Inception Fic: Between You and Me
Nov. 21st, 2010 11:18 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
azuremewTitle: Between You and Me (2/2)
Word Count: 3,546
Pairing: Past Browning/Fischer, Rumored Arthur/Eames & Eames/Yusuf, Actual Eames/Fischer
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: This content might be triggering to some. Strong D/s relationship, dub-con.
Summary: After Reflections of Men. Eames doesn't do exclusive relationships, and Fischer doesn't like the idea of Eames sleeping with other people. Add on what happened with Browning, and we have all kinds of issues.
Author's Note:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
forgerness, this one is for you and your love for Yusuf's hands, Eames, and Fischer. And yea, it's written in the first/second person and is a wee bit experimental on the format, so I apologize if it's a little confusing.
Part 1
I make it five steps out of the shop before stopping. Rage fills me. My heart is pounding. Tears sting my eyes. But I am not about to get lost halfway around the world without my wallet and passport. This fact is enough to pull me back, settle against the wall, and crumple to the ground. I sit there long enough to overhear you talking to Yusuf, helping him up. The words are muffled, but I can guess exactly what you are saying. There are two steps of footsteps going upstairs, and I stop. I have to.
Pulling myself up, I walk inside. I cannot hear anything, but that does not mean anything. The cat hops off of the counter, nuzzling my leg again. I scratch her chin and behind her ear. The purring becomes louder, and I question, “Think I should interrupt them?” She collapses lazily onto the floor, rolling onto her back to paw and nip at my hand. I laugh. “I'll take that as a yes.”
The voices become more clear as I inch closer to the door.
“You did not come here for Fischer, did you?” Yusuf asked.
“Of course I did.”
“Not for medicine.”
My hand is on the knob, ready to turn it in that instant, expecting the worst in you as I always do. Footsteps. The touch of lips, then against flesh, moans that make a reflexive squeeze. But nothing comes. There is silence for the longest time, then you speak in a hollow voice even I am not intimate enough to experience, “Can you keep a secret, mate?”
“Eames, I'm offended,” Yusuf says, taking little note, or enough times to be comfortably desensitized to keep the bit of humor.
“Peter Browning was selling Robert to board members for sex to keep them with Fischer Morrow.” You pause. You sound . . . disgusted, adding, “Bastard has him wrapped around his finger even after they parted ways.”
I let go, retracting, wrapping my arms around me. The pads of my fingers slide across raised marks, what is left of swollen tissue, broken flesh of others and my own action. I close my eyes, fluttering back to the past, and miss him standing there to catch me. Uncle Peter. If I had listened, he would still be with me. But now he's gone, and you fancy me as interesting, worth your time more closely than any day spent as that imposter. Interesting, yet revolting. How complex. For what reason do you stay?
The conversation continues, unaware of my presence:
“What do you mean? Mentally? He's depressed. Suicidal, you said.”
“Sexually.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah. We have sex, and I swear to bloody hell he's thinking about Browning.”
“And you're not thinking about Arthur?”
“Jesus, no. We're friends that fuck from time to time. Boy is too wound tight to be anything interesting long term.” You pause again, your voice lifting to the point of playful. “And quit trying to analyze me, mate. We're trying to help Robert.”
Yusuf sounds innocent, “What can I say? You're one of my favorite subjects.”
“Then what do you suggest if you know me so well, hrm?”
“A little distraction so you can think clearly. Besides, as I said before, you did not come here for Fischer, did you?”
Complex. Too much for you to handle alone, so you come to this man because I loathe your relationship with Arthur. Complex as it intertwines further until all I am is uncertain of anything other than how I miss the simplicity of before.
Before
This time, it is different. The setting is set like normal, this script we play over and over to the liking of a passing audience that might buy seasonal tickets. It is the after show that I look forward to, when we stand behind the curtain in each other's arm. But Mr. Talbot is different. He does not caress my shoulder or hold it firm, nor speaks to me. They are talking, Uncle Peter and he, while I stand almost ten feet away. It is business, and I wonder why Uncle Peter has called me here.
He is invited to a dinner, a gathering at a gentleman's club owned by one of Mr. Talbot's contacts. I am requested to join him, and he picks out a suit with a firm fitted vest that pulls tight each time I breathe. It reminds me of the corsets women would wear to look beautiful, and as Uncle Peter buttons my shirt and smooths it with his warm hands, I feel like one of them. All that it lacks is a tie, but I have always hated those nooses.
We go to the dinner, and in the car I am told not to speak, that he would carry the conversation for both of us. It is a light meal. Several men sit there, each dressed in the same attire as us, each recognizable as well established, proper men of society.
Mr. Talbot sits at the farthest end. He clears his throat after an hour or so, saying, “Well, I think it's time, gentlemen, don't you?”
The others nod, and we are led downstairs to a concrete room lit by candlelight and the crackle of a fireplace. Uncle Peter is standing behind me all the way, stroking the small of my back. I am dizzy from the wine and his touch, ignoring the words as he unbuttons my shirt. “Close your eyes, Robert,” he tells me, and I do so, imagining the very worse as I usually do and his joy of seeing me through.
There is a soft rattle of metal against metal, then the slide of something thick against my throat. It is heavy against my shoulder, stiff beneath my chin, and as it tightens and locks, I cannot do anything but look ahead into complete darkness. I begin to tremble. Despite the warmth of the fire, the clothes on my back, I can feel my body shake and teeth clench to the point of aching.
Uncle Peter's voice is all that relaxes me, saying in the calmest tone, “Follow me, and do not make a sound.” He takes me to a chaise, sits me on the edge, and removes my shoes and socks. Then he reaches up to my slacks and unbuckles the belt. I can barely see him, the room becoming more and more unclear, and I want him to stop. But he pulls them down and removes them completely.
Rising up, he kisses my forehead and says, “I am proud of you, Robert. So proud. Do not let me down.”
I won't, Uncle Peter, I think and swallow thickly the thoughts as he turns me. From each of the bottom legs there are leather cuffs, shackles around my ankles. Another set is used for my wrists, bought together and lifted beneath my head. It pulls at the vest, becoming more difficult to breathe.
Then it begins.
One by one, the men come close, their hands examining every inch of me. Some touch my balls almost tentatively, speaking with admiration at how cleanly shaved I am. Others wrap their hands around my cock, squeezing. My hips thrust, and I buck, reacting, and I do not have the time or awareness to take in the leather paddle as it hits my inner thigh just inches from my erection.
I scream, whimpering after, and Mr. Talbot asks my uncle, “I thought you said he was ready, Mr. Browning?”
“He is,” Uncle Peter says firmly.
But my eyes are closed to not show the tears. I say nothing, do nothing, so they continue, stroking me, petting me, feeling down to my hole where one slides a finger in. There is more praise at how tight I am, how delicious I must feel. They ask questions that I do not understand, positions I have not heard of, things I have not done, and each are answered the same. “We like it simple,” he tells them. “Natural.”
There is laughter from some places and chatter, but none of them can be heard as I feel a set of fingers scissoring inside of me, widening me to fit a second, then third, and I cannot help but try and slide upward as he passes over the spot that makes me writhe. The shackles cut into my ankles and burn. I bite my lower lip to not yelp.
He pulls away, “Very impressive. May I?”
I look to my uncle, afraid of what that exactly implied. He nodded, and the stranger I had never met before this night was given a bottle of lubricant to slick his hand.
Each pass brings him deeper, his fingers stroking my insides as he pulls my erection closer to orgasm. I fear being hit again, but there is no stopping the sound that pours from my lips, vibrating against the posture collar that has me unable to look completely at him. The moans become louder, less human as he stretches me further, my feet trying to plant themselves to move my body, to meet each push to take him entirely as I was taught. Then it blooms, that fire in my belly, and spills all over my vest and shirt. I arch my back and cry out, not settling for several seconds.
I think that maybe it is over afterward. There is a long pause, a pour of drinks, the sound of water running in the background, but someone asks, “Can you make him cum again, Mr. Browning?”
“Of course,” he tells them, and I am mortified at the thought, more so than before.
“How many times?”
“Plenty.”
Mr. Talbot speaks, “Show us, then.”
Now
Complex. This is not complex. Just different. And it might be lost, just as I lost Uncle Peter, so I open the door then, finding you standing there with your hands knotted in his shirt, tightly balled around fists. Trembling. Your head bent low. I cannot tell if you kissed until your head turns. Color, that light, so brilliant, was washed from your eyes. The laughter is gone, replaced by fear. It would hurt if I was not so angry.
“Robert, it's not . . .”
“Not what it looks like.” I finish, crossing my arms. “Right.”
“I'll leave,” Yusuf offered, but I stood in the door way.
“Don't,” I tell him, and he pauses, glancing at you. I want to scream. I want to ask what is wrong with you. I want to ask why you think something is wrong with me. But I step forward and grab your shirt, mimicking movements at first rather than finding my own impulse. I pull you into a kiss that leaves you breathless. We separate, and I turn to Yusuf, “You want to help?” I walk over to him and kiss him gently, watching for your reaction, the widening of your eyes. “Then help,” I tell him as I pull away and back toward you.
Before
“Uncle Peter . . .” I murmur, my voice becoming raw already, my heart fluttering, and my hands and feet starting to turn numb. He is removing the shackles after unbuttoning my vest and shirt. He says that he adores me over and over, that he is grateful that I chose him, and he chose me. I tell him that I love him, but it is so quiet that he might have not heard it. There is no response, only a kiss as I am brought up to my legs that find difficulty in the simplest movement of walking.
He guides me to what might be the center of the room, pulling off the rest of my clothes. I hear more compliments at my marks, and how gorgeous I am. Slowly, he brings up my wrists, the cuffs still around them, and hooks. His hands gently slide down my arms, taking in each line, how hard my nipples are, the softness of my lips and sharpness of the jaw. At the legs, he pulls them apart, and I hear something lock them in place again just like the chaise.
The bar keeps me steady as they resume touching me, exploring every inch, stroking me, fucking me with their fingers harder than before until it stings from being so raw. It is pointless to keep quiet, and Uncle Peter knows this. He must have mentioned it, my threshold, for there is no punishment for my screams of utter pain and delight. I come repeatedly, turning taut with trembles, the semen trickling down my balls and legs. Some of it is pressed into my ass until I cannot take it anymore. I am begging, “Please, stop it . . .” my mouth is filled with saliva and mucus from the tears that sting my eyes. “Stop. I'm done. Please.”
My back is turned to where Uncle Peter is standing, and he is asked if this is true. “Not completely.”
I was, I had to be. Every fiber in me ached, exposed so entirely. But even if that were true, Uncle Peter did not believe so, he believed I could be brought further than we ever had in that office. I feel behind me the rounded tip of something cold. It slides in easy at first, then becomes wider, stretching me, tearing me apart. I moan with the slow movements until I am filled completely with a foreign object that is too large to be any of the men.
Uncle Peter approaches me, wrapping his hand around my cock. I want to pull back, but he kisses me, his fingers tracing my jaw. “Shhhhh . . .” he coaxes, his breath against my lips now swollen. “Quiet until you climax for me, Robert.”
I try, but the man behind us is pushing deeper and faster, the friction against the tender flesh burning in sharp stings that make me want to cry out. Uncle Peter is stroking me still too, slowly at first, now in time with each thrust. His eyes are staring into mine, cloudy with tears, but I can see him watching me, hoping that I will succeed.
The last time is so much more than the last few. I am shaking between the two of them, both continuing until I have stopped, my breathing the only proof that I am still alive. My wrists are undone again, hands falling into ready arms as Uncle Peter holds me steady. We move down to the floor. He is combing his fingers through my hair so tenderly that I hardly notice the heat as it comes close to my bare shoulder.
It burns. The red hot metal sears, making sounds against sweat and flesh. My fingers dig into Uncle Peter's coat, but he does nothing beyond the pets and reassurances that he is proud of me this night.
Now
You bring me into your arms, my back resting against your chest so that your arms could slide around the front and passed my waistband. I do the very same as you kiss my neck, pulling beneath the fabric to the erection beneath. While I am not hard, my actions speak differently, stroking you harshly until you are moaning into my shoulder, biting it until it bruises.
I reach out to Yusuf with my free hand, realizing that the outsider is still such, likely just as surprised as you are. But now you are pulling at the buttons of my shirt, and he moves into my hand, letting it wrap around the back of his neck to pull him into a deeper kiss. Yusuf's mouth tastes different. It lacks the cigarettes and carries a sweetness of some flavored drink. It lasts long enough for you to let the first piece of cloth shed to the floor. When our hands meet to undo your slacks, I ease off to pour more so into Yusuf, kissing his neck, the curve of his shoulder, and his chest.
The sight leaves you stroking your own cock, searching for our bags for lubricant and condoms. Yusuf finally relaxes around me, helping undo my slacks as I pause to pull off his shirt. There is an unsettling fact that these actions seem meaningless to me as I stand flaccid between these two men, but I continue the kisses until you draw me back. I feel you, slick and hard, as you guide yourself into me and moan. My hands pull at the last of fabric that releases Yusuf, and I take him in with a deep, ragged breath.
The rhythm is set quickly, your thrusts pushing me further with each pass until I have him entirely in my mouth. There is no gagging, no chocking, no gasps from having trouble breathing. It is all so lovely as the sound of your moans mix with his. “Robert . . .” Yusuf moans after a while, his finger combing through hair until they settled around, thinking I might stop when he comes. I do not. My mouth tightens around the shaft, the tongue dragging down the base as my hands play beneath him, using the slick to explore him and bring him further into climax.
Yusuf spills first, the warm liquid hitting the back of my throat as I suck on him through until he is lucid again. Each pass has him breathless until the trembling becomes still, and he lets go of me. “That was . . .” he starts.
“Not done quite yet, mate,” you interrupt with what I can only guess is a smirk of pride. Pulling us back, we land on the edge of the bed, your cock just barely pulling out before my landing thrusts it deeper in than before. A loud groan fills my lungs and into the air as your legs spread mine, giving room for Yusuf to kneel. “Only fair.”
“Please,” I beg, closing my eyes as you bite into my shoulder again. There is only you for that moment, you and your hard cock as it spreads me further apart, threatening to tear me completely. My hands are wrapped over yours, fingers entangled and squeezing from the pleasure. It tightens further at the feeling of Yusuf's mouth teasing the tip of my erection, his tongue swirling around before the first, full taste.
You are certain to move us a little slower, drawing out each as Yusuf does the same. His hands are stroking my inner thighs, practically able to feel your cock as it goes deep into me, grinding against the prostate while his hands massage it. I am yelling before long, unable to contain myself as I come into Yusuf's mouth. You follow shortly, giving us one, last push before.
Yusuf withdraws first, wiping his lower lip with the back of his hand, “Damn.”
“Yeah,” you agree, and I cannot add a third comment, still breathing too hard as you pat my ass to get up. I do, sliding to the side and pull myself onto the bed while you sit up and dispose of the condom.
Yusuf is collecting his clothing as he coughs a, “I should leave you two be.”
“No,” I say before you have a moment to speak. “Stay if you want.”
Before
My eyes open to a different room, Uncle Peter's hotel suite where we spend more nights than usual since my father became ill and more violent. I am undressed, but the smell of sweat and burned flesh is gone, leaving me to wonder if this is all a dream. I reach behind me to the sterile padding and tape, touching it lightly with a shudder. The pain tells me it is not a dream, what happened did, and now I lie complete.
This summons me to kiss him, and he responds, wrapping his arms around me. My body aches, but he fills me with a comfort that the pain does not matter as long as we are together.
Now
Hours after, while I can hear Yusuf snoring, I poke at your side until there is a slight groan, “Robert, what . . . what is it?”
“Eames, I was wondering . . .” I say quietly, biting my lower lip before finishing. “Why are you doing this?”
You groan, “Have we not been through this before?”
“We have, at the airport. You but you didn't give an answer.”
“I did so.”
I press my lips, “Because is not an answer.”
You laugh, loud enough that I have to check to make sure our bed mate is sleeping. Surely enough, he was; apparently, a train could pass considering you. When I turn back, you kiss my forehead and murmur into it, “Because I love you.” I would not believe you if not for that smile and the kiss on my forehead. You roll over, taking my arm with you to wrap around as my anchor, "Now go to sleep."
Word Count: 3,546
Pairing: Past Browning/Fischer, Rumored Arthur/Eames & Eames/Yusuf, Actual Eames/Fischer
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: This content might be triggering to some. Strong D/s relationship, dub-con.
Summary: After Reflections of Men. Eames doesn't do exclusive relationships, and Fischer doesn't like the idea of Eames sleeping with other people. Add on what happened with Browning, and we have all kinds of issues.
Author's Note:
forgerness, this one is for you and your love for YusufPart 1
I make it five steps out of the shop before stopping. Rage fills me. My heart is pounding. Tears sting my eyes. But I am not about to get lost halfway around the world without my wallet and passport. This fact is enough to pull me back, settle against the wall, and crumple to the ground. I sit there long enough to overhear you talking to Yusuf, helping him up. The words are muffled, but I can guess exactly what you are saying. There are two steps of footsteps going upstairs, and I stop. I have to.
Pulling myself up, I walk inside. I cannot hear anything, but that does not mean anything. The cat hops off of the counter, nuzzling my leg again. I scratch her chin and behind her ear. The purring becomes louder, and I question, “Think I should interrupt them?” She collapses lazily onto the floor, rolling onto her back to paw and nip at my hand. I laugh. “I'll take that as a yes.”
The voices become more clear as I inch closer to the door.
“You did not come here for Fischer, did you?” Yusuf asked.
“Of course I did.”
“Not for medicine.”
My hand is on the knob, ready to turn it in that instant, expecting the worst in you as I always do. Footsteps. The touch of lips, then against flesh, moans that make a reflexive squeeze. But nothing comes. There is silence for the longest time, then you speak in a hollow voice even I am not intimate enough to experience, “Can you keep a secret, mate?”
“Eames, I'm offended,” Yusuf says, taking little note, or enough times to be comfortably desensitized to keep the bit of humor.
“Peter Browning was selling Robert to board members for sex to keep them with Fischer Morrow.” You pause. You sound . . . disgusted, adding, “Bastard has him wrapped around his finger even after they parted ways.”
I let go, retracting, wrapping my arms around me. The pads of my fingers slide across raised marks, what is left of swollen tissue, broken flesh of others and my own action. I close my eyes, fluttering back to the past, and miss him standing there to catch me. Uncle Peter. If I had listened, he would still be with me. But now he's gone, and you fancy me as interesting, worth your time more closely than any day spent as that imposter. Interesting, yet revolting. How complex. For what reason do you stay?
The conversation continues, unaware of my presence:
“What do you mean? Mentally? He's depressed. Suicidal, you said.”
“Sexually.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah. We have sex, and I swear to bloody hell he's thinking about Browning.”
“And you're not thinking about Arthur?”
“Jesus, no. We're friends that fuck from time to time. Boy is too wound tight to be anything interesting long term.” You pause again, your voice lifting to the point of playful. “And quit trying to analyze me, mate. We're trying to help Robert.”
Yusuf sounds innocent, “What can I say? You're one of my favorite subjects.”
“Then what do you suggest if you know me so well, hrm?”
“A little distraction so you can think clearly. Besides, as I said before, you did not come here for Fischer, did you?”
Complex. Too much for you to handle alone, so you come to this man because I loathe your relationship with Arthur. Complex as it intertwines further until all I am is uncertain of anything other than how I miss the simplicity of before.
This time, it is different. The setting is set like normal, this script we play over and over to the liking of a passing audience that might buy seasonal tickets. It is the after show that I look forward to, when we stand behind the curtain in each other's arm. But Mr. Talbot is different. He does not caress my shoulder or hold it firm, nor speaks to me. They are talking, Uncle Peter and he, while I stand almost ten feet away. It is business, and I wonder why Uncle Peter has called me here.
He is invited to a dinner, a gathering at a gentleman's club owned by one of Mr. Talbot's contacts. I am requested to join him, and he picks out a suit with a firm fitted vest that pulls tight each time I breathe. It reminds me of the corsets women would wear to look beautiful, and as Uncle Peter buttons my shirt and smooths it with his warm hands, I feel like one of them. All that it lacks is a tie, but I have always hated those nooses.
We go to the dinner, and in the car I am told not to speak, that he would carry the conversation for both of us. It is a light meal. Several men sit there, each dressed in the same attire as us, each recognizable as well established, proper men of society.
Mr. Talbot sits at the farthest end. He clears his throat after an hour or so, saying, “Well, I think it's time, gentlemen, don't you?”
The others nod, and we are led downstairs to a concrete room lit by candlelight and the crackle of a fireplace. Uncle Peter is standing behind me all the way, stroking the small of my back. I am dizzy from the wine and his touch, ignoring the words as he unbuttons my shirt. “Close your eyes, Robert,” he tells me, and I do so, imagining the very worse as I usually do and his joy of seeing me through.
There is a soft rattle of metal against metal, then the slide of something thick against my throat. It is heavy against my shoulder, stiff beneath my chin, and as it tightens and locks, I cannot do anything but look ahead into complete darkness. I begin to tremble. Despite the warmth of the fire, the clothes on my back, I can feel my body shake and teeth clench to the point of aching.
Uncle Peter's voice is all that relaxes me, saying in the calmest tone, “Follow me, and do not make a sound.” He takes me to a chaise, sits me on the edge, and removes my shoes and socks. Then he reaches up to my slacks and unbuckles the belt. I can barely see him, the room becoming more and more unclear, and I want him to stop. But he pulls them down and removes them completely.
Rising up, he kisses my forehead and says, “I am proud of you, Robert. So proud. Do not let me down.”
I won't, Uncle Peter, I think and swallow thickly the thoughts as he turns me. From each of the bottom legs there are leather cuffs, shackles around my ankles. Another set is used for my wrists, bought together and lifted beneath my head. It pulls at the vest, becoming more difficult to breathe.
Then it begins.
One by one, the men come close, their hands examining every inch of me. Some touch my balls almost tentatively, speaking with admiration at how cleanly shaved I am. Others wrap their hands around my cock, squeezing. My hips thrust, and I buck, reacting, and I do not have the time or awareness to take in the leather paddle as it hits my inner thigh just inches from my erection.
I scream, whimpering after, and Mr. Talbot asks my uncle, “I thought you said he was ready, Mr. Browning?”
“He is,” Uncle Peter says firmly.
But my eyes are closed to not show the tears. I say nothing, do nothing, so they continue, stroking me, petting me, feeling down to my hole where one slides a finger in. There is more praise at how tight I am, how delicious I must feel. They ask questions that I do not understand, positions I have not heard of, things I have not done, and each are answered the same. “We like it simple,” he tells them. “Natural.”
There is laughter from some places and chatter, but none of them can be heard as I feel a set of fingers scissoring inside of me, widening me to fit a second, then third, and I cannot help but try and slide upward as he passes over the spot that makes me writhe. The shackles cut into my ankles and burn. I bite my lower lip to not yelp.
He pulls away, “Very impressive. May I?”
I look to my uncle, afraid of what that exactly implied. He nodded, and the stranger I had never met before this night was given a bottle of lubricant to slick his hand.
Each pass brings him deeper, his fingers stroking my insides as he pulls my erection closer to orgasm. I fear being hit again, but there is no stopping the sound that pours from my lips, vibrating against the posture collar that has me unable to look completely at him. The moans become louder, less human as he stretches me further, my feet trying to plant themselves to move my body, to meet each push to take him entirely as I was taught. Then it blooms, that fire in my belly, and spills all over my vest and shirt. I arch my back and cry out, not settling for several seconds.
I think that maybe it is over afterward. There is a long pause, a pour of drinks, the sound of water running in the background, but someone asks, “Can you make him cum again, Mr. Browning?”
“Of course,” he tells them, and I am mortified at the thought, more so than before.
“How many times?”
“Plenty.”
Mr. Talbot speaks, “Show us, then.”
Complex. This is not complex. Just different. And it might be lost, just as I lost Uncle Peter, so I open the door then, finding you standing there with your hands knotted in his shirt, tightly balled around fists. Trembling. Your head bent low. I cannot tell if you kissed until your head turns. Color, that light, so brilliant, was washed from your eyes. The laughter is gone, replaced by fear. It would hurt if I was not so angry.
“Robert, it's not . . .”
“Not what it looks like.” I finish, crossing my arms. “Right.”
“I'll leave,” Yusuf offered, but I stood in the door way.
“Don't,” I tell him, and he pauses, glancing at you. I want to scream. I want to ask what is wrong with you. I want to ask why you think something is wrong with me. But I step forward and grab your shirt, mimicking movements at first rather than finding my own impulse. I pull you into a kiss that leaves you breathless. We separate, and I turn to Yusuf, “You want to help?” I walk over to him and kiss him gently, watching for your reaction, the widening of your eyes. “Then help,” I tell him as I pull away and back toward you.
“Uncle Peter . . .” I murmur, my voice becoming raw already, my heart fluttering, and my hands and feet starting to turn numb. He is removing the shackles after unbuttoning my vest and shirt. He says that he adores me over and over, that he is grateful that I chose him, and he chose me. I tell him that I love him, but it is so quiet that he might have not heard it. There is no response, only a kiss as I am brought up to my legs that find difficulty in the simplest movement of walking.
He guides me to what might be the center of the room, pulling off the rest of my clothes. I hear more compliments at my marks, and how gorgeous I am. Slowly, he brings up my wrists, the cuffs still around them, and hooks. His hands gently slide down my arms, taking in each line, how hard my nipples are, the softness of my lips and sharpness of the jaw. At the legs, he pulls them apart, and I hear something lock them in place again just like the chaise.
The bar keeps me steady as they resume touching me, exploring every inch, stroking me, fucking me with their fingers harder than before until it stings from being so raw. It is pointless to keep quiet, and Uncle Peter knows this. He must have mentioned it, my threshold, for there is no punishment for my screams of utter pain and delight. I come repeatedly, turning taut with trembles, the semen trickling down my balls and legs. Some of it is pressed into my ass until I cannot take it anymore. I am begging, “Please, stop it . . .” my mouth is filled with saliva and mucus from the tears that sting my eyes. “Stop. I'm done. Please.”
My back is turned to where Uncle Peter is standing, and he is asked if this is true. “Not completely.”
I was, I had to be. Every fiber in me ached, exposed so entirely. But even if that were true, Uncle Peter did not believe so, he believed I could be brought further than we ever had in that office. I feel behind me the rounded tip of something cold. It slides in easy at first, then becomes wider, stretching me, tearing me apart. I moan with the slow movements until I am filled completely with a foreign object that is too large to be any of the men.
Uncle Peter approaches me, wrapping his hand around my cock. I want to pull back, but he kisses me, his fingers tracing my jaw. “Shhhhh . . .” he coaxes, his breath against my lips now swollen. “Quiet until you climax for me, Robert.”
I try, but the man behind us is pushing deeper and faster, the friction against the tender flesh burning in sharp stings that make me want to cry out. Uncle Peter is stroking me still too, slowly at first, now in time with each thrust. His eyes are staring into mine, cloudy with tears, but I can see him watching me, hoping that I will succeed.
The last time is so much more than the last few. I am shaking between the two of them, both continuing until I have stopped, my breathing the only proof that I am still alive. My wrists are undone again, hands falling into ready arms as Uncle Peter holds me steady. We move down to the floor. He is combing his fingers through my hair so tenderly that I hardly notice the heat as it comes close to my bare shoulder.
It burns. The red hot metal sears, making sounds against sweat and flesh. My fingers dig into Uncle Peter's coat, but he does nothing beyond the pets and reassurances that he is proud of me this night.
You bring me into your arms, my back resting against your chest so that your arms could slide around the front and passed my waistband. I do the very same as you kiss my neck, pulling beneath the fabric to the erection beneath. While I am not hard, my actions speak differently, stroking you harshly until you are moaning into my shoulder, biting it until it bruises.
I reach out to Yusuf with my free hand, realizing that the outsider is still such, likely just as surprised as you are. But now you are pulling at the buttons of my shirt, and he moves into my hand, letting it wrap around the back of his neck to pull him into a deeper kiss. Yusuf's mouth tastes different. It lacks the cigarettes and carries a sweetness of some flavored drink. It lasts long enough for you to let the first piece of cloth shed to the floor. When our hands meet to undo your slacks, I ease off to pour more so into Yusuf, kissing his neck, the curve of his shoulder, and his chest.
The sight leaves you stroking your own cock, searching for our bags for lubricant and condoms. Yusuf finally relaxes around me, helping undo my slacks as I pause to pull off his shirt. There is an unsettling fact that these actions seem meaningless to me as I stand flaccid between these two men, but I continue the kisses until you draw me back. I feel you, slick and hard, as you guide yourself into me and moan. My hands pull at the last of fabric that releases Yusuf, and I take him in with a deep, ragged breath.
The rhythm is set quickly, your thrusts pushing me further with each pass until I have him entirely in my mouth. There is no gagging, no chocking, no gasps from having trouble breathing. It is all so lovely as the sound of your moans mix with his. “Robert . . .” Yusuf moans after a while, his finger combing through hair until they settled around, thinking I might stop when he comes. I do not. My mouth tightens around the shaft, the tongue dragging down the base as my hands play beneath him, using the slick to explore him and bring him further into climax.
Yusuf spills first, the warm liquid hitting the back of my throat as I suck on him through until he is lucid again. Each pass has him breathless until the trembling becomes still, and he lets go of me. “That was . . .” he starts.
“Not done quite yet, mate,” you interrupt with what I can only guess is a smirk of pride. Pulling us back, we land on the edge of the bed, your cock just barely pulling out before my landing thrusts it deeper in than before. A loud groan fills my lungs and into the air as your legs spread mine, giving room for Yusuf to kneel. “Only fair.”
“Please,” I beg, closing my eyes as you bite into my shoulder again. There is only you for that moment, you and your hard cock as it spreads me further apart, threatening to tear me completely. My hands are wrapped over yours, fingers entangled and squeezing from the pleasure. It tightens further at the feeling of Yusuf's mouth teasing the tip of my erection, his tongue swirling around before the first, full taste.
You are certain to move us a little slower, drawing out each as Yusuf does the same. His hands are stroking my inner thighs, practically able to feel your cock as it goes deep into me, grinding against the prostate while his hands massage it. I am yelling before long, unable to contain myself as I come into Yusuf's mouth. You follow shortly, giving us one, last push before.
Yusuf withdraws first, wiping his lower lip with the back of his hand, “Damn.”
“Yeah,” you agree, and I cannot add a third comment, still breathing too hard as you pat my ass to get up. I do, sliding to the side and pull myself onto the bed while you sit up and dispose of the condom.
Yusuf is collecting his clothing as he coughs a, “I should leave you two be.”
“No,” I say before you have a moment to speak. “Stay if you want.”
My eyes open to a different room, Uncle Peter's hotel suite where we spend more nights than usual since my father became ill and more violent. I am undressed, but the smell of sweat and burned flesh is gone, leaving me to wonder if this is all a dream. I reach behind me to the sterile padding and tape, touching it lightly with a shudder. The pain tells me it is not a dream, what happened did, and now I lie complete.
This summons me to kiss him, and he responds, wrapping his arms around me. My body aches, but he fills me with a comfort that the pain does not matter as long as we are together.
Hours after, while I can hear Yusuf snoring, I poke at your side until there is a slight groan, “Robert, what . . . what is it?”
“Eames, I was wondering . . .” I say quietly, biting my lower lip before finishing. “Why are you doing this?”
You groan, “Have we not been through this before?”
“We have, at the airport. You but you didn't give an answer.”
“I did so.”
I press my lips, “Because is not an answer.”
You laugh, loud enough that I have to check to make sure our bed mate is sleeping. Surely enough, he was; apparently, a train could pass considering you. When I turn back, you kiss my forehead and murmur into it, “Because I love you.” I would not believe you if not for that smile and the kiss on my forehead. You roll over, taking my arm with you to wrap around as my anchor, "Now go to sleep."
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Date: 2010-11-22 08:59 pm (UTC)I'm not going to give up on my big bang fic, but I have a buttload of uni work right now, coupled with moving into a new flat, and it's all taking up way more time than it should do. Hopefully next semester I'll be better at managing my time and I'll have more time to myself, too, which will definitely be used for writing!
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Date: 2010-11-23 05:45 pm (UTC)Good luck. I look forward to what bliss follows in your creative pursuit. :)