Gentle impulsion
It's been a long time since he's done this. In some sense he's never done this.
He's had Eostre bound, blindfolded. He's been bound by her in his turn. And there had been the afternoon in her hut, with the belt, with Tom on his knees. And long before that there had been other times, times with a lot less warmth and a lot more disconnect. They hadn't been bad, not really, but they hadn't been close to this.
Or to what he imagines this could be.
It's close to half an hour since he'd left Tom in the compound. He's sitting on his bed, facing the door and waiting. Next to him is a coil of rope, his belt, his hunting knife. He's not sure what he'll use. Maybe he'll use none of it, this time. But he wants Tom to see them, as best he can in the flickering light of the two candles burning in saucers on the makeshift table beside the bed. If he doesn't use them, he wants Tom to be aware that he can. Anytime.
He realizes that it's a lot, that they haven't done much in this vein since the first baby steps that one afternoon weeks ago, that Tom might simply turn and leave if it's too much.
It's a risk he's willing to take, now. He curls his hands into loose fists and waits.
He's had Eostre bound, blindfolded. He's been bound by her in his turn. And there had been the afternoon in her hut, with the belt, with Tom on his knees. And long before that there had been other times, times with a lot less warmth and a lot more disconnect. They hadn't been bad, not really, but they hadn't been close to this.
Or to what he imagines this could be.
It's close to half an hour since he'd left Tom in the compound. He's sitting on his bed, facing the door and waiting. Next to him is a coil of rope, his belt, his hunting knife. He's not sure what he'll use. Maybe he'll use none of it, this time. But he wants Tom to see them, as best he can in the flickering light of the two candles burning in saucers on the makeshift table beside the bed. If he doesn't use them, he wants Tom to be aware that he can. Anytime.
He realizes that it's a lot, that they haven't done much in this vein since the first baby steps that one afternoon weeks ago, that Tom might simply turn and leave if it's too much.
It's a risk he's willing to take, now. He curls his hands into loose fists and waits.
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He bit his bottom lip hard.
"Jesus, Pinocchio. Like that..."
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He holds on long enough to make his point, his other hand curling around Tom's bound wrists and holding him close, and then, almost at the point where he thinks it might be getting close to too much, he releases him, slides his hand up and over the smooth, hot skin of his cock, stroking every bit as lightly as he'd been rough.
"Right now," he whispers, "what you want doesn't matter. Get it?"
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But then, he steeled himself and drew a breath and...it was done, Mike's hand was gentle as it traced up his dick. He nodded shakily.
He didn't even try to speak.
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But maybe he's having trouble holding onto that.
"Good," he says, soft again. Tom's dick is hot in his palm, twitching slightly when he strokes it all the way down to the root, the tip leaking a slick trail onto his wrist. He wants, so suddenly and so violently that it almost makes him gasp, to go down on his knees, take it in his mouth, taste.
So he kisses Tom to make it stop. It seems like the thing to do.
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So he leans into the kiss while he has it, and makes a low, needy sound.
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Perfect.
Slowly he moves back, gaze falling over the lines of Tom's body, up and down. It's easier to see with him this close. He's looking at him like he's never seen him before, like this is new. "You're so beautiful," he whispers, reaching up and slowly tracing Tom's collarbone with his fingers.
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The way that Mike is looking at him goes through him, down to his atoms, pulling shallow breaths and a single muttered fuck out of him.
"You are," he said quietly, in reply, leaning into the fingers on his chest.
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He's not as afraid.
The hand at Tom's collarbone finger-walks up to his throat, curls around the back of his neck and as Mike steps away and to the side he pushes down, not quite pressing Hobbes onto his knees but bending him, instead.
"Bend over the bed," he murmurs. "Legs straight. I know it's hard to hold yourself up with your hands like that. Do your best."
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He curls his fingers in the sheets and opens his eyes, looking back at Mike warily, evaluating. Looking at the way that Mike was looking at him.
No. It didn't matter. And it probably hadn't for a very long time.
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He stands there with Hobbes bent over in front of him and he just looks, not meeting Hobbes's eyes. Not acknowledging him.
When his hands finally start to move they're unhurried and businesslike, sliding down the lines of back and hips, gripping Tom's ass firmly, slipping between his thighs to cup hard cock and heavy balls before moving on to his chest and shoulders.
It's like he's examining. Like Hobbes is livestock that he's considering buying. But the touch itself is a form of ownership.
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It's not as if it's a burden to endure, and even if the touches don't feel like sex, he skin sops up the contact and the heat, and he presses back into Mike without thinking about it, a noise pressing past his lips.
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Time to move it along a little, maybe.
"This is gonna hurt," he says quietly, his hands soothing on Tom's back. "I'm warning you because it's the first time. I won't always do that." If there is another time. Another chance for him to warn, or not, as he wishes. Because if there's a point at which it'll be too much...
He reaches over to the table and picks up the belt.
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He didn't say anything else. He just ducked his head and braced his arms, eyes a little wide and a little wild.
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Somehow it seems fitting that he'd use it for this. He slides the end through the buckle, loops it around his wrist and curls his fingers around the strap.
Start light. For the love of God.
"Remember your word," he says, and the belt swings almost gently across the back of Tom's upper thighs, barely a slap.
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Domini. "I...I remember," he panted, pushing back his hips in anticipation.
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When he stops to think about it he still doesn't know why he likes this, why causing pain to someone he loves is this overwhelmingly satisfying. But it is, and he does, swinging the strap lazily through the air. When he sees Tom's hips twitch, his breath catches.
Beautiful.
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"I..." he breathed between strikes, the skin already hot, flushed. There's something undeniable about letting go like this, letting the pain mean something than just hurt, letting it hurt so that he didn't have to think. He didn't have to anything except what Mike said.
"I...Mike, I just..."
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God, it's been so long since he's done this. It's all he can do to hold it back.
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The stinging slap isn't pain as he's known it...but it's deliberate. It's even. It just makes him want to give in....surrender.
When the next blow lands, he gasps, but nothing else.
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He licks his lips. He wants to leave marks. Marks are sort of the point of this, really.
He's breathing harder, swinging harder, still holding onto his control but it's going to have to stop soon. Part of him is still worried. An even deeper part of him is sleeping. And he has no desire to wake it.
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It just pushes out of him, like something that had been contained for a long time and fighting, and he shouts, eyes screwed tightly shut.
He trusts Mike implicitly, but that doesn't mean that he has any idea what happens now. Shaking a little, Tom drew a sharp, shallow breath.
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It's freely endured. Freely given.
He stops then, standing and staring at the welts rising on Tom's buttocks and thighs, the belt held limp in his hand and his breath very loud in his ears. "All right," he whispers. "Enough, now."
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"kay," he breathed, just on the edge of hearing, shoulders burning, the welts throbbing, looking back over his shoulder at Mike with his eyes huge and waiting.
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He steps forward, bends so he's not blocking the light with his body, and his hands settle high on Tom's hips, carefully avoiding any welts. For the second time tonight he's examining, but this is less detached and far more intent, and under the coolness is something like worship.
Slowly he leans in and traces a welt with his lips. Not a kiss. Nothing that hard. Just a ghost of contact.
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The word comes out of him broken, astonished. Mike has done this to him, but no one else has. It's still new, unfamiliar, and his skin hasn't ever felt like this before, scalding hot under Mike's lips, the promise of his mouth...
He made a pleading noise, spreading his legs farther, tilting his hips, trying to look over his shoulder at Mike, at what he would look like, kneeling there.
Beautiful. Of course. It always would be beautiful.
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