His breath fogs up the surface, the exhalation a wispy cloud floating over a night-dark dome of sky, and then his breathing hitches so harshly it's as though there's a fist squeezing his throat closed.
"Did I give you permission to stop?" The question is clipped, and so commanding his back arches against his will and makes him hunch down further toward the floor.
"No, sir," he says, voice mercifully steady even as his fingers tighten in the fabric of his sleeve momentarily before he resumes. "You did not, General."
He can see his reflection in the floor between the boot-tips, see his face like a twin under glass, and stares down at it as his fingers move. Over and under, following the seams and tracing the heel and the toe, buffing them to high shine, while trying not to remember the press of the same boot between his thighs and failing. His movements turn jerky and haphazard, as clumsy as on the first time an age ago, despite the fact that he should be in control of himself now. In control so he can relinquish that control and let himself be commanded. Let himself be debased, made to crawl, so that he might be allowed to run his fingers over the slick leather of the tall boots. So he might be allowed to feel the square heel bear down on his groin, the edge of the sole digging into tender flesh hard enough to make him wince even as he teeters on the verge of orgasm. There are times when the sound of bootheels striking the floor in a steady tattoo is enough to stir him, because he recalls all the times he has knelt on cold floors and waited, waited and listened and longed.
As he leans back, pushing the restless memories away, he keeps his gaze on the seams between the plasteel tiles, because he has not been given permission to look up.
"It will do." The voice is clipped still, cold and devoid of reaction, and it disappoints him momentarily that there is nothing to cling to as praise. "You may kiss them."
His hands tremble for only a moment when he sets them down on the floor and leans forward. He has kneeled for so long his knees ache, but he lets the pain dig its ragged edges into him before he funnels it outward into the Force. It flares up, lighting his mind up for a moment and stoking the fire in his belly further. It feels almost like a living thing, something powerful and sinuous that coils around him and at the same time like fingers unerringly finding each of his trigger points. He wants desperately to have one hand free, to press it against his achingly hard cock, but he has not been given permission.
The leather tastes of oil, and it leaves a bitter sheen on his lips and on his tongue. And yet he bends down again, breathes in deep and presses another kiss to the slick surface he has spent hours polishing. He can feel a moan building in his throat, but refuses to let it escape. He has not been given permission. When the tip of the other boot catches the angle of his jaw, he moves with it and feels his pulse jackhammer in his throat.
"A Knight on his knees. It speaks in your favour that you remember your rank, Kylo."
Another sharp nudge, and he tilts his head back, up at an angle that borders on painful.
"I will consider forgetting your earlier infraction."
He almost takes it as a rejection, and then he catches the feverish glint in Hux's pale eyes. His heart skips a single beat as he decides, breath-quick, what to do. "What will it take?" he asks, his voice hoarse enough to betray him. This isn't about the infraction itself, no, because it barely matters, but the anticipation of the punishment. The ruthless disciplinary action he knows will leave him wrung out and sore and sated.
"The collar. My quarters at nineteen hundred hours."
He exhales, feeling a sharp shiver chase down his spine, then inclines his head and rests his cheek against the polished boot. "Yes, General."
The collar. So tall he can't look down, so tight he breathes in shallow gasps. It bruises his throat each time, and he suspects it's less of a design flaw and more of a deliberate feature to help rekindle the burning memories each time he looks into a mirror. The folds of his hood hide the bruises, as does his mask, so they remain a secret to those around him. Not that they would ever dare ask.
The heel of Hux's boot digs into his collarbone, but it doesn't matter. He leans into it, puts his weight against it to keep himself upright even as he fumbles with the folds of his robes. It won't take much, even less now that he is underfoot. His breathing is ragged and grows choppier the faster his hand moves, and the scent of leather seems headier than before. Leather to tame him, to bring him to his knees, and it is the memory of Hux's wide bootheel resting square in the hollow of his throat that finally tips him over the edge. He can feel the Force ripple, feel the Dark rising up like a deep crimson wave that crashes into him and pulls him apart. He comes with a harsh groan, squeezing his eyes shut as his fingers keep working. It is messy and desperate, undignified, and he feels Hux push him back with a sharp jolt to take the weight off his leg. Denied his support, he pitches forward, catching himself with one hand, the other still wrapped tightly around his cock.
He hears Hux rise to his feet. Then the flat of a heel rests momentarily against the back of his neck, pushing down ever so slightly.
"Nineteen hundred hours. Now clean that up."