indirectly makes him continue. “I'll clean up and then get going. You go.” He makes it clear that there's nothing left for Yamapi to do, no reason for him to stay; that it's just sex and nothing else.
“See you at work then, maybe.” As he speaks Yamapi watches Kitayama remove the collar from around his neck, listens to the rattle of the chain when it comes down on the floor.
“Yeah. Thank you,” he adds, a little lower, and part of Yamapi wants to step back up closer, ruffle him in the hair like he had done before, but he stops himself, saves it for another time.
The bottle pops, a shower of champagne foam shoots out, and Yamapi almost feels proud at his aiming skills because it hits Kitayama right in the face, from where it runs down and drips from his chin. Some of it gets in his hair; but only enough for the ends to stick together, making it look a bit spiky. Then he pours himself a glass, before pushing the bottle to Kitayama's lips. Contact is all it takes for him to part them, and the champagne flows into his mouth faster than he can swallow. It overflows and runs down from his lower lip, down his chin, from where it continues onto his chest. But he keeps on trying to swallow, and Yamapi doesn't stop, doesn't take it away until he can see tears forming in Kitayama's eyes. When it's gone Kitayama draws a deep breath, calms his body down, while the last drops of alcohol drips from his face, until Yamapi wipes his face with a wet towel. Sticky isn't his thing, he thinks as he leans down, presses his own lips to Kitayama's in a way that is more forceful than he has ever kissed anyone before; there is some kind of sound coming from Kitayama, though, and he doesn't doubt that it's positive.
He tastes like expensive champagne and delicious submission; a mix that Yamapi hadn't expected he would enjoy as much as he does. But he pulls away rather quickly, sits back and starts fumbling with his belt, and Kitayama turns his gaze back to the floor. When he gets the belt open and the pants unzipped he squeezes himself through his underwear a couple time, then pulls his cock out, and this time he notices that Kitayama reacts. He's not hard all the way yet, but getting there, and just a hand on Kitayama's shoulder makes him lift his arm to let Yamapi grab it. He places the hand on himself, makes it curl around him and move, and once Kitayama is doing it on his own, he reaches for his glass of champagne. It tastes even better in the glass than from Kitayama's mouth, especially when he's getting physical stimulation at the same time.
He sips on it slowly, pours some more when the glass is half empty; he does feel the effects of the alcohol, but with his years of clubbing it takes a lot for him to get drunk enough that he can't control himself properly. On the floor, Kitayama seems to be eyeing his erection as he strokes it, but there's no change in his general behavior. He stiffens a little when Yamapi nestles a hand in his hair, but follows his silent orders obediently until he's in between his legs instead of beside, and he knows what to do. Yamapi spreads his legs some more, gets comfortable, and takes another sip of champagne as Kitayama starts lapping at his cock.
-
The performance is about two start; the girl Tamamori had bumped into is getting up on the stage, closely followed by the shorter girl, and she winks at both him and Miyata when she notices them in the crowd. They aren't all the way up next to the stage, more like on the third row, but Tamamori is tall and has no problem seeing the ropes that she leaves by her feet. The music switches, and that seems to be her cue; she bends over, shows the audience what she's got under her short skirt, and when she straightens up she has a neatly rolled bunch of rope that she throws over one shoulder before she gets to work. She runs fingertips down the front of the other girl, slower between her breasts, tightly pushed together with a push-up bra that fits her perfectly, and it looks like she's about to kiss her. Tamamori shifts a little, and he's sure Miyata notices, but he ignores him in favor of watching. To his disappointment, the two girls don't kiss. Instead she takes a hold of the rope, pulls a length of it free from the rest, wraps it around the other girl. He has to shift again; he feels his cheeks heating, and that's not the only part of his body that is starting to react. Then hands on his sides, over his clothes, the heat of another body against his back, and he now knows that Miyata is aware of exactly what's going on.
“You think it's hot?” his voice mumbles against Tamamori's neck, and Tamamori doesn't respond, just nods. Miyata knows it anyway, isn't asking to get confirmation.
On stage the shorter girl is spreading her legs and bending forward a little, getting ropes tied around her thighs. Her arms are already tied together behind her back, and when her thighs are done she gets pulled up by the rope connecting her wrists, only to get turned around again. The rope continues to get tied around her, now on the front, neat knots on her stomach and below her breasts, then between them and up to get finished off with a knot in the back of her neck.
“Is it the girl on girl action?” Miyata asks him, “or is it the bondage?” He gets pulled back against Miyata, feels that he's not the only one at least slightly interested in what's going on up on the stage. “You wanna fuck her, when she's all tied up like that?” He can't say he's the least surprised at what's coming from Miyata by now. He's an otaku with somewhat questionable interests, he's at least a little drunk, and he knows Tamamori likes the dirty talk.
“I could do that,” he answers, head turned towards Miyata to make sure he catches it, but he doesn't take his eyes off the performers. The girl he had talked to is now pushing the other one down on the floor; she ends up with her face against the stage floor, ass up in the air, and the first girl settles on her knees behind her. She moves in time with the music, slow thrusts against the immobilized girl, almost as though she's fucking her in the most teasing way possible.
The way Miyata grinds his hips against Tamamori's ass isn't the slightest subtle. “You'd do her better. She'd be so impatient, if you were inside her.” The further this goes, the more sensitive his nerves get, the better Miyata's hands and lips feel on him. “Or maybe you'd rather get tied up? Would you take it from a girl?”
“Miyacchi,” he nearly moans, because even though that's not at all what he is thinking about, he can tell that Miyata thinks it would be hot as fuck.
“Maybe I should tie you up and fuck you instead. You'd like that, wouldn't you?”
Further away, Nikaido is leaving Yokoo where he is, not even considering interrupting him in whatever twisted thing he is doing. More important is that Senga, who was right behind him, is gone. Senga is gone, lost somewhere in a fetish club, a fetish club he doesn't even want to be at. And that he hasn't followed Nikaido all the way there worries him, because it means something must have happened. He hurries away from the darkest corner of the club, heads for the bar because from there it's possible to get a decent view of the rest of the club. That's where he finds Senga, talking to a girl of his own height (a quick look to the floor and he finds that she's wearing high heels with quite a platform, too). She's looking at him with eyes that remind of Fujigaya's when he sees someone he wants to fuck, ones that know that they will get what they want if they just try hard enough. Because she is pretty, he will admit that, and she looks confident too, like she knows exactly what she's going to do. And he doesn't like it at all.
Senga squirms under her gaze when she looks him up and down more often then necessary. She's talking about relatively normal things, but it shines through easily that she's not looking to be friends. Just the one fingertip down his upper arm tells him what she wants, but it's still weird. It's not like he hasn't been hit on by girls before. This time it's just so different. Because he has never been hit on by a girl and at the same time felt so dominated, and this one is dominating him with body language and nothing else.
“You usually don't come to places like these, do you?” she smirks, knows she's making him uncomfortable with her questions. “I can tell.” The next move she does is discrete, but she makes sure Senga catches it. She moves one hand to her hip, and makes the handcuffs locked in her faux leather shorts rattle. Senga flinches a little at it, because even though she doesn't say it out loud at first, she is being obvious. But she just laughs, a short laugh that hardly sounds amused. “You're cute. Bet you'd be even cuter cuffed to my bed with your head between my thighs.”
Nikaido knows Senga well enough to see that he isn't even a little bit comfortable with the situation, even from afar. When he finally reaches the bar Senga is about to accept a cocktail that woman bought him, and suddenly the only important thing he knows is keeping him from her. Nothing is the slightest platonic anymore when Nikaido comes up behind Senga, slides his arms around his waist and presses a kiss to his neck. Senga stiffens at first, but relaxes in Nikaido's arms and turns his head enough that if he didn't have a purpose in holding him, Nikaido wouldn't have hesitated a second to kiss him breathless.
“Baby, let's go home soon?” he asks, loud enough that the girl in front of them lifts an eyebrow.
“Yeah,” he nods, and something jumps inside Nikaido when Senga tilts his head up to press soft lips against his. The girl gets the hint, rolls her eyes and looks very annoyed, but she doesn't leave just yet.
“I'd be rougher with him, if I were you.” She speaks directly to Nikaido, not sparing a glance to Senga. “He needs to get rid of some of that innocence. Tie him up and tease him, to begin with.” It's not hard to tell that she's just sharing exactly what she would have loved to do with him, and she glares Nikaido straight in the eyes before she leaves them alone.
“You won't be rough with me, right?” Senga mumbles, almost too quiet for Nikaido to hear it.
“Of course not,” he responds on autopilot before he realizes that Senga just agreed to sleeping with him, and there's a heat spreading through his chest that doesn't have a lot to do with plain arousal.
-
“Massu,” Fujigaya pants against his lips, “Massu, the rules...”
Massu tilts his head, frustratingly composed even though he's the one leading their rhythm. “What about them? We're not having sex yet, are we?” Fujigaya moans at the “yet”, a kind of suppressed one but a moan nevertheless. “It's just you humping me like a drunk little slut, isn't it?”
“Yes,” he gets out, lips forming the word without him giving them the instruction to. A clumsy hand moves from Massu's shoulder to his firm chest, stays there as Fujigaya lets his head lean against Massu, just next to his neck as he puts some force into his next couple thrusts. He thinks he can hear the pulse beating under Massu's skin; if he had been thinking clearly he would have realized it is the bass from the music. Not that it matters, the hands are still there, one on his hip and one making its way down the back of his pants, and he slides his own down further. It gets stuck in the flowy fabric of Massu's top, but he manages to free it without ruining the piece of clothing. Instead he makes it down to Massu's pants; they're loose, like the ones he's usually wearing, and a belt is holding them in place.
“No.” He's not teasing now. The hands on him leave his body and Fujigaya finds his wrist held in a strong grip as it's pulled away from between them. His head is pulled up by his hair; he winces a little at it, but more because it's a natural reaction rather than for the fact that it actually hurts; he's too intoxicated for it to be more than a small itch. Massu's eyes are dark, and he doesn't look particularly happy. Fujigaya expects him to give an explanation, wants to know what he did wrong (and be told what he should to do to make up for it), but he gets none of it. He only gets told not to move, and his hand is placed back on Massu's shoulder.
Just seconds after Massu finishes talking to him he has forgotten what he was told, and he tries to press their lips together again. The next thing he knows is that his cheek is stinging; it's not until he feels pain through the blur in his mind that he realizes Massu slapped him.
“I said don't move.” From there on, he does stay still, just focuses on his balance while he studies Massu's face. There's a touch to his stomach, just above the hem of his pants, and his abs jump a little at it. Something else jumps when fingers slide over his pants down between his legs; the fabric is so thin that he feels it almost as if there was just one layer between his erection and Massu's hand. The pressure on it increases, he groans in his throat, but the faint sting remaining on his skin from the hit reminds him to not act on his instincts. He's torturingly slow as he gets Fujigaya's belt open, unzips his jeans, and the gasp that slips at the warm contact of Massu's hand through his underwear just can't be helped. It's a light touch, not at all enough, before Massu wraps his free arm around the small of his back, pulls him even closer. They are so close now that Fujigaya is breathing into Massu's styled hair, hands locked in the back of his neck again because when a hand curls around his cock, skin to skin, he needs something to hold on to. It's almost a little painful to angle his head so that he can see Massu's hand touching him, and there's no way he can stop the thrust his hips give when he realizes that Massu has him all out of his pants, thumbing at the head.
A hand connects to his side with enough force that it must have made a sound; no one hears it though, around them the entire club is too loud. Fujigaya feels it, though, and next he has Massu hissing at him.
“You move, and they'll notice.” He squeezes his cock tighter than he perhaps should, he knows it, and it has Fujigaya biting his lip as he nods frantically. When he does, he relaxes his hand, starts jerking him up and down, and Fujigaya starts hoping that he's not planning to finish him off right there, with people everywhere and only shadows hiding what they're doing.
-
A light tug on his hair and Kitayama drags his lips along Yamapi's erection. It feels good enough that he sighs in pleasure, although it's not what he wanted; Kitayama knows it as well, but doesn't take it into his mouth just yet.
“Open your mouth.” Yamapi orders, lips brushing the edge of the glass. He hesitates, doesn't want to be rougher than what Kitayama likes, but then the whipping flashes through his mind, followed by a wave of heat through his body, and he tugs harder. This time Kitayama obediently opens up, lets Yamapi pull him down until he's got the head of his cock sliding in between his lips.
He's in complete control over what Kitayama is doing, guiding his head up and down with a firm grip, and Kitayama lets himself be lead, flicks his tongue against what he can reach. In the glass the champagne is still bubbling slowly, and alcohol has never been as good as when it runs down his throat, still tingling in his mouth, while he's got Kitayama's plush lips stretched around his cock. He leans his head back, empties the tall glass; a low moan turns the transparent surface of it foggy as Kitayama sucks harder on purpose. The fingers in his hair tighten, enough that he stops at the tip, licks at it instead of taking it into his mouth again and Yamapi knows that he's pulling too hard. So he lets go, Kitayama picks up the rhythm again, and Yamapi leans over him towards the table. He finds it surprisingly easy to fill the glass again despite how good he feels and how hot Kitayama looks between his legs, willingly sucking his cock into his mouth, but once he has put the half empty bottle down he has to steady himself.
For a moment he wants to put the glass down too, because he can barely stop his hips from rolling towards Kitayama's mouth when he realizes that he's all down his throat and that it is Kitayama's nose that bumps against his skin as he tries to stay still. So he makes him pull back, and the slide is almost torturous now that his cock is slick with saliva all the way, air cool against the base of it. Kitayama turns his eyes down towards the floor again, and Yamapi makes him face upwards with fingers under his chin.
“You're good,” he says, knows he has his superior tone on, the one that makes him sound like he's on top of the world, like no one will deny him anything he wants. And he doesn't pull him back again, only looks into his submissive eyes as he tips the glass, lets champagne splash onto the back of his neck, watches it bubble as it continues down his naked back. Kitayama winces at the cool liquid on his whip-bruised skin, but then stays still, stays silent. The champagne takes its time running from the glass, the last drops falling calmly onto him, and when he finally thinks it's enough, Yamapi sets it down on the table and pushes Kitayama backwards. He rises while fumbling with his pants, shoves them down to mid-thigh before he reaches for Kitayama's messy hair again. It's sticky with alcohol in the back, but he honestly doesn't care, with those dark eyes looking up at him like he's all that means anything; like there's nothing Kitayama wants more than to please him.
-
“Massu, Massu, Massu,” Fujigaya whimpers into hair that smells like hairspray and smoke as he struggles both to stay still and not to fall out of his lap. The alcohol is running freely through his veins and he's sure that if he has to rise up, his legs won't hold him up.
“You wanna come?” Lips against his jawline, and Fujigaya tries to chase them with his own even though they're already gone by the time his brain catches up with his nerves.
“Please,” he tries, close to tears because Massu's hand is so tight around him, he's leaking and ready, so close he can almost taste his orgasm, but for some reason, that single word makes him stop entirely. The hand is still there, but it doesn't move; he still moans at the touch when Massu's hold on his cock changes, but his breathing gradually goes back to somewhat normal as he's tucked back into his pants.
“Stand.” Massu's voice is firm, and Fujigaya obeys as well as he can; luckily Massu is also rising up, right there for him to hold on to instead of falling to the floor. “I'll take you home.” He runs a hand along the crotch of Fujigaya's pants, where his erection is obvious through the tight, glossy pants, and he earns a gasp for it.
Fujigaya thinks he hears Massu speak on the phone, but it's all so blurry, the flashing lights and the people passing by are distracting him, and he remembers his cap just in time for Massu to hang up, and he manages to tell him that it should be somewhere around. He does find it, pushes it onto Fujigaya's head and pulls him close with a strong grip on the back of his neck.
“There'll be a taxi waiting for us in the underground parking. We're going now.” His arm is guided around Massu's broad shoulders, the hand around his waist on the opposite side is strong, and he's led towards the exit, all while he hopes none of the members see him. And when they finally reach the door, that hope dies entirely.
Because by the door is Senga and Nikaido, putting on their jackets and getting ready to head out, and even though he doesn't look them in the eyes, he hears by the tone in their voices that they're worried about him.
“Gaya, are you okay?” Senga asks, but quiets at the dark glare Massu sends him, and they let them pass without another word when they realize who is it that walks with him. That doesn't stop them from talking to each other, though, and as if they're in a far distance Fujigaya hears what they're saying.
“But Nika, he's drunk off his ass! We shouldn't let him, should we?”
“Did you see his pants?” Nikaido hisses. “That was nothing but a full blown hard-on. And Gaya says no if there's something he doesn't want. He wasn't drunk when we came. You think Massu would force him to do things in public?”
“So you don't care?”
“I just hope they don't get into a scandal for it.”
The next voice is much clearer, right next to his head. “Don't worry, guys. I'll take care of him.” The next thing he knows is fresh air going down his lungs, and something jumps inside of him, both in anticipation and slight worry as they get into the elevator; it's empty, Massu speaks dirty to him all the way down, and by the time he's being helped into the taxi he no longer cares what plans Massu has in mind. He'll take anything.
-
Kitayama bites into his lower lip as he removes his t-back on order, hissing as the fabric slides against his erection. A hand on his shoulder and he gets back on his knees, cock bobbing heavily as he moves.
“No touching.” Yamapi never thought he actually would, but the way he lets his arms fall to his sides in an almost helpless manner makes him glad he said it. It makes it so painfully clear that Kitayama won't do anything unless told to, and Yamapi thinks he might get high on the control he has over him.
Even though he won't look up at him, even though he can't see his eyes, he can tell that Kitayama's glancing at where Yamapi is touching himself, up and down, slowly, right in front of his face.
"I want to fuck your mouth," he says then, purposely not making it an order because he's not sure what Kitayama can handle and what he can't; all he gets is a nod, though, still without any eye contact. With a hand Yamapi makes him face upwards, thumbs his lower lip until he opens his mouth; instead of pulling him forwards immediately he lets his finger slip inside, and Kitayama flicks his tongue against it. But he doesn't linger, only uses his thumb to open his mouth up further, then angles his cock down and slides it in between his lips.
In the beginning, when he's still moving slowly, Kitayama puts in an effort, swirls his tongue over the head of Yamapi's cock, sucks around it, bobs his head on his own, and the stimulation has him groaning out loud. It's not just the physical pleasure; it looks hot too, the way he's gradually taking it deeper each time he moves down, willing but somehow with a lack of emotion, eyes still cast down and hair disheveled, tips still pointy with the remains of champagne in them. Entirely submitting to Yamapi, he looks as though he's ready to do anything he's told. It takes only the movement of a hand to the side of his head, twisting into his hair towards the back of it, for him to reduce his own actions, the playing of his tongue and the suction on Yamapi's cock. He's waiting. The next time Yamapi's hips move he does it slow, testing, pulling Kitayama towards him as well, and there's no reaction from him even as his lips wrap around the very base of his erection. Not a sound, no reaction, he just relaxes his throat, almost seems to prepare for what's to come.
Then he he pulls back out all the way; probably on reflex, Kitayama licks his swollen lips when he's able to, and the way it looks like he does it unconsciously makes Yamapi twitch in his own hand for a reason he's not sure he could explain even if he wanted to. Yamapi lets his other hand settle on the opposite side of Kitayama's head, holding it still as he pushes back in, slightly faster this time, and he can't help but sneak a glance down towards the floor. Just as he suspected, Kitayama's cock twitches every time he thrusts, every time he forces himself down his throat, and the idea of him being so turned on by it has a wave of heat run through his entire body.
Before he realizes it himself, Yamapi is fucking his mouth like he would fuck Kitayama's ass, rougher than he's ever been with anyone with their lips around his cock, but there's still no sign to hint that Kitayama is getting tired of it. There's only his occasional flicks with the tongue, and the moans, sounds that vibrate through his mouth and if this goes on much longer, Yamapi is positive he won't last. So he stops, pulls out and away, and Kitayama nearly looks like he's about to choke on his breath when his mouth is left empty and he can breathe through it again, instead of through his nose.
“You liked that, didn't you?” Yamapi says, voice deep and lips nearly moving as he speaks; he feels a faint spark of pleasure inside himself when Kitayama nods and finally turns his eyes up. They're a little watery, but pleading, and suddenly he's not sure if the wetness in them is because of the face-fucking, or that he's just so turned that it's getting frustrating to not be touched. “Slut.” The word slips out before he has had time to think it through; luckily it seems like Kitayama doesn't mind. If anything, the look in his eyes seem to encourage it.
He reaches down for Kitayama's neck, for the chain that's still attached to his collar. There's not a lot of force put into the way he pulls him up, but Kitayama is on his feet, obedient like a well-trained dog, and again he hesitates to look straight into Yamapi's eyes. He pulls again, harsher this time, and Kitayama glances up at him from under the sticky tips of his fringe. With one finger he traces the underside of Kitayama's erection; his breath hitches audibly at finally getting touched, a teasing touch that is barely any stimulation at all. Yamapi smirks as Kitayama does his best to control himself, even though it's clearly written on his face that he wants relief, any kind of it, and soon.
"Get on the couch," and he pushes him towards it. "On your knees. Hands on the backrest." While Kitayama positions himself Yamapi pulls lube and a condom from the pockets of his pants; he's glad he listened to Massu back when he first found out about the place, because he wouldn't have brought either of it if he hadn't. And he's about to open the small tube once he's got his pants pulled back up but left open, eyes on Kitayama's ass, when his foot hits something on the floor. When he realizes what it is, he can't help but put the tube next to the condom package on the table, and instead pick up the whip that he forgot he even brought along to the VIP room. He suspects Kitayama isn't aware of what's going on behind him, confirms it when he places a palm against one of his buttcheeks and the reaction is one of surprise. He squeezes it gently, enjoys how soft and plump it is under his touch, and he does catch the light moan that escapes Kitayama's throat. But then he lifts the hand with the whip, brings it down with force as he stops playing gentle, and this time, Kitayama actually wails when the leather straps strike his already bruised skin. He goes lower once, twice, and before he knows it there's more than a few red lines across his ass. For a moment Yamapi thinks he overdid it, but a quick look further down and he sees Kitayama's balls drawn tight to him, and the tiniest touch to them has his hips jerking involuntarily.
Kitayama is finally getting riled up enough that his breathing has taken a less normal pace, and he has a hard time staying still when Yamapi leans around him, puts the whip down next to him on the couch. It's almost amusing to Yamapi how he hasn't told him not to move, but he's staying anyway, not throwing a single glance backwards as Yamapi gets the tube open and covers his fingers with its content. The first finger slides inside without much of a warning; he doesn't feel the need to tease anymore, and judging by the state between his legs Kitayama wouldn't be too happy about it either.
“You want another one?” he asks, to see if Kitayama is so far gone that he might break character and speak. But he doesn't; there's just a nod, a small movement that Yamapi wouldn't have noticed unless he had been watching him for reactions. Knowing he won't get more of a response he pulls the finger out, adds some lube to it and another finger, then pushes both of them back inside Kitayama. This time he hears a moan, low and suppressed, but a moan nonetheless, and it makes his own cock twitch in anticipation. The rhythm he picks up is slow at first, but as soon as the initial resistance is gone he goes faster, a smirk finding its way onto his face as Kitayama's back arches. He doesn't ask about the third finger, just pushes it in along with the others, then keeps up the rougher pace until Kitayama slips an actual whimper. At first he's not sure what kind of whimper it is, if it's impatience or if something hurts, but then he does it again and there's no doubt that it's out of pleasure.
Soon Kitayama is breathing so hard that Yamapi starts suspecting that he might just end up coming without direct stimulation to his cock; he does all he can to keep his noises down, though, and it just triggers Yamapi more. He sneaks his free hand down between Kitayama's legs, traces a finger along the sensitive skin on his inner thigh before he moves on to his erection, finds it hot and heavy. When he reaches the head of it, it's wet with pre-come, and he hears Kitayama's breath hitch at the light touch. He's so sensitive that Yamapi almost feels sorry for him, having been denied pleasure for so long that he's literally dripping; there's a wet spot on the leather couch right underneath him, and when he notices that, he figures enough is enough. He pulls his fingers away, wipes them on one of Kitayama's thighs, then shoves his pants out of the way, pulls his cock out, and reaches for the condom.
He takes his time rolling it on, watches as Kitayama's hole clenches around nothing while he waits, sees his full body shiver when Yamapi groans at his own touch. Then he places a hand on the small of his back; Kitayama automatically readies himself, places his knees a little bit further from each other, and it looks like he holds his breath while Yamapi positions his cock and pushes inside.
He's hot, tight, slippery with lube, and it's so good and finally that Yamapi forgets to listen to the sound Kitayama makes as he exhales when he's filled all the way. The thrusts are smooth and slow when he begins moving, hissing at the pleasure that is as much of a tease to himself as it is to Kitayama, but he wants it to last, at least a little longer. For a moment he plays with the thought of letting him come only to keep fucking him, to just have him take it like he's taken everything else so far. But he doesn't act on it, figures it will be more interesting to see if Kitayama might lose it if he's denied his climax much longer.
He brings his hand up to the back of Kitayama's head, strokes through his hair, makes him jerk at the initial touch, then trails a soft touch down his spine, feels the ridges remaining by the reddish lines left on his skin. Feeling them under his fingertips has him wanting more, wants to hold the whip and hear it strike again, but he pushes the thought away. Instead he puts some force into his thrusts, harder but not a lot faster, reaches for the collar to grab the chain, and he hears Kitayama choke on his breath when he pulls lightly on it.
Letting the chain go slack for a second, Yamapi twists it around his hands, then gives a particularly hard thrust and simultaneously yanks on the chain, forces Kitayama's head up. It makes him groan, deep in his throat and it's the first real sound of pleasure he makes, sending sparks of further arousal along Yamapi's skin. He keeps the chain taut, and now that he has started, Kitayama can't seem to hold his noises in. Still not loud, not the slightest, but along with every creak of the leather couch he's making a small, whiny sound, a little high pitched and breathy.
Then, without letting go of the chain Yamapi pulls out, hears Kitayama's reaction to the suddenness of it. He sits down next to where Kitayama stays on his knees, and yanks on the chain again to make him move. A pat to his lap and Kitayama is on him immediately, straddling him, but then he waits.
“Ride,” is all Yamapi says; still gets no eye contact, even though they are face to face now. But Kitayama obeys eagerly without any change to his facial expression, except when he sinks down on Yamapi's cock and his eyes fall shut as his lips part for a heavy breath to come through. Yamapi just leans back against the couch when he starts moving; he runs hands up his thighs, feels the strong muscles work under the skin.
Now that he can see Kitayama's face it's much more obvious that he's so ready to come, that he's just waiting to be allowed to. His hips are working on their own, going faster and faster in pace with his breathing, alternating an up and down movement with hard grinding, and every now and then he tightens so much that Yamapi almost thinks Kitayama is going to come like that, without a touch to his cock. But then he opens his eyes under his sweaty bangs, looks Yamapi straight in the eyes. Pleading, yet he's still refusing to beg vocally. Yamapi silently agrees, at last, teases with a finger from base to tip of his cock before he wraps his hand around it, moves it in quick, firm strokes. Just a few of them, while his other hand finds its way to his back where it scratches downwards, over the welts left by the whip, and Kitayama's entire body tenses, stops moving; he just pants as he reaches his climax. His come hits Yamapi's vest as well as the skin not covered by the straps holding it together in the front, stains the black fabric with transparent white. Yamapi lets go of him, moves both of his hands to his ass, holds him up a little as he begins thrusting into him, into the squeeze that's nearly too tight. The sounds that leave Kitayama now are less desperate, less out of breath, ones he just partly unconsciously makes, but they're still hot and Yamapi feels his orgasm closing in on him with every thrust.
Kitayama's hands are cautiously placed on his shoulders in order to keep himself steady against the movements from below, and almost like that simple touch was all Yamapi needed, he finishes inside Kitayama. He has him stay there for a minute, just catches his breath and lets Kitayama do the same before he takes him by the waist, guides him up and back down onto his knees on the floor. Yamapi pulls the condom off, ties it and drops it to the floor, then spreads his legs as far as the pants he's still wearing will allow; Kitayama gets the hint and settles between them.
“Clean up.” He wouldn't be mad if Kitayama refused, but he wants to try and see how he deals with the command. It doesn't look like he's opposed to it; he brings his hands up and takes Yamapi's still mostly hard cock in his hands, takes it between his lips and sucks, bobbing his head, and when he pulls back there's only a sheet of saliva left covering it. He lets go of it, drops his hands to the seat of the couch and leans further up. Yamapi watches in amusement as he flicks his tongue out against his vest, traces it along the straps, laps up his own come and swallows it down. When it comes down between the straps, moist and warm against his skin, Yamapi feels his abs twitch and tense, can't quite hold back the low groan he makes.
When he's done he sits back, eyes downcast as he waits; Yamapi tucks himself back into his pants as he pulls them up, then leans forwards and ruffles him in the hair.
“Thanks,” he mumbles, and he's not entirely sure why he saying it; he just feels like he should. As he had suspected he gets no answer, not any vocal answer, at least. He gets a barely noticeable bow, more like a nod with his head, then a glance up at his face, and he thinks he can see in his eyes that Kitayama is thankful too. “Good enough?” he continues, because really, he has no idea if what he did was what Kitayama had been looking for.
A moment of silence. “Yeah.” Kitayama is speaking, voice almost breaking a little, unused except for moans and a whisper.
It's as if the spell is gone; Kitayama stretches his arms, winces a little when the skin on his bruised back stretches as well, but it doesn't seem like he dislikes it.
“It's late,” he says, an obvious statement, but Yamapi gets the hint, rises up from the couch, gets himself in order, puts his hat back on. Then he gives a pointed look at Kitayama, who's still on the floor, indirectly makes him continue. “I'll clean up and then get going. You go.” He makes it clear that there's nothing left for Yamapi to do, no reason for him to stay; that it's just sex and nothing else.
“See you at work then, maybe.” As he speaks Yamapi watches Kitayama remove the collar from around his neck, listens to the rattle of the chain when it comes down on the floor.
“Yeah. Thank you,” he adds, a little lower, and part of Yamapi wants to step back up closer, ruffle him in the hair like he had done before, but he stops himself, saves it for another time.