April 21, 1999
Jon's spent the night dancing. He's also spent part of the night on his knees in back rooms, taking anyone who pushed him hard enough to get him interested.
C'mere. You want to suck me off, don't you? Yeah, you look like you love sucking cock...
He does. Doesn't mind admitting it, either. He's waiting for someone to bring out one of the magic words
but it hasn't happened yet, and as the night's gone on he's taken on more of a slink when he takes to his knees. At this point, he's scanning the crowd and looking for his next
customer target. Enough with looking for someone willing to take him down hard; at this point, he'll be someone's whore if it'll get him the words. Someone who looks like he's in a nasty, rough mood, and wants to take it out on the thin pretty boy with the smudged eyeliner.
He's halfway across the room, having finally decided on the man with the muscles, when a hand reaches out and snags his upper arm. Caught off-guard, Jon is snatched, pivoted, dragged up against a warm chest in soft blue denim.
"How much?" he murmurs.
Jon looks up. The man who's caught him is a few inches taller -- well, a lot of men are -- with cheekbones that could cut glass, and a cleft chin, and military-short brown hair. A mustache. Quite a bit of curly dark hair showing under his shirt, which has the top two buttons undone. He looks like he's in his forties, maybe, and there are glints of silver at his temples.
His nose is broken. There's a patch of tape across it, and he has two black eyes, though they look to be healing.
"Well," Jon says, drawing a hand up the stranger's chest, "depends on what you want."
That draws a laugh out of the stranger. A laugh, and then Jon feels a twisting pain in his wrist. He looks down with surprise. His hand's caught, and the stranger is squeezing hard.
"That's extra," Jon manages.
Another laugh, and the stranger lets go. "Geils," he says. "What's your name, boy?"
"Jon," he says, because why the hell not; it's common enough. "You got a place?"
"Yeah. Come on."
Jon never drives when he goes out to these places; he never knows where he's going to end up in the morning. Geils leads him out of the club and wraps an arm around his waist, and they get one building down the block before Geils pushes him into an alley and pins him to the wall, hands pinning Jon's wrists up by his shoulders against rough brick. Jon's head smacks into the brick, and he hisses; Geils kicks his legs apart and shoves a knee between them, pressing up hard.
"What are you good at?"
Geils laughs again. Jon likes that laugh. Likes it a lot. "We didn't negotiate a price," Geils says.
"You didn't tell me what you want."
"I want to fuck you until I'm bored with you. Suck you off, have you suck me off, maybe have you fuck me if I like the kind of energy you bring to my bed. How much if I want something dark?"
Oh, God, I should be paying you.
"Depends on if it's going to leave marks. Or scars. A hundred if you send me to my next trick with bruises. A hell of a lot more than that if you send me away with something I have to let heal for a while."
Jon can feel Geils's cock grinding into his now, and he tugs his lower lip into his mouth, biting down, making it look like another selling point. Geils pulls one of his hands off Jon's wrist, and Jon leaves his wrist pinned to the brick. Geils reaches down between Jon's legs and squeezes. Then harder.
Then harder, until Jon's eyes narrow and he bites down hard. Geils keeps watching him, keeps the pressure on and steady; Jon doesn't make a sound. Eventually, Geils backs off.
"Good," Geils breathes. "Let's go."
Geils tucks a finger into the waistband of Jon's pants and tugs him out of the alley. It's another block before they get to Geils's car, which is a low, sleek classic, a Corvette, black and gleaming. Geils opens the passenger door for Jon -- unexpected, but what the hell -- and then climbs into the driver's side himself.
Geils starts his engine with a roar, and takes off after giving the road a careful glance. He looks over at Jon. "Beat off," he says. "Don't come in the car."
Shit. Jon grins. He tugs the seatbelt away from his lap and pulls his cock out, wrapping his left hand around it while he presses his right hand to the glass of the window. No time to waste, but he wants his right hand cold before he really gets started. He leans back against the headrest while Geils gets them out of downtown and puts them on the highway.
"How does that feel?" Geils asks. He's not looking. Jon pulls his hand away from the window and wraps it around his cock, then moans at the added sensation. "What's that for?" Geils grins.
"Put my hand to the glass to get it cold before I started going," Jon mutters, trying to keep his voice from cracking.
"Like it cold?" Geils asks. Jon can tell he's filing that little piece of information away for future reference, and he squeezes hard just under the head of his cock, letting out another moan at the thought.
Got his attention. Jesus.
"Yeah," Jon manages. "Cold. Hot." He stops abruptly; this is not the kind of conversation someone turning tricks in a club should be having. It's not about him, it's about the man who's paying for him. "What do you like?" he asks.
"I'm gonna like getting you back to my place and wrapping a cold hand around your cock while I pound the come out of you," Geils grins. Jon's head thuds into the headrest again, twice, and he moans, still beating off hard. "Sound good, hm? Don't hear things like that very often?"
"No," Jon whispers, shuddering. "How much further?"
"Greedy little slut, aren't you?"
Jon's eyes snap shut, and he has to pull his hand away from his cock and put it on his leg. "Yeah," he whispers.
"Why don't we stop pretending you're just another hustler? You're after something more real than that."
Jon's head whips around, and he frowns. "What the fuck are you on about?"
"I can play this game with you if that's the way you want it, or we can try for something else. Up to you. I will pay for your time if you need it to happen that way." Geils's hands are steady on the steering wheel. He puts on his turn signal, glances over his shoulder, and moves into the exit lane. "But I bet it's more than that. You're after something else, aren't you?"
"Shut up," Jon whispers. He puts his hand back on the glass, this time not with ulterior motives. He's taking the relief from the cold and trying hard to let it mean something. This isn't going the way he expected. The offer -- he wasn't expecting that, either.
"All right, there's one thing. Whatever else is going on, we're not playing it that way. You don't tell me to shut up." Geils's voice has taken on a cold edge; as he turns off the highway, he finally lets his gaze flick to Jon, just for a moment. "What is it you were really after? You wanted someone to tell you what a whore you were? You wanted someone to hurt you?"
Geils's hand reaches over, wraps around Jon's cock, and squeezes hard. Geils pulls to a stop at a red light, and nothing in his face or his demeanor makes it seem like he's doing anything but taking a new trick home. But his hand is gripping Jon so hard Jon has to thump his head back against the headrest to keep from yelling, and he's starting to break out in a sweat.
"Stop," Jon finally chokes out.
The light turns green, and Geils takes his hand away, putting both hands on the wheel to drive. "You don't think I can give it to you?" he murmurs.
"This... isn't what I was after," Jon whispers back. "Listen. Drop me off somewhere, and I'll get a cab home."
"Or," Geils offers. His tone is still calm, still cold. "I could take you to my place, and fuck you until I'm sick of you, and get you into tears by the end of the night. I could use you. Fuck you. Break you. And you'd love it, wouldn't you? Love taking it like the little slut you are?"
Shit. Fuck. Shit. Fuck.
"How much further?" Jon asks.
Geils is pulling into a driveway; he reaches up to the visor and hits a button. The garage door opens. "We're here."
Geils leads Jon through the garage and into the house. The lights are on; the door to the garage opens facing the side of a wood-plank staircase, shiny and polished, and behind the staircase is a hallway leading to darkness.
Geils kicks the door shut, and his hand snaps out and slams the deadbolt home. He grabs the fabric between Jon's shoulderblades and shoves him forward, hard, propelling him into the dark hallway. Through the dark hallway, a sharp right turn, another hallway, and then an open archway that leads to a living room lit by moonlight, with dark green furniture and a coffee table with steel legs and a solid plank of wood for a top.
Jon's shins hit the coffee table, and he curses, knocked off balance. Geils drops the back of Jon's shirt and shoves his shoulders down hard, getting Jon's hands onto the table, nudging Jon roughly with a knee to let him know he's supposed to climb up on the table. Geils doesn't make a sound; the only things in the room that are audible are Jon's harsh breathing and the trickle of a fountain, a tabletop fountain which Jon can make out near the glass doors leading out to the deck.
"What were you after tonight?" Geils asks. He steps out from behind Jon and tugs Jon's head up by the hair, fingers tightening ruthlessly.
"I don't know," Jon pants, which really means None of your fucking business. Geils shakes Jon's head, more than a little roughly, and pulls Jon's head back even further. Jon gasps; Geils smiles down at him.
"Yes, you do."
Geils's hand comes out of Jon's hair, and before Jon's head can drop, Geils slaps him across the face -- hard enough to snap Jon's head sharply to the left -- and then buries his fingers in Jon's hair again, tugging his head back. "You want to get into trouble," Geils says. "That's what you've been after all along, isn't it? Someone you can piss off, someone who'll see red when you give him shit?"
This time the slap is hard enough Jon's ears ring afterwards. Geils sweeps his thumb over Jon's bottom lip and inspects it dispassionately; nothing. His hand goes back to Jon's hair, and he tightens his fingers slowly, with certainty, tugging his head back with a determined, slow-paced motion. "I'm not seeing red," Geils whispers. "Because I'm not ready to make you bleed yet."
Jon's eyes search out Geils's, and Jon licks his lips. Not yet. All right, then.
He doesn't even have a chance to open his mouth; Geils gives him a third hard slap, this time with the back of his right hand instead of with the palm of his left. Jon's sure now: he's going to bruise. He's not so sure about Geils, not quite certain what Geils is after, but for now Geils is offering Jon something no one's been willing to give him in a long time, if ever, without strings or rules or attachments. It's perfect, and Jon lets his breath out. "What do you want?" Jon asks.
"You stay right there," Geils murmurs. He lets Jon's head drop and strokes a hand down Jon's back, walking a path back to the end of the coffee table, behind Jon. He reaches around to the front of Jon's waist and snaps open his jeans, tugging them down over his hips. "You stay right there, and you don't make a fucking sound or move an inch until I say you do."
Jon nods and lets his head drop down completely. He's achingly, disturbingly hard, and not arching back toward Geils is more difficult than he expected. He can hear the snap-flick of lube opening, the rip of a condom coming open, the zip of brass teeth unlocking, the soft sigh as Geils rolls the latex onto flesh.
Geils's hand rests on the small of Jon's back for a moment while Geils slides one finger in, then two, finally three. "Don't say a fucking word," Geils whispers again. Jon closes his eyes and holds perfectly, rigidly still.
He feels the head of Geils's cock against his opening, and breathes out, letting his body relax. Then there's a snap-thrust forward, and Geils is in, Geils's hips slamming up against Jon's ass, and Jon has to brace himself forcefully on the coffee table to keep from going anywhere. He doesn't make a sound. He barely remembers to breathe.
"Hhnn," Geils observes, laughing a bit. "Tight little fucking slut, aren't you?" He brings one hand down across Jon's ass, hard enough to echo in the room. "You can answer. Does it hurt? Does it feel like I'm splitting you open?"
"Keep..." Jon gasps, then draws in enough breath to finish, "dreaming."
A pause, and then a light chuckle from behind. "Little shit," Geils laughs. He grabs Jon's hips in his hands and yanks Jon back, roughly, giving him another rough thrust that jars Jon all the way to his bones. Jon keeps his teeth and lips together, and doesn't make a sound. And Geils starts in earnest: rough, deep strokes that make Jon's fingers curl around the edge of the coffee table. Over and over and over. As if it's never going to end.
For the first few minutes, Jon thinks his ability to hold still and keep from begging is going to far outlast Geils's ability to keep delivering those hard, punishing thrusts. And then Jon finds himself biting down hard, teeth grinding, to keep from making sound. Then his eyes have to squeeze tight, and he finally makes a strangled, growling moan.
"Fucking slut," Geils pants, "can't even --fucking follow -- an easy direction..."
Jon wants to say fuck you, but he can't draw the kind of breath he'd need to get the words out unbroken.
"Maybe -- if you're -- very fucking good --I'll let you come," Geils says. "I'll let you come all over the table -- and I'll make you fucking lick it off."
Jon whimpers at that, and Geils only laughs. "Be quiet," Geils tells him. "Don't make a fucking sound." He changes angles, and Jon's fingernails dig into the surface of the table. Too good. He's not going to be able to hang on. He squeezes tight around Geils's cock and holds his breath, thinking it's the only way he'll be able to keep from coming too soon. Geils notices, and he doesn't let up. Just keeps going in with those long, rough strokes, over and over and over.
"Want to come?" A hard slap to Jon's ass as Geils moves in again. "Answer."
"Y-- yes," Jon moans.
"Want to come all over my table and then get down on your knees and lick it up for me?" Smack. "Answer."
"Yes, God, Geils..."
"Then go ahead and come, you fucking slut," Geils gasps, and the instant he says it, he's thrusting forward sharply, grunting, groaning, coming and slamming up against Jon's hips, not stopping. Jon throws his head back and tries to keep silent; he growls from behind clenched teeth and feels his cock jerk, once, twice, again, and he can imagine the come shooting forward onto the surface of the table, he can already feel himself bending down to lick it up, and oh God, God -- yes. Oh, fucking hell, yes, this is what he was after.
Geils pulls back, and Jon hears the snap of the condom coming off. "Don't," Geils pants, "fucking," another pant, "move." Jon hears him stalk off, hears running water for a moment, and then hears Geils's footsteps bring him back into the room. He hears a heavy thud as Geils sits down on the couch, off to Jon's side.
"All right," Geils says. His voice sounds unerringly calm, and Jon would curse him for it if he could. "What are you waiting for? Lick it up."
Jon crawls off the table and leans over it, bracing himself on his hands. He stretches his neck forward, stretches his tongue out, and pulls a drop of pearly white come off the table, licking it into his mouth with a soft, delicate motion. Bit by bit, drop by drop, the come is drawn up into Jon's mouth. By the end of it, Geils is digging the palm of his hand into his crotch, and watching with clear interest and grudging admiration for Jon's technique. Jon knows how he looks, doing this; he knows he can make it look good. He finally uses the flat of his tongue on the table, licking it in wide, broad strokes, making sure every last trace of his come is gone from the table.
A hand comes down on the back of his neck and jerks his face into the table. "Good," Geils murmurs. "Pretty little whore. Very, very good."
Jon moans. "Thank you," he whispers.
"I don't think I'm tired of you yet," Geils says casually. "Stay the night. I'll keep paying you for your time."
"All right," Jon whispers.
Geils's hand stays locked on Jon's neck, and Geils stays quiet for a few seconds. "I have two weeks," he says. "How far do you want to go with this?"
"As far as you can take me. I have time."
"Hm." Geils presses Jon's face down harder, then lets up completely. "You need to get some sleep, then. Let me show you where you're going to stay. I'll be getting you up very fucking early, so try to get some rest."
Jon tugs his pants up over his hips, and follows Geils upstairs. Geils puts him in what looks like an ordinary guest room, and gestures at a door in the corner, which turns out to be a bathroom.
"You need anything in the middle of the night," Geils says, and then he pauses, shakes his head. "Too fucking bad."
He walks out of the guest room, and slams the door behind him. Jon sits down on the bed and stares at absolutely nothing before finally gathering enough of his wits to get his clothes off and go to sleep.
April 22, 1999
Jon blinks awake, and finds a hand over his mouth. He struggles for a moment, and discovers he's pinned down at the hips, too, straddled. He's hard, and he has to piss badly; he struggles and only ends up grinding up against--
Geils. Right, his name is Geils.
Jon emits an indignant, muffled noise; it doesn't get past Geils's hand, and Geils tightens his grip on Jon's face. Jon reaches up with a hand, and Geils pins it down to the bed. Jon still has a hand free, but because of the way Geils is gripping his face, he can't do anything useful with it.
"Sleep well, slut?" Geils asks.
And that does it; Jon's hard and aching and everything else is forgotten. He flails his free arm and struggles under Geils, and he goes absolutely nowhere. He breathes heavily through his nose, and he rakes fingernails down Geils's shoulder; Geils gives him no reaction.
"You done?" Geils asks, finally. Jon would be panting for breath if his mouth were free; most of the fight has gone out of him by now, as he's having trouble getting enough air to give his best effort to the fight. Jon shakes his head yes, barely able to move under Geils's hand.
"You want to be fucked, slut?"
Jon's eyes close, and he moans softly into Geils's hand. He's stopped biting now, and instead wriggles his tongue out of his mouth, poking the tip into the web between Geils's index and middle fingers.
"Oh, that's good. Good little slut." Geils grins. "How bad do you want it, slut?"
Jon moans again, and works his tongue out harder; Geils finally pulls his hand away from Jon's mouth, just a little.
"Beg me to fuck you, slut," Geils hisses.
"Please, Geils, fuck me," Jon whispers.
Geils draws his hand down to Jon's other wrist, grinning. "You remember my name? I'm flattered, slut. You probably go home with enough men that you only remember about half their names, if that. Bet you remember what they taste like when they're shooting down your throat, though." Geils finally leans forward and bites sharply at Jon's lower lip. "You've got a mouth that's just fucking made for sucking cock, slut. Bet you just love it."
Jon lunges up and bites back, getting Geils's lower lip between his teeth. Geils yanks back forcefully and releases Jon's left wrist for a split-second, long enough to slap Jon hard enough to make him fall back onto the bed, lip bleeding. "Bitch," he grates out. "Think you're not going to pay for that?"
"Oh, fucking make me," Jon hisses. His tongue flicks out over the cut on his lip. He winces; it stings. "Fucking make me, Geils."
Geils is so fast; Jon still hasn't figured out how someone built so solidly can be so fast. One minute Jon's pinned under him; the next, Geils has moved, somehow, and shoved Jon's shoulder and hip, hard, and the next Jon is on the floor, with Geils's body pressed all along the length of him. Geils grabs Jon's arms and shoves them up over his head, pinning one wrist on top of the other, pinning both down with one of his hands. "Don't," he growls, "think," and his words are punctuated with hard shoves against Jon's wrists, "I won't. Fucking. Force you."
Jon goes still, trembling under Geils. He nods, just a little, just enough to be seen. Oh, God, this is so fucking perfect I'm not going to be able to stand it. Geils. Geils. Geils. He catches his breath when Geils lifts himself off Jon, still pinning Jon's wrists down, and feels Geils kicking his legs apart. He hears the tearing of paper-foil, and the slick, snapping sound of latex. He feels Geils tugging his hips up, just a little, and then feels the wrenching, tearing sensation of Geils going in hard, the lube on the condom just barely enough to ease his entry. Jon lets a sob out into the carpet.
"That's it," Geils whispers, "that's it, that's it. Cry for me, slut."
Jon does fight at that; Geils keeps him pinned down without effort, and pounds him into the carpet. Jon is a whimpering, pleading mass of tears, barely able to draw breath as Geils takes him. The rough scratch of the carpet against his cock has him crying out in sharp, broken sounds, and he can feel his mind racing, his thoughts disappearing in the wake of desperate, needed arousal.
"Come on," Geils whispers, "come on, slut, show me how much you love it. Fucking come for me, slut."
Jon's head comes up and he screams, hard, coming with his cock pinned between his stomach and the rough fibers of the carpet. Geils grunts and tightens his grip on Jon's wrists; then he's coming, too, sharp unrelenting thrusts pinning Jon to the ground. Jon drops his head back to the carpet and desperately tries to catch his breath; he's still choking out sobs when Geils pulls back and yanks the condom off. It lands with a soft splat on Jon's back.
"Get cleaned up," he murmurs. He nudges Jon with his foot. "You're dirty."
Jon stays on the floor and waits until the door closes; then he lets more tears go, crying quietly into the carpet.
Jon showers off and heads downstairs. He has no idea how big this house is or where Geils might be. The smells of breakfast finally draw him to the kitchen, though, where Geils is making pancakes.
"Hungry?" Geils asks. He looks over at Jon and smiles. The smile has nothing of the predatory, dark, hungry man Jon's been fucked by twice in it. It's normal. Achingly, frighteningly normal. Jon frowns a little and nods.
"Good. Go sit at the table and I'll bring you something when I'm done."
Jon sits down at the table. He hunches his shoulders and leans forward on his elbows. This is strange. Very. He doesn't look at Geils until Geils drops a plate with pancakes and bacon in front of him, and even then barely murmurs thanks. Geils leaves again, and comes back with a glass of orange juice; he sets that in front of Jon, too, and then sits down across from him. He's holding a dark red apple, which he polishes with a paper towel before crunching into it.
"Eat," Geils orders. "Now."
The order gets Jon moving; he eats, almost mechanically, and finishes the juice. He looks up at Geils afterward, and takes in the way Geils's teeth dig into the skin of the apple. Geils notices Jon's discomfort, but says nothing; he simply stares at Jon until Jon looks away again.
"Need anything else?" Geils asks softly.
"No," Jon whispers. "Should I go?"
"I'm not bored with you yet."
Jon's eyes snap back to Geils, and goddamnit he's still so fucking fast; he knocks the dishes off the table and drags Jon onto it, on his back, pinning Jon down by the neck. "Good," Jon breathes, the light coming back into his eyes, "so good, yeah, fuck, Geils..."
"Shut the fuck up, slut," Geils hisses. "Don't make a fucking sound. Don't fucking move unless I tell you. You understand me?"
Jon nods, once. Geils pulls back and yanks Jon's pants off. "Don't know why you bother wearing anything," he mutters under his breath, "slut like you shouldn't bother getting dressed, just makes more work for me when I want to fuck you. Come on, help me get this shit off you."
Jon doesn't need to be told twice; he sits up and tugs his shirt over his head, not caring where it falls. Geils has his shoes and socks off; he tugs hard and Jon helps wriggle out of his pants. His eyes have gone dark. Both pairs of eyes have. Jon looks up at Geils. He wants to beg, wants to plead, but Geils said to stay silent. Jon wants to keep Geils this way. Rough and determined and looking as if he could do absolutely anything. Jon stays quiet.
Geils pulls a lube packet out of his pocket, along with a condom; he tosses the condom on the table and pops open the lube. Smearing the lube on his fingers, he glides fingers into Jon, knowing it's too hard, too fast, too sharp; it must hurt. Jon screws up his face but manages not to moan. It does hurt -- of course it hurts, the way he's been fucked in the last twelve hours -- but it's too good to want to complain.
Too soon and not soon enough, Geils is slicking the condom on. Jon tilts his hips up, and Geils grins. "Hungry little slut," he murmurs. He presses in hard and his hand reaches up to grab a fistful of Jon's hair. "Beg me for it."
"Shit--" Jon gasps. "Please, Geils, fuck me. Hurt me. Come on, fucking push me. Push me. Fuck me. Come on."
Geils slams Jon's head back against the table and stops moving. "That's not a plea, slut, that's a goddamned demand. Beg me. Like you're afraid I'm going to stop and go nice on you again." His eyes glint.
Fucker, you knew. You knew what that act over breakfast was doing to me.
Jon fights; he tries to push up, tries to push away. Geils slams his head into the table again, and growls, "Beg. Don't fight. Beg."
"Fuck you," Jon spits.
"No," Geils says. He pulls back. "Not like that. If I wanted you to fight, I'd tell you to fight. When I want you to beg, you fucking beg." He strips the condom off and tosses it in the waste can. "You can either get up and get out or you can stay out of my way until I come looking for you. Up to you."
Jon stays on the table, stunned and gasping, as Geils walks out of the kitchen. He looks at his clothes, strewn all over the floor. All right, get up. Go. He's given you what you wanted, right?
"Don't know why you bother wearing anything. Slut like you shouldn't bother getting dressed, just makes more work for me when I want to fuck you."
Jon covers his eyes with the heels of his hands. He offered two weeks. Two weeks of this. It's so fucking close...
He sits up and rests his elbows on his knees, head sunk low. It's not a hard choice. Not at all.
Jon doesn't explore Geils's house. He doesn't want to know anything about him. Doesn't want to see his book collection, and discover who his favorite authors are; doesn't want to see the pictures on his shelves, and find out who his friends and lovers have been. He finally goes back up to the guest room and stretches out on the bed. It's a neat, anonymous room, and it has nothing in it to tell Jon what Geils's personality might be like. Perfect.
Hours pass; Jon naps idly and spends a lot of time staring at the ceiling. He looks at his fingernails, wondering if Geils has a file around somewhere. He considers jerking off and discards the idea; he's still sure Geils is going to come for him, and he doesn't want to have trouble getting off when he does.
Any minute now. Any minute.
Geils does come for him, but it's not until after dark. He opens the door and leans against the doorframe. "Done pouting?" he asks quietly.
"Fuck off," Jon answers; it's almost a reflex.
"We're going to get sick of each other in another six hours if you don't quit it with this shit," Geils observes. "Why don't you tell me what it is you're really after, and let me tell you if I can provide it or not?"
"I don't want to talk," Jon says. He's still staring at the ceiling. "I didn't come here to get to know you. I didn't come here to be your friend. I came here to get taken down hard. I came here to have you fuck me until you got sick of me. If you don't want to deliver on that, tell me now so I can go."
"I didn't say I didn't want to deliver on it," Geils tells him. "But if all you want to do is fight me while I fuck you, I'm going to get tired of it pretty goddamned fast. I want to see you beg. Crawl. Cry. I want to see you begging to lick my boots while tears are sliding down your cheeks. Later I'm probably going to want you to fuck me, if you're good enough and you don't bore me too fast. And maybe I'll want to make you pancakes in the mornings. Maybe I'll want to take you out to dinner at night."
Jon winces, covers his eyes. "All right," he whispers. The thought of being treated nicely is a small price to pay for the rest of it; he nods. "Name it and you'll get it."
"I don't want anything else from you tonight. Thought I'd ask if you'd rather do pizza or Chinese; I'm hungry, and I don't feel like cooking, and you don't look like you're in any shape to go out."
Jon just shakes his head. "I don't care. Not picky. Whatever you want is fine."
Geils stares at him a while, then nods. "I'll bring it up when I decide what I want."
When he's gone, Jon lets out a long, slow breath. It's too early to be disappointed. Too early. Not yet.
Geils comes back up with boxes of takeout Chinese. He puts them on the floor and sits down, legs crossed, and begins to eat. His eyes are an invitation; Jon finally comes up off the bed and sits down across from Geils. He reaches for one of the boxes.
"Beg for it," Geils says easily, pleasantly. Jon frowns.
"I'm hungry," he says. "And I'm not in the mood to beg."
"You don't want to know what I'm going to do to you if you take a single fucking bite without begging me first," Geils continues, still in that easy, pleasant tone. "Trust me that far."
Jon hesitates. "Please, Geils, may I eat?" he mumbles, eventually.
"Not great," Geils observes, "but not bad. You're not good at begging, are you?"
"Not terribly," Jon mutters. He picks up a box of chow mein and a pair of chopsticks. He didn't realize how hungry he was; he ends up getting through half the box before even realizing what he's doing.
"That surprises me. Seems like you'd be the type who'd enjoy being brought down hard enough to beg for it."
"Yeah, well, don't assume," Jon says. Jon doesn't beg. He didn't beg when it came to his first time, cold and painful and terrifying in the dark, and it became a sort of mantra after that -- don't ask for it. He shakes his head at Geils. "You don't seem like the type who needs his boys to beg."
"I need different things from different boys," Geils shrugs.
"All right. What do you need from me?"
Jon's chest contracts, and he puts the chow mein down, jabbing his chopsticks into the noodles with a hasty, nervous motion. "You don't get everything," he says quietly.
Geils looks up and meets Jon's eyes for a long few seconds. "What don't I get?" he asks, very evenly, quietly, patiently.
"There are things I don't play with," Jon says. "There's having me for the weekend or the week, and then there's having me -- I don't play that way."
"Hmph." Geils's lips twist up gently. "Who's asking?"
Jon lets out a breath. "Good." He picks up the chow mein again. "Fine. Good."
For a few moments, there's silence. Jon finishes off the chow mein; Geils picks through a few different boxes, taking a bite here, a bite there, generally looking satisfied. After a while, Geils puts down everything and sits back, resting on his hands.
"I think," Geils says quietly, "what I want out of the time you spend with me is for you to learn how to beg. Decently."
Jon's hands twitch; his fingers dig into the carpet. "And what do I get out of it?" he asks.
"As much as you can take. As hard as you can take it." Geils's eyebrows lift slightly. "It's what you're after, isn't it?"
"Yeah," Jon admits.
"Is there anything you won't do?" Geils asks. "Anything you'd call a hard limit?"
Jon drags his fingers through the carpet. "I don't bleed," he mutters. "I don't sign contracts. I don't want to take home permanent scars."
"Fair enough," Geils says. He frowns at Jon's lower lip. "Except for the bleeding. You've done that already."
"That doesn't count," Jon mutters. "I mean I don't get cut. Don't bleed deliberately."
Jon looks up. "Think you can work with that?" His tone is nasty, challenging.
"It's a hell of a lot of room. Be very fucking certain, Jon." By contrast, Geils remains steady, even, clear.
Jon thinks about it. Thinks hard. He shakes his head. "There's nothing else," he says at last.
"All right. We'll get started in earnest in the morning." Geils collects the leftover boxes and stacks the empty ones for the trash. "You want anything tonight?"
Jon shakes his head dumbly. "I... no. Tomorrow's soon enough."
"Fine." Geils climbs to his feet. "See you in the morning."
Another nod. Jon stays on the floor for quite a while after Geils leaves, and digs his fingers hard into the carpet.
* * * * *
April 23, 1999
The first thing Jon hears is ripping fabric. Then his hands are pinned behind him, and something hard and rough and sticky is wrapped around his wrists. He tries to crane his neck around, tries to look at what's going on, and Geils shoves a hand down on his shoulder.
"Don't fucking move."
"What the fuck--?"
Another few ripping noises -- Jon realizes, suddenly, that it's duct tape; Geils is wrapping duct tape around his wrists -- and then Geils shoves Jon out of the bed. Jon hits the ground hard, landing on his arms; Geils is on him in an instant, straddling him, grinding down hard on his cock while he tears off another strip of duct tape. Jon tries to crane his head away, but there's nowhere to go; Geils slams the duct tape down over Jon's mouth and then stands up, grinning.
"All right. Much better. Now. You wanted it rough, you didn't want to beg; you won't be able to make a fucking sound like this. You piss me off, it can always get worse. How's this suit you so far?"
Jon's eyes are wide, and he's trembling. He tries to roll his shoulders back, tries to relieve some of the strain. It works, but only a little; he still can't quite get his arms under him properly, so as not to feel as if his shoulders are being wrenched slightly out of their sockets.
"I said," Geils repeats, "how -- does this -- suit you -- so far?" He's smirking, damn it. He's smirking while Jon tries to figure out a way to respond to that.
Jon closes his eyes for a few seconds. He looks up at Geils and makes a rough, huffing noise with his exhale: I like it just fine, you fuck.
"Yeah," Geils grins, "thought so." He crouches down at Jon's side and runs his fingers through Jon's hair. "You look pretty good in matte silver like this. Wonder how you'd look in silver leather pants. Clamps on. A collar. Chains locking everything to everything else. Bet you'd look fucking gorgeous."
A small whine comes out; Jon closes his eyes again and looks up with a nearly-dazed expression. Geils is still grinning. "Like that idea, too?" he asks. "Nice. Come on, let's get you up. Morning piss."
Geils grabs Jon's shoulders and pulls him upright; Jon finds himself, again, startled by how strong Geils is, how certain of his movements. Geils comes around behind Jon and lifts him to his feet. Jon sways a little, but now that his arms aren't pinned under him anymore, he starts feeling a little more certain of his ability to move. When Geils gives him a light shove toward the bathroom, Jon finds he can walk there under his own power. He looks at the toilet with a bit of dismay; lid and seat are both down, and Jon's still hard from morning. This is not going to work.
Geils is leaning against the doorframe, watching. That's not going to help, either. Jon sighs, rolls his eyes skyward. He looks toward Geils and lets out an exaggerated sigh, something visible in his shoulders.
"Boy, I can feel the sarcasm from here," Geils says; his tone is not untouched with irony, either. "You want something?"
Jon looks at the toilet, then back at Geils.
"You want something?" Geils repeats, a little softer.
Jon sighs again and nods. The sarcasm eases off; he looks at Geils and blinks a few times, steadily.
Geils comes forward and lifts the lid and seat; he wraps his hand around Jon's cock and aims it, none-too-gently, downward. There's nothing erotic or pleasant about the touch; Jon closes his eyes and tries to let his muscles relax enough to piss.
For a while, nothing happens. Finally, though, Jon loosens up and lets go, bladder emptying, sighing with relief. When he's done, Geils gives him a rough shake. "Not bad," he says, and gives Jon a hard, nearly-affectionate smack on the ass. "Want breakfast?"
Jon nods as Geils washes his hands. Geils catches his eyes in the mirror and smirks. "Yeah?" he asks. "You going to complain if I'm too nice to you this time?"
Jon shakes his head. No. Geils is pushing him just enough to prove he can handle taking Jon down as hard as Jon needs it; the problem is that it's so goddamned inconsistent. Inconsistent enough to be frustrating. But that doesn't matter. He can force himself not to let it matter; it's so close, so damned close.
"Good," Geils says. He turns back to Jon and looks him over. "In a day or two I'm going to leave you on your own for a few hours," he says. "Anything I need to know about you before then? You on any kind of medication? Got anything you need?"
Jon shakes his head; he wonders, dimly, what he would have done if the answer had been yes. He's been so hungry for so long that he's grown reckless; being here is dangerous.
And all the same, he trusts Geils, and that's the worst of it. He wonders if he can really be pushed hard enough by someone he can trust.
Geils leads Jon downstairs; he doesn't give Jon any help navigating the stairwell, but he does take the stairs slowly, making sure to stay at Jon's pace, in front of him and braced for the impact if Jon falls. Jon doesn't know what to make of that; on one hand, he doesn't want to fall on his face down a flight of stairs, but on the other -- it's still taking too much care with him, damn it.
This isn't going to work.
They get to the kitchen, and Geils turns around to look at Jon. Jon's eyes are lowered, and Geils steps into him, putting one hand behind his neck and gripping hard.
"You're thinking too much," Geils growls, and his other hand comes up and rips the duct tape away from Jon's mouth.
Jon cries out at that; he feels the tearing pain of adhesive pulling off his skin and can't help himself. He doesn't get enough time to recover, though; Geils's grip on the back of his neck tightens, and Geils shoves him down to the floor. Jon hits the tiles hard, impact singing through his knees, and cries out again.
Geils's grip shifts to Jon's hair. He tugs hard, and Jon hisses. Jon's eyes are tearing again, and he's hard, blissfully, eagerly hard. Geils unbuttons the snap on his jeans, yanks the zipper down one-handed. He's hard, too, and Jon tries to press forward. The grip in his hair stops him.
"What do you want?" Geils growls.
"Let me--" Jon clears his throat; it's still rough from disuse. "Let me suck you off. Please."
"You're getting there," Geils agrees. He strokes his cock, hard, several times, nearly brushing it against Jon's face. "How bad do you want it?"
Jon has to swallow the urge to curse. "I want it," he says. "Please let me have it."
"Better. Not good enough by half, but better." Geils tightens his grip until Jon is gasping in pain, and then strokes himself off, teeth set firmly together, breath coming out hard and fast but even. He meets Jon's eyes, and Jon doesn't say a fucking word, doesn't move a muscle. Not good enough by half, Jon thinks, and oh God, that's perfect, that is fucking perfect.
Geils lets out a soft grunt, and his eyes blink closed for a fraction of a second as he comes. Jon opens his mouth, and Geils paints his face, his cheeks, his lips, with warm white jets, gasping as he does. Jon flicks his tongue out over his lips, catching as much as he can; Geils stands there, still gasping, and watches Jon's mouth work. He draws a thumb over Jon's lips and lets Jon suck on that for a few seconds before leaning down and whispering, "Bite me."
Jon's teeth sink into the pad of Geils's thumb. Geils leans down and licks a spot of come off Jon's cheek, very softly, very gently. "Good," he whispers. "Very good. You still want breakfast?"
Jon could be happy kneeling on the floor this way for the next several hours. Breakfast has barely occurred to him. He nods, just enough to make the motion clear, against Geils's loosening grip in his hair. Geils licks another spot of come off Jon's cheek and growls softly. "Good," he murmurs. "I'm hungry."
April 24, 1999
"I'm leaving you alone today," Geils says. His gaze flicks over Jon; Jon's undressed, the way he has been since the day after he got here. "You need clothes, something you can wear while I'm not fucking you into every horizontal surface -- and half the vertical ones -- I own."
Jon gives him a look. "Do you want the keys to my apartment?" he asks.
"Would you give them to me if I asked?"
Geils grins broadly. "Good. You're not stupid. That's very good. Next question. Do you want me to tie you up while I'm gone, or do you want to be here on your own?"
Jon debates it for a few seconds. "What are the rules, in either case?"
"There are no rules. You just pick one. Tied down or set free. Up to you."
"When you put it like that?" Jon asks, grinning, a snide little grin. "Tied down. Absolutely."
Geils sits back and nods. "All right. Come on."
Jon follows Geils upstairs, into the bathroom attached to his room. Geils gestures at the floor. "Down," he says. "Stay here."
Jon goes to his knees. The bathroom -- well, at least it makes sense. He'll have water; he'll have access to a toilet. Geils could be gone all day, leaving Jon here like this. If he leaves food, he could be gone a very long time. Jon shivers.
Geils comes back and drops a pile of heavy steel chains on the counter. He raises an eyebrow at the shiver. "Cold?" he asks.
"Maybe a little," Jon allows.
"Too bad." Geils picks up the first of the chains, a waist chain with attached handcuffs, and loops it around Jon's stomach. He clips the ends of the chain together, then settles first one handcuff, then the other, on Jon's wrists. He tugs at each of the restraints in turn; they're very secure. "Good," he murmurs. "Nice."
Leg irons next. He locks Jon's ankles together, and tightens the cuffs until they're just touching skin; they'd chafe if Jon tried to walk far. Jon is hard, now, and his breath is coming faster.
"Like this?" Geils murmurs. "Like being all chained up?"
"Yes," Jon hisses. "Like being chained."
"Good." Geils pulls out the last of the chains, this one so long it might be taller than Jon himself. He loops it around the base of the toilet, then padlocks it together; loops it around the chain connecting Jon's ankles, and padlocks that together, too. "There."
"There," Jon agrees; he drops a weighted wrist between his legs and caresses his cock, heel of his hand grinding down on it. He licks his lips. "Now what?"
"Now I'm leaving," Geils grins. He leans forward and kisses Jon's forehead, roughly, a little patronizingly. "Have a good day, Jon."
Bored. Fucking bored. Jon has moved to the sink for water; he's taken a piss. He's even jerked off a couple of times, and he's licked it off the linoleum. And now he's very fucking bored.
He sits on the floor, resting his head against the cabinets. This could be pushing him, he thinks. It could be pushing if he weren't so sure Geils was coming back. It could be pushing if Geils had left him just enough food to believe it was possible he might not come back for a week. That Jon would have to come up with a way to entertain himself and keep from going mad for as long as it took. Maybe he'd have to ration his food.
Maybe a lot of things, but none of them apply to Geils. Jon is not at all surprised when he hears footsteps coming up the staircase; he's only a little sorry that they're back so soon.
Geils appears in the doorway. "Have a good day?" he asks quietly.
"Fine," Jon shrugs. He stretches out on the floor, lying on his back. "The chains are good," he says. "Cold. Jerked off with them once. Still aching from it."
Geils snaps forward; he has a hand in Jon's hair and is tilting Jon's head back. "What did you say?" he growls.
"Said I jerked off..."
"You little shit." Geils tightens his grip. "Did I say you could jerk off? Did I tell you you could do that?"
"You were gone," Jon fires back. "And you don't fucking scare me nearly enough to keep me from jerking off while you're not looking."
"Oh, I fucking bet I don't," Geils growls. He shoves Jon over, throwing him face first into the floor. Jon hits the ground hard and grunts at the impact, most of it taken by his elbows. Before he can move, Geils is on him, thrusting hips against Jon's ass, pressing him into the floor. "Nothing scares you, does it, you little shit? Nothing at all."
"Not so far," Jon hisses.
"Bastard," Geils whispers. He comes to his knees and then stands up, lifting himself off Jon completely. There's a ping next to Jon's left ear, followed by a second. One handcuff key and one padlock key. "Get yourself unlocked. I've got no more use for you tonight."
Jon picks the keys up and turns over, looking Geils in the eyes. "What makes you think I have any more use for you?" he asks.
"The fact that those keys were both just outside the bathroom door, and you could have reached for them at any minute," Geils growls. He turns on his heel and heads out the door.
April 25, 1999
"We're going out."
It's been a quiet day; Geils woke Jon up with a rough, wordless demand for a blowjob, and Jon delivered, choking so hard he ended up coughing up Geils's spunk. Geils ran a rough hand through Jon's hair and laughed at him, and for a moment, for a brief, perfect moment, Jon had thought he'd found something.
Then breakfast. Of course, breakfast. Pancakes again, and Jon had eaten them without complaint, making conversation, pretending as if he were someone else somewhere else. Pretending he wasn't so close and so far away from what he needed.
"Going out where?" Jon asks Geils, very politely.
Geils shakes his head. "Dinner," he explains, as if talking to a small child. "I'm taking you out to dinner."
"Hmph." Jon wrinkles his nose and shrugs. "Fine."
"I've set out some things for you to wear on the bed. Go get dressed." Geils waves a dismissive hand in the general direction of the stairway.
Jon sighs and heads up the stairs. Being dressed up, being taken out; at least that's something. It goes back to the idea of playing whore; it's not a bad idea.
He undresses, throwing his clothes aside, and picks up the shirt Geils laid out on the bed.
Oh. Oh, now that's interesting.
Jon puts the shirt aside and picks up the leather strap; it's clearly designed to wrap around the base of his cock and balls, and there's a metal ring connected to the strap by a pair of two other straps; it's supposed to fit around his cock. Like a Gates of Hell, but a lighter version. Jon snaps it on, using one of the smallest settings that will fit, and then pulls the rest of his clothes on. No underwear; he's not surprised, really.
He makes his way back downstairs. Geils looks him over. "Wearing everything?" he asks.
"Check," Jon suggests, smirking.
Geils comes forward, one hand stuck down his own pants pocket, the other held out. He tugs open the button and unzips Jon's fly, then slides his hand into Jon's pants and feels for the ring, for the leather. "Good," he murmurs, "definitely good." He pulls Jon's cock out and gives it a few long strokes; Jon grunts and squeezes his eyes shut as his cock gets hard and immediately starts pressing against the metal of the ring. It's a small fucking ring; it hurts when Jon's half hard and is going to be excruciating when Jon is all the way erect.
"Tight?" Geils breathes. Jon grunts and nods. "Should have just said 'yes'. Could have saved yourself the trouble." His other hand comes out of his pocket and joins the first around the base of Jon's cock; this time, though, there's an audible click and Jon looks down to see what's just happened.
A lock. The fucking thing's been locked on. Jon lets out another grunt, this one full of disbelief and dismay.
"There," Geils says with satisfaction. "Now we're going out."
The ride to the restaurant eases Jon's discomfort a bit; Geils is good enough not to do anything to torture Jon on the way there. At the restaurant, things are a little different; Geils arranges a booth where they're expected to sit together, not on opposite sides, and slides a hand up the inside of Jon's thigh.
Jon moans; the ring bites into his cock, and he hunches over slightly. Geils grins. "I arranged for a tasting menu tonight," he says softly. "Seven courses."
"Oh, God." Jon breathes out hard. "What do I have to do to get this fucking thing off me?"
"Wait," Geils says patiently. "Until we get home."
"Fuck," Jon whispers. "Fuck. Fuck. Fuck."
"Mm-hm." Geils slides a hand over Jon's cock and squeezes, just as the waiter arrives with the first course. "Behave," he murmurs.
Behaving is not one of Jon's strong suits on his best day; tonight it's worse. He tries not to squirm, but with Geils reaching over to stroke his cock through the soft fabric of his pants every few minutes, it's nearly impossible managing that. By the end of the fifth course, he's leaning his head onto Geils's shoulder, not caring how it looks to the other restaurant patrons, and begging. He's begging in low, whispered tones.
"Please, Geils, I'm dying."
"Oh, shut up; you are not."
"Please. Christ. It hurts."
"So stop playing with it," Geils smirks.
"Next course coming."
The dinner seems to take forever; Jon finally resorts to digging his fingers into first his knee, then Geils's. After Geils pays the check, he stands up, looking over his shoulder at Jon. "Come on."
Jon expects to head out of the restaurant; when Geils walks into the bathroom instead, Jon nearly droops with relief. Geils checks the stalls and then points at the door. "Lock it," he says. Jon twists the lock on the main door and leans up against it.
"Please, Geils," he whispers, "it's been three and a half fucking hours..."
"Wuss," Geils snorts. He backs Jon into the door. "You can handle a hell of a lot more than that and you know it." Even so, he digs his hand into Jon's pants and pulls out Jon's cock, making Jon groan in genuine pain.
"Tell me you have the key," Jon moans. "Please."
Geils digs into a pocket and comes up with a tiny silver key. Jon lets out a long, relieved breath. "Please," he whispers again, "please, please, Geils, get it off me..."
"Just not convinced," Geils sighs. "Don't think you really want it." He strokes Jon's cock again, and Jon's head falls forward, resting on Geils's chest.
"Please. Begging. Off, please."
"Mmm. Like the sound of that." Geils pulls back slightly. "Jon? Look at me."
Jon looks up; his cheeks are tearstained by now. Geils meets his eyes for a few seconds, and then lifts the key to his lips. He sucks it into his mouth and then slowly, deliberately, obviously, swallows.
"Jesus," Jon gasps. "Are you insane?"
"Now. What kind of bribe are you willing to offer me to take the most direct path home?"
Jon sinks to his knees and nuzzles at Geils's fly. "Please, Geils. Let me suck you off."
"Good," Geils murmurs. "Do it and I'll break the speed limit for you."
Jon tears into Geils's fly feverishly, desperately. He pulls Geils's cock out and gives it several sharp, quick strokes; he fits his mouth over Geils's cock and sucks it down to the root, choking hard and not caring. Geils lets out a shocked cry; Jon finds that somehow satisfying, the idea that he can get Geils so startled, so close, so fast. Geils manages four quick thrusts into the warm cavity of Jon's mouth before he spills over; Jon pulls back just far enough so he can swallow without choking. Geils slumps against the wall when he's done, panting.
Jon comes to his feet. "Come on," he whispers. "Please, Geils."
Geils nods, but can't speak yet; he tucks his cock away and zips his fly. He gestures at the door; Jon unlocks it and heads out, and Geils follows.
Back in the car, Jon stops all pretense of being able to hold still. He squirms hard in his seat, moaning. Halfway home, Geils laughs softly and reaches over to pet Jon's cock gently.
"Take it out," he says. Jon shoots him a look, and Geils snaps his fingers. "Now."
Jon pulls his cock out and groans; the head is purple, and the stark chrome of the ring is more evident than ever. "Hurts," he mumbles.
"I know. Here." Geils hands over the key.
"You -- swallowed that," Jon blinks. Not one to look a gift key in the mouth, though, he quickly snatches it away from Geils and inserts it into the little lock.
"Sure looked that way, didn't it?" Geils asks cheerfully. Jon struggles with the lock for a few seconds before it comes loose; when it does, he unsnaps the strap and then gently works the ring off his cock.
"Ohhh, Christ," Jon moans, when the ring is finally off him. "Thank you, Geils."
Geils reaches over and musses Jon's hair, none too gently. "You're welcome."
April 26, 1999
Jon is getting used to Geils now.
He's getting used to the way Geils wakes him up -- with something sharp, unexpected, unannounced, vicious -- and the way Geils seems determined to comfort him afterwards with something approximating a normal routine. Breakfast, usually, but sometimes it's been a shower and a walk around the block.
Today it's one of those walks. Jon hates the morning walks more than he hates breakfast. He hates walking at Geils's side, looking around the neighborhood, seeing people's landscaping. Geils has a life, a life apart from the face he puts on for clubs, the one he put on when Jon first met him. Somehow, that seems like a betrayal.
"David," one of the neighbors calls, waving. "Who's the new boy?" She winks; Jon looks up at Geils, wondering what on earth these neighbors know about Geils.
"Diana, this is Jon. Jon, meet Diana Travis." It occurs to Jon that Geils doesn't know his last name, and he's vaguely glad for that. It bothers him, somehow, to know that Geils has a first name -- to know that Geils is his last name, for that matter. David Geils. He didn't need to know that.
Jon is learning how to beg, but it doesn't help. He's no closer to being able to take what he needs from Geils; a little further away, he thinks. The soft moments aren't coming any closer together, but they take so much away from the harsh, rough, pushing treatment that he can barely believe in them.
I should go, he thinks. And he's meant to get up and leave. More than once. Looking at Diana Travis, Jon is closer than ever to going.
Geils wraps an arm around his shoulders as they leave Diana Travis behind. "She only thinks she knows what I do with my boys," he murmurs. "She knows I fuck them. It probably keeps her in fantasy material for nights when her husband's off on his business trips. She doesn't know I fuck them until they lash out at me. Imagine what I had to come up with to explain the broken nose."
Jon lets out a soft, startled noise at that. "One of your boys... broke your nose?" he asks quietly.
"Mm. Had a hell of a lot more fight to him than you did," Geils grins.
Jon mulls that over while they head back to the house. More fight. All right, then.
April 27, 1999
Dinner was quiet. Geils made pasta; Jon doesn't particularly care for pasta, but he doesn't care enough about what he's eating to complain. He stands up when Geils does, helping carry dishes to the sink. He goes back to the table to gather the napkins, and when Geils grabs his upper arm, at first he doesn't react.
Only at first. Only until Geils throws him, hard, into the table, bruising his hip and bouncing him off. Jon falls to the floor, and looks up at Geils, eyes wide, panting. Geils grabs him by the hair and the front of the shirt, and yanks him back to his feet; he puts Jon face first on the table, fist in his hair, other hand groping at the front of his jeans. Jon arches back, spreads his legs, but Geils's hand only keeps working Jon's cock through denim, hard enough to scrape and scratch against his skin. Jon reaches for purchase on the table and finds nothing; his fingernails scramble at the surface of the table and slide away, unable to dig in. Jon's mouth is open; his eyes are tearing furiously. Geils barely notices. Jon pushes back against him, and Geils pins him down harder; that sense of being pinned stays with Jon as Geils's hand works harder, works faster. Jon bucks up hard against Geils and comes with a long, shuddering groan. He can feel Geils's teeth on his shoulder; not just through fabric, but actually there. He thinks Geils may have bitten through his shirt.
"Go upstairs," Geils growls. He pulls back, shoving Jon to the surface of the table one more time as he goes. Jon nods, shaking, not looking at Geils, and heads for the stairs.
Geils is on his heels; when Jon reaches the foot of the stairs, he fists a hand in Jon's shirt and yanks him back. "No," he breathes, "not like that. Let me show you how I want you going up the stairs."
Geils shoves hard, spinning Jon around, into the stairs, making Jon land on his back and scream as the steps dig into him. "Almost," Geils pants, "almost," and then he reaches down and drags Jon's pants around his ankles. Jon's cock is so sore from being rubbed against denim until he came that when Geils reaches for it, Jon actively flinches back, making it up two stairs before Geils simply drops on top of him and pins him down. Geils bites down on Jon's neck, the heel of his hand pressing into Jon's cock until Jon is scratching, clawing, fighting so hard Geils comes away with bruises, red scratches across his cheeks.
Geils kisses him after, and Jon tries biting him once before giving in and throwing himself at Geils, letting Geils press him into the stairs, feeling the wood bite into his back. Nothing is enough -- when Geils bites down hard and breaks through the skin of Jon's lower lip, that isn't enough. When Geils presses spit-slick fingers against Jon's ass and presses in hard, that isn't enough, either. Jon struggles, fights, twists away, and ends up face first on the stairs, with Geils's fingers thrusting into him so hard Jon ends up biting down on the wood just to keep from screaming.
"Stop fucking hiding how much you want this," Geils growls. "Scream the goddamn house down."
Jon does; he throws his head back and screams loud enough to hear it bouncing off the walls. And it still isn't enough.
Geils gets him to the top of the stairs, throws him into the wall so hard Jon bounces back. Geils is on him, then, pressing his face to the plaster; he pins Jon to the wall with the weight of his body and slicks the condom on. Jon keeps fighting -- fights until Geils shoves his head into the wall hard enough to leave a dark purple bruise on the skin at his right temple -- and Geils isn't moved. Isn't pushed away. Doesn't break.
Doesn't make a sound as he comes, either, and it's only the tightening of Geils's fingers on Jon's upper arms that gives it away. Jon holds still, teeth grinding down to keep himself from coming.
"Good?" Geils asks. Jon pants a few times, trying to get enough air to answer, and Geils clamps a hand over his mouth. "I don't give a shit." He pulls out and pushes Jon onto the floor; Jon folds. "Go to sleep."
April 28, 1999
It's not a morning walk today; it's just breakfast. The unexpected thing that happened this morning was... nothing. Absolutely nothing. Jon is half-disappointed -- he wants it, still, badly -- and half-relieved. Everything aches.
Geils hasn't said a word yet. Jon doesn't miss it. He would have been happy this way, with no attempt at a connection; the silence is better than trying to switch between being pushed and being catered to.
Jon stares at his tea -- Geils made tea this morning, and handed a cup to Jon without asking whether Jon wanted it -- and wonders what's on the schedule for the day. Taking it easy, probably.
"Tell me what you're thinking," Geils says. Jon taps his fingers on the rim of his teacup and doesn't answer; it's none of Geils's business.
"Christ, back to this. Last night wasn't what you wanted?"
"Last night was fine," Jon mumbles.
"Talk to me, Jon. What do you need? How much longer before we both decide we're wasting our time?"
"I don't want to talk to you. I don't think I'm wasting my time, but..."
"But you can't take the idea that I'm not spending twenty-four hours a day trying to take you down."
Jon says nothing. Geils sits back.
"All right. Let me make you a deal. I've got another week. Suppose I give you five."
Jon raises an eyebrow.
"Five days, no holds barred. Just the way you want them. And two days after to recover."
"Five days." Jon still aches from the last night; five days of that... five days, and he might get there. Five days, and he might need those two days to recover. He looks up at Geils. "You're on."
A hard edge gets into Geils's expression; he nods. "Drink your tea," he says shortly. He shoves back, out of his chair, and leaves the room.
Jon sips at the tea. Still too hot, but that's good --could be very good, given the right opportunity. He takes a long drink and winces as the tea burns his tongue. Ice would be even better. Maybe he'll get some in a minute.
He keeps drinking the tea, letting it warm him, letting it burn him. When he's finished, he sets the teacup down with an audible clink.
That's Geils's signal. He comes back in, eyes angry, and he shoves Jon out of his chair. Jon hits the floor hard, and Geils knocks the chair away, needing all the room he can get. He pushes Jon over onto his stomach and wrenches an arm behind his back.
"Shit," Jon pants. "Come on. Come--"
"Fucking shut up," Geils hisses. There's a heavy, metallic click, and then something bites into the skin of Jon's right wrist: handcuffs. Jon tries to pull his other wrist away, but he doesn't make it; Geils has his other wrist cuffed behind his back in a matter of seconds.
And then that's it. Geils stands, leaving Jon on the ground. He walks around to Jon's front, planting his boots in front of Jon's face. One foot comes out and lifts Jon's chin, almost gently; he pulls his boot back hard, then, and lets Jon's head drop back onto the tile.
"Fucking pathetic," Geils scoffs. "You want to be pushed hard, and then you fucking fold the minute I give you even half of it."
"Yes," Jon hisses, "yes--"
"You don't listen worth a shit, do you?" Geils asks. His boot comes up to Jon's chin again, and he lifts gently. "You don't listen worth a shit, you don't have the first fucking clue how to beg, you ooze sarcasm... what have you got to offer me over the next five days that isn't just wasting my time?"
Jon struggles for words; this is a lot rougher than he expected Geils to play it. He doesn't have an answer. Geils's boots are still the only thing in his field of vision, though, and Jon turns his head, facing the boot. He bends down and presses a kiss to the toe, then rests his forehead on Geils's boot. For once, he stays silent.
"Ahh," Geils murmurs. "There we go. There's something. Go on, then."
Jon's breath shudders out of him. He presses another kiss to the toe of Geils's boot, letting his lips linger on the leather. It tastes good -- Jon chokes down the strange, unsettling feeling of doing something so oddly humiliating, and simply throws himself into the act. He's looking for the pleasure in the act itself, not what it's doing for Geils, not how it's pushing him to something he's never done before -- his mind blanks out as he starts licking the leather of Geils's boot, broad flat sweeping strokes.
"Good," Geils whispers. "Faster."
Jon hums assent, shortening his strokes, flicking his tongue back and forth, working his way back to Geils's ankle. He scoots forward on his stomach, trying to get a better angle.
"Trying to be good now?" Geils whispers. "Want something?"
Just this, Jon thinks, shut up, shut up, just this, just let me do this...
"You're never going to be good enough," Geils murmurs. He takes a step back and crouches down next to Jon. "Why don't you own up to that and give up with all of this? Give up and admit you're not fucking good enough to have someone take you where you want to go."
Geils grabs Jon by the hair and yanks him up far enough to let eyes meet eyes. "You're not," Geils says evenly, "and that's nothing to me, anyway. You looked good that night. Like any other pretty whore I could have taken home and fucked and sent away by morning. Don't know what the hell I was thinking letting you stay so long."
Jon tries to wrench away; Geils's grip is stronger. Geils leans down and puts his face, completely devoid of expression, right next to Jon's.
"Something to say?" he whispers.
"Please," Jon shudders.
"Oh, God," Jon whispers. His eyes close. "Please let me lick your boots, Geils."
"Why?" Geils growls. He gives Jon's head a rough shake. "Tell me why."
"I don't know," Jon says, "I don't know, but please, please, let me do it, Geils, let me do it for you, please, please, fucking please let me do it, Geils, please."
"Yes," Geils whispers, finally releasing Jon's hair. "Yes. Come on." He stands up again, and Jon slithers over, pressing a kiss to the toe of Geils's left boot, starting over from scratch. Slow, soft licks, short ones, until the surface of Geils's boot gleams. Jon moves back from the toe to the ankle, and noses up the edge of Geils's jeans to get another inch of leather under his lips. He comes back around the top of Geils's boot and kisses the inside of Geils's ankle, then works the leather from the ankle to the toe, reversing his path from earlier.
"Better," Geils allows, though Jon can hear arousal in his voice. "Better, much better, Jon. The other. Come on."
Jon switches over, and this time his movements are hungry; he lets out soft little moans as his tongue sweeps over the leather, and he licks, sucks, leaves small kisses all over the boot. It's Geils who grows impatient; he crouches down again, and Jon has to scoot back out of the way to avoid having Geils simply come down on top of him. Geils sinks to his knees and pops open the fly of his jeans; Jon comes forward and presses a kiss to his knee. "Please," he whispers, "please, let me taste you, Geils, please."
"Yes," Geils murmurs, "come on. Taste me." He pulls his cock out and strokes it a few times, hard, then holds it out for Jon. Jon struggles to lift his upper body off the ground far enough to take Geils's cock in his mouth; when he does, though, it's worth the effort. He closes his lips around the head of Geils's cock, moaning softly.
Geils hisses in a breath; Jon is suddenly eager, hungry for more sounds like that. He sucks harder, tongue teasing all around the head, slipping back and forth at the soft spot on the underside that makes Geils gasp. His strokes match the ones he made on Geils's boots, and he moans, letting the vibration transfer from his throat to Geils's cock.
It's too much; Geils's hand comes to the back of Jon's throat, steadies him, forces Jon's mouth down over his cock hard. "Suck it," he whispers, "harder, suck my fucking skin off, slut."
Jon moans and sucks harder, until his cheeks hollow out and his jaw aches from it. He uses tongue and teeth, alternating, wanting it so much he doesn't care if he gets to take another breath so long as Geils comes in his mouth, comes down his throat. God.
Another thrust, and then another, vicious, hard, solid --Geils isn't afraid of anything, isn't afraid to choke Jon on his cock, and with another hard, sharp thrust, a groan from his throat, and an answering groan from Jon, Geils clutches at the back of Jon's neck and comes, letting Jon taste it, letting Jon choke on it -- Jon's mouth opens, and a line of come and saliva slips out over his chin. Geils waits until the last shocks from the orgasm are over, and then pulls back, rubbing a thumb over Jon's chin. "There," he whispers. "That's what you get when you beg for it."
Jon only nods, rubbing his face against Geils's knee again. He presses a kiss there, too, and then leans his forehead on the floor and breathes.
Geils runs a hand through Jon's hair -- a connection, but not one that's too affectionate. He comes to his feet in a quick, steady motion, and walks to the other side of the kitchen. "I'll be back for you around lunchtime. Don't. Fucking. Move."
Lunchtime. Jon keeps his face pressed to the tile when he hears Geils come back into the kitchen. There are all sorts of noises, cans opening, water boiling, microwaves beeping, and then Geils walks over and puts a small shallow bowl next to Jon's head. It's oatmeal, boring, plain, but at least it's food; Geils doesn't say a word as he disappears from sight again.
Jon doesn't hesitate. He leans over the bowl and licks up the oatmeal, one bite at a time. It's lukewarm, not really hot enough, not really cold enough. Jon doesn't care. He makes a bit of a mess, oatmeal sticking to his cheeks, his chin, and when the bowl is empty he tries to lick it clean.
A few minutes pass, and a second bowl is dropped in front of him; this one full of water. Jon puts thirsty lips to the surface of the water and drinks it up, and licks the bowl when the water's gone.
Geils comes back and crouches down in front of Jon. He's holding a damp cloth, and he puts a hand in Jon's hair to lift his face up. "Messy," Geils observes with some disdain. "Here." He wipes Jon's face off, roughly, and then tosses the cloth to the floor. "Tell me the first thing you'll do if I let you out of those cuffs."
"Anything you want," Jon whispers.
"Suppose I want to bend you over the table and fuck you until you scream."
"Or maybe I want you to fight me. Hard."
Jon nods, helpless, desperate.
"Or maybe I don't really want a damn thing from you. You've been fun to play with, but I've had better."
Jon's forehead presses into tile, and he shivers, then nods.
Geils walks around to his side, and he runs a hand down Jon's arm to his wrist. A few clicks and a little movement later, and Jon's unlocked, hands falling down to his sides. Geils stands up and nudges Jon over to his back with the toe of his boot.
Jon rolls, eyes blinking open. Geils is framed by the overhead light in the kitchen, and Jon squints to make him out. The bruises under his eyes are a sickly yellow color now, and the splint over his nose is gone. There are still angry red scratches on his cheek from yesterday's hard-fought fuck, and Jon grows hard, just looking at them.
Geils drops to his knees next to Jon and reaches out, cupping Jon's growing erection. "Still greedy," Geils muses. "What do you want, slut?"
"Geils, please, anything," Jon begs. Geils squeezes, hard enough to hurt; Jon's eyes roll back in his head and he gasps.
"Anything?" Geils whispers.
"Please," Jon grunts, "please, Geils."
"Getting there," Geils admits. He releases Jon's cock and slides his hand into a pocket, digging for a condom and lube. He tosses both to the floor and stands up, sliding out of his t-shirt and jeans.
Jon starts to turn over; Geils puts a foot on his hip and slams him back to the ground, on his back. "Going somewhere?" Geils asks. Jon shakes his head, eyes wide. "Good," Geils spits, and he sinks back down to his knees next to Jon.
The lube packet opens with a snap; Geils slicks his fingers, and Jon parts his legs, expecting Geils's touch; instead, Geils's fingers glide into his own ass, and Geils moans, softly.
Jon's eyes are wide; he can't quite make out what he's seeing, even when Geils tears a condom packet open and slicks a condom down over Jon's cock. Jon starts to sit up, and Geils straddles him, holding his cock upright, aiming carefully and then settling down on it.
"Oh--" Jon gasps. "Oh, God--"
"Shut up," Geils growls, and he puts a hand down over Jon's mouth to see that it happens.
Jon struggles upward, pressing against Geils's hand; that only drives him further into Geils's body, though, and he tries to gasp but finds he can't get the air in. Geils presses down, grinds his hips against Jon's, and lets out a satisfied hum. "Good," Geils hisses, "good little fucking slut. Take me."
It's ridiculous; Jon is the one being taken, for all that he's fucking Geils. Geils keeps his hand clamped down tight on Jon's mouth, using it for balance along with keeping Jon quiet, and he brings his other hand to his cock, stroking fast. "Take me," Geils repeats, eyes narrowed, "take me, fuck me, come on, boy..."
Jon screams into Geils's hand as he comes; Geils clamps down all the harder, hard enough to leave a bruise in the shape of his hand on Jon's face. His eyes are furious; when Jon finally gets his eyes open, Geils is glaring down at him.
"Did I tell you to come?"
Jon's eyes widen.
"Did. I. Fucking. Tell you. To come?" Geils repeats, pressing down hard with his hand at every word. Jon can't move enough to shake his head, but his eyes are terrified.
"Fucking worthless slut," Geils spits. He climbs off Jon, finally letting Jon's face go. "Go upstairs, shower off, and stay the fuck out of my sight until morning." He disappears, leaving his clothes, leaving Jon stranded on the floor. Jon stays flat on his back, trembling; four more days of this. He wonders if he's finally asked for more than he could take.
* * * * *
April 29, 1999
Feeling handcuffs slide over his wrists isn't a new sensation anymore. What's different this time is the weight of them; they're heavier in the middle, and they're making a clinking noise. Jon blinks himself awake and looks up at Geils; Geils is straddling him and finishing with the handcuffs.
The handcuffs have a chain on them; there's a ring over the center of the cuffs, and that ring is attached to a chain, which has another, identical ring on the other end. Geils wraps the chain around a fist and tugs on it with satisfaction; Jon's arms come forward, and he winces.
"Good," Geils says. "Come on."
Out of the bedroom and down the stairs; Geils is nearly dragging Jon, and it's all Jon can do to keep from falling straight forward on his face. He suspects that even if he did, it wouldn't matter; Geils would simply keep dragging him with that chain, keep dragging him through the house and into the cold chamber of the garage.
It's a large garage, and empty; Geils has moved his car out, and now all that's here is a great deal of concrete, a drain in the floor, and a number of garage-like items. There's a hose piled on the floor, and a shelf full of -- no. Those are not standard garage-like items.
Jon barely has time to react before Geils tosses the end of the chain up toward the ceiling; the ceiling is a good nine feet up, and the second ring of the chain catches neatly on a large hook there. Jon is suddenly, dizzyingly caught and held; he's still able to keep his feet solidly on the floor, but the chain has him immobilized. He's not going anywhere.
Geils heads to the shelf containing not-so-much-normal-garage-implements; the thing he picks up first is a black leather gag with a slightly phallic bite insert, which he walks around and puts on Jon, shoving the insert into Jon's mouth and fixing the gag so it's a little too tight for comfort. Geils looks up into Jon's eyes. "Can you breathe?" he asks quietly. Jon nods. "All right." Geils heads back to the shelf; this time it's a black leather blindfold, lined with synthetic fur. It goes on next, and Jon's breathing picks up. Geils gives Jon a sharp slap to the ass.
"I want you to stay like this for a while. You need to piss, you go right ahead; there's a drain in the floor by your feet. I'll be back."
Jon can't say anything; he can only nod. He tugs against the chain on his wrists; not going anywhere. It's going to be a long day.
Time has no meaning when under conditions like these; Jon's only indication that the day is going on is that the air in the garage seems to heat up slightly, and his arms are asleep, and his legs are tired. When he hears the door from the house to the garage open, he turns slightly toward the sound; the movement makes his arms shake, which wakes them up slightly and sends pins and needles through them. He groans.
"How you doing, Jon?" Geils asks. Jon can hear Geils moving around him; he hears the sound of something soft sliding across concrete. "Miss me?"
Jon doesn't have time to react; he hears the sound of running water, suddenly, and then he jerks backward as a harsh spray of cold water hits him in the center of the chest. He turns his face away, tries to guard his nose so he can keep breathing. The cold water runs up his arms, down his chest, down his legs, and then Geils walks around him, nailing his back, his ass, the backs of his thighs. Jon shivers, hard; oh, God -- oh, God, it's good.
The water shuts off abruptly, and Jon hears the hose fall to the ground. Geils comes up, and a rough towel scrubs him down, getting his arms, his back, his legs, then going around to the front and scrubbing down his chest, his cock -- achingly hard now -- and the fronts of his legs.
Geils's hand is cold when he wraps it around Jon's cock; Jon would hiss if he could get it past the gag. "Want something?" he breathes. He comes closer, and nips at Jon's collarbone. "Want to come all over my hand?"
"Nnnn." Yes. Christ. Jon nods, moaning, pleading; Geils squeezes his cock harder and begins stroking.
"Don't fucking come until I tell you," Geils growls. He brings a hand up and closes it over Jon's throat; it's light, not hard enough to take his breath, just enough to be noticed. Jon struggles a little against the hand on his throat, but he's also arching into the hand on his cock. It's all too confusing and frightening and perfect; he doesn't know which way is up anymore.
"You want it this way, don't you?" Geils breathes. "Rough and fucked up? You want to get it this way, as hard as you can take it, day after fucking day, night after fucking night?" His hand tightens on Jon's throat, and he strokes faster, harder, his hand heating up from the movement. "Tell me this isn't what you want. Go on." Geils is taunting him now, stroking in a way that nearly sends Jon over; Jon bites down hard on the gag and arches into Geils's hand. "Go on," Geils hisses, "fucking come now, come, Jon..."
Jon swings in the air; he comes into Geils's hand, screaming into the gag. He goes limp against the chain, falling forward against Geils, taking desperate rough breaths through his nose.
Geils lets go, and reaches up to unlock the cuffs. Jon's arms slam down, feeling heavier than ever, and Geils lets him drop to the floor of the garage, lets him fall on wet cement. He snatches off the blindfold and the gag, tosses them aside. The chain is still swinging back and forth; Geils wraps an arm around Jon's shoulders and lifts him off the floor. "Come on," he murmurs. "Going to put you back in bed. You're going to need some sleep for what I'm doing with you tomorrow."
April 30, 1999
The weight of Geils coming down on the bed wakes Jon up, and he braces himself; nothing else happens, though, and he sits up, blinking sleep out of his eyes. Geils is sitting on the edge of the bed, waiting, watching him.
"What?" Jon asks.
Geils snorts, shakes his head. "Fucking manners, boy."
Jon hesitates. "What's on the schedule for today, Geils?" he asks quietly.
"Get cleaned up. I'll be waiting here when you get out of the shower."
Jon nods and slides out of bed; he makes his way to the shower and turns on the cold water, sighing. The shower isn't quite enough to settle him; the way Geils is waiting for him outside has him wondering what on earth Geils is planning now. No handcuffs, no chains, no duct tape -- it's going to be worse than all those things, then, and Jon doesn't know what he'll do when he finds out what it is.
He comes out of the shower, shivering. Geils has made the bed, and he's sitting next to a small pile of leather cuffs. Jon walks over and stands in front of Geils, and for a moment it's a staring contest. Geils doesn't move, doesn't gesture, doesn't let his eyes drop, but Jon knows, somehow, exactly what Geils wants. Jon goes to his knees.
"Hold out your wrists," Geils murmurs. Jon does, and Geils slips leather cuffs on each wrist individually; he doesn't clip them together, though each cuff has a D-ring to make that possible later. "Stand up," he says. Jon comes to his feet, and Geils kneels and fastens cuffs on his ankles.
There's one thing left on the bed, and Jon realizes it's too large to be another cuff; it's a collar. He takes one step back and shakes his head. "No," he whispers.
"Oh, don't give me that," Geils says, sounding very impatient. "Hold still."
Jon backs up another step as Geils takes to his feet and picks up the collar. "No," Jon says again. "No, fuck you."
"Get on your fucking knees, Jon."
"I don't do collars."
"I don't give two shits. You're doing it today."
Jon hits the floor and glares up at Geils. "I thought you couldn't handle me for more than five days at a time. You've got three to go. Changing your mind now?"
Geils reaches out and grabs Jon by the hair. "Listen," he hisses, "you fucking little twerp, I don't have to explain a goddamned thing to you." He buckles the collar on, a little too tight; Jon chokes and reaches up to it, but Geils pushes his hand away. "You should have put it on yourself. If it's too tight now, that's too goddamned bad." He tugs on the collar's D-ring. "Now get up and go crawl down the fucking stairs."
Jon stares up at Geils for a moment before deciding that Geils is completely serious. He said crawl; he means crawl. Jon takes to hands and knees, and very slowly shuffles out of the bedroom and down the stairs.
Crawling down the stairs is a difficult, dangerous prospect; Jon is usually able to carry out crawling with at least a little bit of grace, but this time it's all he can do to keep from tumbling down the stairs ass-over-teakettle. He gets to the bottom of the stairs and lets out a grateful breath, glad it's over.
"Huhn. David, I don't think this one's up to your usual standards."
"Cut me some slack, Alex, this one isn't mine."
Jon looks up, frowning; there are two men standing at the foot of the stairs. One of them is a blonde with a deep tan, well-built but short, hair in a short military buzzcut, dressed in khaki pants and a light yellow polo shirt; the other is a little taller, a little slimmer, with dark black hair that falls to his shoulders in tousled waves, dressed only in jeans, the top button undone. He's gorgeous. And he's collared.
Geils walks around to stand at Alex's side; he looks at the collared boy and draws a hand down his chest, running a finger around the waistband of his jeans. "Mmm. Nice. How long have you had this one?"
"Two months," Alex answers easily. "Got him for at least another four. Maybe longer, if he earns it."
"And this one isn't yours yet?" Alex asks, looking down at Jon.
"No. But I've got him for another few days, and I thought you might want to have a look at him." Geils is still stroking his hands over the collared boy's chest, tweaking at a nipple, bending down to flick his tongue over the boy's collarbone.
"Mm. What does he do?" Alex asks.
"Not a hell of a lot. Thinks he's pretty good with his mouth."
"Yeah?" Alex drops a hand over his crotch and strokes gently. "You share?"
"If you do," Geils answers, grinning at the collared boy. "What's his name?"
"Nick," Alex answers, eyes still on Jon. He tilts his head in the general direction of the living room. "Come on, boy."
Jon's eyes, though, are still on Geils and Nick. Geils has wound an arm around Nick's shoulders, and Nick is looking at him with heavy, dark eyes. Jon grits his teeth and stays planted.
Alex snaps his fingers lightly. "Boy. Now."
Geils doesn't even look Jon's way. "Go," he murmurs dismissively.
Jon climbs to his feet. "I didn't sign on for this," he hisses.
That does get Geils's attention; he pulls away from Nick, looking very reluctant and irritated. He looks at Jon for several long seconds, then walks around him, slowly, deliberately, one heavy step at a time.
Still fast. Geils is still faster than anyone Jon's ever been with; he lashes out with a hard, solid backhand that takes Jon to the floor. "You had your chance to say no when all this started. You're the one who wanted no holds barred, remember? Fucking crawl into the living room and suck him off like you have something to prove." He punctuates the movement by going back to Nick and dropping a hand to his crotch; Nick moans and rubs up against Geils, flicking his tongue out over his lips.
Fucking bastard. Jon puts his head down and crawls into the living room; Alex steps around him and takes a seat in one of the armchairs. He unzips his pants and pulls his cock out; it's not even hard yet. Alex makes a crude gesture and spreads his legs. "Come on, boy. Show me what you're doing here."
All right; fine. Alex's attractive enough, and Jon does love to suck cock. He kneels up and puts his hands on Alex's inner thighs, then bends down and takes Alex's cock into his mouth, all at once, completely. He licks around it, feeling it grow hard; he simply lets it lengthen down his throat, only pulling back and sliding his mouth down over it again when it's half hard. Alex puts a hand across the back of his head and thrusts up gently; Jon responds in kind, sucking a little harder.
There's a noise, a soft exhale from the couch cushions; Jon's eyes dart to the side to see Geils coming down on top of Nick. Nick is naked, now, and his legs are spread; he's clawing hungrily up at Geils, moaning, begging incoherently. Geils already has a condom on, already has his fingers lubed; he slides his fingers into Nick and Nick purrs, rocking his hips up and groaning.
"Don't get distracted, boy." Alex grabs on to Jon's hair and forces his head down further; Jon closes his eyes and concentrates on the sensation of Alex's cock in his mouth.
For a while, it works. And then Jon hears Geils making rough, intermittent growls; after some time, he lets out a low moan. Nick is moaning, too, soft little pleading noises. Another moan from Geils, and another; Jon forces his eyes shut tighter, as if by squeezing his eyes shut he can block out the sounds, too.
"Christ, Alex, your boy's tight," Geils pants.
"Don't I know it," Alex laughs. "How's David, Nick?"
"Ohh -- oohh, God, Master, he's fucking incredible, Master," Nick pants.
Alex laughs, but then abruptly stops laughing and hisses in a sharp breath. His hand jerks Jon's head off his cock. "If I fucking wanted teeth I'd have asked for them, boy. Jesus fucking Christ."
"I'm -- sorry," Jon manages, eyes flashing.
"Yeah, you are," Alex agrees. He jerks Jon's head back so he can see Geils fucking Nick. "Look over there. Look at Nick. He actually knows how to give head; maybe I should have had him suck off Geils so you could see how it's done."
Jon tries to pull away; Alex gives his head a nasty little shake. "Don't like that idea, huh?" he asks.
"Doesn't mean anything to me," Jon whispers.
"Fucking liar," Geils pants. He drops his head into the curve of Nick's shoulder. "So fucking tight. Oh, God -- so fucking good, boy..."
If looks could kill... Jon's teeth are set, and he's staring. He can't look away now, even though he wants to. Badly.
Another few thrusts, and Geils sinks his teeth into Nick's shoulder as he comes; Nick cries out and clutches at Geils's shoulders. Geils rests there, on top of Nick, panting. Alex's hand has loosened in Jon's hair; he trails his fingers lightly across Jon's shoulders.
"Now there's a boy," Alex whispers. "There's a good boy." It could be to Nick or Jon or both; Jon doesn't know and doesn't care.
Nick, though, turns his head from under Geils, and licks his lips. "Thank you, Master," he whispers.
"Have you come yet, boy?" Alex asks, still idly stroking Jon's shoulders.
"Come here, then." Alex's grip goes to the back of Jon's neck and turns him back around; he pulls Jon forward and presses Jon's face to his cock. "You're going to suck me off. Properly this time." He snaps his fingers and gestures to Nick. "And my boy's going to fuck you."
Jon clenches his teeth, but nods. He sighs out his frustration and opens his mouth wide, ready to take in Alex's cock again. Alex snorts at the display, and thrusts his cock in between Jon's lips, dragging Jon's mouth down hard.
Jon feels hands on his hips while he's sucking Alex's cock; he feels a steady press of fingers into his ass and moans accordingly. He spreads his legs a little wider and hears a soft laugh from behind. "Master, I think David's boy likes this."
"Not my boy," Geils murmurs; his voice, too, is coming from behind Jon, but further back. "Just a trick I picked up in a club."
Jon hums out loud in protest -- can't help it -- but then Nick is pressing into him, and he's being taken in front and from behind and it's so good he can't think anymore. He presses back into Nick, then is drawn forward onto Alex, and from far behind Nick he can hear Geils murmuring soft words of encouragement. So good. Oh, God, so good.
Alex sighs, thrusting up steadily; his hand flexes on the back of Jon's neck. "I'm going to come down your boy's throat," he murmurs toward Geils. "You mind?"
"Not my boy; I don't give a shit," Geils says. He does something -- Nick gasps and slams into Jon harder -- and Jon lets out another rough moan in half-protest, half-pleasure.
"Good," Alex groans, and then he's doing it, coming hard down Jon's throat, the spurts hitting the roof of Jon's mouth and then trickling down as Jon swallows. "You next, boy," Alex says to Nick, and that's all it takes; Nick is groaning, arching forward, slamming hard into Jon as Geils murmurs in satisfaction.
"Tell Jon what I was doing to you," Geils murmurs. Jon can hear the soft press of lips on Nick's shoulder, and he's glad his eyes are closed and his mouth is full; he won't be expected to look or to react.
"He had his fingers in my ass," Nick whispers, bending down to bite Jon's shoulder hard. "Had his fingers in my ass and was stroking me right where it means the most. Really fucking well, too."
"Wasn't thinking about you a bit," Geils says, and the smirk is audible. "Still don't really give a shit how you're doing. Nick's a hell of a lot better at this than you are."
Nick can go to hell, Jon thinks savagely, and so can you.
Nick pulls back, groaning happily, and Alex shoves Jon roughly away from him, then buttons up his pants. "He's a decent trick," Alex tells Geils. "Miss the days when you had a boy of your own, though."
"No rush," Geils says easily. "It happens when it happens."
"You're a more patient man than I am," Alex chuckles. He stands up. "C'mon, Nick; I think we've had enough fun here."
Jon watches as Nick gets up and gets dressed, and Alex leads him out of the house. He stays on the floor, leaning against the armchair, until Geils closes the door behind his guests and comes back to Jon, tapping a foot impatiently just in front of him.
"Poor showing," Geils says, clucking his tongue. "Something bothering you?"
"Fuck you," Jon fires back.
"Nah. You haven't earned that today. Better luck tomorrow."
Better luck tomorrow. Jon's eyes flash; they haven't stopped flashing since he first saw Geils on the couch with Nick. We'll fucking see about that.
May 1, 1999
Jon found an alarm clock and set it for four in the morning. He's up early.
He knows which one is Geils's room; he's quiet as he slips inside it. He pads over to Geils's bed and takes in his position; Geils is face down, the covers down to his waist, one arm slung over the side of his bed, and as far as Jon can tell, naked. Perfect.
Jon walks very quietly over to Geils's bed, and when he's at the side of the bed, he grabs Geils's wrist and yanks it, hard, up between Geils's shoulderblades.
"You fucking bastard," Jon hisses, "fuck you, fuck you."
"You're -- shit -- you're fucking playing with fire, boy," Geils growls. He twists into the wrench, and Jon has to scramble, has to change hands, to keep Geils pinned down. Jon has a hand on Geils's shoulder, now, and is twisting Geils's arm so hard Geils is struggling in pain.
Good. Goddamnit, good.
Jon comes up and bites down hard on Geils's other shoulder, bites down so hard Geils screams into the pillow. "Fuck you," Jon hisses again. "Fuck you."
"Starting something," Geils gasps, "starting something that's going to hurt a hell of a lot -- gggnnnrrghhh -- when I'm done with you, boy."
"Promise me everything's going to be fine if I stop," Jon taunts. "Go on."
"Oh, fuck that." Geils grunts in pain as Jon twists his wrist hard. "We both know you're going to pay for this. You better make it worth it, boy."
"It's already worth it," Jon breathes. "Seeing you pinned down? Knowing I could break your fucking wrist if I just twisted a little more?" He twists a bare fraction of the amount it would take to break Geils's wrist; Geils screams into the pillow again. "How does it fucking feel to be pinned down, Geils? Hm?"
"Feels like I'm going to break -- nnrrgh --break your goddamned scrawny neck when you let me up, boy," Geils snaps. "Make it worth something, because you're going to fucking pay for this."
"Yeah," Jon whispers, tugging the sheets back, "oh, yeah, it's going to be fucking worth it." He straddles Geils's legs, pushing his cock into the cleft of Geils's ass, rubbing hard. Geils flails under him, and Jon uses his free hand to smack the back of Geils's head roughly. "Stop struggling. It's going to happen anyway. Lie still and enjoy it."
"You little shit," Geils says; there's a tone of laughter in his voice. "You're going to pay for this."
"I know," Jon whispers. He keeps thrusting his hips, keeps rubbing his cock in the cleft of Geils's ass. "You think I didn't consider that?"
"You just don't stop," Geils groans. "Don't stop pushing, ever. You little fucker."
"That's why I'm here," Jon fires back, panting so hard he can barely get the words out. "That's what I'm doing here." Another thrust, and he's coming, gritting his teeth together, shouting, pressing down hard on Geils's wrist. His come streaks out onto Geils's lower back, and Geils jerks under him, jerks with every streak that falls on his skin.
Winded, Jon loosens his grip; the instant that happens, Geils is tearing his arm free and pushing Jon into the bed. "Did you like that?" Geils growls. "Did it work for you?"
"Yeah," Jon grins, not even fighting, "yeah, it worked fucking great for me."
"Get the fuck out of my bedroom."
Jon's eyes are dancing. "Did I get your complete fucking undivided attention?" he asks.
"Fuck you," Geils shoots back. "Get. The Fuck. Out." He shoves off and pushes Jon away, then stumbles off the bed himself, heading for the bathroom.
May 2, 1999
It's the last day. The last day of five. Tomorrow it's all going to end.
Jon lies awake in his bed, staring up at the ceiling. Pushed. He's been pushed. It's been close. It's been very, very close, but he knows it's all over.
When Geils comes in, Jon doesn't fight. He doesn't fight when Geils puts the handcuffs on, doesn't fight when Geils turns him over and chains the handcuffs to the headboard. He lies still, loose, limp, when Geils shoves two fingers, then three, then four into him. He doesn't react, doesn't respond.
Geils doesn't seem to notice. He stretches Jon out as wide as he can with his fingers, and for a moment Jon thinks he's about to be fisted; instead, though, it's Geils's cock, slamming into him, slamming home.
Jon doesn't move. Doesn't react. Doesn't say a word. Not while Geils fucks him. Not when Geils pulls out, and groans, stroking himself, coming all over Jon's back. Not when Geils draws lazy, satisfied fingers through Jon's hair.
Geils hesitates, then. He puts a hand on Jon's shoulder as if he wants to say something, but then thinks better of it; he pushes off the bed, leaving Jon cuffed down, leaving Jon alone.
May 3, 1999
Jon sits down across the table from Geils. Geils has pancakes laid out in front of him, and Jon reaches for the jam, almost mechanically. He spreads a little on the pancakes and then puts the jar back.
"How are you doing?" Geils asks. His tone is the essence of politeness. Jon shrugs. "You hurting anywhere?" Jon shakes his head. "You need anything? Want anything?" Jon shakes his head again; Geils puts his elbows on the table and sighs. "Jon?" he asks softly. "These last two days -- they're for both of us. Talk to me."
"I don't want it," Jon mumbles. He cuts a piece of pancake and stuffs it into his mouth; he doesn't even taste it.
"I can't be like that every single fucking day," Geils says. There's no apology in his voice, no anger; it's simply a statement of fact. "It's too much."
"It's not enough," Jon disagrees quietly.
"You're going to end up killing yourself looking for it."
Geils sighs and sits back in his chair. "You know, I really have grown to care for you. A little."
"That's fucking stupid," Jon scoffs. "I was never going to stay."
"I know," Geils says. He looks at Jon and shakes his head. "I wouldn't want you to stay."
"Should I go now, then?" Jon asks, meeting Geils's eyes.
"We've got two more days," Geils says softly. "Do you want to go?"
Jon looks away, and goes back to his pancakes. After a while, Geils does the same.
Geils looks up. "What was that?"
"I don't want to go," Jon whispers.
Pancakes and juice are knocked aside; Geils yanks Jon over the table and kisses him hard. "It doesn't have to be rough," Jon manages, "it doesn't have to be rough this time. You don't have to push me."
"I am pushing you," Geils says, licking into Jon's mouth with sweet, undemanding beauty.
Jon moans and climbs up onto the table; Geils tugs Jon out of his clothes, pressing kisses to every inch of skin as it comes free. He is soft and gentle, and every kiss, every touch, every caress seeks permission before it lands. Jon moans and purrs into the touches, taking everything, everything he can get; Geils bends down and licks a trail up Jon's cock, swirling over the head and sucking it gently into his mouth. His lips are so warm and so gentle Jon cries out; his teeth, when they dance down the length of Jon's cock, are sharp and yet gentle, too. Geils cups Jon's balls in his hand, rolling them softly in his palm, until Jon's hands reach down, carding through Geils's hair, hips thrusting up as he moans, pleading now as if it's second nature. "Geils, please," he gasps, "Geils, please, let me come, let me come for you, let me come in your mouth..."
Geils hums and sucks harder; it's all the consent Jon needs. He closes his eyes, opens his mouth, and lets out a soft moan that lasts from the time he starts coming, through the orgasm, through the jets hitting the back of Geils's throat, until all the aftershocks are over and the breath is well and truly taken from his lungs.
Geils comes up and kisses Jon soundly; Jon can taste his come in Geils's mouth, and licks into it, seeking out more of his own flavor. Geils gasps, and Jon reaches down between them to wrap Geils's cock in his hand.
"Want me?" Jon whispers.
"God... yes, so much," Geils breathes. "Turn over."
"No," Jon counters, "bed this time. I want you to take me to bed."
Geils moans again, and nods, resting his head against Jon's shoulder for a moment; in time, he climbs off Jon and lets Jon lead him upstairs, to Geils's bedroom, where Jon helps undress Geils, getting him bare, running graceful fingertips over his skin.
"You're so beautiful," Geils whispers. "Want you so much, Jon."
"I know," Jon murmurs, "I want you, too. So much."
Jon goes to hands and knees on Geils's bed; Geils comes up and slides lube-slicked fingers into him, slowly, almost reverently, making Jon nearly shake with desire. "So good," Geils whispers.
"So good," Jon agrees, and when Geils presses forward, presses in, Jon throws back his head and moans. "Oh -- God -- so good," he breathes.
Geils wraps an arm around Jon's waist and moves in slow, relentless, beautiful, patient strokes, as if he wants this moment to last forever. He draws his hands over Jon's skin, over and over, moaning softly. Jon draws a hand back and presses it over Geils's, pressing both to his hip; he gasps, slowly rocking into Geils's movements, eyes closing with the unrelenting beauty of it. "Want you," he whispers, "wanted you, like this, just like this, God, Geils..."
"I know," Geils murmurs. "Sshhh... just want to hold you... just want to... oh, God, Jon, Jon, Jon..."
Geils's mouth drops open, and with one more thrust forward, he comes, gasping softly, pressing into Jon over and over as the shocks take him. Jon squeezes tight and tightens his grip on Geils's hand, and he comes, too, whispering his pleasure in soft words: "so good, Geils, so good, just like this..."
Exhausted, both panting, they fall onto the bed together, Geils spooned up against Jon's back. Jon draws Geils's hand over his chest and squeezes it tight, and Geils pretends not to notice the way Jon has started to cry.
May 4, 1999
So close. So fucking close.
Jon's clothes, the ones he was wearing the night he met Geils, have been laundered. Jon doesn't know when Geils managed it; maybe early in the morning, maybe late at night, maybe one of those times he told Jon to stay out of his sight. It's odd, putting them back on; Jon feels like he's going back to a life he no longer recognizes.
"You all right?" Geils asks.
Jon nods, then shakes his head. He curls up on the couch and pulls his knees to his chest. "Sorry. Don't know what's the matter with me."
Geils leans over and wraps an arm around Jon's shoulders. Jon sinks into him gratefully, puts his head on Geils's shoulder, puts a hand on Geils's chest.
"I'm going to miss you so fucking much," Jon whispers. "I need you to know that."
"I'd have known," Geils whispers back. "I'm going to miss you, too."
"I could--" Jon begins.
Geils interrupts. "You could what? You could settle? You could learn to resent me for being almost what you need, but not quite?"
"It's so close," Jon whispers. "It's so fucking close, Geils."
"I know," Geils says. He wraps his other arm around Jon and hugs him fiercely. "I know. But I'm not what you're looking for, and we both know it."
"It's not out there," Jon murmurs, bitterly, into Geils's chest. "I've been looking for years now. It's not there."
"It is." Geils's voice is steady, certain. "But it's not me."
"No," Jon admits, voice barely audible. "I wanted it to be you."
"I know," Geils repeats. He rubs his chin across the top of Jon's head. "Come on. I'm going to take you home."
Jon runs his finger over the spirals of the notebooks on his bookshelf. There are four pressed to the back of the shelf; pressed in past the others, so that it'd be hell to get them out. They're all green; they're all marked "April 21, 1999 - May 4, 1999." They're pushed back so he won't pull them out and look at them. It makes a dent in the neat line of spiral notebooks, a dent that draws his eyes to them every time he looks at that shelf.
There are postcards stuffed between them, four of them. They don't have messages on them; just addresses and phone numbers. Jon knows where to look, if he needs to. He's sent postcards of his own, with the same information.
It's tempting, sometimes. It's tempting to pull out the latest postcard and call. Tempting to pull out the notebooks and draw his hand over the scratchy rough bumps of his written memory.
He wonders. He stares at the notebooks, sometimes, and wishes things could have been otherwise.
So close, he thinks. We were so close.
He pulls his hand off the notebooks and turns around, walking heavily, purposefully over to his mirror. He checks his eyeliner and smudges it a little more heavily around the corners of his eyes.
Hope you're happy, Geils. Miss you.
He picks up his keys and walks out of his apartment. The night's young.