New Fic: Actualization - Chris/Lance
Feb. 27th, 2003 12:27 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mickeymActualization. Chris/Lance. NC17. Warning: Contains hardcore bdsm. It's done tastefully, but there it is. Don't read if it upsets you or squicks you. And if you do read it, knowing it'll bother, don't come whining to me about it.
Notes: This is actually part of the backstory for the "Belonging" universe![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
jchalo and I have created -- the Chris/JC/Lance world. We've been wondering for a while -- and talking about -- what would've been the impetus in getting the three of them together. What was involved. Who started what. There'll be more coming; as halo pointed out, we kind of do everything bass-ackwards, so it fits that I write the Chris/Lance part before we write the Chris-and-JC-talk part *g*
On to the story :)
Chris stares at the doorbell then back at his watch. 4:59:37p.m.. Almost time. Almost time. He's resisting the urge to bounce on the balls of his feet, doesn't want to give in to the nerves thrumming wildly within him. His stomach is twisted into a coiled, hot knot. He can't quite believe he's here, that this is coming—to fruition.
4:59:47p.m.
He wishes JC were here, then shudders at the dual feelings of guilt and need that ripple through him. JC wouldn't want to be here. Or see this. He doesn't want JC to see this.
4:59:53p.m.
He inhales and exhales slowly, then raises his hand to ring the bell.
~~~~~
"You're punctual. That's good." Lance smiles when he opens the door, but it's not the usual smile, and Chris doesn't jump forward and noogie his head, or yell 'Bass!' and pounce on him. He stands there, instead, looking—seeing someone very different than the man he thought he'd known for so long. He doesn't appear particularly different; he's dressed in jeans and a loose, soft-looking shirt, with bare feet, but power seems to radiate off him. His eyes are darker, more focused than Chris has ever seen. "Come in."
"I'm nervous," he says quietly, because it needs to be said, then steps into the cool foyer. Lance closes the door behind him and touches his shoulder, indicating the stairs just beyond, and Chris tries not to shiver.
"I'd be honestly surprised if you weren't." Lance steps past him and precedes him up the stairs, stopping in front of one of his guest bedrooms. "You can put your bag in there. Get changed into something comfortable – shorts or sweats, I don't care which – and meet me at the door at the end of the hall in five minutes."
And that's that. Chris swallows and nods, his "Yes, Sir," barely audible, but apparently satisfactory, because Lance touches his face then disappears into what Chris knows is his bedroom.
~~~~~
He's standing in front of the door four minutes later, loose sweat shorts doing nothing to keep him from feeling exposed, vulnerable, uncertain. The taste of toothpaste in his mouth makes his stomach roll again, but it was necessary to brush after he threw up, and Chris realizes he can't do this if he's going to be this nervous. He's letting it cripple him, and that's not good. He wants this…almost desperately…and maybe that's the problem. Well, that's at least part of the problem, anyway.
I can do this. I need to do this. I want to do this. JC said it's okay. He—it's okay. I'm going to be okay.
Chris closes his eyes and breathes in slowly, exhales slowly. Concentrates on holding each inhalation while he counts to ten before letting it out. He's breathing easier when hands settle on his shoulders, Lance's touch light, non-intrusive, almost comforting. He breathes in and out again, not losing his count, then opens his eyes and meets Lance's gaze.
"You okay?"
Chris nods. "Nervous as fuck, but—yes. Sir. I mean—"
Lance smiles, a quick quirk of his lips. "It'll take some time to get comfortable, Chris. Re-accustomed. I don't expect you to just fall back into it in the first ten minutes."
"Thank god," he breathes, a little of the tension leaving him. Lance snorts, then inclines his head toward the door.
"Let's go. In the future, I'll want you over half an hour early to prep the room beforehand, but for today, for this time, I have everything ready."
"Room?" Chris hangs back while Lance opens the door, and he's surprised to see a flight of stairs. Attic? It'd never occurred to him the house might have more than the attic crawlspace his house had. It'd never occurred to him to care what rooms Lance had in his house, beyond kitchen, living room, home theatre and bathroom.
"Florida kind of lacks in basements," Lance drawls softly, flicking the light on easily as he passes it. Chris follows obediently, not needing to be told. "And even if I had a basement, I'm not really a dungeon sort of guy. I like open space, and light, things like that."
It really is a beautiful room, Chris decides, standing on the landing and looking around. Definitely open, definitely light – though without lamps it will be dark once night falls. There are small – long and narrow – windows ringing the top of the room. Plenty to let light in, but pretty much assuring no one can see in. Two skylights sit inset to the ceiling on either end, where the roof peaks, letting additional light in. The floor gleams golden, polished hardwood on one end, and carpet on the other, a deep, dark green, almost black in color. A large, wooden chest-of-drawers…no, an…armoire, sits at one end, in the corner. Chris wonders idly what's in there. Rings are set into the walls at various intervals, and at varying heights. There's a tall post near the center of the room, with hooks set into the top. A long table rests against one wall, and Chris suspects it has hooks or fasteners at the ends, as well. At the end near where he stands are two soft-looking leather couches and an ottoman, and an occasional table. Beside the nearest couch is a beautiful wicker basket holding—he sucks his breath in. Canes. It holds canes.
He can almost feel the rattan against his skin and rolls his shoulders once, nerves settling a little more.
"There's a half-bath, too," Lance says quietly. He's been so quiet while Chris looks around he's almost forgotten he's there. "The door at the far end."
"It's beautiful," he says softly. "What's, um. In there?" He points toward the armoire, stomach flipping over when Lance smiles – a soft, dangerous smile. Something he's never seen from Lance before.
"C'mere and look," Lance says. His voice is pitched low, probably meant to be soothing – maybe? – but it sends a streak of anticipation through Chris, makes him shiver. For the first time since he left home, he's actually feeling this. Feeling good.
Both doors on the armoire open up, and Lance steps back so Chris can see. He sucks a breath in, feels it catch in his chest at the collection of whips, floggers, crops, cats. Cuffs – leather and metal, padded and not – hang on hooks inside the doors. There's an assortment of leather somethings – "blindfolds," Lance says softly. Chris shivers again; his skin feels tight and hot now, ripples moving across it.
"The drawers?" Chris asks, after he's looked closely at the implements in the chest portion. He reaches out to open one and freezes when Lance touches his hand, gives him a short, negative headshake.
"No. The things in there don't concern you."
"But—" He bites his lip, tension flaring in his stomach again. I suck at this, he thinks, watching Lance. Looking for clues. Hints. I suck at the whole sub thing. I need—god. Help me out here, Lance. This wasn't going to work. Couldn't. Could it?
"No." Lance gestures with his head toward a bench Chris missed on his perusal of the room. "You're not here for sex, Chris."
Oh. Oh! And yes, he feels like an idiot now. But—he hates mysteries. Hates the unknown. And is thankful Lance knows him as well as he does. I couldn't do this with anyone else. Possibly not even with Lance. But oh, god, he needs to try.
"Kneel in front of the bench, arms over it, head resting on it." Lance's voice is soft, muffled a little, and Chris glances over his shoulder once before moving, sees Lance taking padded cuffs down with one hand, rummaging with the other. His stomach flips over again.
The bench is padded and covered with something soft – cotton, he thinks distractedly. At least his skin won't stick when he sweats.
The pull and shift of his muscles as he settles and stretches is almost comforting. His skin still feels hot, tight, almost too small. He's not cold any more; quite the contrary. And he still feels vulnerable, but there's a small glow of anticipation working on it, spreading slowly through him. Chris closes his eyes and lays his head just so, cheek pressing against the bench. The cotton is soft and comfortable, and it's almost pillow-like. Under other, ordinary circumstances, he maybe could sleep here. But not now. No. Lance is behind him now, Chris hears his footsteps, soft against the hardwood. Leather touches him, gentle strokes of softness against his back, and he shivers almost violently.
Flogger, he thinks frantically. Oh, my god. Oh, my god. Coherent thought beyond that seems impossible now.
"I think you were made for this." Lance's voice is low, soft, the syllables fluid and rich as they wind into Chris' ear and then into his brain. "You look…perfect. So ready." Chris sighs and tries not to shudder when gentle fingers hook the cuffs around his wrists. The clank as they're hooked onto the bench echoes in his ears, ripples through him, and he realizes he's hard beneath his shorts, body aching in more ways than one. Lance caresses his shoulder gently, a slow, easy stroke. "You can talk. Yell, if you want. Make as much noise as you need to. The walls are soundproofed; no one but me will hear you." Leather strokes over his skin again, a teasing caress.
"Please," he breathes. Or maybe whimpers. It's hard to tell. "I need it, Lance. Sir."
"I know." Lance presses a kiss to the top of Chris' head, then stands up. "Give me a word."
Chris swallows, shifts against the pull of his arms, and sighs. "Hi-tone." Lance's chuckle makes him smile against the bench. Leather crackles and whispers, then a low rumble wraps around him.
"Warm-up time, Chris."
The first stroke is hardly more than a caress, very like the ones he was teased with a few minutes ago. A whisper of touch against his back, smoothing over his shoulder, just the barest hint of more…of something…to come. Chris rolls his shoulders impatiently and Lance snorts. It's hard to be patient, to wait, when it's here, happening now. Another stroke, then another, each one less of a caress, more of a smack against his skin, warming each spot the strands touch. Nothing hard, nothing approaching pain. Yet.
"Not sure what my limits are, any more," he remembers telling Lance, just, oh, last week. He doesn't know. He knew years ago, but so much has changed.
The sting catches him unaware, makes him hiss quietly and bite at his lip. Stinging becomes a soft, gentle burn, heat sliding over him, into him, through him. Each sound, the air shifting when the flogger cuts through it, the crackle of leather, the quiet sound of Lance's breathing, shifting as he moves around, changing the angles for the strokes. Chris feels dizzy, light-headed; his back and shoulders throbbing lightly. His pulse pounds, blood pulsing fast and hot through his veins.
It hurts, a little. Maybe. It's sensation he's craved for so long he feels like a starving man sitting down to a banquet. The easy burn sears a little more, the harder Lance strikes him, and after a while he loses count of how many separate stings he feels; they're bleeding into one huge, sizzling ache. Chris breathes slowly, in and out, feeling the pain, welcoming it inside him. It eases inside, becomes a part of him.
"Pink's a pretty color on you," Lance says at last, setting the flogger beside him. "I think I'll like red better, though."
The words are jarring, at first; not part of the place in his mind he's settled into. He jerks, swears softly – out loud? Or just in his head? – when Lance undoes the cuffs and helps him to his feet. The stinging is worse, standing up and moving; his back ripples with goosebumps when Lance presses against it. That gets a soft rumble from Lance, and harder presses, rubbing the hot spots until Chris whimpers and leans back against the touch.
"More, please," he manages, licking at his lips.
"Absolutely." But they don't move, just stand there for a moment, Lance rubbing his back, pressing heat into the heat, spreading the ache all through him. "Does it hurt?" Lance is much quieter than Chris thought he'd be. He nods slowly.
"A little. Stings." Lance touches a particularly sensitive spot and Chris sucks a breath in, feels his cock and his back throb in tandem, then throb again when Lance pokes hard at that spot.
"Turns you on?" Another touch, harder than the ones before. Chris nods, not sure his voice works just now. "We won't have sex, but if you get off, it's okay." Chris nods again, the dizzy feeling back, looping through him. "Do you need anything before we go on?"
"Water," he says softly, voice high and thin. He licks his lips again. "Please."
"You need to remember to ask if you need something, okay?" Lance touches him once more, then hands him a bottle of water.
Where'd it come from? Does he have everything up here? All at close range? But he's grateful for the cool, cool liquid sliding down his throat, wetting his lips. They sting, too, the bottom one especially, and Chris realizes he bit into it; split it. That'll hurt tomorrow.
He'll hurt tomorrow.
His body throbs again with that thought.
"Ready?" Lance is close, not too close, not sex-lover-boyfriend close, but. It's seductive, that low, quiet voice that trips down through his nervous system. Chris shivers and nods and hands the bottle off. "Far wall, the middle set of rings. I want your arms stretched up over your head."
"Yes." The word floats off his tongue, and Chris realizes all of him feels floaty. It's a good sensation. He likes it. He's missed it.
"What will you get out of it," he remembers asking, watching Lance's face. He'd smiled.
"I like the power exchange. The rush. It's sexual, but doesn't have to be about sex. And," he'd paused, then grinned wider, "you like to be hurt…I like to give that hurt."
"Stretch high up, Chris." It isn't too far a reach; it will arch him a bit, draw the skin taut across his back, and make the pain sharper, brighter, harder to coax into pleasure. But god, the payoff when he does--. Chris holds the pose, just barely up on his toes, and groans softly when Lance fastens the cuffs again. He closes his eyes and leans into the touch when Lance draws his fingers down one side of his face. "You're beautiful like this, man. Meant to do this."
"Lance—god," and he remembers he's supposed to be respectful, be submissive, but submission is harder for him some times than others, and he craves and needs some things and only wants others. "Please—"
"You don't need to beg, Chris." Another caress, this time to the heat on his back. "Not this time, anyway." There's a hint of promise in that and Chris bites back another groan. Lance leans in closer, his breath warm against Chris' ear. "Use your word if you have to. Don't be foolish, don't be brave. I know you said you like pain, but you also said it's been a while. We play by the rules or we don't play, right?"
He nods, but that's not good enough; Lance grabs a handful of hair and yanks, hard enough Chris yelps. "I want a spoken answer, Chris."
It's really hard to find the words; they're in his brain, but not—there. "Right. Yes. Word. Use my word."
"Okay." Chris' scalp tingles when Lance lets go, and he wishes he could rub it, spread the tingle out. "Now."
His warning this time is a crackle. No whisper, nothing so gentle or soft. The first strike spreads across his skin, tails biting in, not harshly, but harder than the flogger. Another blow, and he winces, curls his fingers in against his palms, a soft sound escaping. Another, and another, and more, and he loses count, loses track of anything but the spreading heat, the searing across his skin. Lance grunts behind him, and the next blow brings Chris to his toes, breath hissing out between clenched teeth.
"Yell if you need to," Lance hisses softly, and Chris nods, squinches his eyes closed tight. They sting, but it's only a distraction; nothing compares to the fire racing over his back and shoulders.
More blows, each tail laying a trail of pain across a part of his back, and Chris rises up on his toes, rocks back into the blows as best he can. It hurts, Christ, it's like nothing he's felt in so long he's forgotten if he's ever felt it. And he wonders if he can bear it; each stripe takes his breath away, literally pulls it from his lungs, until he's gasping, begging for more, for Lance to stop, begging for things he can't even put to words.
Lance doesn't stop; won't stop, unless he says his safe word, which—no. Not now. Not right now. Hurts so good, he thinks, and giggles almost hysterically, the sound high and tight to his ears, mixing with the black and red swirling around him. His face is wet, his eyes hot and stinging, and still the pain comes, hot, hotter, fiery all through him, his blood running molten, each inch of his skin tight with need, with aching. It's building up, growing inside him, forming into something that's pain, but more than pain, more than pleasure, a sum greater than it's parts. Sparkles prick the edge of his vision and the roaring in his ears becomes a rumble becomes words,
"Breathe, Chris, dammit!"
And when he lets out the breath he didn't realize he was holding, everything explodes. Colors, sound, pain moving into pleasure and back again, then into ohmygodohmygodohmygodohmyGOD—
~~~~~
He comes back into himself and finds he has his head on Lance's lap, with Lance gently stroking his hair. Things filter in and register slowly: It's dark outside. Inside, the big room is lit by a couple of lamps. They're on the couch, and he's on his stomach, mostly, and he's pretty sure with the first wiggle that that's a good thing. Because that first stretch and shift sends every inch of his back into a screaming fit.
"Jesus," he breathes, wincing. Lance laughs.
"Dude. You're a stubborn fucker." Another soft brush of fingers through his hair. "You stopped breathing, man. Holding your breath."
"I—yeah. It was. I tried to feel…wanted to feel everything."
Above him, Lance shakes his head; Chris sees it out of the corner of his eye. "Need a drink?"
"Yeah. Please." His mouth is parched; the water tastes like ambrosia going down. Whatever the hell ambrosia might be.
"Still nervous?"
"Not so much." Chris swallows another mouthful, then shifts carefully, grimaces when he realizes his shorts are sticky. He lets Lance help him push upward into a sitting position, and the fabric clings, tacky with dried come. "God."
"You can shower before you go home. But—I'd suggest cool water. Hot'll sting like hell."
"Yeah. I kinda guessed that." But god, it feels good. He doesn't know how to explain, though he suspects Lance understands, at least, to some degree. He wipes at his eyes, feels the dryness from salt clinging to his lashes. "Um. I—" Another swallow of water. "Thank you."
Lance snorts softly and brushes a kiss over Chris' forehead. "It was good—for both of us, I think. I'm. Glad." Chris glances over, but can't read Lance's face for the shadows from the lamps. "I think this will work just fine." He smiles, slow and warm. "Half hour earlier next time, and you'll set the room up, and clean up afterward. Tonight, you go clean you up, and I'll feed you before you go home."
His throat tightens and Chris swallows hard around it, around the words that jam up there, trying to get out. He wants to say so much, wants to thank Lance, wants to offer—something. Submission he didn't realize he really had in him. He's not sure about that right now, though, so he settles for a smile and a nod, and whispers "thanks", again, as he staggers slowly toward the stairs.
~fin~
Notes: This is actually part of the backstory for the "Belonging" universe
jchalo and I have created -- the Chris/JC/Lance world. We've been wondering for a while -- and talking about -- what would've been the impetus in getting the three of them together. What was involved. Who started what. There'll be more coming; as halo pointed out, we kind of do everything bass-ackwards, so it fits that I write the Chris/Lance part before we write the Chris-and-JC-talk part *g*On to the story :)
Chris stares at the doorbell then back at his watch. 4:59:37p.m.. Almost time. Almost time. He's resisting the urge to bounce on the balls of his feet, doesn't want to give in to the nerves thrumming wildly within him. His stomach is twisted into a coiled, hot knot. He can't quite believe he's here, that this is coming—to fruition.
4:59:47p.m.
He wishes JC were here, then shudders at the dual feelings of guilt and need that ripple through him. JC wouldn't want to be here. Or see this. He doesn't want JC to see this.
4:59:53p.m.
He inhales and exhales slowly, then raises his hand to ring the bell.
"You're punctual. That's good." Lance smiles when he opens the door, but it's not the usual smile, and Chris doesn't jump forward and noogie his head, or yell 'Bass!' and pounce on him. He stands there, instead, looking—seeing someone very different than the man he thought he'd known for so long. He doesn't appear particularly different; he's dressed in jeans and a loose, soft-looking shirt, with bare feet, but power seems to radiate off him. His eyes are darker, more focused than Chris has ever seen. "Come in."
"I'm nervous," he says quietly, because it needs to be said, then steps into the cool foyer. Lance closes the door behind him and touches his shoulder, indicating the stairs just beyond, and Chris tries not to shiver.
"I'd be honestly surprised if you weren't." Lance steps past him and precedes him up the stairs, stopping in front of one of his guest bedrooms. "You can put your bag in there. Get changed into something comfortable – shorts or sweats, I don't care which – and meet me at the door at the end of the hall in five minutes."
And that's that. Chris swallows and nods, his "Yes, Sir," barely audible, but apparently satisfactory, because Lance touches his face then disappears into what Chris knows is his bedroom.
He's standing in front of the door four minutes later, loose sweat shorts doing nothing to keep him from feeling exposed, vulnerable, uncertain. The taste of toothpaste in his mouth makes his stomach roll again, but it was necessary to brush after he threw up, and Chris realizes he can't do this if he's going to be this nervous. He's letting it cripple him, and that's not good. He wants this…almost desperately…and maybe that's the problem. Well, that's at least part of the problem, anyway.
I can do this. I need to do this. I want to do this. JC said it's okay. He—it's okay. I'm going to be okay.
Chris closes his eyes and breathes in slowly, exhales slowly. Concentrates on holding each inhalation while he counts to ten before letting it out. He's breathing easier when hands settle on his shoulders, Lance's touch light, non-intrusive, almost comforting. He breathes in and out again, not losing his count, then opens his eyes and meets Lance's gaze.
"You okay?"
Chris nods. "Nervous as fuck, but—yes. Sir. I mean—"
Lance smiles, a quick quirk of his lips. "It'll take some time to get comfortable, Chris. Re-accustomed. I don't expect you to just fall back into it in the first ten minutes."
"Thank god," he breathes, a little of the tension leaving him. Lance snorts, then inclines his head toward the door.
"Let's go. In the future, I'll want you over half an hour early to prep the room beforehand, but for today, for this time, I have everything ready."
"Room?" Chris hangs back while Lance opens the door, and he's surprised to see a flight of stairs. Attic? It'd never occurred to him the house might have more than the attic crawlspace his house had. It'd never occurred to him to care what rooms Lance had in his house, beyond kitchen, living room, home theatre and bathroom.
"Florida kind of lacks in basements," Lance drawls softly, flicking the light on easily as he passes it. Chris follows obediently, not needing to be told. "And even if I had a basement, I'm not really a dungeon sort of guy. I like open space, and light, things like that."
It really is a beautiful room, Chris decides, standing on the landing and looking around. Definitely open, definitely light – though without lamps it will be dark once night falls. There are small – long and narrow – windows ringing the top of the room. Plenty to let light in, but pretty much assuring no one can see in. Two skylights sit inset to the ceiling on either end, where the roof peaks, letting additional light in. The floor gleams golden, polished hardwood on one end, and carpet on the other, a deep, dark green, almost black in color. A large, wooden chest-of-drawers…no, an…armoire, sits at one end, in the corner. Chris wonders idly what's in there. Rings are set into the walls at various intervals, and at varying heights. There's a tall post near the center of the room, with hooks set into the top. A long table rests against one wall, and Chris suspects it has hooks or fasteners at the ends, as well. At the end near where he stands are two soft-looking leather couches and an ottoman, and an occasional table. Beside the nearest couch is a beautiful wicker basket holding—he sucks his breath in. Canes. It holds canes.
He can almost feel the rattan against his skin and rolls his shoulders once, nerves settling a little more.
"There's a half-bath, too," Lance says quietly. He's been so quiet while Chris looks around he's almost forgotten he's there. "The door at the far end."
"It's beautiful," he says softly. "What's, um. In there?" He points toward the armoire, stomach flipping over when Lance smiles – a soft, dangerous smile. Something he's never seen from Lance before.
"C'mere and look," Lance says. His voice is pitched low, probably meant to be soothing – maybe? – but it sends a streak of anticipation through Chris, makes him shiver. For the first time since he left home, he's actually feeling this. Feeling good.
Both doors on the armoire open up, and Lance steps back so Chris can see. He sucks a breath in, feels it catch in his chest at the collection of whips, floggers, crops, cats. Cuffs – leather and metal, padded and not – hang on hooks inside the doors. There's an assortment of leather somethings – "blindfolds," Lance says softly. Chris shivers again; his skin feels tight and hot now, ripples moving across it.
"The drawers?" Chris asks, after he's looked closely at the implements in the chest portion. He reaches out to open one and freezes when Lance touches his hand, gives him a short, negative headshake.
"No. The things in there don't concern you."
"But—" He bites his lip, tension flaring in his stomach again. I suck at this, he thinks, watching Lance. Looking for clues. Hints. I suck at the whole sub thing. I need—god. Help me out here, Lance. This wasn't going to work. Couldn't. Could it?
"No." Lance gestures with his head toward a bench Chris missed on his perusal of the room. "You're not here for sex, Chris."
Oh. Oh! And yes, he feels like an idiot now. But—he hates mysteries. Hates the unknown. And is thankful Lance knows him as well as he does. I couldn't do this with anyone else. Possibly not even with Lance. But oh, god, he needs to try.
"Kneel in front of the bench, arms over it, head resting on it." Lance's voice is soft, muffled a little, and Chris glances over his shoulder once before moving, sees Lance taking padded cuffs down with one hand, rummaging with the other. His stomach flips over again.
The bench is padded and covered with something soft – cotton, he thinks distractedly. At least his skin won't stick when he sweats.
The pull and shift of his muscles as he settles and stretches is almost comforting. His skin still feels hot, tight, almost too small. He's not cold any more; quite the contrary. And he still feels vulnerable, but there's a small glow of anticipation working on it, spreading slowly through him. Chris closes his eyes and lays his head just so, cheek pressing against the bench. The cotton is soft and comfortable, and it's almost pillow-like. Under other, ordinary circumstances, he maybe could sleep here. But not now. No. Lance is behind him now, Chris hears his footsteps, soft against the hardwood. Leather touches him, gentle strokes of softness against his back, and he shivers almost violently.
Flogger, he thinks frantically. Oh, my god. Oh, my god. Coherent thought beyond that seems impossible now.
"I think you were made for this." Lance's voice is low, soft, the syllables fluid and rich as they wind into Chris' ear and then into his brain. "You look…perfect. So ready." Chris sighs and tries not to shudder when gentle fingers hook the cuffs around his wrists. The clank as they're hooked onto the bench echoes in his ears, ripples through him, and he realizes he's hard beneath his shorts, body aching in more ways than one. Lance caresses his shoulder gently, a slow, easy stroke. "You can talk. Yell, if you want. Make as much noise as you need to. The walls are soundproofed; no one but me will hear you." Leather strokes over his skin again, a teasing caress.
"Please," he breathes. Or maybe whimpers. It's hard to tell. "I need it, Lance. Sir."
"I know." Lance presses a kiss to the top of Chris' head, then stands up. "Give me a word."
Chris swallows, shifts against the pull of his arms, and sighs. "Hi-tone." Lance's chuckle makes him smile against the bench. Leather crackles and whispers, then a low rumble wraps around him.
"Warm-up time, Chris."
The first stroke is hardly more than a caress, very like the ones he was teased with a few minutes ago. A whisper of touch against his back, smoothing over his shoulder, just the barest hint of more…of something…to come. Chris rolls his shoulders impatiently and Lance snorts. It's hard to be patient, to wait, when it's here, happening now. Another stroke, then another, each one less of a caress, more of a smack against his skin, warming each spot the strands touch. Nothing hard, nothing approaching pain. Yet.
"Not sure what my limits are, any more," he remembers telling Lance, just, oh, last week. He doesn't know. He knew years ago, but so much has changed.
The sting catches him unaware, makes him hiss quietly and bite at his lip. Stinging becomes a soft, gentle burn, heat sliding over him, into him, through him. Each sound, the air shifting when the flogger cuts through it, the crackle of leather, the quiet sound of Lance's breathing, shifting as he moves around, changing the angles for the strokes. Chris feels dizzy, light-headed; his back and shoulders throbbing lightly. His pulse pounds, blood pulsing fast and hot through his veins.
It hurts, a little. Maybe. It's sensation he's craved for so long he feels like a starving man sitting down to a banquet. The easy burn sears a little more, the harder Lance strikes him, and after a while he loses count of how many separate stings he feels; they're bleeding into one huge, sizzling ache. Chris breathes slowly, in and out, feeling the pain, welcoming it inside him. It eases inside, becomes a part of him.
"Pink's a pretty color on you," Lance says at last, setting the flogger beside him. "I think I'll like red better, though."
The words are jarring, at first; not part of the place in his mind he's settled into. He jerks, swears softly – out loud? Or just in his head? – when Lance undoes the cuffs and helps him to his feet. The stinging is worse, standing up and moving; his back ripples with goosebumps when Lance presses against it. That gets a soft rumble from Lance, and harder presses, rubbing the hot spots until Chris whimpers and leans back against the touch.
"More, please," he manages, licking at his lips.
"Absolutely." But they don't move, just stand there for a moment, Lance rubbing his back, pressing heat into the heat, spreading the ache all through him. "Does it hurt?" Lance is much quieter than Chris thought he'd be. He nods slowly.
"A little. Stings." Lance touches a particularly sensitive spot and Chris sucks a breath in, feels his cock and his back throb in tandem, then throb again when Lance pokes hard at that spot.
"Turns you on?" Another touch, harder than the ones before. Chris nods, not sure his voice works just now. "We won't have sex, but if you get off, it's okay." Chris nods again, the dizzy feeling back, looping through him. "Do you need anything before we go on?"
"Water," he says softly, voice high and thin. He licks his lips again. "Please."
"You need to remember to ask if you need something, okay?" Lance touches him once more, then hands him a bottle of water.
Where'd it come from? Does he have everything up here? All at close range? But he's grateful for the cool, cool liquid sliding down his throat, wetting his lips. They sting, too, the bottom one especially, and Chris realizes he bit into it; split it. That'll hurt tomorrow.
He'll hurt tomorrow.
His body throbs again with that thought.
"Ready?" Lance is close, not too close, not sex-lover-boyfriend close, but. It's seductive, that low, quiet voice that trips down through his nervous system. Chris shivers and nods and hands the bottle off. "Far wall, the middle set of rings. I want your arms stretched up over your head."
"Yes." The word floats off his tongue, and Chris realizes all of him feels floaty. It's a good sensation. He likes it. He's missed it.
"What will you get out of it," he remembers asking, watching Lance's face. He'd smiled.
"I like the power exchange. The rush. It's sexual, but doesn't have to be about sex. And," he'd paused, then grinned wider, "you like to be hurt…I like to give that hurt."
"Stretch high up, Chris." It isn't too far a reach; it will arch him a bit, draw the skin taut across his back, and make the pain sharper, brighter, harder to coax into pleasure. But god, the payoff when he does--. Chris holds the pose, just barely up on his toes, and groans softly when Lance fastens the cuffs again. He closes his eyes and leans into the touch when Lance draws his fingers down one side of his face. "You're beautiful like this, man. Meant to do this."
"Lance—god," and he remembers he's supposed to be respectful, be submissive, but submission is harder for him some times than others, and he craves and needs some things and only wants others. "Please—"
"You don't need to beg, Chris." Another caress, this time to the heat on his back. "Not this time, anyway." There's a hint of promise in that and Chris bites back another groan. Lance leans in closer, his breath warm against Chris' ear. "Use your word if you have to. Don't be foolish, don't be brave. I know you said you like pain, but you also said it's been a while. We play by the rules or we don't play, right?"
He nods, but that's not good enough; Lance grabs a handful of hair and yanks, hard enough Chris yelps. "I want a spoken answer, Chris."
It's really hard to find the words; they're in his brain, but not—there. "Right. Yes. Word. Use my word."
"Okay." Chris' scalp tingles when Lance lets go, and he wishes he could rub it, spread the tingle out. "Now."
His warning this time is a crackle. No whisper, nothing so gentle or soft. The first strike spreads across his skin, tails biting in, not harshly, but harder than the flogger. Another blow, and he winces, curls his fingers in against his palms, a soft sound escaping. Another, and another, and more, and he loses count, loses track of anything but the spreading heat, the searing across his skin. Lance grunts behind him, and the next blow brings Chris to his toes, breath hissing out between clenched teeth.
"Yell if you need to," Lance hisses softly, and Chris nods, squinches his eyes closed tight. They sting, but it's only a distraction; nothing compares to the fire racing over his back and shoulders.
More blows, each tail laying a trail of pain across a part of his back, and Chris rises up on his toes, rocks back into the blows as best he can. It hurts, Christ, it's like nothing he's felt in so long he's forgotten if he's ever felt it. And he wonders if he can bear it; each stripe takes his breath away, literally pulls it from his lungs, until he's gasping, begging for more, for Lance to stop, begging for things he can't even put to words.
Lance doesn't stop; won't stop, unless he says his safe word, which—no. Not now. Not right now. Hurts so good, he thinks, and giggles almost hysterically, the sound high and tight to his ears, mixing with the black and red swirling around him. His face is wet, his eyes hot and stinging, and still the pain comes, hot, hotter, fiery all through him, his blood running molten, each inch of his skin tight with need, with aching. It's building up, growing inside him, forming into something that's pain, but more than pain, more than pleasure, a sum greater than it's parts. Sparkles prick the edge of his vision and the roaring in his ears becomes a rumble becomes words,
"Breathe, Chris, dammit!"
And when he lets out the breath he didn't realize he was holding, everything explodes. Colors, sound, pain moving into pleasure and back again, then into ohmygodohmygodohmygodohmyGOD—
He comes back into himself and finds he has his head on Lance's lap, with Lance gently stroking his hair. Things filter in and register slowly: It's dark outside. Inside, the big room is lit by a couple of lamps. They're on the couch, and he's on his stomach, mostly, and he's pretty sure with the first wiggle that that's a good thing. Because that first stretch and shift sends every inch of his back into a screaming fit.
"Jesus," he breathes, wincing. Lance laughs.
"Dude. You're a stubborn fucker." Another soft brush of fingers through his hair. "You stopped breathing, man. Holding your breath."
"I—yeah. It was. I tried to feel…wanted to feel everything."
Above him, Lance shakes his head; Chris sees it out of the corner of his eye. "Need a drink?"
"Yeah. Please." His mouth is parched; the water tastes like ambrosia going down. Whatever the hell ambrosia might be.
"Still nervous?"
"Not so much." Chris swallows another mouthful, then shifts carefully, grimaces when he realizes his shorts are sticky. He lets Lance help him push upward into a sitting position, and the fabric clings, tacky with dried come. "God."
"You can shower before you go home. But—I'd suggest cool water. Hot'll sting like hell."
"Yeah. I kinda guessed that." But god, it feels good. He doesn't know how to explain, though he suspects Lance understands, at least, to some degree. He wipes at his eyes, feels the dryness from salt clinging to his lashes. "Um. I—" Another swallow of water. "Thank you."
Lance snorts softly and brushes a kiss over Chris' forehead. "It was good—for both of us, I think. I'm. Glad." Chris glances over, but can't read Lance's face for the shadows from the lamps. "I think this will work just fine." He smiles, slow and warm. "Half hour earlier next time, and you'll set the room up, and clean up afterward. Tonight, you go clean you up, and I'll feed you before you go home."
His throat tightens and Chris swallows hard around it, around the words that jam up there, trying to get out. He wants to say so much, wants to thank Lance, wants to offer—something. Submission he didn't realize he really had in him. He's not sure about that right now, though, so he settles for a smile and a nod, and whispers "thanks", again, as he staggers slowly toward the stairs.
~fin~
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no subject
Date: 2003-03-08 09:17 am (UTC)It was a very intense piece to write; I was pretty much floating in my own little space for most of it, so it's really cool to read back over it and go, huh. And then to have people tell me it sounded good/realistic/descriptive. Thanks again!
no subject
Date: 2003-03-18 04:04 pm (UTC)Anyway:
My own experience as sub is limited - I've only been into BDSM since after northern and I broke up, less than a year ago - but enough for me to say that you definitely know what you're talking about... :-) Thanks again!
Talking about limited experience, that might change. I was at a party Saturday (one of my BDSM friends had a birthday) and met a very nice dominant lady. We will again tomorrow, at her place. I do not know what she have in mind....... :-)