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The Only One That’s In Command

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"I think we need to work on your hand-eye coordination so you don't give your slow self another black eye."

Tom's voice floats in from the kitchen of his trailer, and Chris doesn't really register what it is he's saying until the footsteps headed in his direction stop completely. Just as he's about to poke his head over the top of the script pages he's engrossed in, there's the unmistakable (and really fucking loud) crack of a whip and he startles bad enough that the pages go flying.

"Shit," he mutters, taking in the whip held loosely in Tom's right hand and what looks to be a length of cloth in his left.

"On the floor, hands behind your back," the command is effortless and Chris drops off the sofa without thinking twice, scrambling to obey.

He's barely got his chest flat on the floor when Tom's hands are gripping his wrists pressing them firmly to the small of his back but not wrenching them far enough to be painful. The texture of the leather of the whip as it wraps around his wrists is a novel sensation, though the points of contact where Tom's fingers are touching his skin are far more distracting.

Then, said fingers are petting over his throat, prompting a low groan before the cloth makes a reappearance and is summarily slipped into his mouth and knotted at the back of his skull, effectively muffling any noises he decides to make.

He knows Tom likes the control this signifies, despite the fact that the scene could end with a single word or gesture on his part. (Not to mention the fact that he could easily tear out of the whip's knot on his own if he had cause to.) But he likes giving Tom that control. It's exhilarating for both of them.

Chris refocuses as Tom is working at his belt and pulling his pants and boxers down to his knees. He shivers as Tom's fingers slide over the curve of his flank, then palm his cheeks in order to spread them. The pressure of Tom's hands quickly fades into the background as a tongue begins lapping over his entrance, prompting him to jerk forward in surprise, a low groan getting lost in the fabric of the gag in his mouth.

Tom starts fucking him with his tongue, each push slow and patient, despite his constant attempts to shove back in a silent demand for more now please. It's maddeningly drawn-out, every slick thrust into his willing body obviously planned down to the last second. Chris wants Tom to lose that grip on his control as badly as he wants to come.

After what feels like ages (but is probably only a few minutes, curse his overactive imagination), Tom finally pulls back and Chris can hear him fumbling with his belt and fly.

Two slick fingers replace Tom's tongue and Chris groans into his gag, eyes screwing shut as he spreads his legs further apart and humps against the plush carpet when Tom's fingertips brush his prostate. Christ, he's going to lose it and Tom won't have even gotten his cock in him.

He rolls his head from side to side, riding out the slow tide of pleasure that keeps cresting through his body as Tom keeps working him open. His muscles feel quivery and he can't help the way he bites out muffled curses whenever he can feel Tom's cock press against his flank.

Finally, Tom's fingers withdraw and are quickly replaced with the blunt head of his cock. Chris makes a pitched noise in his throat and clenches up against the initial burn, prompting Tom to freeze and lean over him in order to start whispering soothing promises into his ear.

There are patient hands stroking up and down his body, loosening his muscles and gradually prompting him to slump forward against the carpet, pliant and content.

Tom bottoms out in one smooth push, prompting another groan to tear free from Chris' throat. He shudders and clenches his eyes shut, reveling in the sensation of fullness.

His own cock is hard and leaking between his legs, just barely freed above the waistbands of his jeans and pants. With both hands bound, he can't touch it, and he knows Tom won't either. Not like this. He can either come on the man's cock or not at all.

Chris gives a low growl that gets caught in the gag, then shoves back and up against Tom's weight, gasping as the head of Tom's cock pushes directly against his prostate. His vision goes a bit hazy for a few moments, but he's got the rhythm he wants and he's not about to lose it.

Tom's fingers find their way into his hair, tangling with the blond strands and pulling just short of the point of pain. Chris arches helplessly into it, held between the two spectrums of pain and pleasure.

Then, somewhere in the vicinity of his right ear, Tom makes this snarling noise and abruptly sinks his teeth into the meat of Chris' shoulder. Chris howls.

His vision actually whites out for a few seconds and it takes him a few more seconds to realize that yes, that was an orgasm and yes, he is still coming. Chris shudders through it, muscles twitching like they've been attached to live wires.

He's vaguely aware of Tom fucking him through his orgasm, rhythm gone wild and uninhibited. It feels good, being used like this. Especially when the rush of warmth alerts him to Tom's own climax, giving him only a few moments' warning before Tom's weight slumps across his back.

Chris makes a vaguely disgruntled sound and Tom bites him in the same place as he lifts himself enough to undo the knot binding his wrists. His arms fall free and Tom slumps back onto him, clearly basking in the post-coital glow.

He makes another sound, though Tom just smacks his hip and shifts around to get more comfortable atop him.

"You haven't earned the removal of that yet," he murmurs slyly, prompting Chris' spent cock to give an half-hearted twitch.