forthedog | Gentle impulsion

Entry tags:

hobbes,
pr0n

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.

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He drops the belt. He lets it go; it just slides off his wrist and hits the floor. It's the easiest thing. What's coming close to frightening him about all of this is how eerily easy it is.

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.

"Jesus."

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.

He smiles again. He can't help it. He can feel what Tom's body is asking for, begging for, like he's said it aloud. Maybe he doesn't need to train him to like any of this. Maybe it's all already there.

His lips trail teasingly down and over Tom's tailbone, and as his tongue flicks out and tastes sweat his thumbs scrape down over angry red flesh, wanting to make it rawer, angrier.

Pleasure and pain. First separately. Now together.

It doesn't feel good, not really. It burns and it aches and it's not pure, not even close. It's...dirty and wrong and he's lost in it. There's really no coming back from it now.

"Please...." he whimpered without meaning to, pressing back against Mike's mouth, spreading his legs.

"What did I tell you?" His fingers tighten; maybe it's unfair, because he hadn't done anything about it a few seconds ago. But if he wants to be arbitrary about this he supposes that Hobbes will just have to take it.

Or end it. Somehow he doesn't think that's likely, though.

"Shut up," he growls, and when the palm of his hand connects with Tom's ass it's carefully aimed, slapping the stripes that his belt has left. It's different than a whipping; that had been for his own pleasure and this is about discipline.

But that doesn't mean he doesn't enjoy it too.

"...fuck," Tom whimpered, eyes watering, his lashes getting damp with what he couldn't hold back. After a horrible, shaking moment, he lowered his head, bottom lip caught firmly in his teeth and braced him self, waiting. Trying to anticipate Mike and falling far short.

Just the one slap, more a warning than anything else, and then he waits with his lips inches from Tom's skin and his hand on his ass, waiting until he feels it slip loose. Until he feels him give over.

He doesn't think he'll have any more trouble.

He's made his point. No sense in dragging it out even further. He spreads Tom's cheeks apart, leans in and gives him a long, tortuously slow lick.

He really shouldn't enjoy this as much as he does.

He doesn't make a sound, but his breath feels heavy in his mouth, like it's the loudest thing in the world, even if he can hear the candle crackle and the sound as Mike's mouth contacts skin. His whole body aches, his shoulders, his ass, his back from the way he's bent over...

But it doesn't matter. Not when it feels like this...

He pushed his hips back hopefully, eyes completly closed.

The first lick is long and hard and treading the edge of aggressive, hard like his hands have been, hard like his cock is, though somehow throughout all this his head has risen above that, and while he feels the lust in a physical way it's distant, contained.

But now with his tongue turning rapid little spirals around the almost delicate pucker of Tom's asshole the physical rushes back in with a roar and he groans thickly, feeling the heat pouring through his veins like a dam's been broken. He wants. He wants to take this body in a way that's not detached touches and blows.

But not yet. He's not finished.

It's almost too much. It's hard to wrap his mind around. His dick is heavy and hard, despite the pain, despite the coolness. He hasn't ever considered Underneath that was another level, and that was trust and the sense of being totally utterly cherished.

First, though, you needed the trust. Hobbes bent further over and pressed his hips back, not making any noises but begging with every inch of his skin.

He makes a sound that's closer to a muffled growl than a groan. He presses in with his tongue. One hand drops from Tom's hip and reaches between his spread legs, cupping his balls and weighing them briefly before moving on to stroke clumsily at his dick. Not enough to let him come. Enough, he hopes, to make the pleasure overtake everything else.

He's about to be cruel, he thinks. Maybe very much so.

"You like this?" he gasps, pulling back and licking his swollen lips as his hand gropes and jerks. "Tell me. Tell me, you little bitch."

There's a heavy, breaking break that pours out of him when Mike's hand slides over his dick, jerking him. It's something, god, it's something that he needs. For the moment, it's just enough.

He sobs quietly, choking on it. But he does manage to nod.

He nods, even though Hobbes can't see him. He's satisfied.

At least one of them should be.

It's too easy to get lost in just looking at this. The candles turn everything warm gold. Tom's back curves in a graceful line when he arches, the muscles of his shoulders standing out in abnormally sharp relief. He's seen him from this angle so many times now.

The first time he'd looked like fucking marble. Perfect. Pristine.

He'd taken care of that, hadn't he?

"Get up." His hand slips away from Tom's cock and lands hard on his ass again. "On your knees. Don't make me tell you twice."

He feels the look, through everything else, the pain, the pleasure, the shame that's not quite shame. He feels that look, and knows that he's submitting, letting this wash over him, but it's still him that's in control. He couldn't stop it when ever he wanted.

Which he doesn't, not even now, scrambling down onto his knees, so hard he's aching, so naked that he's forgotten how to blush. He closes his eyes and opens them, looking up at Mike, still fully clothed, perfect. Cold now, but he knew the other side enough to keep any fears locked firmly away.

He steps back to give him room and stares down. Tom's cock is jutting up between his thighs, first time he's really seen it properly, it feels like, hard and glistening and darkly flushed. He's glad he's tied Tom's hands. It prevents him from doing certain things to himself.

But like this he can also see his face, and the look on it, the pleading, the sheer, achingly open trust... It brings all the gentleness back. He reaches out with one hand and slowly combs his fingers through hair that's damp with sweat. With the other hand he fumbles the button of his jeans open and starts to pull his zipper down.

"God, I love your mouth," he breathes, smudging his thumb against swollen lips.

For a second, a split second, all Hobbes wants to do is press his face into Mike's thigh and stay there, cheek pressed against his skin and totally at ease. For a moment, only, because then the pad of Mike's fingers are against his lips and it's all Hobbes can do to suck them into his mouth, lips and tongue ghosting over Mike's knuckles. He doesn't say anything, but he's watching Mike's face as he sucks his fingers, feeling dirty, used. Incredible.

He's not entirely surprised by the wet curl of Hobbes's lips around his fingers, but he's not completely expecting it, either, and his inhales lightly as it happens. Softness of lips and tongue and the blunted points of his teeth. He moves like he's exploring Tom's mouth, care and a kind of awe behind the coolness, rapidly dissolving through.

He still can't really believe this.

"Christ," he whispers, sounding nothing but reverent.

Hobbes can only stare up and him as he flicks and whorls his tongue slowly, like Mike showed him, like Mike had done to him. He moved his head forward, still sucking slowly, staring up at Pinocchio and watching his face, in awe of what he could do to him.

It's like his fingers themselves are erogenous zones, as Tom's tongue moves over them, and he keeps them there until it's too much, the fingers of his other hand inside his fly and lying against hot, hard flesh.

He doesn't ask permission. He pulls his fingers away, tugs his cock free of his pants, gently pull's Tom's head forward with a hand at the back of his skull.

He doesn't give any instruction. Tom should know what he wants.

Tom knows. This, at least, is something he's done before and enjoyed doing. But he hasn't even been bound like this, helpless like this, and when he feels Mike's dick against his lips he opens his mouth and closes his eyes, tension seeping out from between his shoulders.

He moans at the familiar heat and weight and taste, moving his tongue in slow sweeps along the bottom of his dick. He takes a moment to enjoy the moment, opening his eyes to see the reaction on Mike's face.

Feeling it makes him realize how much, how fucking much he's wanted it. He keeps one hand against the back of Tom's skull and drops his own head back, eyes fluttering half-closed as a groan works its way up his throat. It's good. It always is, has been since the beginning, even when Tom was new at it and a little clumsy, but so goddamn eager.

Tom's taking a moment and he lets him take it, feeling the heat surge up under his ribcage as he holds him there, gentle and deeply firm.

"Yeah," he breathes, a little strained. "Fuck, that's it."

Tom grins like he's proud of himself, like he knows, and sets to work, bobbing his head slowly, sucking, trying to keep his balance without his arms. he wanted to pull back and say things, like "I love you," and "I love this," but that was off the playbook. Thrown out the window with the rest of the rules.

Leaning forward, he almost choked, trying to take him too deep, too far. Still regaining his balance, his eyes watered slightly and he looked up at Mike as if in apology, resuming his earlier rhythm.

He catches the deeper slide, feels himself hit the back of Hobbes's throat, hears the hitch in his breath, the soft sound close to a gag. When he looks down he catches Hobbes's eyes, sees the tears welling there. The apologetic look.

It doesn't belong there. That's exactly what he'd wanted. When Hobbes slips back into the shallower rhythm Mike's hand tightens on the back of his head and pushes him deeper, forcing him into the new pattern.

"Take it," he says, close to a growl. "I know you can."

Hobbes isn't sure he can. He's almost sure he knows he can't. But maybe it's not what he thinks he can do...maybe that was the whole point. You won't go as far as you can without someone pushing, just like there's only so far you'll go in the dark when you're alone.

So Hobbes trusts Mike's possibly misplaced confidence, and took him, still gaggging, but slowly, slowly getting used to it. Adapting. He'd spent most of his life being told what to do by large men, drill sergeants, who'd screamed at him and pushed him and took joy in torturing him, but they'd never looked down at him with a look like the one Mike's giving him now.

He doesn't force him to go fast. He sets the depth, but he lets Tom set the pace, letting him take the time he needs to get used to it. At some point he might want to make him gag, make his eyes stream tears, humiliate him like that. But he's starting light, now, and they aren't quite there yet.

"Good," he murmurs, his head falling loosely back again, and with the pleasure he feels that deeper rush of pride. In Hobbes. In what he can do. It, and everything else, pushes him closer, until it's all he can do to keep his hips still, and he's pulling in shallow breath through his parted lips.

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