mickeym

Title: Chrysalis
Pairing: Chris/JC, JC/OMC/OMC, implied JC/OFC (popslash)
Rating: NC17
Warnings: some (fairly mild) S/m
Words: ~10,600

a/n: I honestly never thought I'd get this thing finished. I started it back in May '05, but didn't get beyond about six or seven pages until this year. It's not so much a story about S/m or kinky sex as it is a journey of self-discovery and acceptance. I owe many thanks to

pierson and

msktrnanny for betas and input. I owe more than I can express to

darkseaglass for not only beta duty, but also for holding my hand, for cheerleading, for talking me down off the proverbial ledge a couple of times. *snugs* Thank you, Chica.

Summary: JC's learning some things about himself he's not sure he's ready to know.

by Mickey M.
© December 2006

"Let go of the old world and the new one will grow around you like a new skin."
--Paul Williams

"All of our knowledge has its origins in our perceptions."
--Leonardo da Vinci

Your body aches everywhere. Lines of fire race here and there, rippling through muscle and flesh and down into your bones.

You hug yourself, but that brings the scent of her perfume – floral and light, but stinging your nose just the same – back up to your face. Mixed in with it is the stink of sweat, of sex, of fear and excitement so intense you're not sure that you're not still back there, tied to her bed.

When you try and recall the actual events, they blur in your mind; the pictures are vague and hazy and out of focus, held inside sharp outlines. You can hear the sharp slap-crack of flesh-on-flesh and then leather on flesh; the quick bite and sting of skin yielding to something hard and fast. Mixed with those sounds are your moans, rising and falling in cadence with the whip. Sitting on the cab bench, in the cold and dark, you're chilled in a way you've never felt before.

You are a good boy, Liebling. You can hear her voice, low and husky, the English words sounding heavy and foreign. You like a little pain with your pleasure, yes? It makes everything sharper, sweeter. Nothing is better than this.

You remember panting, breathless, telling her no, stop, nein--and what seemed like a far distant part of you hoping almost desperately that she wouldn't.

She didn't.

The cabbie grunts something in harsh, guttural syllables, jerking you out of your thoughts. His words are too fast, too rough for you to really understand, but you think you catch the word for vomit and shake your head in response. No, you won't. You think.

You hope.

~~~~~

In an effort to save a little bit of money, someone thought it was a good idea to double--or maybe it's triple?--book you, so instead of having a nice, quiet hotel room to crawl back into, you have a circus consisting of Chris and Joey. One is hyped up on adrenaline, the other on caffeine, and neither is asleep like you'd hoped.

You catch sight of your reflection in the mirror as Joey shouts, "Woo, someone scored good tonight," before throwing a pillow toward Chris. You look tired, worn out, traces of red-purple smudges already ringing your throat. Chris smirks once, then throws the pillow back again. You yelp and duck as it flies past, barely clearing you, and wince when the stripes on your back burn deeper into your skin.

Or maybe it just feels like they're burning deeper. Without the endorphins rushing through you to counter it, it's hard to say what you're feeling, except changed, in some fundamental way.

You went out as one person, and came home as another--and part of you mourns the loss of one while rejoicing over the other. You just wish you could sort it all out, that your head didn't ache and your stomach didn't roll, that the lines of fire rippling through you actually warmed you.

"Gonna grab a shower," you mumble, turning away from the mirror and then from the sharp look Chris gives you. All of you know and see too much about each other, but Chris sees more than everyone else put together, especially when you don't want him to.

That's something you should remember, you think, ducking back out into the hall, wash bag, towel and sweats in hand. If he thinks there's something to see that's all he'll focus on. And there's more than just tonight's events you'd really rather Chris didn't see or know.

~~~~~

When the music cuts off abruptly and Randolph's voice echoes in its place, you wince even before you hear the words. You've been expecting them; have been surprised every minute of every day they didn't come. "Okay, people, take five. JC--a word, please."

You're off, just a little, and you know it.

Nothing anyone can really call you on. Little things, like being one beat behind the choreography, one note off on the scales, a moment too slow during an interview. Then you can feel it, your skin prickling in patterns, like you can still feel the bite of her whip.

Not just the bite of the whip, but the added sting as drops of sweat slid over the raw spots on your back and the way each sharp bit of pain made the pleasure spike even higher. You veer away from Randolph at the last minute and run for the john, sour heat climbing up your throat even while you're aware of the eyes on your back.

This hurts too, but there's no pleasure to spike here, just the rawness in your throat when you're done throwing up, and the heat of Justin's hand against your back while voices echo all around, words you should understand but can't.

~~~~~

You're too much of a professional to let crap like emotions keep affecting your performance, even if you feel like you're breaking down inside, bit by bit. One dressing down--however politely it's worded--from the choreographer is all it takes before you snap back into shape.

But it takes a lot out of you, to keep pushing it back. You're tired all the time anyway and keeping emotions and thoughts at bay constantly--because you don't have a freakin' clue how to deal with them--saps what little energy remains after practices, performances, appearances. Sleep becomes your best friend. If you're asleep, you don't have to think and you sure as hell don't have to feel.

You also don't have to answer questions from the others, well-meant but unwelcome because those make you feel, too.

So you sleep a lot, and without really meaning to, you start throwing up shields and pulling away.

It gets to be amazingly easy to shut everyone else out. You answer questions when you have to, but everything else...no. You wish you could tell someone, but what would you say? Hey, guys, guess what I learned about myself a few weeks ago? The harder you hit me, the better it feels. Hell, no. Better to keep it inside.

Sometimes you close your eyes and think about leather restraints holding you while you writhe against the heat, the pain.

Against the pleasure.

~~~~~

It's been weeks, at least, and you're due to head back home for the holidays soon. You can't decide if that makes you happy, or not. You miss home, but will you still feel what you've been feeling once you're away from here? Will you still be changed?

Do you still want to be?

You wish you knew the answer to all those questions. You wish you could tell someone that lately when you jerk off--if you have the privacy and the energy--you dig your fingernails into your chest, or scrape them hard against your inner thighs. Sometimes you think about that whip hitting you, bright flecks of pain blossoming brilliant and sweet across your skin. Sometimes you imagine you're wielding the whip that smacks against soft skin with a hard, sharp *thwack*.

~~~~~

Chris is lying in wait when you get back to the hotel after practice; you thought he went with Joey and Justin to scope out a place to play basketball, but obviously not. He's sitting on one of the tiny beds, arms crossed and mouth pressed into a tight line. "So."

"So."

His mouth tightens even more, lips practically disappearing. "You're shutting everyone out, Chasez, so let's cut the crap and just have you tell me what's wrong so we can fix it. 'Cos last time I checked, this is a five-man group, not four plus a shadow."

Apparently you've also forgotten that, in addition to having eyes that can see right inside you, Chris can be blunt as hell. Sometimes it's refreshing. Right now it's a pain in the ass.

"It's not that easy," you say, taking a step back away from the bed. "To fix, I mean."

"Nothin's that hard," Chris shoots back. "Just tell me what the problem is."

You wish you could turn invisible. Or spontaneously transport yourself somewhere else. Anywhere else. "That's not so easy either."

"Dude." He looks exasperated, and you think it's nice for the shoe to be on the other foot for a change. Usually you're the one exasperated with Chris because he's, well, Chris. Sexy, fun, entertaining--and annoying as hell. "It's not hard. Open your mouth and talk." His eyes narrow as you back up some more, and he sighs. "Okay, I'll start talking for you. You've been fucking weird since the night you went out and got yourself oh-so-fabulously laid. What happened, C, you find out you like sucking dick or something?"

"Oh, shut up," you mutter, because really, Chris knows better. He's been out to gay clubs with you, for Chrissake, dancing and flirting with you on the dancefloor.

"So, okay. If it's not your love for some dick once in a while, then what is it? You find a kink that's throwing you? Got some chick pregnant? Discover you like a little S and M with your fucking?"

You stare at Chris for a minute, wondering frantically if he's fucking psychic, then swallow. "Um."

"Um, what, C?" The smirk he wore a minute ago has faded, and you realize Chris looks really tired, but still really good--and you squash that thought down quickly. "Since I really doubt you got anyone knocked up--"

"No," you manage, faintly. "It's. The other. The S and M." Your face is fucking burning and the heat notches up a couple more degrees when Chris cocks one eyebrow, giving you a decidedly disbelieving look. "What?"

"You're a man of mystery, Chasez."

"Don't laugh at me." You turn away from him because you didn't want to have this conversation at all. He's the one who started it. You're more than happy to end it.

"Do you hear me laughing?" His voice is sharp enough you turn back around, and no, he's not laughing. Not even his eyes, which is where so much of his humor is. You shake your head. "Okay, good. So what is it that's fucking you up? You liked it? Didn't like it?"

"You don't even know what I did." Just thinking about it makes your stomach twist, that coil of excitement and shame that's lived inside you for weeks, now. You cross your arms over your chest because it seems chilly in here again, memories making you cold.

Chris studies you carefully, and embarrassment washes through you in waves until you break eye contact to stare at the floor.

"Do I need to?" he asks.

"Don't you want to?" You wish you could shut yourself up. Right now Chris just thinks you're a flake. If you say much more, well. You'd rather he think you're a flake, than a pervert.

"There's no way I'm going to win, no matter which way this conversation goes." Chris's voice is low, almost soothing, and you look at him in surprise. "I don't need details, C. It's your life, man, and I ain't your mom. But if you need to talk about--whatever, then I'm here to listen. And not judge," he adds, still watching you.

"Everyone judges, even when they say they won't," you say quietly. Then, "She--there was this thing. Like, I dunno. A little whip, or something. It hurt, but--I liked it." Your throat closes up against any more words that might slip out, and you wait, for something. For Chris to laugh, or sigh, or stare at you in disbelief, disgust, something. He doesn't do any of those. Instead he nods.

"Made you feel kinda high, huh?"

"I--" You blink at him. "Kinda. I guess." You narrow your eyes. "You're being way too reasonable about this."

"What'd you think I was going to do? Jump up and run away? I hate to break it to you, but you're not the only one I know who gets off on that a little. And really, dude--so a little pain gets your motor goin'. So what?" Chris settles back on the bed, crossing his legs so he's sitting Indian-style.

"It...doesn't make you think I'm weird?" You manage the words, just, and settle yourself on the other bed. Chris snorts.

"C, I don't know how to tell you this, man, but I already thought you were weird, way before we started this conversation. Hell, some time back in the summer of '95." There's a small smile playing at the edges of Chris's mouth.

You frown at him.

"You know what I mean."

"Yeah, I do." He sits forward abruptly, face serious. "Liking things a little--or even a lot--rough doesn't make you any weirder than the majority of the people out there, and a lot less weird than some of 'em. You're not out forcing yourself on someone, or checkin' out kids--"

It shocks you a little that he'd even say that. "Ew, no!"

And you might as well have not even said anything. "--and if you consented and she or he consented, an' everyone's of legal age, then it's cool."

"Easy for you to say. You're not the one--" You clamp your mouth shut because no, you're not going to say anything else.

"Look." Chris sighs and shifts, standing up off the bed. "I told you, I'm not your mom, and I'm not--your confessor, or whatever. You're a big boy. If it's bothering you that much, then either do it again and make sure you liked it, or stop thinking about it. But get over it, because you're starting to freak everyone out."

He's almost to the door before you can unclench your teeth enough to say anything, and then it's a whisper; it's miraculous, really, that he hears you. "It scared--scares--me. That I liked it. Want it."

Chris stops and looks back at you. "So what do you want me to do?" Mutely you shake your head, because really, what can he do? "Do you want me to go out with you? D'you want to do it again?"

You consider that. Yes, and no. Yes, because--well, yes. It was intense and frightening and hot as hell. Scary as shit, too, which was part of the rush. No, because what if you end up doing all this all over again? You can't even imagine going home for the holidays and angsting over shit like this while your mom's serving Christmas dinner.

For just a second you wish you had the guts to ask Chris if he'd do this with you. To you. "I don't know," you say finally. "Maybe?"

Chris nods. "Well--when you figure it out, let me know. I'll go with you, or whatever. Just--don't keep it all inside, okay? It messes shit up." He grins when you nod. "You're still a freak, Chasez. Don't ever forget that. But it's got nothin' to do with what you like in the sack. Now c'mon, man. We're gonna shoot some hoops, and you need some fresh air."

You make a face at him. "Yeah, okay, sure. Mom." But it's nice to have him flash you another grin; you feel a lot warmer from it.

~~~~~

You've shut it away but you really can't turn it off.

The next time you look in the mirror, there are blue-and-purple crescent-moon shapes ringing your nipples, and you're glad you're at home for a few days where there's no one to share the bedroom or bathroom with you, to exclaim over the marks, or make you feel like you need to explain them.

Plus, with that not-having-to-share thing, you can scratch and pinch, though you wish...you wish for restraints. Leather. For heat that throbs through you.

Your last night home at mom and dad's you go out, trying desperately to pretend you're not going out with the express purpose of testing the 'do I like it or don't I' theory. You have the thought you maybe should wait until you're back in Orlando, when Chris can go with you--because he did offer, right?--then dismiss it. You did it the first time on your own and it wasn't so bad, was it?

Right. Because you've done nothing but obsess about stuff since it happened.

Baltimore has a pretty good clubbing district, even if you're not entirely sure what you're looking for, or hoping to find. Plus, there's the added advantage of being able to drive in and not have to worry about waiting for the metro to get home. You hit a couple of clubs, flashing your fake ID, and head in to dance until you're loosened up, the first wave of endorphins trickling into your blood. You feel flushed, awake, alive, watching all the pretty boys and girls shimmying and swaying around you. The music thumps loud and hard above you and beneath your feet, making you half-hard. The giddying thought of what you're looking for, what you might find, finishes the job. By the time you find yourself in the third club of the night, getting directions for an underground club from a guy wearing leather pants and a black mesh shirt, you're horny and vacillating between fear and anticipation.

It's harder to find, this underground thing. You circle the block twice before finding a place you can park, and the night air when you get out is refreshingly cold against your face. The address is hard to find in the dark, but after a couple false starts you find the door--unmarked and unremarkable--and head down the steps.

Inside it's dark, mostly; all black lights and murky walls, and smoke hanging in clouds. You think you smell weed, but it's hard to sort everything out. You sit down on a stool at the bar, watching the bodies writhing against each other on the dance floor. When the bartender stops in front of you, you order a Coke, figuring if you manage to go through with this, it's probably better to do it without alcohol. The soda is kind of flat and too syrupy, but it's sweet and cold against your tongue; something to ground you just a little, because you're on a stimulus overload right now, your heart thudding along with the bass beat bumping up through the stool and against your feet. You about jump out of your skin when a heavy hand lands on your shoulder, half-turning you until you slide off the stool to stand before him.

He's tall, taller than you, with a shock of blue-and-black hair, and dark, dark eyes that make you think of Chris's. Ripped, too; the shirt he's wearing shows more than it covers and his jeans are tight, worn denim. He leans in close and whisper-shouts in your ear, "Whatcha lookin' for?"

Your throat closes up over the words because this is so different from the time with her, and so different from what you imagined, you're not sure what to say. Instead you lick your lips and watch his eyes follow the movement. "Don't know," you say finally, figuring honesty is the best policy here. "Kinda new at this."

"Been here before?" The beat's changed, slowed, and the bodies on the dance floor are closer together. The guy rubs up against you, one leg moving between yours. You're not really dancing, not quite humping, and his hands hurt where he's gripping your arms, but it's cool. You close your eyes and shake your head, letting the rhythm flow into you. His voice is low and rich and makes your stomach twist a little. "You bottom?"

Bottom? Oh. The words confuse you, because you don't know what you do, or are, don't really know the terms or definitions, just what you felt. You blink up at him, and shrug. "Uh. I guess? Really new at this," you say again, then, "I like--um. I like it kinda rough."

Your guy chuckles and slides his hands from your arms to the bottom of your t-shirt, then up under it. His nails are rough, catching here and there on your skin, just little flicks of sensation, until he scratches over your nipples. They bud up hard and tight in response while you quiver; when he does it again, harder, you whimper once, swaying forward.

"Oh, yeah. You want it." He pinches again, twisting at the same time, and your dick throbs behind your fly. "C'mon, sweet thing." He licks at your neck, your ear, the words hot and rough against your skin. Everything feels prickly and not a little surreal. It's so different from her room, from the leather biting into your wrists and your back--but you feel it just the same, coiling hot and slick through you.

You lose track of what he says after that; if he tells you his name you don't remember it, and you're not sure you give him yours. He guides you further back in the building, into a small room that's blanketed with shadows. There's no door, just a curtain he yanks closed behind you, blocking what little light is there in the corridor. Something about the darkness makes it feel more real, almost too real. Tension winds through you then; a combination of uncertainty and anticipation, and the hunger that's been building in you for weeks. When he pushes you to your knees the floodgates open, heat and need pouring into you until you can't breathe, can't catch your breath for the tightness in your chest.

He tugs on your hair, moving your head around to his satisfaction, but all you feel is a sting; a sharp, tight pain moving over you, through you, into you. He's big, his dick hot and swollen and uncut, hard and soft against your lips and you nuzzle, opening when he tugs.

"Rough," he mutters, pulling again, pushing forward into your mouth and back to your throat. You can't breathe; don't want to. You wish you could drown in this, in the heat flowing around you. He takes you, fucks your mouth with long and short strokes, taking his time and going fast until your head spins from all of it. It's not what you want, not completely, but it's good to let him decide what you get, what you don't get. His breathing is sharp pants and hissing noises above you, and then there's another pair of hands on your shoulders, fingers smoothing down your arms, down your torso. Another body behind you, large and hot, holding you tight.

So hot in here, heat all around you, with the dick in your throat and hands in your hair. More heat in the hands working under your shirt and over your chest, twisting and pulling on your nipples, a rough, short bark of laughter when you moan around the cock in your mouth, moving your body into the sensation.

You choke when he comes, thick and hot and so abruptly you're not expecting it. Your eyes water and sting and you catch him with your teeth once, gagging as he pulls back. Your eyes water more when he backhands you, but what surprises you the most is the way your dick fucking leaps, throbbing to the heat across your cheekbone, to your heart pounding in your chest. Your arms are jerked behind you, caught and held by the body you can feel but haven't seen, and then your pants are torn open, rough hands pulling and stroking your dick while you watch, everything hazy and out of focus.

Orgasm pulls everything back into focus, sharp and bright, so good it's painful in its own right. Your teeth snap closed on the sounds wanting out and you taste blood even before the shock of pain where you bit your cheek registers. You arch against the pleasure, shudder when it races through you hot and hard like electrical shocks.

It hits you then: not just one guy you don't know, but two, and fuck anything could've happened. Could still happen. The career you--all of you--have been busting your balls for could've just gone down the toilet. Or worse, your life. You let them rough you up--your whole body throbs from your head to your toes. Talk about supremely stupid. You sway a little, glad you're on your knees because you think if you weren't you might fall over.

"Not a bad cocksucker," the first guy says, zipping himself up beside you. "Need to watch the teeth, though." He rubs a thumb over your cheekbone and you wince, wondering if there'll be a bruise there, come morning. You hope not, because it'll be really fucking hard to explain to make-up, not to mention the other guys. Behind you the other guy shifts and moves and you're both glad and unhappy when his heat leaves you; you feel cold all of a sudden--and this is just like the first time, with the dark and the cold, and fuck.

You wait until you don't hear either of them any more, until opaque light filters in around the half-open curtain and you can see before you stagger to your feet, your legs trembling. From sitting on them for so long, you tell yourself firmly. It's not imminent hysteria, it just isn't. You've done the hysterics and you need to get over yourself.

Standing up makes you aware of the sticky wet patch spreading across the waistband of your jeans and the bottom of your t-shirt, and that's just great. Mr. Restraints must've come all over you at some point, and it's kind of freaky and scary that you don't remember feeling it when it happened.

You're barely out the door, cold air hitting you like a shockwave, before you hit your knees, this time to throw up.

~~~~~

Of course it's Chris who picks you up at the airport. You don't have a bruise, thank God, but you think maybe you feel one there anyway, the way Chris lingers on that spot when he looks at you. Thankfully, he has Lance--also arriving from home-- in tow, so he doesn't say anything. Not that you think you'll be that lucky forever, but at least you get a reprieve.

"Have a good Christmas?" you ask, directing the question toward Lance, who's looking between you and Chris, a small frown tugging at his mouth.

"Yeah, it was good," he begins, and you lose yourself in the quiet rumble of Lance's voice, letting it wash over you. Beneath it you can still hear the bass beat of the club, and layered on that, the soft, desperate sounds you heard--made--while you were on your knees.

Chris's eyes are dark, bottomless, watching you in the rearview mirror.

~~~~~

"Dude! We're going to Miami to shoot a video!" Justin's chattering a mile a minute, with Joey's voice rising and falling over his, and after the quiet of the car makes your head hurt.

At least that's the excuse you give, modified to include not sleeping well last night, after you snap at Justin and Joey and before you apologize. You make as quick an exit as you can, hearing Justin asking "Shouldn't he be better rested after a week at home? Geez."

Lance says something about how quiet you were in the car and then it's just background noise, rising and falling behind you.

The quiet murmur of voices follows you until you close your door, and it's blessedly cool and dim in here. It smells clean, too, like fresh laundry and sunshine, no darkness anywhere and there's a part of you really wishing for a rewind button, but when would you rewind to? Before last night? Before a couple months ago?

You feel the quick knock on the door as much as you hear it, and you don't need Chris's voice calling, "JC?" to know it's him. Who else would it be? The others think you have a headache, that you're lying down.

"Yeah, c'mon in," you answer, moving away from the door. You have your shoes kicked off and you're sitting on your bed before the door actually opens, and when Chris comes in he closes it again, leaning back with his hands in his pockets. He's the picture of casual, until you look at his eyes. They're dark, like thunderclouds, all black and swirling and shifting. It's almost a relief when he stops studying you like a bug under a microscope and opens his mouth.

Almost.

"You all fucked up over shit again?"

"Nice to see you again, too," you manage, rolling your eyes.

"Dude, you suck at hiding stuff. I can see it on your face plain as day. So I ask again, are you all fucked up over shit? Because I'd rather know now when we got a couple of days to figure it out, than when we're down in Miami with a video to shoot." Chris still looks casual, unaffected, hands loose inside his pockets, body relaxed. Until you look him in the eye, at the storm brewing there.

"I don't know," you say finally, when the silence between you becomes uncomfortable. "Maybe?"

"You went out again?" He moves away from the door, finally, but then he's sitting down cross-legged on the floor in front of you, so it's nearly impossible not to look at him. Damn psych major.

Rough hands, hot body behind you, dick down your throat. Your head ached for hours last night, from having your hair pulled, from the backhanded slap, from throwing up and then dry-heaving for what seemed like forever. You nod, a quick, aborted movement, trying not to move too much because it might stir up more memories.

"So you liked it." Chris nods up at you. "I'm pretty sure you wouldn't be this messed up if you didn't like it," he adds when you frown.

You nod after a minute, figuring he's probably right.

"So if you like it," he continues, watching you closely, "then what's the problem?"

"If I knew the answer to that, don't you think I'd do something about it?" You snap the words out then close your mouth abruptly, catching your tongue between your teeth. The quick flare of pain is bright, heat flooding through you and receding almost instantly.

"Sure," Chris says slowly. "Except I think you're so busy beating yourself up--if you'll excuse the pun--over the fact that you do like it, that you're not thinking about why, or anything else. So think about it. What is it that bugs you?"

You really don't want to talk about this. "Can we do this another time? My head hurts."

"Bullshit." The word is quick, sharp, edged in steel. "Avoidance ain't gonna get you anywhere, dude." He picks at one of his cuticles for a minute. "So was it another woman? Same sort of thing, tying you up and all that?"

Again the silence draws out, long and uncomfortable, until you want to squirm against it. It's hard to remember sometimes that as hyper and over-the-top as Chris seems, he can also outwait any of you, if he thinks the payoff is going to be worth it.

"A guy," you murmur at last, the words setting off the pictures all over again. "Two, really. Sorta. One, um. Held me. While I s-sucked the other one off."

"You like being restrained." He says it so matter-of-factly that all you can do is nod. "Submission?"

"Um." You blink and shake your head slowly. "I don't think so. I mean--it wasn't like that, either time. I just. It feels--" How does it feel? Big and scary and so fucking intense you keep thinking you'll explode from it, from the sensations, even when it's just you and your memories. Fantasies. "I don't know how--to explain it," you finish weakly.

Chris shrugs. "Okay, that's cool. You like the sensations, right? Feeling stuff."

"I guess so, yeah." Rough, hard, aching, pinching, hurting until your chest burns when you breathe and your throat feels raw and your brain shuts off thinking and all you can do is feel. "Yeah."

"So, what's wrong with that?"

"I don't--" You swallow. "It's--"

"So help me, C, you say it's wrong or some shit an' I'll thump you."

You think that remark deserves a glare. "I can't help it how I was raised," you tell him. "It's not like mom or dad sat me down and said 'Hey, Josh, it's totally okay if you end up liking people holding you down and hurting you while you have sex'."

Chris mutters something under his breath that sounds kind of like pissy bitch, but you decide it's probably better if you don't know for sure.

"Is it about sex, or giving up control--no, you said submission isn't the big thing." Chris seems to be talking to himself, though he doesn't look away from you. You shrug helplessly, wishing he'd figure out the answers, tell you, then go away. "You like how it feels, right?"

"Uh. Yeah. But--"

"--you think it's wrong to like that." Chris shifts, leaning a little so he can pick at the hem of his shirt. "I got that, yeah, thanks."

"Fuck you," you mutter, heading pounding and definitely not in the hurts-so-good way. You close your eyes against it, hoping that'll help. "Seriously, my head hurts. Can we talk more later?" Never would be even better, but that's too much to hope for.

"'Scuse me for wanting to help a friend out." There's a long moment of quiet until you open your eyes, wondering if Chris just disappeared from the room. He's watching you, attention focused on you so acutely you can feel it creeping along your skin. Goosebumps rise up in response, and you reach out to rub your hands up and down your arms. "Let's go out tonight," he says finally.

"Tonight?" You repeat the word, not really understanding, and say it again when Chris nods. "Tonight--go out, what, clubbing?"

"Or something." His gaze holds yours, until you look away. "Not a dance club."

Oh. That kind of clubbing. You nod once, the knot in your stomach back instantly from too much anticipation mixed with dread. If nothing else, maybe going out with Chris will get you past this, because you can't live like this.

~~~~~

Chris knows people who know people who know things. Like where to find a club catering to very specific desires.

The club is huge and labyrinth-like, or it might just be you feeling completely overwhelmed. There's three levels, one of which is underground--which you didn't realize was even possible in Florida. There are private rooms and public rooms, and a bar, though all they serve is non-alcoholic drinks. There's even a shop, tucked away into one corner of the main floor, so understated you would've missed it if Chris hadn't pointed it out.

"Carmen told me that's for people who come to see what it's all about, and end up staying to play, and need stuff," he says quietly. You nod, not sure what you should say; not sure what you could say.

You stop by one of the public rooms where a woman is clinging to a pillar, or something, with a man whipping her. Your stomach churns, twists, and you swallow a couple of times before you realize it's envy you're feeling. Not fear or disgust. Envy.

You wander around for a bit, watching people interact, trying to figure out what you want. Who you want. Who might want you. A couple of women catch your eye and you exchange smiles, though nothing else, and one guy who scares the bejesus out of you with the gleam in his eye comes into your personal space, telling you he'd like to hurt you if you want. You thank him and back away as quickly as possible. Chris disappears for a little while, blending in with the shadows and leather; when he reappears he beckons you toward him, and then on to the bar area, where he orders both of you bottles of water.

You stand shoulder-to-shoulder with him, still watching, trying to pretend this is just another night out on the town, hanging out with Chris.

"This isn't working," you say finally, leaning in closer to Chris. "I just--it's not." You stop and shake your head, not sure you know how to say what you're feeling. The intention was a good one, but this really was a phenomenally bad idea.

"You want to go home?" Chris's voice is mild, unaffected, and if he were anyone else you might think he didn't care one way or the other. But it's Chris, and he's just. Different.

"I don't know." You shrug, wishing you knew what you wanted. "I just--just picking someone up, it's--" Last night, god just last night, flashes through your head again. So good, so bad. So fucking anonymous. "I don't want to not...know them," you finish, hands windmilling a little. There's a woman watching you, eyes moving over you like a caress. It's kind of like being on stage, but not, and it makes you shiver.

Chris is silent for a minute, then tips his head casually. "I don't know about the not knowing thing, C. That's--what happens when you pick up someone you've never met before." He frowns then, and looks at you. "How is this different than picking someone up just to get laid?"

You think about it for a minute, then admit, "I don't know. It just is."

"You're not gonna find anyone here that isn't going to start out a stranger." Chris looks around the room slowly before turning back toward you, eyes dark and unreadable. "Except me."

For just a minute you think you heard wrong, but no, Chris is still staring intently at you, and you can't decide if he's serious, or giving you a way out, or what. You shake your head and try to get a grip on some of the words and letters flitting around inside your head.

"You--Chris. I don't, I mean--" Great. You lick your lips, resisting the urge to chew on the bottom one, and try again. "You're not...serious...are you?" Because he looks pretty fucking serious, actually. The knot of terror in your stomach unwinds, replaced by a coil of confusion and uncertainty and something else you can't name. For all the flirting the two of you have done off and on, you've never allowed yourself to think maybe anything would come of it.

"Well," he says, tipping his head slightly to the left, like he's studying you, "it would solve the anonymous stranger issue." His voice is light, calm; the polar opposite of the storm you see in his eyes.

"But you don't--" This whole conversation is just too weird, and your throat closes up over the words, sealing them inside you. You swallow roughly. "Do you?"

Chris smiles at you, though it's not his usual self-assured, cocky grin. "I could. If you want. If it would help--and not fuck things up."

Would it? Maybe, but you have no idea. You shrug awkwardly. "I don't know. If it would fuck things up, I mean." Really, how could it not? It's probably the ultimate in bad ideas to even consider it, but now that the idea is there-- "Um. Here?"

"We'd have to. Or get, uh, a hotel room." Chris looks away briefly, then back at you. "Not really something I want to do back at home."

Oh, god. You'd kind of blanked that for a minute. You snort, caught between amusement and horror. "Dude, I wouldn't even have--could you imagine getting laid, and having Justin or Lance banging on your door hollering for you to be quiet?"

Chris grimaces. "That's exactly what I'm imagining, actually. And did you want…" He trails off, looking away again, before turning to face you straight on, crowding into your personal space.

You want to take a step back and shift reflexively to do that, but you still when his hand lands on your arm, holding you. He's hot as a furnace and it makes your skin goosebump all over, tremors rippling through you.

"The other times you've done this, you're--um. You get laid, too. Do you want to do--that? This time?"

There isn't enough air in here all of a sudden, and the spot where his hand is still clamped onto you burns, each finger red-hot, sizzling on your skin. Your brain freezes, no words available, and you find yourself nodding before you really think it through.

Chris's eyes darken, almost all pupil in the dim light, and he leans in a little closer. "Then let's do it."

~~~~~

It's a small, private room, and it's quiet enough in here you think you can hear your heart beating. You know you can't really, but it feels like it's going to pound out of your chest.

A soft rustling makes you turn to see Chris coming back through the door, a half-smile turning his mouth up at one corner. He has a bag in one hand and his jacket in the other and even though you've seen him almost every day for the last year and a half, it seems like you're seeing him for the first time. Small, slim, but with an attitude that makes him seem a lot bigger. Chris can take up an entire room just by the sheer force of his presence, and right now he's making the already small room seem a lot smaller. But he smiles at you, just a quick quirk of his lips, eyes warm and accepting, and everything recedes--including the panic you hadn't realized was growing, until it's gone--going back to normal.

Well, as normal as anything is likely to get from here on out, anyway.

It's horribly awkward after that smile, because you don't know what to do. Or say. You know what you want to do, and what you want Chris to do, but there's some sort of breakdown between your brain thinking it and making your body move to do it. You're a half a second away from telling Chris to forget it when he steps forward and grabs you, fingers biting into your shoulder, tugging you down toward him. You're still trying to process what it is he's doing or going to do, when his mouth brushes over yours.

He tastes faintly sweet, his tongue slick and hot against yours. The kiss steals your breath away, overwhelming in its intensity, his whole attention focused on you, on kissing you. It's not tender or uncertain; he kisses like he's been thinking about it for a while, thinking about kissing you for a while. His breath is moist against your skin where he trails his mouth across your jaw, up to your ear. "Gonna hurt you so good, C," he mutters quietly, and you shudder violently, fingers clutching at his arms.

There isn't any of the tension you felt with the others before. You still feel the pressure of should I or shouldn't I, but even that isn't as strong.

Chris turns you around, pressing you against the wall. His fingers tickle lightly when he strokes down your side, then up under your shirt, drawing it up and over your head. You try to turn back toward him but he has a good hold on your wrists, pinning them to the wall. You consider struggling, but why? This is what you want, right?

"Tell me," Chris whispers, breath warm against your skin, the words slipping inside your ear to tickle there. "Tell me if you don't want this."

Too late for that, you think. "I--I do," you say, the words leaving on a rush of air. "Want you. It." You're already half-hard, warm arousal trickling through you, winding its way slowly, lazily. "Please," you add in a whisper. "Chris."

"Shh. Yeah." He bites you, just below your ear, teeth scoring gently, then harder. It stings, then throbs, when he sucks hard on the bite; when he pulls away you can feel your pulse right there, right in that spot. He does it again, a different spot this time, the bite harder, the suction longer. A third bite makes you moan softly, your cock throbbing between your legs in time with the bites.

"Don't move," Chris says again, low, words breathed onto your skin. You miss his heat when he pulls away, but you don't move. Instead you close your eyes and feel the liquid heat bubbling inside you, feel each spot he's touched so far, each place he's marked.
You listen inside yourself and it's peaceful, calm. Behind you is quiet rustling as Chris moves around the room, but there's no distraction from what you feel inside.

"Ready?" Chris's voice is a soft murmur right in your ear and you nod, breathing in the words, his scent, everything around you. His hands are warm against your skin when he circles your wrist, and the cuff he attaches feels...right. Feels good. Like a caress that doesn't stop and right now you need it to not stop.

There are hooks above your head and Chris attaches the cuffs, straining to reach up. Your breath catches at the same time the hooks catch, and it's like the last bit of residual tension just flows out of you, leaving you completely relaxed and ready, anticipation thrumming through you.

Chris hums something under his breath, a tune you can't quite place, then don't care if you can because his fingers close around your nipples, tugging and twisting until all you can feel is the not-quite-pleasure, not-quite-pain. His teeth score your neck again, each bite echoing in the throb of your nipples, hot and tender beneath Chris's touch. You whimper a little when he draws away from you, and squeeze your eyes shut so you can feel each pulse as it moves through you.

There's a quiet shuffling behind you before Chris touches you again, fingers rubbing roughly over your nipples once more, pulling and pinching until you're nothing but a quivering mess, trying to anticipate the next touch, moaning as the sensation builds in you.

"Deep breath," Chris murmurs in your ear, a split second before electricity jolts through you, sharp and bright like the clamp biting into tender, engorged flesh. You draw the breath a moment too late, feel it catch in your throat and stutter into your chest. When you let it out it hisses through your teeth, a soft whine that reverberates around you.

The next clamp is still a shock, but you're ready for it. Ready for the sharp bite that feels like metal teeth grabbing and holding. When you tip your head to try and see, Chris grabs your hair, pulls your head back, twisting you just enough to kiss you all wet and messy, a sloppy kiss that still curls your toes.

You growl when he pulls on the fine metal chain between the clamps. Each tug pulls your nipple out, tightens the clamps, until all you can feel are twin spots of icy-hot pain that radiate outward, further and further, each time your heart beats.

Chris slides his other hand down your belly to rub against your fly. Your dick feels hard as a brick behind it, each press of his hand or fingers exquisite torture. You shimmy your hips, trying to wiggle forward to get more friction and each time you do he backs away, the prick-tease.

"God, you're hot," he says, the words low and thick like they're hard for him to get out. He presses against you and you feel his dick rubbing into you. It's enough to make your dick just fucking leap, throbbing hard behind your jeans like it's going to push its way out.

"Please," you moan, the word hardly more than sound with a little enunciation. "Chris, please--"

You feel him smile against your neck before he whispers into your ear, "You're pretty when you're begging."

But it's enough that he tugs on the buttons of your jeans; each one pops open easily until there's nothing between you and Chris but air. His fingers feel really good on your skin, hot but cool, little whispers of friction. Just enough to tease you almost senseless, until you're snapping your hips forward, a desperate whine coming from low in your throat.

"Chris--I need--"

"More?" The word is a bite to your neck, a quick flick of the hand on the chain between your nipples and the hand teasing your dick. You stutter something you think might be yes, trying to figure out what more might be when white-hot pain shrieks through your body, setting your nerves on fire along with your chest. Chris swears low, rough, moving away from you then around beside you. "JC--Jesus, I'm sorry."

You look down, half afraid to but afraid not to look. You're expecting to see blood--your nipple feels raw--but all you see is the chain dangling, and your nipple looking red and swollen.

"That hurt," you start, twisting now against the cuffs. You like rough, like some pain--and thought you were doing pretty good with the building. But that was too much, too fast--and not intentional, you don't think, judging by the expression on Chris's face.

"I know, I'm sorry. I pulled too hard. I didn't mean for it to come off--" He looks guilty, or ashamed, and you laugh, caught between hysterics and understanding.

"It's. I didn't think, I mean, I know you're not like some...S-and-M master, Chris." The worst of it is past now; your nipple still hurts and you can feel your pulse there in your chest, but it feels like a small sun has lodged there, too. Warmth rolls through you, warmth that builds when Chris leans in and licks over the small nub, drawing it into his mouth. You gasp, not sure if it hurts or feels good, balanced somewhere in between.

Your dick throbs between your legs, letting you know that even if you're not sure, your body is.

"I'm not. Anywhere near a master. And I think we need to talk." Chris mutters the words against your chest, your throat, your mouth. His hands cup your face, holding you still for his kiss, though you're still cuffed; you couldn't move if you wanted to.

"Mmm." You let yourself just take the kiss. It adds as much heat to your body as the waves of pain from a few minutes ago which have calmed into curls of heat, slow and rich as they move through you. "Not now," you add, when Chris breaks off kissing you. "Chris. Not now," you say again when he looks at you, his eyes dark and unreadable. "Later. After--"

Chris's fingers are warm against your face and you turn your head to nuzzle. "You still want--. You want more?"

"Yeah." You breathe the word out, stomach clenching when Chris nods.

He kisses you one more time then steps away, trailing fingers down your side that end in a quick smack to your ass. "But we talk afterward. Before we do this again."

Whoa. That's--whoa. You blink a couple of times, processing that, then nod. Chris moves out of your line of sight while you're thinking about again. When you hear the quiet rustling of a plastic bag you realize he's getting something else.

You sense Chris behind you again, maybe the heat of his body so close to yours? One minute he's not there and then he is, dragging something soft up and down your back.

"Flogger," Chris says softly. "Like what you described from your first time."

"Oh--"

The first smack isn't even really a smack; it's more of a caress against your skin, just enough to tease you. There are enough of the teasing caresses to make your skin tingle and you're clenching your fists, trying to move back into the touches, to get more.

"Hang on," Chris says, and the next time the flogger falls it's more of a blow, less of a tease. Another, and another, and you lose count then, getting lost instead in the ripples of heat starting to zigzag across your skin. You twist into the strokes, a low whine rising from your throat when they burn.

Your shoulders and upper back are on fire when Chris pauses. You can hear him panting behind you, breath hot and moist against your neck when he leans in closer. You have only a moment to realize how close he is before he's pressing on the streaks of heat, fingers sliding over each one like he's mapping out the pattern he made. You whimper and arch away, then back, breath hissing through your teeth when the pressure increases.

"Does it hurt?" Chris presses the words into the streaks of heat over your left shoulder blade and you flinch, tensing and then relaxing.

"Yeah."

"You like it?" More caresses, then he's walking his fingers over your back, rubbing at the heat.

You shudder, wishing he would touch somewhere else, like your dick. "God, yes."

It feels kind of like a revelation: it hurts, but you want it--and more importantly, you like it.

Chris kisses your shoulder, his mouth hot on top of hot. "Want more?"

You feel dizzy from all the back and forth of emotions and sensations. Chris nuzzles at a spot on your back, tracing a slice of heat with his mouth and you suck in a breath of air.

"I want. I want you," you say finally, the last word more a whisper than anything else.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." Another kiss, Chris's mouth hot and wet, creating another spiral of need inside you.

You feel him inhale, hear the hesitation in his voice. "Can I fuck you?"

Oh, God. Oh, God. You weren't expecting that. Yes? No? Your stomach tightens with excitement, with need and nerves. You're aware of Chris's dick pressed against your ass; aware he's ready, waiting. You swallow and nod, then push the word out. "Y-yeah."

"You sure?" He's warm against your back. Almost too warm; it makes the stripes from the flogger sting.

"Uh-huh." Chris slides his hand down your belly and you bump your hips forward, your dick nudging against it. "See?"

He gives you a friendly squeeze, making you grunt. "Dork."

You chuff out a laugh, quivering a little when Chris laughs along with you, shirt rubbing almost uncomfortably against your back. In all the different scenarios in your head, you never imagined you'd be able to admit liking this...and you really never imagined you might have fun with it, too.

"You gonna let me stand here all night, or you gonna fuck me?"

"Pushy." But Chris moves to unhook your wrists. He rubs them after taking the cuffs off you, and flashes you a grin. "I like that in a guy."

"Lucky for you, then." You feel dizzy again, bouncing between aroused, excited and amused.

"Yeah, lucky for me." Usually Chris is like a hyperactive two-year-old on a sugar/caffeine high, but tonight? He's a revelation all on his own.

He's slow and steady, taking his time kissing and touching you and you feel like you're going to explode if you don't hurry up now.

You'll have to be honest and tell Chris--sometime, not now--that part of your attention is still focused on your back. It's warm and throbbing and there's something about it drawing you in, making everything around you go a little soft the longer Chris presses and rubs and touches. When the backs of your knees hit the mattress Chris pushes you back and the fabric of the sheet is scratchy, kind of hard, against hyper-sensitive skin. Rubbing against it makes your head swim and your skin crawl in a way that makes you feel like you're really feeling for the first time ever.

Your jeans are gone before you even process Chris taking them off. Then all you do is blink and Chris is naked against you, his mouth on your dick.

You shout wordlessly and arch up, blood surging through your body. He sucks you in, lets you slide out of his mouth, and then his mouth is gone. You whimper and shift to reach for him, but Chris is quicker, slipping to his knees in front of you while pushing on the backs of your legs.

There's no air in the room to breathe when you feel his tongue touch right there. He licks over the muscle, pushing at your hole with the tip of his tongue over and over until you're reaching for your legs, trying to spread yourself as wide as possible. You'd heard...you knew people did this, but holy God.

You miss it, Jesus, when Chris pulls back, wiping at his mouth. You're pretty sure you'll be embarrassed by your whimper later, but there's no time to worry about it right now because there's a quiet tearing noise and you lean up to see Chris rolling a rubber down over his erection.

"Ever done this before?" he asks quietly, moving in between your legs.

You nod, breath catching when he presses slick fingers against you and then into you.

"Once," you say, choking on the word, then on nothing when he shifts and pushes, breaching you. It burns, one more sharp slice of heat to meld with the rest already coursing through you. Twice now, you think, tensing against the pain.

"Relax," Chris mumbles. "Breathe out."

You don't think it's going to work; it hurts and you're tense, tight, your back and ass on fire. Then something shifts, or you relax, and you can breathe again and Chris is inside you and God, you're so full. You squeeze around him and he groans, shifting up a little for leverage.

Each thrust in burns in a hurts-so-good way. Chris's weight pressing you to the mattress makes you aware of each stripe crossing your back. You clutch at Chris, fingers digging into his shoulders and push up to meet his thrusts, letting yourself float into the soft, colored haze filling your mind.

Salt touches your mouth; a drop of sweat from Chris's forehead. When you look up, there's more, a couple of drops sliding wildly down the side of his face and you want to taste them, have to taste them. You lick up the sweat drops and pull him closer--so awkward, like this--to kiss him, remembering only after you're biting at his mouth where he's had his mouth recently.

"Dude," he gasps, when you let go of him. "You--"

"Shut up," you mutter, cupping his head again. His hair is pricklysoft against your fingers and you realize every inch of your skin feels sensitized and aware. "It's cool."

You kiss him again, wet and sloppy, and snake a hand down in between the two of you to stroke your dick.

He's rougher then, thrusts becoming harder, faster, rocking you into the mattress. You jack yourself awkwardly, not able to get quite enough speed or friction, though it never stops feeling good. Chris is close though, you think; he has his eyes screwed shut, his face twisted up like it hurts but feels really good, too. You know how that feels.

Chris is silent and mostly still when he comes, thrusting hard once, then straining as his hips jerk just a little. He grunts once, but it's like he's holding his breath, everything quiet inside him so he can feel it all. You feel the pulses of his dick throbbing inside you and then the air is pushed out of you when Chris falls forward onto your chest.

He moves immediately when you yelp, rolling to the side and curling against you. Then he shifts, going down on you, his mouth hot and wet, with incredible suction. You buck up helplessly, groaning when he slides three fingers deep inside you. This is so much better than a hand job, and you wish it was possible to get fucked and get head all at the same time.

Orgasm hits you hard and fast, your body squeezing tight around Chris's fingers while your dick pulses in his throat. He swallows around you, fingers working in and out of you until you're done coming. It feels like it lasts forever and is over in a moment, like time stops. Your vision is spotty, with streaks of red and silver every time you turn your head, so you decide the best thing to do for now is just lay there.

Obviously Chris agrees with that strategy, too; he hasn't moved, other than to strip the condom off, since you came. He's lying beside you, chest still heaving a little and you move enough to poke him in the side.

"Somebody needs more exercise," you murmur. He raises an eyebrow at you and you smile. "Winded after a little fucking?"

He grins at you. "Fuck you, Chasez. And if that's a 'little fucking' in your book, we'll have to try for bigger and better next time."

There's that 'next time' thing again. Just the idea--your stomach flips around before settling again, leaving you feeling a little off-balance. You roll toward Chris, watching his expression turn from playful to serious. Your mouth is really dry, and it takes a couple of times swallowing before you can make the words come out.

"You'd--do this again? Want to?"

"Yeah, I do. If you want to?" You're not sure you can say Chris looks nervous, as such--Chris rarely seems to be nervous about anything. But there's something in his eyes that disappears when you nod.

"I do."

"All of it?"

"Um." You bite your lip, then shrug. "Maybe not the--the flogger, the pain stuff, all the time. But, uh. Yeah?"

The smile is back. "Cool." He pokes you in the side, not quite a caress and just shy of a tickle. "Still gotta talk about stuff."

"My brain's dead, cat. Get back to me after I sleep a while."

"Yeah." Chris yawns and stretches, and you wriggle, watching him shudder through a full-body stretch. "We can't sleep here. Need to head out pretty quick."

"Uh-huh." You lean in and kiss him quickly. "Um. Thanks. For this stuff."

He gives a one-sided shrug. "You're not angsting over shit any more, so that right there? That's good."

You snort and wiggle your fingers down his side. "Asshole."

"Dickhead." He tickles back so you have to retaliate, and you scuffle for a few minutes before you both flop back onto the bed, panting a little, the tickle match a draw.

No, you don't want this all the time, but you definitely want it again.

And definitely with Chris.

~fin~