It was all over. The festivities, the brightness, the shiny - 'I am enjoying myself!' put-on faces of the visitors. Luckily the girls had the boyfriends to escape to and with, but I'd been alone - if you don't count endless numbers of family, their children and their friends, and the ex-wives with their attachments. His face felt as it if was cracked like an earthenware jug... a gaping hole which bled out all the sadness that filled him. He'd smiled his wide bright smile genuinely when the lights had been switched on in such a blether of artificiality before Christmas, but he'd had his love with him. He'd had him most of the time Viggo'd been working on the final touches in the London studios. Now ... it was indeed one day in January. How this one would end, he didn't really want to know. He knew it would be dark, depressing and typical Bean on a bad low.
He wandered round the house, the sitting-room that had seemed so small and crowded over the last few days was as big as the inside of the Tardis... it just went on and on. He seemed to have to walk miles to reach the piano, which had been thumped with carols until he felt it retch. Then there'd been the old favourites ... some slow and some reminding him of what he knew were then hiding the cracks in his break-ups. They had played one tune thinking of another love, and I'd always put on something loud, noisy and irritatingly intrusive, trying to drive 'him' out of her mind, make her aware he, Sean, was her husband. I've always been a bloody jealous sod, but with reason then. Make love to someone and have them dreaming that it was someone else's cock rubbing inside, leaving hot spunk to dribble out? I'd not enjoyed loving them then. It had been more like punishment for them committing adultery against him in their minds. I had, often, physically, but in me mind I didn't stick meself anywhere wrong. They shouldn't be thinking of anyone but me, not when lovemaking with me..
Sean smashed his hand on the top of the piano, making the strings hum inside as if agreeing. He'd never let that go.
He couldn't... it was always there, the cheated feeling, diminishing him somehow. He never felt that with Viggo, however many men or boys or mutual friends Viggo shagged, Sean didn't feel cheated. He revelled in the fact that the Vigs always came back - back to him, to cry on his shoulder, to vent his dislike of the world, to express his dreadful fears about dying before he'd caught all there was in the world and stowed it away in his heart. Vig came to me. But now... in Spain, in Argentina, in a sodding plane? Where? He'd find out when the phone rang, probably in the wee small hours when his head was befuddled with sleep, and his ears couldn't take in that dusky voice with the monosyllablic 'Lo, Bean?' and enjoy the gurgle of sheer happiness that twirled in his gut.
Sean looked at this hands. People talked about his hands for some reason. He couldn't see much different to them except that when he and Vigs held hands, his were longer and Vigs' were wider and harder. Always harder, more callused. He relished them running up his inner legs, then skirting his groin, reaching up and over to his ribs, while the eyes, dark with love and lust watched his, also dark and loving, trying to speak the impossible. He felt his cock twitch as it searched across the distance to speak to Viggo of his passion, of his wanting, of his great aching hole of missing him.
Sean kicked the back of the sofa... pounded the cushions, then suddenly felt guilty. It wasn't the fault of the cushions, or any inanimate thing. It was his stupid self. I need sorting - badly. Badly ... like in ... badly! What if ...? He almost ran out of the lounge and thundered up the stairs. Halfway up his feet stopped. Would it work? If I did 'her' again.. She'd had a long rest now, like when.... Hell. bloody November, after Firework Night, but ...when? Yes. Maybe She'll give me a punishment... He made himself especially ugly when in this mood, and Tracie would glare back at him, with her eyes bright and hating, knowing the blue shadow was far too bright, and too much. The eyelashes would be stuck on badly, making his eyes look slightly off centre. He'd put shine on that sodding great hooter of his, making it larger, heavier, more ugly. There was no way to describe how, in these moods he had, he would scream the lipstick across his face. Tear it wild, so hard that many times he broke the waxy column so that it fell and bounced scarlet all over his dressing table. He'd rub his hands, the palms hard - hard - across his face, smearing the scarlet into the blue and mixing it all with his tears. Then he'd put his trembling hands either side of the mirror, leaving prints like veinous and arterial blood.
I would then look at meself. Pick out all the little blemishes that were showing now. The whiteheads, the enlarged pores, the corners of his mouth that crusted bletchy, and the crease on the left of me mouth a deep scar. It used to show when he gave a sexy smile for the camera, but now it lived there permanently with the downturn of his lips. They were thin now, thin and mean looking. hard and harsh. Not as they became when Viggo had kissed them, kissed them to life and pain. Viggo kissed hard, no kidding. He'd bash his teeth against Sean's mouth drawing blood.... he said he liked the taste, it reminded him of his first time with me, way back. When he'd left that first time, he said after that he'd felt me cum drying on his belly, and he'd tasted the blood from me lips.
Sean moved slowly on up the stairs. His hand sweating slightly. He'd try Tracie, but inside he knew, she wouldn't work, not this time, - he needed something more. Something that truly hurt. Something that punished his body and not his mind because his mind was already full of hurt. He just needed the comfort of being smacked for being in a bad mood. When I were young,me Mam would clip me or get Dad to whack me one or two just because I were being bloodyminded and didn't know why.
The mirror gazed back. Sean's eyes were red-rimmed, contrasting appallingly with the purple and blue shadow. The streaks down his cheeks paled the heavy-brushed blusher into white ribbons. His lower lip was wet, and inclined to protrude with muscle reaction from crying. He picked up the lipstick, pulling off the cover. It was another dead one. He hurled it across the room. How many broken empty sockets did he peer into these times? How many lipsticks had he broken in his self-hating rages? He rattled in the box, looking for one that sounded solid, was whole. Then he threw the box into the corner where the wastebin lay on its side vomiting used cleaning pads.
He stood, pulling off his jeans and underpants in one searing heave. His shoes flew to join the makup-box as he reached into the drawer at the bottom of his tallboy. Where he kept Her Stuff. Tracie's lingerie, Tracie's breasts size DDD, Tracie's frilly lace case that held all her glitter-knickers as Viggo called them. Glitter-knickers. He looked down at his groin, there was nowt there very glittery. Twas all dried up, wrinkled, useless. He reached down and stroked it. Bluddy lifeless. Useless sodding thing. Hadn't even woke up with a wood this morning. Just needed a piss. Sean peered closer, his head curving over his well-padded belly. Getting too sodding old and fuckin' hell. there was a grey hair - two - three! He picked at them and tweaked. He felt the pain, but it was so puny to the pain he really wanted. More like a fuckin' handful of hairs bein' pulled out, and I haven't even got that these days, not that I'd ever been very hairy there. Not like Vigs, who was furred like a glorious rug. Viggo was going grey down by his cock, it'd been a laugh this last time, as the cock denied any hint at all of growing old... it still wept at me like a child with a melting icecream.
His eyes caught sight of the shoes. Five pairs neatly laid out with the bent trees in them, because patent leather cracked so easily. Jimmy Choo shoes. The Prada boots were in their trees in the tall wardrobe with the thigh ones hanging from pegs.
His hand reached down and picked up the first pair... Scarlet. Wickedly high heels that made him walk on his big toes almost. Scarlet high heels. His cock twitched - and again. It was feeling the need as he was. His cock needed more than just a hand beating... it needed its owner to be punished. Tracie's bloated distorted face looked at the shoes. And wished.
The rain had stopped. The storm had been rapid in its passing but ferocious while it had been present. It had cut the electricity to the whole area for over half an hour. His searching on the internet had been unproductive until that very bloody fuckin' moment when the lights went. He'd gone on poking and clicking... searching... Then the lightning had blown the whole bloody caboodle just as I'd sent the word. That word. The one that maybe she'd hear.
But the symbol hadn't appeared to say 'Received and Understood'.... so ...
Sean sat slumped on the sofa -- he'd given up. Life was not bloody worth it, worth sodding nothing... he'd fucking well have to... he looked at the decanter that lay on its side, emptying his single malt onto the pale carpet. Yes, bloody get bloody fuckin' bloody drunk you fuckin' bloody carpet see if I ....
The doorbell rang. Sean fumbled for the release command. He pressed and the side door swung open.
The shoes stood dead centre in the amber puddle in his cream carpet. They shone with an unholy wonderful light.
Sean looked up, and smiled. Then stood, his face smeared blue and scarlet, black lines running unthinking fingers into his wrinkles, and he smiled quietly again as his hands pulled off the sequinned thong, and yanked down the straps from his shoulders, allowing the heavy padded brassiere to thomp gently from the sofa seat to the floor.
He turned his back, bent, and flung the excess cushions away leaving just the flat surface. He'd need to lie prone later.
Then Sean turned back and faced the black leather jacket, which was now open, showing a white painted skin. His eyes worked slowly upwards to look into the face he never saw, and never wished to see.
Eyes of no colour looked back. A pert nose clothed in a velvet mask bore cat's whiskers above the curling scarlet smile. A smile of cruelty, a cat's smile that indicated the cat has just found the cream. Sean knew he wouldn't purr. He would let forth all the hate, the misery, the rejections, the intensity of his self-insufficiency in a continual screaming roar, demanding more pain, more scars, more weals on his back, his arse, his cock bouncing and pouring juices all down his legs.
She would stand with those scarlet shoes apart, unmoving, as he placed himself on the small table that had proved to withstand the mistreatment before. As the whips rose he would see, with his nose almost touching those shoes, the movement of the tendons and small muscles of the feet. He'd watch the change in position of those muscles and then would feel the lacing fall. Then the pain. The good pain. The cutting vicious swipe of blood and skin being abused. He'd watch those feet again, and feel the smack and then the small slide of the tail removing to the side before leaving his ribs.
Twenty times he'd watch those feet, his nose no more than six inches from them. Then the next phase. He would have to kiss those shoes. His lips and tongue would be at their service as his arse rose above the table surface. He would feel the small movements of the feet through his mouth and lips and know when the exquisite slice of a whip-thong weighted with tiny brilliants would lay across his arse-cheeks. Up his cleft, into the top of leg-creases under his cheeks, the tail of the whip reaching somehow into his taint, and tickling his balls that would be hard, tight and full, clenched up to his body with the need for release. It would not be until the last kiss of the brilliants' stinging would he be told to -"Let GO!"
Once his first orgasm had been allowed, he lay still, shaking violently, but not moving voluntarily. The shoes moved from the amber puddle in the carpet. A white imprint of each sole slowly regained the colour of the surrounding stain. Sean watched it while his eyes regained vision and his mind fell back into his skull. "Another new carpet will be needed." A far voice spoke severely.
"Turn!" A quiet voice commanded. It had no accent yet seemed to own to a hint of the exotic. Sean thought of India, heat and spices, but that was wrong. Too heavy, too humid.
He turned over, his bellyskin sticking to the tabletop and squeaking slightly as he lifted himself. He moved to lie the length of the small table, usually used for holding magazines or cups of coffee on trays for polite visitors, not for sweating bodies desiring punishment that was being exquisitely and carefully applied.
He put his arms out in the crucifixion pose. His legs he held together, with his cock and balls lying neatly dead centre.
Sean allowed his head to fall back and his chin to point to his ceiling. He could close his eyes - he would close his eyes when the pain became too delicious to bear, but for now he gazed at the black pubic hair under the white skin inside the black leather coat that he could now scent. Damp leather. She was sweating too.
"Now. Be ready to give your tempers to me. I am from Hell. I am your Release. Give me your Temper, your Rage and scream me Home!"
Sean felt the first of the fine thongs lick first one thigh, then the other. Then the so-slight sound of air displaced as the skin on his underarms was drawn taut with the clip and slash, hard. Hard enough to carve rose lines across, then more - diagonally. His thighs would be attacked again, but scourged harder, with vicious cracking clips raising the same patterns... across, then diagonally. His cock by now was weeping again - it was hard, scarlet and panting.
The air moved, he could smell the sweat-damp leather and gasped it in. Held it. The thin lines silently clasped his cock, held... He screamed, and the lines rippled loose. His cock would bear deep purple lines across.... The air moved again, and the lines were raised diagonally.
Now. his punishment was real. He could scream, as he had been doing for the last ten minutes, at the top of his lungpower. His voicebox was cracking under the strain. He wanted the last punishments... he needed them to allow him to continue living a normal life.
Sean screamed - a high, almost silent voice crying to the emptiness of his space. The lines on his arms were now horizontal, also on his thighs, and his whole being exploded into nothingness as the fine filaments pulled his soul vertically up and through his penis.
~~~~~~~~~~~
Viggo phoned late the next day. "How's the Bean today?" Sean revelled in the soft voice. He purred inside.
"Bloody great, man. Bloody great - had a bit of the post-Christmas blues, but that got worked off. How's yourself? Where're yer at? "
Life began to roll in its usual way. Viggo phoned, Viggo loved him, and sod the stupid feelings of self-disgust... he'd had his discipline, and Tracie would have to go shopping again for her makeup. She badly needed lipsticks. Maybe one of the girls would help... Sean was back on an even keel again.
Summary: The Post Christmas blues.....
Rated: NC-17
Categories: Actor RPS Pairing: Sean/Viggo
Warnings: NoneChallenges:
Series: NoneChapters: 1 Completed: Yes
Word count: 2783 Read: 430
Published: 30 Jan 2013 Updated: 30 Jan 2013