Chapter Text
“Fuuuuuck.”
That’s the plan, darling, you think, resisting the urge to give voice to your words. The man beneath you trembles as you press inside, the thick tip of your strap-on stretching him wide. You run a soothing hand down the length of his back, paying no mind to the countless little nicks and cuts, silvery scars and fresher, deep red marks littering every inch of his body in a violent patchwork.
It isn’t the first time that he has visited you. Despite his repeated patronage, you know better than to ask questions that you don’t want the answers to. Answers that might make your time and company seem less like a little luxury — an occasional indulgence, if you will — and more like a risk where the pay-off no longer seems worth the reward.
“Language,” you remind him, voice firm yet sweet. It’s always such a delicate balancing act with Tangerine. You know what he likes by now, yet getting him to the stage where he’s willing to surrender and give in to those desires is always an uphill battle. Still, it’s more than worth it. Between what he pays for a night of your time and that pretty face of his when he does finally surrender, you would happily allow him more leeway than you would the majority of your clients.
He doesn’t apologise, though no more swear words fall from his lips. For Tangerine, that is tantamount to an apology in itself. You squeeze his hip gently, one hand slipping beneath him to press against his lower stomach, just above where he wants you to touch him the most. You are careful not to allow the lightest of touches to his cock; that isn’t what he needs right now. And all of this? At its core, is Tangerine trusting you to know what he needs.
“Nice and steady for me now, baby. I want you to focus on the sensations of me filling you. Of me sliding deep inside and owning you completely. Can you do that for me?” you ask, already knowing the answer he will give. He nods, the words too much for him to say. You still your hips, holding your position just inside of his aching, stretched-wide hole. He lets out a low, frustrated grunt, trying desperately to push his hips back. Your hand leaves his stomach, skimming up the length of his torso to his chest to twist, sharp and cruel against the delicate pink buds — first one, then the other. A fresh stream of curses fall from his lips.
You both know that he has no hope of moving in this position — in any of the positions that you like to put him in — yet he always tries. Today, he’s on his hands and knees in the centre of the bed, in a hotel room that costs more per night than most people earn in a week. He always picks a room with a view of the city. You would think that he likes to watch the skyline as dusk turns into night and the city lights begin to fill the horizon, but he rarely has his eyes free to appreciate the view. Perhaps he picks it for your enjoyment.
A familiar black blindfold covers his eyes, the silk of his tie — dark blue tonight, with a garish pattern of Louis Vuitton logos covering every inch of it — wrapped secretly beneath it, so as not to allow so much as a hint of light below. His wrists are cuffed at the centre of his back, thick black leather cuffs encasing them. A long, broad strap runs down the length of his back, attached to a thick collar around his neck. It’s not as elegant as you think he deserves, not as pretty as you would like to see him bound, but it’s durable and, more importantly, it’s what he asked for. If he tries to move his wrists, to pull his arms apart, to leave the position you have put him in, the collar on his neck will begin to tighten. He knows better than to struggle when he’s bound like this. That doesn’t always stop him.
His chest is pressed against the sheets, his backside raised in silent offering to you. A spreader bar — the metal thick and durable more than designed for pleasing aesthetics — keeps his ankles wide apart. You perch between his spread thighs, watching the way he trembles with need and want and desire he doesn’t want to acknowledge, that he cannot bear the thought of giving name to, and yet so desperately needs, you can practically taste it on him.
“I want to hear you say the words, baby. Good boys ask nicely. Or don’t you want to be my good boy tonight?” you ask, fingers finally releasing Tangerine’s abused nipple from your grasp. Before he can say a word, your hand trails across to the opposite nipple, repeating the same treatment. It wouldn’t do to leave one alone while the other already looks so pretty and pink, puffy from your rough touches.
He resists, as you knew he would. He always does. He’s not so different from your other clients in his predictability, though you are sure he would hate to hear you say that.
“Tangerine.” Your voice sounds sharper now, a hint of warning beneath your tone. It is one thing to be a little bratty. It’s quite another to be disrespectful. He tenses beneath you, back rippling, arsecheeks flexing as he fights with himself. His hands clench and unclench into fists, the line of leather pulling taunt against the collar around his neck.
You wonder if he will surrender today. He doesn’t always. Some nights, he cannot face it, and instead ends up curled with his head in your lap as you run your fingers through his hair. Other nights, he decides to change things up, to pin you down by your hips and press his face between your legs until you’re sobbing and left feeling like you should be the one paying him. And other nights still, he cannot bear to be in the same room with you once he considers himself to have failed, instead leaving without a backwards glance, a thick stack of notes left on the bedside table.
“Please.” There’s no little pet names. No further words. Just one single, broken plea. He sounds so tired as he says it. You could never deny him — not when he sounds like that.
You slip your hand down to press against his lower stomach, holding him in place, the other holds his hip steady, more for your own benefit than his. You press your hips forward, flexing, teasing and promising all in one.
“Thank you for asking so nicely, baby. I know it’s hard to ask for what you need. Such a good boy for me. That kind of behaviour deserves a reward. You don’t need to think anymore. All you need to do is lay there and take what I have to give.”
The words flow from you, easy and practised, yet with him, you mean every one of them. There’s something about him — an almost old-school charm beneath the bravado — that you don’t get to see often. Had you met him any other way… but you know that’s a foolish thought. Had you met him any other way, the two of you wouldn’t be here, now, with your strap-on halfway into his deliciously tight arse, his face pressed against the sheets, and breathy, relieved gasps falling from his lips.
You slide in slowly, careful not to take things too quick. The toy you have selected for him tonight is thicker than you usually use for him, but you had seen the way his eyes lingered on it last time you were together and he managed to sneak a look into your bag of tricks. Nearly nine inches long, it’s as thick as three of your fingers. While the shape is realistic and aesthetically pleasing, the colour is a deep, vibrant green. Something about it seemed to draw his eye. You will have to see if you can find cuffs to match next time as a little treat. He would look so pretty in green.
By the time you are a little over halfway inside, he is panting. You pause to press against his lower stomach and groin, thumb rubbing soothing patterns against the smooth skin. You can feel his muscles tensing beneath you, flexing and clenching as he struggles to let you in. You asked him once before if he would rather you spend longer prepping him, but he had refused. He likes to feel the burn of being stretched wide. The deep-seated ache that can only come from muscles being parted in such a way.
Your hand grips his hip tightly enough to leave bruises. You wonder if he will even notice them. There’s a dark watercolour of black-purple-green across his back, trailing down to the curve of his hip. You wonder how on earth he managed to sustain such an injury. It almost looks as though he must have fallen, or landed painfully on something perhaps, yet none of his movements had given hint to such an injury when he had arrived and began stripping his suit off in his usual methodical manner. It must hurt, yet he doesn’t make a sound as you press against it with featherlight fingertips. You grow more bold, pushing harder, wanting to hear him make some noise, any noise. He doesn’t seem to feel anything other than the intrusion splitting him in two.
As your hips finally rest against his backside, you allow him another moment to adjust. He shifts impatiently beneath you. You don’t allow that to hurry you. The anticipation is half of the fun.
There’s a fresh mark on his throat that wasn’t there before. Seeing it had given you pause. Putting a collar anywhere near that hadn’t seemed like a good idea. Tangerine had not been impressed when you had tried saying so. You hadn’t wanted to budge. Neither had he.
You hoped that your compromise — a soft layer of extra padding in the form of a bandage slipped between the collar and his skin — would be enough to stop any real damage. And if you had made sure to tighten his restraints extra tight to ensure that there could be no wriggling that would put undue pressure there? Well, that way just you doing a thorough job.
“Fuck. Fuck.” The words fall from his lips between panting breaths, drawing your attention.
“Colour?”
He freezes beneath you. He hates it when you ask him this.
The sound of flesh hitting flesh rings throughout the room, a faint red mark beginning to glow on his backside. You never hit him hard enough to leave marks — you aren't entirely sure that you could even if he wanted you to — but the sound alone is enough to draw his attention and force him into action.
“Green,” he bites out. You rub a soothing hand against the red mark in silent thanks.
“Good boy.”
Time slips by you in a blur. Hips moving in slow, teasing patterns, you shift toward to press your hand between his shoulder blades, resting your weight there as you fuck down into him hard and fast, his hole making sloppy, wet noises beneath you. You pull back to tease at his rim, the mushroom tip of your strapon circling the puffy red hole until he’s whining for it, desperate for you to sink back inside.
His back glistens with sweat. No more swear words come, though a litany of pleas now fall from his lips between gasps and groans and moans. Through it all, you do not once touch the desperate, pulsing need between his legs. He’s hard and ready, a single touch liable to set him off. But where would the fun be in that?
“Such a good boy. You take me so well, baby. Do you think you can come like this? Come with nothing but my cock in your arse and your face pressed against the sheets like the wanton little slut that you are?”
You can tell he’s so close. Desperately so. He’s sobbing against the sheets now, blindfold soaked, a wet patch of precome staining the sheets. He’s close, but he can’t quite tip over the edge. Not without a helping hand. Not without a little push. And certainly not without permission.
“This is all you need, isn’t it? You just need someone to take charge and fuck you like you deserve. I bet you wouldn’t even know what to do with me if you had me gift-wrapped in cuffs and a bow, would you? No, this is more on your level. Face down, arse up, ready for anyone passing by to use you for their own pleasure.”
Blanketing his back, you push in as deep as you can go, grinding down against his prostate. He jerks beneath you, fighting the urge to move without permission. You reach up to grab his bound wrists, pulling on them, tugging them down and away. You hear the way he gasps into the sheets, his airway slowly constricting. You reach up with your other hand, fingers tangling in dark, sweat-soaked curls, wrenching his head back as far as you can. Hips moving faster, you drive in hard and deep, pressing against that one spot guaranteed to make him see stars, grinding mercilessly against it. He sobs, breath coming in gasping pants.
“Come.”
You feel every muscle below you tensing, his whole body taunt, as his cock begins pulsing. Your hand remains in place, tugging at the cuffs, keeping the pressure on his neck constant as he rides the first wave of his orgasm. Your hips circle, pressing into him, keeping up the pressure against his prostate mercilessly. It seems to go on for an eternity. The noises that he makes have you pressing your thighs together, your own need pulsing, slick slowly dripping down your thighs. This isn’t about you. Not yet. But you know that you will get your turn soon enough.
You let go of his wrists as he finally goes lax beneath you, body spent. You milk the last aftershocks from him, teasingly pulling back before pressing forward, making him shudder and jolt beneath you. Nothing beats seeing him like this. Finally relaxed and pliant beneath your hands.
You allow him a moment to lay there, blissed out and fucked out, while you begin removing your strapon and harness. You wonder if today will be one of the days where he falls asleep, relaxed and happy, or if he will still need more.
Padding across to the bathroom you fetch a washcloth and an unopened bottle of water, making sure to leave it sealed until he can watch you open it. You take a moment to straighten your hair in the mirror, to splash water on your flushed cheeks. You’re careful to leave the door open so you can hear every movement from the room beyond.
By the time you return, his breathing has evened out, but he’s still awake. You turn the low lights off fully, leaving the room bathed in nothing but the glow of the cityscape beyond the windows. You murmur soft warnings as you begin to remove his blindfold first, then the tie beneath. Both are soaked through with his tears.
You smile at him gently, cupping the sharp lines of his cheeks as he blinks blue eyes open, squinting against the light. He looks relaxed, but not as fucked-out as you had expected. Whatever it is that drives him back into your arms again and again must be taking its toll on him. Luckily, you know just how to handle that.
“Look at you,” you say softly, thumb tracing the line of his cheekbone. He looks up at you, eyes not completely unfocused yet still more relaxed than he had been when he arrived. You smile down at him, giving him a moment to speak up. To share his colour. He licks his lips and says nothing. A grin flashes across your own lips before you school your features into something more acceptable. You know that he doesn’t miss the momentary lapse as the corners of his lips twitch upwards in amusement.
You hold up the water bottle, silently showing him the unbroken seal before you open it, pressing it carefully to your own lips to let him see you drink. You hold it out again in silent offering. This time he accepts.
“There’s my good boy. Now, things can go one of two ways. I can untie you and I can help loosen up all of those knots in your back,” you say, knowing that a good massage is one of his preferred aftercare activities. “Or you can be a very good boy for me and help clean up the mess that you made.”
A soft, confused noise leaves his lips. He’s imagining you making him lick up his own mess you’re sure — something you have only done once, and that he made a point of asking you not to repeat. You take a step back from the bed, widening your stance. Fingers trail between your legs, a single digit teasingly running through the slick wetness between your lips.
His eyes darken, tongue darting out to wet his lips. You can already picture it; leaving him bound like this, your hands tangling in his hair, forcing his face between your thighs as you chase your own pleasure against his tongue and teeth and lips. You wonder if he can beat his record for how many times he can make you come in one night. You think that tonight might be the night to try again.
“Shall—” As the words begin to leave your mouth, you register a faint buzzing. You frown, eyes darting to your scattered toys. You can’t see any of your vibrators going off. “One moment.”
You make your way to the neatly folded pile of your street clothes, checking your phone. No new messages, no missed calls. Still, the buzzing continues. You turn your gaze to the neatly hung suit on the front of the wardrobe door, and to the pile of his things on the dresser besides. Rings and a money clip and not one, but two phones. Both of which are buzzing.
“Someone’s been a bad boy.” You glance back at Tangerine. “Should I answer either of those for you? Or would you prefer to ignore them?” It’s not a choice you would usually offer your clients. You expect a certain level of respect during your sessions. That includes no phones left on at any time. It’s not a rule Tangerine has ever broken before. Perhaps, you think, it might be something important?
“Bring it here. What’s it say on the screen?” Gone is the sweet, floating headspace from moments earlier. Tangerine is back to the hard, sharp man that arrived in your hotel room hours earlier. Irritation and disappointment rise in your chest. You worked hard to help him relax that much. Seeing him lose that easy softness in moments almost feels like a physical blow. You pick both up, glancing between the screens. One stops ringing.
“One of them just stopped. It says three missed calls?” you say, glancing between the two devices. “The other has a picture of a… yellow circle emoji? No, is that a lemon?” You frown down at the still-vibrating phone.
“Bring it here! Answer it,” he snaps.
You raise an eyebrow at him, footsteps faltering. You level him with an unimpressed look.
“Manners, Tangerine. Or is that a lesson that needs repeating?” All of your boys know better than to speak to you rudely. You aren’t about to begin making exceptions — not even for clients as pretty as Tangerine.
“Just bloody answer it! He knows not to call unless it’s an emergency. Answer it or get me out of these bloody things,” he demands, hands tugging fruitlessly behind him.
Gaze travelling over the length of him, you take in the sharp set of his jaw, the worried creases around his eyes, and the strain of cuffs creaking around his wrists. It’s almost as if he’s trying to genuinely break out of his restraints to try and get to his phones. As leather creaks again — these are one of your strongest sets of cuffs; there should be no way for him to make them make that particular noise — your mind is made up.
You close the distance between you quickly. You press to accept the call, balancing the phone between his ear and shoulder for him, before crawling onto the bed behind him to begin undoing the restraints. There will be time enough later to remind him of the rules.
Focusing on the task at hand, you do your best to tune out Tangerine’s brusque words, the sharp swearwords and underlying displeasure dripping from his voice. You still manage to pick up something about work and some kind of bug before you have his wrists undone. You move to his ankles without a word, even as he twists in place to sit up and begin removing the hanging cuff one-handed.
You don’t look up as you hear his call come to an end. You can feel his eyes on you, watching as you work without a word.
The moment is gone, and he’s back to business. You won’t be getting your chance to come tonight. At least not with his help, you think, already planning which of your toys you will use the moment that he leaves.
“How much of that did you hear?” There’s a stillness to him that unsettles you. You know that what you say next is going to be important, one way or another.
You meet his gaze unflinchingly, hands loosely resting against your thighs. You don’t make sudden movements around men like Tangerine. It’s never a good idea, but even less so when they are on edge.
“Something about a bug?” You shrug. “If it isn’t happening in this room, Tangerine, it really is none of my business. Just like it says in the contract I know you read before signing,” you remind him gently. It’s not as if such a contract could ever be enforceable, but it’s still nice to lay out the basic rules and expectations for everyone involved. Some of your clients take it more seriously than others. Tangerine had been one of the few to insist on taking it away with him to read through properly before he would even consider signing it.
He searches your face for any hint of deception. You remain still, unflinching beneath his gaze. You aren’t lying. You have nothing to hide. Either Tangerine will believe you, or he won’t. There’s nothing you can do about it at this point. The tension begins to seep out of you as his shoulders lower; whatever he was afraid of finding, clearly he couldn’t see.
“Can I help you with that?” He tenses again. It takes several long moments for him to realise that you are gesturing to the cuff still around his wrist, not the phone in his hand. He holds it out wordlessly, watching with sharp eyes as you undo the last of his restraints.
Standing, you keep your movements slow and exaggerated. You snag the abandoned water bottle as you go. You reach for one of the hotel gowns draped across the sofa, pulling the soft silk around your body. You don’t like the way he’s watching you, taking in your every movement with a cold calculation you haven’t seen from him before. Not since your very first session together, where you weren’t entirely sure if you would even accept him as a client or not.
Settling on the sofa, you begin to sip your water, waiting to see what he will do next. For one horrifying, endlessly long moment, you can tell that he isn’t quite sure himself. You’re pretty sure he believes you, but you’re just as sure that he’s used to cutting off loose ends before they can begin to fray and become a real problem.
He doesn’t stop glancing at you — directly, and more covertly, through the dresser mirror and the reflection on one of the picture frames — as he pulls his suit on, piece by piece. By the time he is sliding his rings into place, you can feel your heart racing in your chest and a sick feeling at the back of your throat. This is why you have a no-phones policy. Nothing good ever happens when one of your sessions with a client is interrupted.
He sighs, slipping both of the phones away — one in his breast pocket inside his dark blue pinstripe suit jacket, the other into his trouser pocket. He pushes his hands into his trouser pockets, shaking his head lightly. Whatever it is he plans to do, he has made his mind up at least.
You hold his gaze as he reaches into his inside pocket again, fingers wrapping around something. You don’t want to see what it is. You hold his gaze even as he places it down on the coffee table, making his way slowly towards the door.
“Next time, don’t touch things that don’t belong to you, eh, darlin’?” he warns as he finally turns, almost at the doorway. You glance down. That’s got to be at least double your usual fee. Even accounting for a tip, it’s too generous.
“Maybe next time obey my rules, Tangerine, and we won’t have to stop things mid-session.”
He laughs, loud and clear and incredulous. As he turns back towards you, you let a smile — your real one, not your work one — spread across your lips.
“You’ve got my number. You know how to get in touch if you want to book another session,” you say. His eyebrows rise, surprise clear. “You can make it up to me next time.”
“Oh really? And how am I going to do that?”
“Hm. I think that’s for me to know, and you to find out.”