It was there, in the corner. The corner of the darkened lumber room where things hid. It kept crawling into his head, and leering. Like a spotlit dream it shone bright and alluring.
He moved the hoover over the floor automatically, pushing the legs of the coffee table away to find the broken potato chips beneath. The glasses needed to be washed up. There was too much to go into the washing machine, and the bloody thing kept making such a racket - it reminded him of last night. He'd wash up quietly by hand, swiping the cloth round the edges of each glass as if he were touching the lips wi... touching the petals of a damned dandelion. There was lipstick on several, some marks were in pink, some scarlet, plum, and one in black? Ah, the Goth that came with the producer. She had so many studs on her she tinkled as she walked. Her tits would be down by her knees before long with the weight of all them chains she were rattling around - as if we were interested?
He pushed hard at the armchair. Lifted it with one hand then shoved the face of the hoover into the far underside. Clatter clatter. Sodding earrings... Oh - no. A key? Very small and shiny. A suitcase key? They don't come in silver - or platinum - with a diamond inset? This was some key. Hoho, a chastity belt on someone, and a surreptitious palming of the key which failed. That'd have been on that 'woman's' friend. The shrill voiced woman with the outstanding Adam's Apple beneath the diamante. He noticed a lot more about the people he entertained nowadays: before he'd just accepted their quirks. Now, since he had found out so much within himself, he found himself drawn more and more into the subterranean world of their fantasies.
Shoving the chair back to its rightful place, he put the key into the bowl that already held two different earrings and a large stone from a bracelet; on the floor outside the bedroom he'd trodden on the neckchain, the clasp burst asunder. It had probably left blood on the neck it had been torn from. He lifted the chain again, looking at the pendant. A shark's tooth set in gold. Not a shark's tooth, a human tooth ... a long incisor. He shivered and dropped the chain clinking onto its tooth into the bowl.
He stood up, kicking the hoover into silence unthinkingly with the side of his foot. Looking around the room, it looked better - more 'respectable' like, more ... less frantic, wild, - uncivilised than it had last night. He'd hardly recognised his own sitting room. It had been smoke-filled, not with the plain tartness of tobacco, but with the heady fogginess of the hash. Someone had been handing out large helpings of a good quality weed, as well as the white powders. Roman orgies were a damned sight more churchlike if the scenes on films were anything to go by. This had been just a plain old fashioned Hampstead orgy in big letters.
Now it was after four in the afternoon, and he still had those glasses to do. The windows could be shut now to keep out the noise of the growing traffic and the potentially gusty wet wind bringing rain later. He clunked the windows to, and raised the spray can ... the scent of tossed flowers hit all the corners of the room, pouncing on the hidden fragments of dark weeds lurking behind the large picture 'Another Spring'. All blues and a smash of tomato in the top left corner... and the branch of the White Tree insinuated in the almost centre.
The thing lurking in the lumber room sang to him. 'I am here, here...' The song of the sirens his Ulysses hadn't been in the right place to hear. But this siren lay where she'd been tossed in a frenzy of rejection this day. But still she sang.
He turned on the hot water, held his hands beneath. It scalded his wrists, his soft underarms until he had to pull away with a grunt. The detergent liquid dripped like - like - his cum when he'd been .... It dripped, oozing slowly from the nozzle again, and slowly smearing over his thumb. His hand clenched hard, screwing the pain and the detergent into soap bubbles between his creased palm. His voice complained deep in his chest. Because of the nails of his hand digging into his own flesh or remembrance of how it had sung earlier this morning? His throat was sore, and still it wanted to sing.
Reaching for the glasses, he laid them carefully into the soapy water, counting how many would fill the bowl. He stopped counting when he reached ten. The bowl would take two more, but it upstairs had ten, with little beads on the ends. His skin pierced with sweat, prickling in the roots of his short thinning hair.
Turning the radio on to a rowdy pop music channel, he dunked his hands into the foamy water. The glasses emerged dripping fluffy scarves of soap bubbles down their sides like slinky hands removing underwear. He'd taken his off like that, last night. His hands with the scarlet nails had slid the blue lace over his erection so carefully - he didn't like his cock to bob. He liked it to jut out, daring the mouth to come closer, or the watching eyes to darken into wanton blackness.
Ten glasses stood upside down on the cloth, their sticky necklaces of bubbles drying into memories of light. Ten fingers clutched whitely at the rim of the sink, the heels of the hands pressing down until he could feel the stainless steel succumb. His head drooped, the pulse in his neck pounding with restrained screaming.
She sang, soft singing in the skies of wanting.
'He' would be round again next week, but it was wanted now. NOW! When his whole body needed to feel the passion of the glancing beads as they curled round his hips before they bit.
It had been a night of temptation, resistance and then the submission. Most of the partygoers had left the house in various states of drunkenness, hilarity, and dishevelled clothing finding their ways to other empty rooms in empty houses. The two of them had remained behind as they had often done before. He'd been with this man before, when they'd met at the club that catered for big men wearing wigs, their faces gleaming in colours. This one seemed to understand his own need to wear clothing that he was not designed to wear. His feet were too big for satiny slippers with the six-inch heels, and he'd always had to cut the toes out of the stockings, varnishing the ends to stop them laddering all the way up his long shapely legs. This man who came to his parties was just one of many faces that came and went without much notice. One of a crowd. But his eyes would glance around the room, assessing, calculating ... he was very businesslike.
It was more of an 'arrangement' he had with the party-giver. It had been paid for the first time, but then it became 'on account', or hidden behind a fictitious company heading. The amounts grew almost exponentially. First, once a month perhaps. Then twice, then more often, a telephone call, with just breathing and the odd catch of a voice. The recipient of the call knew what was required.
Looking out of the window over the drying glasses, the song began sobbing in his head. It was too much - it had to stop! The trees outside became blurred with the inside eyes remembering.
His mind accepted what had happened in the the early hours of the morning. He was aware of his shame. Not that it was shameful any more. It was almost natural amongst this circle of friends; they felt no shame or discomfort at the games they played with anklets and collars, so why should he now? He didn't. He just knew it was so pleasurable, so demanding, so ... releasing.
The first unreeling of his glittering belt, then the slow slide down of the side-zip in his skirt. 'His' eyes would be watching the long bright fingernails, assessing their action. 'He' would be resting his tall thin length against the dresser, or the wardrobe, his hands lying loose down his sides. He had straight black hair, drawn close to a shapely oval head, with dark brows flatly level over large navy blue eyes. His mouth would curl eventually, but rested normally in a straight smooth line above a rounded, almost soft chin. A very forgettable person; one who could almost be mistaken for an accountant, or a clerk.
When the skirt had fallen to the floor, it had to be picked up by his bending over, turning his arse in a semi-circle, to bend and reach, to stretch the cheeks wider either side of the black thong. Then the straightening, the re-turn to face the unspoken orders. Oh, he knew what he had to do... he'd learnt it slowly over the months now.
His hands would tremble very slightly as he pulled off the net brassiere, revealing his already erect nipples to the air. Then, like the soapsuds on the glasses, he'd slide his hands to his hips, running them down his body from over his breasts to his hips, to hitch red-nailed thumbs into the lacy top. He'd widen his legs a little, his feet not feeling the toes any more from the pressure in the heeled slippers. When his cock had forced the darkened gaze to it, the knickers were pulled aside, the quick fasteners clicking slightly as they parted.
Then he had wanted to fall to his knees and start begging. He knew it would be a while yet before he could enjoy, could wait, breathless, viciously spiking with wanting.
Last night was the same, as always. It needed no variation because by then he wasn't able to think coherently. He was just one huge begging, slavering need.
He'd turned to the bed, already prepared for the action. Not that it took a great deal, just a towel over the one pillow on the bed edge, swiftly done without fuss. His pale nylon hair had fallen softly curling, tossing on his back, gently tickling, moving with his breathing, in - out - in - controlled for now. Standing before the bed, he'd waited.
His hands had been taken, one at a time, and his wrists folded into padded restraints behind him. A blindfold of dark velvet fondled over his forehead and had slipped sleepily on to his eyes.
A pressure on his spine between his shoulder blades which itched from the constriction of his brassiere straps had pushed him to bend very slightly forward over the pillow. He was not allowed to place his cock upon the towel. He had to stay clear of all contact ... or the joys, the ecstasies would cease.
A silent pause that hung in the air like iron. He'd tasted it on his lips, but then found he had bitten his mouth inside with the tension.
Behind him there'd been the usual rustle of clothing being removed, a body nearing... He could almost feel where it was from the heat emanating, his body's own heat seeking the missile, drawing it to him, to injure, to destroy....
It was so immediate, the recollection - he was again standing, reliving - he was...
bent over, the sweat beginning to run from his armpits down his underarms against his ribs. His engorged penis purpley twitching with his pulse beats seeking contact, but fruitlessly. His throat tightens and he moans so softly. Her song. He was singing to her. A float of air, a suggestion of movement and then ... his voice changes to a plea, a greeting, and ... then it comes. The slow dragging of the beads from one shoulder to the other, then down, down his spine to tumble the beads across his sacrum. His whole backside lifts, pushing up in welcome. The beads withdraw. Then find themselves again on his arms. Tinkling slightly as they slide, coldly, warmly down to the wrist, dancing on the splayed reaching palm. Silence. Again on the left side. His skin reaches for the beads, anticipating their small stinging touch....
He never knew where the beads would go next. Last night, when his stockings were allowed to descend, and were pulled from his feet by unseen fingers, his scarlet shoes replaced, he had taken the beads down his thighs, as he held his legs out, alternately one, then the other, to stretch high behind him. His hands clenched together in the manacles behind his lower ribs with the effort of lifting one leg high, high behind, like a ballet dancer. He'd tottered slightly but had felt for the bed edge with his standing knee, and pushed his leg up and back with the muscle in his shining bumcheek hardening, flexing. The sweat on his face was like the beads that had run laughing down his leg, causing his voice to keen low and high. The pain was tingling bright down his thigh, the back of his knee and then the calf, oh, his calf screamed for more.
When outside the faint sound of the ambulance or police car whined away into the nothingness, the first cry had escaped. The beads had bitten hard into his ribs. They felt as if they had drawn blood, but he knew they would leave not a mark. His head had jerked up and back. His back had straightened now, taut as a bowstring. Then the choked back call for more. Again. the ribs took the joy. His arse had raised, lifted itself higher somehow, and the height of the shoe-heels helped, pushing the muscles towards their want. The beads had fallen again, lower, harder. Again, harder, stinging with little needles into his bellyskin as the thongs wrapped round his hips. He'd sung mutely loud songs inside himself as the feeling rose swelling higher, brighter, until it sparkled in sunlight.
The beads had flicked quickly, Flick-click flick-click, left-right, right-left, with each tiny knot sending its own touch of glass into his brain.
He was singing loudly now, his body bent forward, then straight, then bent ... his backside pushing harder and harder out, up, into.... The neck tendons stood hard proud, his adam's apple was hitched almost into his mouth as he sang, sang his screaming song. The lampshade on the nightstand flickers, the vibration buzzing in the metal frame. No one notices; the song is faltering, breath failing to reach the lungs, the abdomen tightened, refusing the ribs room to pull in air.
Still the beads danced. The skin was by now deep pink, slightly striated where the bodies of the thongs had bitten, The singer had staggered, his voice deep, rough, harsh with gasping for air. He was ready, he was begging in his singing, A-h-h-h A-h-h-h-h. Higher and higher - the last scream tore his throat into splinters as he spent himself across the space between his vomiting thrusting cock to the waiting towel.
When the door closed, it did so unheard. The singer lay crumpled into the floor, his face pressed on to the toe of a scarlet high-heeled shoe, his hands limply open, one holding a laddered silver stocking.
~~~~
He'd woken a while later, and fumbling himself on to the bed, clawing up the covers, had slept exhausted. The whole singing lesson had taken three hours.
Now he was clearing up the evidence. Now he was trying to hide his need beneath normality. He had to keep the siren quiet for a while, but there was barely enough whisky left to do that.
He sat on the couch, waiting for the strength to not give in. Not to go upstairs and search in the corner of the lumber room. He would sometime, but not tonight. Not tonight... tonight he'd just smooth the special cream on to his backside, his tender skin, and lie face down in his empty bed, wishing he could have him back.
Not 'him' - not 'that one' - but the other one. The other one he wanted so much, and who the world took away from him far, far too often. To stop this loss, this pain, he substituted another, which hurt more afterward as he remembered his shame.
Summary: There had been last night....
Rated: NC-17
Categories: Actor RPS Pairing: Sean/Viggo
Warnings: BDSMChallenges:
Series: NoneChapters: 1 Completed: Yes
Word count: 2768 Read: 497
Published: 23 Aug 2012 Updated: 23 Aug 2012