Chapter 1: Meeting
Eric and Harry go on a first date, and for all that Eric tries to play nice, he's still dominant and full of rough edges. And Harry wants to sink into them, even if he comes out bruised.
Eric's not wearing a watch, but he knows what time it is. There are clocks all over the pub, ticker clocks on the screens showing tonight's footie matches, and his date's not here yet.
His date. His date's an intriguing man by the name of Harry Sinclair, who Eric was ready to ask out after an exchange of about seven words. It wasn't the words so much as the look on Harry's face, and though it didn't surprise Eric when Harry agreed to meet him for dinner and drinks, it did please him.
But now Harry's late, and Eric's wondering whether that's a sign of disinterest -- he doesn't think so -- or a statement of some kind -- he doubts that, too -- or whether he'll get to lean on Harry for this later. Or, given that look on Harry's face, whether Harry will end up leaning on himself. Oh, the evening's going to be a good one.
Harry's late. He got wrapped up in editing and lost track of time and, pushing his sleeve up and glancing at his watch, he knows he was supposed to be there a good 15 minutes earlier.
"Fuck," he curses as he skids his bike into the parking lot, nearly catching the edge of the concrete planter. "Why the hell do they need plants outside a bloody pub?" He's mad at himself. Late for his date. He gets off the bike and runs his hand through his hair, fixing it as much as possible, and shrugs his jacket down.
Date's a guy name of Eric. He stops halfway to the pub's front entrance. "Last name, Sinclair. Think. You know it." The film has him way too absent-minded, and he can't remember the last name of the guy he let pick him up after a passing conversation at a cocktail party he can't even recall who was hosting. "It's weird like Marton's," he mutters as he walks in, looks around and spots Eric across the way. "Bana. That's it." He gives a slight wave and heads over to the table.
Eric's already got a pint in hand, three-quarters full still, but he's been drinking slowly. He raises it and nods to Harry, waiting for Harry to get there, and oh yes, Harry would look beautiful sinking to his knees and pressing his face against Eric's thigh. But it's not that sort of date just yet, so no need to get ahead of oneself.
He takes to his feet once Harry reaches the table. "Harry. Good to see you again." He extends a hand, and a grin to go along with it.
"Eric," he says quickly, suppressing the desire to say Mr. Bana, knowing it's not exactly the place and they haven't really discussed that. Seven words made for very little exploration of anything other than yes, you're damned hot and would you?
Harry takes the hand, shakes it firmly, then slowly lets go, dropping himself into the chair opposite Eric's. He looks around, as much for someone to get him a pint as just checking out the room, seeing if anyone he knows is here. "You following anything particular?" he asks, hitching a thumb toward the screens of footie matches.
"No, my team's not up tonight," Eric says, settling himself back down and waving a waiter over. "Only thing worth watching was the clock." He lifts an eyebrow, teasing with a grin, but it's as casual or serious a criticism as Harry wants to make it.
"Clock? Oh, Christ, I'm sorry." The waiter decides on that moment to show up. "Uh, whatever you've got on tap," Harry says, not caring about what he drinks, just that he has something in his hands soon.
"Caught up in traffic?" Eric asks. "And get him the amber ale you've got. I think he'll like it." The last instructions are for the waiter, but his eyes are on Harry.
Harry doesn't bother to object that Eric ordered his ale. "No, um, caught up in editing," he continues as the waiter leaves. "New film's mostly in the can, but final edits have to be done in time for festival entry in another month. Really sorry. I get like that, preoccupied and no one bothers to remind I'm supposed to be somewhere."
"I could get you a pager," Eric offers, still grinning, still with that teasing expression all over his face. "Page you to remind you when you need to be someplace different. I'm almost frighteningly organized. To the point where some people want to strangle me."
"First date and you're offering to buy me a pager," Harry says, grinning just slightly less than Eric. "Should I take that as a good sign?"
"Absolutely," Eric says. He could offer to skip the rest of the date now, see if Harry'd like to come home with him and yeah, he could send Harry home with a pager, but... patience. Definitely a time for patience. "Hell, we haven't even got past drinks yet. Do you want to look over the menu for a bit, figure out what you'd like to have for dinner?"
"Whatever you want to fee--" Harry catches himself before he finishes blurting out the sentence. Yes, patience. It's a virtue, he reminds himself, along with the fact that Eric had scared the hell out of him at the party. In a damned good way. "Um, standard pub fare, I'm guessing," he says, pulling one of the menus over and opening it, burying himself into weighing the options.
"Harry." Eric slides two fingers over the top of the menu, pulls it down so he can look Harry in the eyes, if Harry looks back up at him. "Don't stop midsentence when you're talking to me. Whatever you want to fee-...?"
Harry looks up, compelled by Eric simply saying his name. He shouldn't be, but he is. Then the gaze. Dark brown eyes. Too dark. "Yes?" he says before Eric gets to the words that send the shiver down Harry's spine. Don't stop midsentence when you're talking to me. A very simple order. "I'm sorry, Eric. Whatever you want to feed me will be fine. That's what I started to say."
"All right." Better and better. Eric smiles. "Then you won't be needing this." He taps his fingers against the top of the menu. "I'll order for you."
"No, Eric, I won't be needing it." Harry folds the menu and slides it back across the table. "I would rather you order for me." He smiles, lets out a breath he'd held a second too long. It'll be fine. Just right.
"Is there anything you don't eat? Anything you can't have?" Eric asks. There's confidence, and then there's making sure he takes care of his... date. Mm. "Particular requirements if I take you out for dessert later?"
"I eat most anything. Not overly fond of seafood, but I tolerate it." Harry thinks for a minute on the second question. "Not sure about dessert. Are you asking what I'd like to eat? Or if I'd like to be dessert?" He worries for a split-second as the words come out that it might be too forward, but the thought's in his brain and Eric's question wasn't clear.
"I was only wondering whether you have allergies I need to be aware of. Whether you can lick chocolate sauce off fingertips or if it needs to be butterscotch." The waiter's on his way back with Harry's pint. Eric gathers both menus and has them ready to hand back to the waiter once he's there. He orders for both of them, resisting the urge to make it a several-appetizers sort of meal, the kind that could be handfed. It's not that sort of pub, after all.
Harry waits till the waiter's left before answering. "Not allergic to anything, food or otherwise," he says, "so licking chocolate off fingertips would be as good as licking off hot caramel."
"Good," Eric murmurs. "I'm glad you agreed to dinner with me. I enjoyed meeting you. I was glad we were introduced."
"Same here. Don't recall who had the party, but I think I owe them a thank-you note." Harry picks up his pint, sips at it, then drinks it down a couple inches before pulling it back from his lips. "Nice ale. Thanks for that, too."
"I like the way you say that," Eric says. "Like the way you say thanks. Very polite of you. Would you have thanked me just as much if the ale hadn't suited?"
"Probably would've said it's not what I usually like and would it okay to get something else." Harry's finding it very easy to be honest with Eric. "There'd've been a thanks somewhere in there, just for the gesture."
"Ahh..." Eric sits back, smiling. He likes Harry's honesty. Likes it quite a bit. "And does that apply to things other than drinks? If I offer you something else you don't usually like, will you ask if it's okay to do something else?"
"Drinks are easy to turn down," Harry murmurs. "Other offers aren't always like that."
"Not always," Eric agrees. "Not often, depending on what we're speaking of. And then there are the offers you don't get to turn down at all."
Harry contemplates the wording. Offers you don't get to turn down. "I wouldn't know, Eric," he says, looking directly across the table, meeting Eric's eyes straight-on. "I've never had anyone make an offer I wasn't allowed to turn down."
"Really." That could be an interesting piece of trivia. Does that mean you've never been owned? Eric wonders. He doesn't bother putting the curiosity away; it shows in eyes and voice and has him considering his next words a bit less carefully than he should. "I could make you an offer like that by the end of the night if you could make it worth my while."
Harry's intrigued more than frightened, although every sane cell in his brain says he should be scared of such offers. He knows the implication, which side of the line he walks. But curiosity taps into the adrenalin rush fear triggered and Harry starts asking the questions. "What would I have to do to make it worth your while? What would please you, Eric?"
"The things I want aren't going to fly very well with the pub owners," Eric grins, just a hint of threat under the smile now. "And what would please me would be getting the hell out of here, sooner rather than later, if we can afford to cater to anticipation that quickly."
"Does that mean you want to skip dinner and jump straight to dessert?" Harry asks, drinking a good bit of his ale in case the answer's actually yes.
"It means I want to," Eric says, appreciating the way Harry's throat works as he swallows, "but no. This is how I do things. We start with the date, we see where it leads us by the end of the night, and then in the morning, we start on all the offers that brains and cocks were fighting over making."
"That works for me." He rubs absently at his right wrist, nudging the watch around, wondering just how many hours it is till morning. "Dinner. Date. Discussion."
"Dancing," Eric says, "around topics that are best got out in the open sooner rather than later." The waiter shows up with food, and Eric almost doesn't give a damn. But this is his approach. Make things as normal as they can be the first night out, and worry about how the rules are supposed to stretch, bend, and change afterwards.
Harry picks at his food, barely noticing what he's eating. If quizzed later, he doubts he'd be able to distinguish one item from another. He's watching Eric, listening to his voice, taking in the words, no matter what they are. He hasn't been on a date in ages, since blowjobs in loos and quick fucks in alleys don't come with dinner.
And he keeps going back to offers you aren't allowed to turn down. He's played the game enough years to know what that means. Being owned. Belonging to another person in every way conceivable. It's not something anyone's ever asked him about. One guy came close, but backed off of it when push came to shove.
"So, we dance a bit more?" he says, shoving a fork loaded with inconsequential fried something into his mouth.
"A bit more, yeah," Eric grins. He's enjoying watching Harry eat. Imagining what it's going to look like when Harry's eating from his hand. When. Eric's normally full of confidence; wouldn't be where he is today without it. But he's rarely been this full of certainty when meeting someone new. The dance doesn't matter. The setup doesn't matter. Dinner doesn't matter. Eric concentrates on his food long enough to get it off his plate, and then sits back, fingertips sliding back and forth over the slightly-sticky wood of the table. "Did you drive here?" he asks.
Harry doesn't really give a damn about dinner. He's eating because there's food and because Eric ordered it for him. He thinks he'd do anything for Eric. Taking another bite, he corrects that mentally. He knows he would. He's gone down for guys before, but Harry doesn't think he's ever wanted to do it quite as badly as he does right now. To just sink to the floor, let Eric feed him. Or not. It would be Eric's choice what Harry gets.
"My bike," he says, smiles and puts the fork down. "Came over on it."
"Really -- you ride?" Eric asks, surprised. And pleased. "You might've seen mine, then, outside. The red Ducati?" Not like there are going to be many of those outside the bar.
"Yeah, got an old Harley." Harry laughs. Red Ducati. It seems to suit Eric. Flashy and powerful crotch rocket. "Not as pretty as a Ducati, 'course it's not meant for showing off. Meant to be ridden hard, 'cross anything."
"I think we're done dancing," Eric grins. "And done with dinner. Come on." He waves at the waiter, gets the check and pays it without even looking at the totals. It's time to be out of here. Time to get back to his place, see what Harry's lips taste like, what they feel like under tongue and teeth. His own tongue sweeps out over his lower lip. Early dates. Nothing like them.
Harry swigs down another quick drink of beer. Done with dinner? Fine. He was full. Done dancing? Even better. He's wanting to feel Eric's hands on him. Preferably making deep bruises while he's cuffed to the bed. He pushes back his chair and follows his date out of the pub. If this were a normal date, where it was just another guy he'd picked up, he might suggest they find the nearest alley, quick and dirty. But he's not in charge, so he just hangs back, waits on Eric to tell him what to do.
Outside, Eric gets to his bike and glances at Harry. He's not going to make his first move in a car park. Too particular for that. He doesn't want to risk being interrupted by twittering voyeurs or someone threatening to call the authorities, and anyway, the ride might take some of the edge off. That or put it on all the harder. "Just follow me," he says, getting the bike kick-started.
Harry follows, easily keeping up with Eric's maneuverings in and out of city streets. The ride's not taking the edge off anything as far as he's concerned. Just ratcheting it up. His cock's hard, his brain's racing through the possibilities, and it's all he can do to bring the bike to a stop without skidding when Eric pulls up in front of a house Harry assumes belongs to him. He doesn't give a second thought to going somewhere alone with this man, the fact no one knows where he is. Trust works that way, especially when he's wanting whatever's coming.
Eric opens up the garage, brings his bike inside and cuts the engine. His helmet goes up on a shelf that's got a number of them already, room for more. There's room in the garage for Harry's bike, too, and when Harry brings it in, Eric hits the button that closes the garage door. Not quite trapped yet. But it's crossed Eric's mind to wonder what Harry would do if he were.
Harry pulls his bike in, leaves his helmet on the seat as he gets off. Not making assumptions. He looks over his shoulder as the garage door drops, takes in a deep breath. No turning back. Not that he wants to. At all.
"I get the idea I could bend you over my bike," Eric murmurs, walking over to Harry and looking him over carefully, head to foot, "chain you to my ceiling, beat you until you're bruised, and you'd wake up in the morning and thank me for all of it. How close am I?"
He swallows hard, throat suddenly dry, and his cock hardens even more, which is damned near impossible considering he feels like he's in stone already. "Not far off," he says when he remembers how to make words, "Sir," he adds quickly. "Wouldn't wake you up, though. Unless you'd told me to."
"Bet you wouldn't," Eric says. He's closing the distance between them, coming around the side of Harry's bike, getting close enough to touch. "But then what would we do for a second date?" he asks. And then it's not just close enough. He reaches out, and his hand catches Harry by the throat. Gripping lightly, just holding, not squeezing, not choking him. Just testing. Waiting for the flinch.
The flinch doesn't come. The shudder does, all along Harry's spine, but outwardly he's controlled, his body relaxing into the touch, his mind bracing for more, waiting to be pushed to the concrete, told to look down, commanded.
"Come on," Eric whispers. He gives Harry's throat a light squeeze -- a reward, maybe, or a threat, or a promise; probably all three. And then he turns around, heads for the door to the house. "We're still in first-date territory."
Harry resists the urge to rub his hand over his throat, ask for more. Reward. Threat. Promise. He's content with any of the above. For the moment. "What's first-date territory?" he asks, following Eric into the house, cursorily looking around, taking stock of who this man might be.
The house is mostly dark; Eric doesn't bother turning lights on as he leads Harry through the kitchen -- impeccable, mostly stainless steel and chromed surfaces -- and into the living room -- sunken floor, thick rugs over hardwood, fireplace with a broken-rock stair or shelf or seat in front of it. If Eric were in the mood, those broken rocks could scratch hell out of someone's palms or someone's forearms while he's being fucked or hurt. For now, he heads to the fireplace and gets a fire started. The light from the fire's the only light in the living room, and it's enough.
Eric stands up again, walks into the center of the room. "First date territory means I scare you just enough to make you wonder if I can give you what you're looking for after all. Just enough to have you underestimate me."
Harry's surveying the house with a submissive's eye. Steel kitchen counters -- hard friction against his cock while he's being fucked over the sink. Hardwood floors -- tears up the knees after hours of kneeling in place. And that rock. He licks his lips at the thought of how it'd feel shredding his arms as Eric pounds into his arse or how it'd cut his back being pushed down with Eric's cock shoved in his throat.
"Scaring me," Harry echoes in the dim light. "Sounds like a perfect first date."
"I saw that in your eyes when we met," Eric murmurs. He isn't hesitating anymore. He slides a hand behind Harry's neck and squeezes lightly. "You like being scared. And you don't feel that way nearly as often as you'd like."
Fuck, hit all the buttons at once. "Yeah, don't get it nearly enough. Haven't found anyone can do it right." Bet you can, though.
"Get down. On the floor. On your back." Eric gives the back of Harry's neck another squeeze, and then makes the squeeze a tug, pulling him toward the floor.
Harry doesn't even think about questioning the order. All he processes are the words and the tug at his flesh. He drops to his knees, Eric's hand pressing into his neck, and stretches out, turning over as Eric repositions, allows him to move.
Eric settles him on his back, stretches out next to him. He props himself up on an elbow so he can look at Harry, then draws a hand up from knee to thigh and leaves it there, kneading into muscle. "The trouble with you," he murmurs, "is you're making me wonder how far rules are meant to bend. Do you want to know what you ought to be getting from me tonight?"
No, I want to be getting it, not hearing about it. The thought doesn't make it out of Harry's mouth, but a moan does, along with strongly whispered words. "Yes, Sir, I'd like very much to know." Then he dares to add more, not knowing if he's crossing a line Eric hasn't drawn yet. "Sir might like to know there are no rules where I'm concerned."
Eric chuckles. "I meant my rules," he clarifies. He runs his thumb down the crease of Harry's thigh, between his legs where denim's bunched up against Harry's erection. "A normal night doesn't end on the rug in front of my fireplace. It ends on the couch. On a bed. Somewhere I can run my hands all over my date's body and see what he does in response. Whether certain touches make him shiver and go still. If he'd like something rougher along the way."
That touch causes a shiver, along with a deep-seated craving for more. "What's wrong with the floor, Sir? You can get to all of your date's body here," Harry offers, "and he's just as responsive to your touches. Definitely wants it rougher, and would tell you so if you asked," he breathes out as Eric's fingers press a bit harder, "but maybe you prefer your dates to be quiet."
"There's nothing wrong with the floor," Eric says, and then he's moving, getting one hand behind the back of Harry's neck and the other curling around his upper arm, pressing him up, rolling him over, and it plants the length of Harry's body between rough cold stone and Eric, trapped, pinned. "But half my first dates would end like this if I let them start here."
Harry's not sure if that's supposed to be a warning or incentive. Either way, he likes his body being trapped, knowing he's not moving unless Eric allows it. "And your first dates that start here?" he asks, face being scuffed against the stone. "Where do they end up?"
"Let's find out," Eric whispers. "Get your arms up." He eases himself back just enough to give Harry the room to do it. "Get your arms up so you can rest your head against them. So you'll have scratches in your forearms from the hearth."
Let's find out? Does that mean I'm the first? Harry slowly moves his arms, settles them against the hearth, overlaying enough that they'll be scratched all to hell when Eric's finished with him, and then places his forehead against crossed forearms. "Like this? Good enough," he says, adding at the last, "sir?"
"Good enough for now," Eric agrees, pressing closer -- like he wants to close off the air between his body and Harry's, like he wants to make it damn near impossible to find room to breathe against the stone. He curves a hand over Harry's hip, slides it between the front of Harry's jeans and the hearth. The back of his hand's going to come away with scratches. Suitable penance for breaking his own rules.
Harry stretches, hands nearly touching the andirons beyond the hearth, stone pushing up the half-rolled sleeves of his shirt, already hinting at the abrasions to come. He presses down into Eric's hand at his jeans, then up, finding there's nowhere to go. Eric has him pinned and is slowly pushing the air from between them, threatening to pull it straight from Harry's lungs.
"Think you're going somewhere?" Eric asks, teasing, pressing his lips to the back of Harry's neck. And then his voice grows harder-edged, serious and dark. "You're not going anywhere," he whispers, "until I let you up."
"Wasn't," Harry starts, a little too defensively. He backs off the voice, drops to a submissive whisper. "No, sir, not going anywhere until you say so."
The heel of Eric's hand presses down hard against Harry's cock, starts up a slow, heavy rhythm that leaves the back of Eric's hand scratched. He'll let it go all the way to blood if it has to. "I like how you're holding yourself still for me," he breathes.
It's harder to hold still when Eric's hand starts moving. Harry's cock responds, twitching, and threatens to tug his body into the game. But he does stay still, biting down on his lip, pressing his arms against the hearth, anything to please Eric.
No, everything to please him. It's a scary thought, one no one's ever created in Harry, the overwhelming desire to please without question.
Eric manages to get Harry's pants undone, slides his hand inside and wraps his fingers around Harry's cock. The back of his hand's still protecting Harry's cock from the roughness of the stone, but he wonders what Harry would do without the protection. If Eric were behind him fucking him, dragging far-too-sensitive skin against rough abrasion and not letting up for a moment.
First date territory. Even if we're playing outside the normal lines, we're not going that far.
Eric's fingers wrap Harry's cock full on, press and twist, and there's no keeping his body from reacting. Harry jerks, sliding forward and scraping his arms, upper chest over the stone.
He yelps, but holds back any more than that, pulling back into the position Eric had him, abrading the flesh more. Fuck, if this is a first date, what's living with him like. Harry's smiling on asking himself that.
"I could make you come," Eric whispers. "I could have your face scratched from licking the come from my fireplace. You could end up wearing scratches all day tomorrow, having to think of creative ways to explain why you're marked. And what would you do then, Harry?"
"I'd get creative, sir," Harry pants, his face close enough to the stone to feel how rough it would be, to imagine each scrape as it's made and how perfect it would look in the mirror in the morning. "And tomorrow night, I'd beg for new scratches."
"Never play the same game twice in a row," Eric grins. "Tomorrow you'd be blindfolded. Bent over a piece of furniture downstairs, hands locked to ankles, waiting. Wondering whether you'd get leather, fiberglass, rope, chainmail. Wondering what I chose to give you. I think you're that kind of a second-date man."
Harry's wondering how hard a human can get. He's aching just from Eric's voice, his descriptions of what he'd do. Being facedown in the man's living room with no hope of moving until Eric decides it's going to happen ... well, that's just icing on the cake. "I'd beg for all of it. For one each night. Or all the first night, and in reverse order the next," Harry says. "I just want to hurt for you. To bleed and bruise, and wear your marks, sir."
Eric scrapes his teeth against the back of Harry's neck. "I want to fuck you," he breathes, hand still working Harry's cock. Hard. God, Eric hasn't been this hard in a long time, too long. "I want to fuck you and bite the memory into your skin."
"Oh, Christ, please," Harry says, unashamedly begging. He can't think of anything he wants more. Well, except to hurt for Eric. But he suspects any fucking will do double-duty for hurting. "Please, sir, fuck me. Hard. Into the floor."
"Then we need to get your jeans down." Eric grins, licking over Harry's neck again. "Just around your thighs. Kneel up. I want you barely out of your clothes. Just enough that I can sink into you."
Harry pushes up to his knees, and unbuttons his jeans completely, tugging them down his hips to where he thinks Eric wants them, just at the thighs. He should be embarrassed, he thinks, being like this, half-naked, kneeling up, waiting to be fucked. But he's not. He's long since grown out of that, and all he wants now is the possession another can take of him, the control Eric could wield. "Yes, sir," he says quietly, moving his hands up to behind his head, lacing the fingers at the back of his neck until he's told to do something else with them.
"Good," Eric murmurs. He digs into his own pocket for a condom, slides his own jeans down and rolls the latex over his cock.
And then he fists his hand in the back of Harry's shirt and forces him back over the fireplace, one harsh, rough move that has no concern for how Harry's going to land, for the scratches he'll have on his cheek afterwards.
Without his hands to brace his fall, Harry lands face hard against the hearth, the rough stones cutting on impact, scratching as Eric pushes against his back. It'll take more than creative explanations in the morning, but he doesn't give a damn. He tightens his fingers on each other and allows the stone to caress his face with bruising scrapes.
"First date," Eric murmurs, "I ought to give you a little lube. But I don't fucking feel like it." He spreads Harry's cheeks with his thumbs and presses in the first inch; there's just enough lube on the condom to keep it from breaking. "And you can take this for me. Can't you?"
No. Harry's body screams at his mind that there's not enough lube, that it's going to hurt, that he should complain. Problem is Harry's brain is in a different place, firmly entrenched in a mindset where the pain doesn't matter and the body doesn't get a say in what happens. "Yes," he whispers, voice rough. "I can take it."
"Then take this for me." Well past first-date territory, Eric knows, and he shoves forward hard, harder, finally getting his cock all the way in, ignoring any resistance Harry's body puts up. "Take it."
Instinct's warring with desire as Harry feels his body open. He screams, not holding back anything, Eric's brutal thrust ripping through him. The blood's wet on his cheek from being shoved into the stone. And still he pushes back, locking his hands against his neck and taking everything Eric's demanding.
This isn't about trust. Or even faith. Eric's not sure what has Harry so willing to put himself in Eric's hands, but then he never is; with all the men he's had, all the people he's held under him, he's never been quite sure what makes them stay. But then every yin has a yang; every action has its reaction; and as much as Eric needs to pin men down and feel their bodies stretch and burn around his cock, he knows there are men who need to be held down that way, need to be bruised and bled and taken. And then there are men who need more, are willing to take more, and those men -- Christ -- are worth every moment it takes to find them.
Harry doesn't know why he's here. Well, he does. He wants to be hurt. He doesn't understand exactly why he gets off on that. He just does. Always has. Since the first night somebody got a little rough in the bar. And he was bleeding. And the scratches took days to fade. He'd looked in the mirror the next morning and had seen the change. He needed to be hurt, needed to yield completely to someone else, be pinned down and forced to take everything men like Eric had to give. Beg to give up everything Eric wants. And more. The please catches in Harry's throat, the need burning the roof of his mouth, the more slipping off his tongue.
Eric slams into Harry, hard, rough, the thrust carrying Harry's body into stone and pressing cock, hips, cheek against it, all at once. He leans over, wraps his body around Harry's and bites hard against the side of his neck. "What is it you want?" Eric growls. "You want to bleed for me?"
"Yes," Harry spits out, hiss and ragged breath. "Want to bleed. Need to bleed. For you." He's doing quite a nice job of it, his cheek cut and scored with the stone's edges, cock scratched and not pulling away. "Want to hurt for you. So badly I can't move."
Eric's savoring Harry's words nearly as much as the feel of his body, the purity of his submission under Eric's hands and teeth and cock. It's not about fighting, and it's not about putting Harry on his knees -- Harry's there for him already, and now it's about dragging him exactly where Eric wants to see him. "You're going to bleed," he promises softly, shoving in hard and then holding completely still, breath hot against the back of Harry's neck. "You're going to scream. You're going to beg. But it doesn't all have to be tonight." And he gets his hand around Harry's cock, jerking him off hot and fast, not stopping, just building him up further and further as the thrusts of his hips start up again.
Eric's words echo in Harry's brain, take the time to rattle and settle. Going to bleed. Going to beg. But it's the last that sets him on fire. Doesn't all have to be tonight. Simple words, but they mean Harry's not leaving. Eric's keeping him. His cock is aching, throbs contained by Eric's fingers. "Please," he sputters against the stone, "master, please, may I come?" He doesn't even know if he should ask, but the words are out before the overwhelming need can be tamped down.
"You'd fucking better come, slut," Eric growls, gritting his teeth, holding onto his own orgasm with the last shreds of his self-control. He wants Harry going over first.
"Yes, master," Harry breathes out, catching a breath, holding it against the clamping of Eric's fingers around his cock, the insistent demand for orgasm. He comes, harder than he has in months, maybe forever, unable to distinguish between blood and semen, knowing his cock is coated in both when he's screaming through the release. He's too far gone to even think of coming down as his body's spent, still on edge waiting for Eric to tear through him.
Eric's teeth sink into Harry's shoulder, cloth blunting the points of his teeth but nowhere near enough -- he comes with a soft growl, a bite so hard that it breaks skin even through cloth, and Eric pants softly, pulling back near the end of his orgasm to look at the stain on Harry's shirt. "Mine," he breathes, pulling Harry close.
Harry feels his body give up, yield to its new owner, blood seeping from a dozen wounds and scratches, marked from the inside out as Eric's. "Yours," he whispers with what little breath he can find.
Eric waits until he's caught his breath, then pulls away completely, standing up to pull himself together, strip the condom off, button his jeans. Fucking hell. He's still got the hint of Harry's blood in his mouth, and this has all been more than he expected. And it's been fucking good. He bends down, runs his fingers over the back of Harry's neck. "Lie down," he murmurs. "I'll be back."
Like I could do anything else? Even if I wanted? Harry lies down, face pressing again into the cool, jagged stone, more soothing now than scratching. He's trying not to think of tomorrow and the next day, of what words were said, implications made. And he's succeeding, for the most part, just letting himself float in the endorphins, the pain's pleasure not yet dissipating into the agony of cuts and bruises and muscles that will scream every time he moves.
Eric's only gone a minute or so, just enough time to dispose of the condom and get a glass of water and a damp washcloth out of the kitchen. He comes back, sits down next to Harry on the rug. Harry's bruised, scraped, bleeding, and Eric leans down to lick blood and stone grit from one of the scratches on his cheek. Fucking beautiful. "You did well tonight," he murmurs.
Harry rolls over enough for it to qualify as being on his back. "Thank you," he breathes out, "sir."
Eric offers him the water and glances over his body, looking for places that need cleaning up. He starts with Harry's cock, careful with the washcloth as he gets come and blood cleaned away from raw and scraped skin.
The water dribbles at first, down Harry's chin and throat, then he pushes himself up on one elbow enough to drink, taking slow sips, the water burning along the rough edges of his throat. He winces, even the cool soft cloth harsh on his over-abraded flesh, and closes his eyes, centering and focusing and just letting Eric take care of him for the moment.
After he's done with Harry's cock, Eric glances over Harry and takes care of the scrapes on his forearms, the scratches on his cheek. He's oddly gentle about it, the washcloth warm and soft in his hands, and when he's done, he rests the palm of his hand on Harry's chest. "How do you feel?" he says quietly.
"Like I laid down in front of a steamroller on a freshly graveled road," Harry says, taking another sip of water, managing a weak smile. "Insanely enough, damned good."
Eric chuckles at the description; it's a good one, a clever one, and he likes the sense of dry humor that goes along with it. He reaches forward and rubs his thumb over Harry's jawline. "I feel like the steamroller," he teases, "but I feel like a steamroller that needs to be put to bed. Let me show you where you're sleeping tonight. Unless you'd really like to be back on your bike this late after all that."
I get a choice? Harry's pleased at not just being dumped out on the street. It's happened before, and he never really liked it. "No. Don't think I could get on the bike, even if I wanted," he says, sipping between words and finishing the water, more thirsty than he realized. "In the morning, I probably could handle it."
"In the morning, then," Eric agrees, slipping a hand under Harry's shoulders and helping him up. "Can you manage a flight of stairs?"
"I think so," Harry murmurs, leaning into Eric's hold, his legs very unsure of even moving much less climbing anything. "If not, I can sleep curled up at the foot of them." Not like you haven't that before, too.
"Stop that," Eric says -- still gentle, but with backbone to it. "If I wanted you at the foot of the stairs, I'd put you there. If you can't make it up them, we'll stay in the guest room down here." And Harry's leaning on him enough that Eric thinks that's a better idea than trying to handle seventeen steep steps and then getting Harry down the hallway. "Come on. This way."
"We'll stay?" Harry asks, not keeping the disbelief from his voice. He makes the turn with Eric, grimacing at the stiffness slowly settling into well-used muscles. He's not expecting to actually sleep with Eric. He assumed he'd be put in a room. At most, allowed the floor in Eric's room. "Yes, sir," he says, trying not to think anymore.
Eric pushes Harry into the guest room, undresses him carefully before easing him into the bed. "I could tell you it's because we're still in first-date territory," he murmurs, slipping out of his own clothes as he makes his way to the other side of the bed, "or I could tell you it's so I'll have you close by if I want you in the middle of the night." He slides under the covers, too, and puts his arm over Harry's waist. "It's definitely one of the two."
Chapter 2: Daybreak
After a memorable first date, Eric wakes Harry up for some early-morning rough sex. This isn't the way Eric normally does things, but then Harry's gotten under his skin more than most.
It's four in the morning.
Eric hasn't had nearly enough sleep, but neither has the man in his bed, which is more important. He glances over; Harry's on his side.
Not quite where I want you. Let's get you moved.
He slides over, plants a hand on Harry's shoulder, and pushes him face-first into the bed, coming up and straddling Harry's hips as he goes.
Harry feels himself being moved, wants to resist, his body aching from too little sleep. He moans something akin to a no but doesn't resist the tug.
Then he's suddenly awake, face buried in pillow and a weight on his back. He panics for an instant, bucking up. "What? Who?" It takes another moment for Harry to process the night, realize he came home with Eric, he let Eric fuck him into the -- that's why it hurts so much -- stone hearth, against the floor.
Now he's in bed, most likely getting ready to be fucked again.
"Was that a no?" Eric breathes, lips brushing the back of Harry's neck. "Do you think you get to say no to me?" He nudges Harry's legs apart with his thigh, bracing his hands to either side of Harry's shoulders.
Fuck. "No, sir," Harry says, words wadded into cotton under his mouth. "Not saying no. Just the sleep talking, sir." Harry wouldn't think of saying no to his new -- master, he bandies the term around his brain -- owner, he slides in just as easily. Every move, no matter how small, brings a wince of pain. Not completely unwelcomed.
"Good," Eric says, stretching an arm out and reaching for lube and condoms from the nightstand. "Warned you I'd probably want you in the middle of the night. It's almost daybreak, Harry. But the middle of the night's not gone yet."
"Yes, sir, you did." Harry stretches, or tries to, working out the kink in his shoulder. Eric'd all but promised a mid-night fuck. What's sleep? Don't need it.
Eric's breath is warm as his teeth take small bites from the back of Harry's neck down toward the spot just between his shoulderblades. "You taste good this morning," he murmurs. "Like sweat, and sex, and not quite fear. You don't scare easy, do you?" He gets his fingers slick, guides three of them into Harry's arse straight off. No rush, but no letting him have it easy in the morning, either.
Harry's body jerks at the bites, involuntary reaction to the sharp sensation, unseen and unexpected. "No, not easy. Doesn't do any good to scare easy." If he weren't still so loose from being used so hard, Harry might wince more at the invasion of three thick fingers. But, as it is, his body welcomes them, tightens around the familiar stretch.
Christ, and Harry's right about that -- men who scare easily have never held Eric's attention for long. There's a certain flinch to them when Eric's coming after them for the third, fourth, fifth time. And that flinch isn't what they're after. Isn't what Eric's after, either, when it comes to that. He's looking for someone who comes back staring. "You hungry for it yet?" he asks softly.
"Hungry?" Harry turns his head to the left, just to be able to get the words out better, the breaths in. "For your cock up me arse, sir. Yeah. Craving it."
"Good," Eric grins, coming up again, biting Harry's earlobe. "I haven't fucked anyone the way I fucked you last night in months. And I'm starved for it."
It shouldn't be a compliment, not considering the way normal society operates compared to the way Eric'd fucked him, but Harry takes it as one of the nicest things he's heard in months. "Please, then, sir, use my body more. Fuck me till you've sated your appetite."
Chuckling, Eric licks Harry's lobe and slides his hand free, kneeling up to roll the condom on. "That's a rather open-ended offer. It might not just be the once, you know. Or the twice. I could," and he's reaching down, using both hands to part Harry's cleft and line his cock up, "be at this... for a while," he growls, sliding in, eyes closing as he sinks in hard.
"Christ," Harry breathes out at the rough breach. Even slickened and loosened, it's brutal, Eric's long, thick cock filling him quickly, demandingly. "That's fine, sir. Offer's good for," he gasps as Eric sinks in deeper, "for long as you want."
I'm breaking my rules for this one. I'm breaking all my rules. Eric gets his hands under Harry's hips, tugs him back hard. "Fuck, you feel good," he growls. "Do you always talk this much?"
"When my mouth's not full or gagged," Harry says quietly. "I can shut up if you prefer, sir."
It's not going to be long before Eric has trouble forming words himself. "No," he breathes, "I want to hear it. Want to hear the tone of your voice change when the pain gets past the point you can stand." And he slams in, another few sharp, hard thrusts, all of them meant to hurt.
"Yes, sir," Harry spits out, his voice edgy as he continues. "It takes a while to get that point. Sir. Don't give into pain easily." Even when it's as pristine as the kind Eric's giving him. Harry bites the pillow, sucking in his lip between teeth and cotton, mutilating both as the thrusts become more brutal, deeper, every single one hurting and cutting through his body.
Eric leans a forearm across Harry's shoulders, bracing himself and pushing Harry further down into the bed. "You feel amazing," he whispers. "And if this is what you give when it's just my cock, what do you do when it's leather or chainmail or fiberglass? How well do you scream, Harry?"
"Damned well." Harry's close to letting Eric hear just how well, the bed's soft abrasion against his raw, scraped cock is blood-searing, and overlaid with the pressure of arm on flesh pushing him deeper into the bed, he's ready to implode. "I'd scream as much as you want, sir," he says, voice breaking into gaspy pants, "or not at all, if you chose."
"When I want you quiet, I'll gag you," Eric grins, free hand gliding down Harry's side, fingers curling into the curve of his hip. Such a gorgeous spot on the body, big enough for a handhold, letting Eric tug him back hard, hard enough to leave fingerprint bruises along with all the other marks he's given Harry so far.
At that image, those words, the thought of being gagged, Harry's mind shuts down. Bulletproof kinks they call them, those things that make the cock hard in a flash, the thing that has Harry's cock leaking onto the sheets. Gags are one. Losing the ability to cry out, rail against the assault, even safeword -- having all that stripped away. Harry shivers, then whimpers at the new bruising he feels, the imprint of master's fingers.
Oh, that's interesting. Eric leans down enough to bite at Harry's shoulder, wondering if it's just the mention of gags that has him shivering that way. He'll think about it later. Right now it's his body driving him forward, pushing him to take everything Harry can give. "Mine," he whispers, before pounding in with another half-dozen aching, brutal strokes. "Mine," and he barely knows he's saying it.
There's no shiver at the bite, but a decided jerk, Harry's flesh yielding to teeth, tugging to make it more gnawing that bite. "Yours," he counters, just as softly, with the edge of questioning, still so unsure about where he'll be in the morning, or tomorrow night.
Eric's hand moves off Harry's hip, slides underneath to wrap around his cock. Still aching, he's sure; still raw, still red, still torn. Good. "I want you to come, and I want it to hurt like hell," he murmurs. "You close?"
"Christ, yes, sir. Damned close." Harry's breathing is more ragged, his words bitten off. "And it's gonna. I promise you that, sir."
"When you can," Eric says, "come for me." And he gives Harry stroke after stroke, matching the thrusts of his cock into Harry's body, squeezing hard and growling as he sinks himself in deep.
A half dozen strokes and Harry's coming, cock aching, the roughness of Eric's hand tearing open scratches that were just starting to not hurt. He screams with torture of coming through that, of feeling the orgasm rip through him, trapped between Eric's body deep inside him and Eric's hand wrapped around him, the bed unyielding in letting him escape the moment.
Oh, God, he does scream well. He screams beautifully, in fact, and Eric's lost as soon as he hears it, coming with a growl and a last half-dozen thrusts that nearly pitch Harry forward into the headboard.
Harry collapses under the weight, the forces, not concerned that he can barely breathe, that his body is aching in new places or, most of all, that he wants more, doesn't want it to stop.
Fuck bracing himself up so Harry can breathe; Eric wants to sink into Harry's skin, doesn't at all mind pressing him into the bed and leaving it up to fate whether he'll be able to get a breath after. He waits until his own breath's caught, and then rolls over, groaning softly.
The moment Eric's off, the minute he can move, Harry's pushing up enough to get his face out of the pillow, coughing for the breath, sucking it in and then taking more, deep and slow. He shifts, the sheet soaked under him, mix of semen and sweat sticky, strangely reassuring. Harry doesn't speak, doesn't ask about cleaning up, makes the assumption he'll sleep like this till Eric's ready to wake him again. The smile's caught in-between breaths.
Eric turns away just long enough to get the condom off. And then he's back, running his fingernails down Harry's back, nothing gentle about it. You look good in my bed. And I'm still breaking all my rules for you.
Harry's just starting to settle when the fingernails work their magic, his slowly closing eyes snapping open, body jerking into the touch. God, I may never survive this. Don't care. It'll be the best death imaginable.
Chapter 3: Negotiations
Eric wants Harry badly enough to go much, much faster than usual. Harry's not complaining, though. Now it's a matter of setting out the rules.
Eric's a decent enough cook, and Harry's in no condition to be standing in the kitchen for as long as it'd take to see to breakfast. So Eric finds himself taking charge of making coffee, toast, bacon, eggs, porridge. Basic breakfast food.
He brings it into the bedroom on a tray, slides the tray onto the foot of the bed before curling back up around Harry. "Morning," he whispers. And he has to remind himself not to jump Harry all over again; his cock's definitely voting for that plan of action.
"Morning," Harry mutters, still half-asleep. He shifts, allowing for Eric's body to curl around him, wincing at every move. "Think it's morning, at least. Could still be middle of the night."
Eric chuckles, licking over Harry's shoulder and sinking his teeth in hard. It's almost casual, hurting Harry that much, a perfectly ordinary part of the morning. "It's nine," he says. "Hope you don't have anywhere to be."
His body jerks at the bite, not away but just twitching at any touch, his skin oversensitized. "No, nowhere to be," Harry says, trying to think. "Phone. Need to make a call later, but other than that," he moans at the thought, "I'm yours, sir."
"I've got a phone," Eric says, hand running down Harry's chest, searching under sheets for Harry's cock. And you are mine, aren't you. "I've got breakfast, too. Want some coffee?"
"Coffee. Yeah." Harry turns, putting his cock right in the path of Eric's hand. "Breakfast? I should've gotten up. Done that."
Eric gives Harry's cock a rough squeeze. "Says who?" he asks.
"Nnghh." Harry's wincing again, despite how good the squeeze feels. "Just assumed you'd want me fixing it."
"We're going to have to talk about that. Assumptions." Another squeeze, and Eric lets go, sits up and tugs the tray back. "For now, how do you take your coffee?"
"Yes, sir." Harry pushes himself back and up onto the pillow. He's moving with too much care, over-used muscles rebelling at every inch. "Black, hint of sugar." He lets out a breath. "Didn't mean to assume. Would rather be told what to expect."
Eric adds a bit of sugar to Harry's coffee and hands it over. "You ever been owned before?" he asks.
"Not owned," Harry says. What he'd been might be called "leased" or "used" but he'd never been owned outright, never had anyone express that much an interest in him. He takes the coffee, sips at it, letting his hands wrap the mug and siphon off the heat.
"Ever thought about it?"
"Yeah." The answer's low, cautious. "Now and then. Never had anyone ask before."
"I shouldn't." Eric takes a long, slow drink of his coffee. "There are rules. There's a way this is supposed to go. First date. Feeling each other out. Getting to know each other better. And then I think about how you felt against the fireplace. What else is there to know?"
"Not assuming I know the answer, sir," Harry says, taking a quick sip of coffee. "Are you asking me if you can own me? Or telling me you do?"
"Let's say I'm asking," Eric says. "I know why I'd want to. What I'd get out of it. What are you here for?"
Harry scoots up more, leaning against the headboard. "The pain. Being told what to do. Serving you. Having someone push every limit I have." He shrugs. "That's off the top of my head."
"I don't need a traditional service slave. You're not going to be fixing my breakfast or mending my shirts." Eric pauses, frowns. "Might have to mend your own, though, if I go through them as fast as I want to. Not the point. You will be expected to serve me. Whenever I want. However I ask it of you. Without reservation. And I will ask."
"Yes, sir. Wouldn't expect any less of being owned," Harry pauses, "or being your slave. Would you want me here all the time? Live here?"
"While you're mine." Eric takes a piece of toast and a plate and puts a bit of jam on his toast, as if deciding another man's future is something he does every day over breakfast in bed. "Which is until you walk out the door."
Harry swallows hard, the coffee nearly going down the wrong way. While you're mine. It's intoxicating, the notion of being possessed. "What about work? My friends?"
"You keep working if you want to. You can see your friends, but your schedule's up to me apart from work; if you want to stay out, you run it by me first. You call home. I might make you kneel at the pay phone in the bar. I might not. You don't fuck anyone unless I tell you, you don't come unless I tell you, and you can't fuck the rules up enough to make me kick you out. You fuck up and you won't like what happens, but it's not that."
"Do I call you master? Or just sir?" Harry doesn't even venture near the comments Eric made. They have his cock rigid, his brain on fire. Can't fuck up. That's a new one.
"You call me whatever it takes to get the job done," Eric says. "It's not about the words, Harry. It's not about the voice, the things we say in role." He shoves breakfast away and rolls on top of Harry, taking the coffee out of his hands and setting it aside. "If you stay here, I own you. All of you. I won't have to call you boy to remind you of that."
Harry understands, even without the director's cut version of the script. It's life. Not a role. Not a game. "Yeah, Eric," he says, voice lighter than a moment earlier, "I belong to you. 24/7. No matter what names we're using."
Eric squirms his way between Harry's legs, exhaling softly. It's addictive, this chemistry; it's so easy ignoring all the rules about how these things start, how he's supposed to behave early on. "I want you," he breathes.
The response is immediate. Harry's legs spread and he puts his arms down on the sheet, palms up. "I'm yours. Take whatever you want."
"Hands up," Eric says, nodding at the bedframe. "By the bars." He swings himself out of bed, heads for a chest of drawers in the corner.
Harry moves his hands, stretching his fingers out and gently weaving them against the bars. He watches Eric's movements. He owns you. He sucks in a breath, the words slamming his brain. Own. His. Whatever he wants.
At the dresser, Eric pulls out a pair of cuffs and comes back to the bed with them, wrapping leather around Harry's wrists and tugging at the cuffs to make sure everything's in place and secure. He slides back onto Harry's thighs, arse pressed down hard against Harry's cock. "How's that?" he asks.
"Nice." He tugs at the cuffs. They're secure, tight just to the edge of being too much. "Perfect." Just like the feel of his cock pressing up against Eric's arse.
"Good." Eric gets breakfast within arm's reach and tears toast into bite-sized pieces, not caring that he's going to get his fingers sticky with jam; Harry can lick them clean as he eats. "You look good in cuffs."
"Thanks." Harry's mind skips into director mode, thinking on how surreal the whole setting is. He's cuffed to the bed while his lover -- no, correct that, his master -- eats breakfast, crumbs dropping on Harry's thighs as Eric pulls the toast from tray to mouth.
The next bite's Harry's. Eric's grinning at the picture, too; this isn't a traditional boy-on-his-knees-being-fed moment, nothing as clean and tasteful as Harry at Eric's feet at a long oak dining room table. It's likely to get messy, but Eric doesn't have a problem with that.
Harry leans up, takes the bite of toast, licking away the hint of jam that demands it cling to his lip. It's awkward, in a good way. Never been fed while being cuffed. He smiles, imagining he has a lot of nevers to eradicate with Eric. And he's still wrapping his brain around being owned. "Thanks," he says after swallowing.
A little awkward. More than a little messy, and when Eric switches from toast to porridge he suspects it'll get that much worse. He's got roleplay fantasies twitching to the surface now, thinking about what it'd feel like to do this on concrete, in the basement, maybe, with just the right kind of background noise. Water dripping. The harsh buzz of lights that keep flickering on and off. And Harry's cock, harder than hard under him.
"Am I allowed to ask why you're grinning?" Harry thinks he might be better off not knowing, but he's still testing the waters here, feeling his way.
"Always." Eric sets food away for now, reaches for Harry's coffee instead. "You can always ask. You might not get an answer, but you can ask." He brings the mug down, holding the ceramic to Harry's skin at his side, just below his ribcage. "I was thinking about how this would play in my basement, on cold concrete, coming down to check on you and fuck you and hurt you every few hours."
Harry jerks at the touch, more abrupt than really hot, the coffee having started to cool, but the burn's enough to warm his skin up nicely. His cock, though, responds eagerly to Eric's word image. "Every few hours. Hmm. Chained, I imagine, other restraints." Fuck, yes. Some logical part of Harry's brain really wants to tell him he should be horrified by the thought of being left alone, being used like that. Fortunately, that part of his brain died off from lack of use years ago. "I like your answers," he murmurs, "when you choose to give them."
"I like your reactions," Eric says, sliding the coffee mug down another inch. "I could be kinder. Chain you to the bedframe for a week or two, letting you up only when it's absolutely necessary. It's better than concrete." Another grin. "But I'd probably be inclined to hurt you that much harder to make up for it."
"I'm not seeing the downside to this yet." Harry bites the tip of his tongue, the heat pattern spreading. Chained to a bed is marginally better than concrete, or so Harry thinks.
"Maybe there isn't one." Eric slides the mug down a little further, glancing down to see if Harry's skin is going red. Not as much as he'd like. He can fix that later.
Harry watches Eric's movements. "It's not hot enough to scald," he murmurs. "But it's definitely setting off a ripple effect, if you want to know."
"No hurry," Eric says, setting the mug aside. He digs into the drawer and finds condom, lube; he moves back off Harry's cock and runs his fingertip along abraded flesh. "Looks like you took more than a few scratches for me," he murmurs. "Do they still hurt?"
The tracing of a finger hurts almost more than making the scratch, Harry's flesh being too sensitized. "Some of 'em. Not so badly as to make me not want more."
"You look good in pain." Eric tears the condom open, eyes fixed on Harry's as he rolls it over Harry's cock.
Harry's cock twitches, anticipation rolling through his body. "You deliver pain well. Suppose I'll always look good."
The lube's more for Harry's benefit than his. The press in's going to be tight either way; this way it'll be slick, slippery, one long glide squeezing around aching skin until Eric's got him all. Eric kneels up, still watching Harry, and presses two fingers inside himself, exhaling softly as he starts fucking himself on his hand.
There shouldn't be anything erotic about watching another man fuck himself. Not to a rational brain. Harry grins. That rules him out. He's mesmerized by Eric's actions, the slow, steady movement, the care he seems to take. Maybe it's just knowing that his cock's going to get to replace those fingers in another minute. Hopefully.
Two fingers. Three, with a lot of twisting and stretching. It feels good opening himself up this wide; it's going to feel even better fucking himself on Harry's cock. And as soon as he's stretched enough, he slides his fingers out and wraps his hand around the base of Harry's cock, not giving a second's thought to whether Harry's ready or not. It doesn't matter. Eric's taking him in.
Harry shifts, better positioning himself for Eric's descent, as much as he can with Eric's hand on his cock, legs straddling his hips. It's enough. Not that it matters. It's gonna burn. Friction's always there, no matter how well you prep, and Eric only did what was absolutely necessary. So Harry just braces himself for it.
Eric's teeth lock together as he works his way down Harry's cock. It's good -- so fucking good having a hard cock in him, and he doesn't stop or slow down until he's got every inch.
There's no pushing up. Eric's thighs are locked against Harry's and he's not moving one fraction of an inch more than Eric allows. The burn's sweet, just like he knew it'd be. Nothing something he's done in a while. Mostly it's been getting fucked, hard and fast and hurting in hallways. This is so much better, he thinks, jerking his wrists, rubbing the leather against his skin.
Eric draws himself up, slams back down, slides his hands over Harry's chest to pin him even harder. "Christ, you look good under me," he growls. "You're mine."
"Yes. Yours." Harry's cock throbs inside of Eric's arse, clenched in moist heat. He's not hard enough to come, not yet. "Feels good. You like that."
"You're not bruised enough yet," Eric says. He gets a nipple between thumb and forefinger and twists, hard, all-at-once.
Harry screams, not caring if it echoes off the walls. That pain is abrupt, harsh, and it shoots straight to his cock, making him rigid in a heartbeat. Eric can spend all day bruising him and Harry'll be happy.
"Better," Eric says, "not enough," and he drags his nails across Harry's nipple, scratching and then pinching again, twisting harder.
No, it's not enough. Harry doesn't think it'll ever be enough. He pulls at the cuffs, just to have movement, his lower body trapped rather efficiently. "Christ, yes. Thank you."
"You couldn't look better if you tried," Eric grins, starting to move his hips in a rough, rocking motion, squeezing hard every time Harry's deep inside him. "Hurting for me, tied down for me, your cock up my arse. You're not going anywhere. You're mine now. And I can't wait to see how much you can take." He punctuates the threat, promise, offer, by sliding his hand up the center of Harry's chest, pressing his palm down against Harry's throat.
I could look better, Harry thinks as Eric's hand grips his throat. Just like that. With the air pushed out of my lungs. He cranes his head, silently asking for more of the touch. Gasping for air. His body answers where his voice doesn't. He'll take everything.
Eric tightens his grip as he fucks Harry harder, arse slamming against Harry's hips, teeth tight together as he damn near snarls at the man on his bed. "Mine. Down to your last goddamned breath."
Yours. Every last breath. Harry would say it aloud, reaffirm, but he's losing control, air dwindling, and body begging for release, and it's taking all his mental capacity to focus on holding back, not doing anything unless Eric allows, commands.
Eric isn't counting off seconds. He should be. It's safer, not that taking someone's air away is ever really safe. He waits until Harry looks like, feels like, he can't last another second without a breath, and he relaxes his palm, lets the air in, runs his fingertips down the center of Harry's throat. He's going to end up leaving bruises, fingerprints marking Harry's neck, and the thought makes him drop his other hand to his cock and start stroking in time with the rocking movements of his hips.
Harry sucks in the air when it's offered. He's been here before, knows it's a fleeting offer, given and taken back in a heartbeat. It's perfect. Just like the bruises he can feel seeping into his flesh. Black and blue and purple. His favorite colors. He smiles. Next to red. His vision's a mottled shade of all of them, his cock throbbing inside Eric's arse, his hands rubbed raw from the tugging, and all he can think of is not wanting it to end too soon.
But ultimately it's not up to Harry, and Eric's not going to wait any longer to come. He tightens his hand on his cock, strokes his thumb down the side of Harry's neck. "You can come when I do. And you won't get another breath until you do." There's barely a two-second pause between Eric's hand cutting off Harry's air and Eric's cock jerking in his hand, streaking white over Harry's stomach and Eric's arse slamming down hard over Harry's cock. "Fucking hell."
You can come when I do. And you won't get another breath until you do. It's a power-laden promise that has Harry holding back for a split-second after Eric comes, letting that last breath be stolen before his cock pulses, spills into latex and silently screams, cuffs tighten when his body jerks, the orgasm rippling outward.
Eric lets Harry breathe as soon as he feels Harry's cock pulsing inside him, rests his hand on Harry's shoulder instead of his throat. Bruised. He'll be bruised for days, and every time Eric sees the marks he's going to want Harry all over again. He trails a hand through the come on Harry's stomach, sighing softly. "Yes."
Harry gasps when the air returns, involuntary intake of oxygen. Like an ice cream brain freeze, it surges into his head. Yes, the bruise will last for days. Jacket pulled up tight won't keep the questions away. Harry doesn't mind. He might even opt for the collarless shirts, just to show off his marks, those signs that he's owned.
Eventually, Eric has to move, and he uncuffs Harry's wrists before climbing off Harry's body. "Stay here," he murmurs, "I'll get a towel to clean you off." He leans down before he goes, licks his way over the bruises on Harry's throat. "I like the way these look on you."
"Wouldn't move if I could," Harry mutters as Eric leaves. He's managed to drop his hands to the bed, but that's about as far as he's going.
It only takes a minute to get a warm washcloth, and Eric sits down on the bed next to Harry to get him cleaned up. "We've got arrangements to make," Eric says. "How long will it take you to pack what you need to move in here?"
Move in? Harry smiles at the thought. "A day for the essentials."
This is all going so fast. Broken rule after broken rule. And Eric can't remember a time he's felt this sure about someone. He lets go of the washcloth and runs his fingertips over Harry's throat. "I'll give you two."
"Two days is more than enough, sir," Harry says, swallowing at Eric's touch, wincing as fingers caress the bruises. "Does that include today?"
"I'd rather have you here sooner than later." The wince is perfect. Eric presses his fingers down a little harder. "Today and tomorrow. And midnight tomorrow you're my slave."
Chapter 4: Breaktime
Harry's settled in at Eric's house. On a fairly typical afternoon, Eric takes advantage of having a slave.
It's two-eighteen in the afternoon and Eric's been working on his Ford's engine all day. He rubs the back of his wrist over his forehead, knocks a bit of sweat off.
It's time for a break.
He heads for the intercom on the garage wall and hits the "all points" button. "Harry? Downstairs. Garage. Now."
Harry's sitting in the living room, jeans and t-shirt and no shoes, propped up against the couch's cushions with the laptop perched on his lap. He's been writing, taking advantage of Eric wanting to tinker with the cars. He jumps at the intercom's chatter. "Fuck, not used to that yet," he mutters, putting the laptop aside.
And then he's on his feet, heading to the garage. He stops at the bottom of the stairs, bare feet tingling at the cement's cold. "Here, Eric. What can I do for you?"
"Strip," Eric says, grabbing for an oilstained grease-smeared rag and getting his hands something close to clean. He drops the hood on the Ford and heads around to a toolbox against the wall, rummaging through it. "Put your chest on the hood and your hands behind your back. Hope you're prepped."
"Yeah. Always." Harry's out of the t-shirt almost before Eric finishes his sentence, dropping it on the bottom stair, then the jeans come off. Easy. Efficiently. No show. He walks over and puts himself on the car, chest flat and hands behind his back.
Eric comes back to the car, to his slave, lightweight chain in his hands. He wraps it around Harry's arms, all the way from wrists to elbows, padlocks the ends together. "Legs aren't far enough apart," he says, but he's fixing that as he speaks; he kicks Harry's legs apart and shoves a thigh between them, knee up against the Ford's grill.
The chain's heavy, snug against Harry's arms, and the weight pulls his shoulders back even more. Muscle burn to the extreme. He breathes out as he's jerked lower on the car, legs spread roughly.
"Yeah," Eric breathes, "that's what I'm after." He runs a hand up Harry's thigh, slips his thumb into the cleft of Harry's arse. "You look good spread out over the hood of my car, Harry. You're going to look even better with my cock drilling into you."
Harry doesn't even try to hold back the moan. "Yeah, oh fuck, yeah." His cock's rigid almost in a heartbeat, tight against the Ford's hood, and he's spreading himself wider, as much as he can, to take what master's wanting to give.
One tug gets all the buttons of Eric's fly open, and he reaches in, tugs his cock out. He gives it several long, easy strokes, free hand running over Harry's skin, and the flat of his hand comes down hard on Harry's arse, bringing up a red mark instantly.
His body jerks forward, motion stopped by the car's metal, slightly warm but not near enough to matter. Not that it'd really bother Harry if Eric'd been running the car full up until the second he slammed him over it. The relationship's not about what makes Harry comfortable.
Oh, yes. One red mark isn't enough for Eric; he brings his hand down again. And again. Until his skin stings and his palm aches and Harry's arse is going pink, then red, for him.
A dozen? More. Harry's not keeping count. There aren't the rules here about counting and thanking and being proper. So he closes his eyes, lets the pain wash over him, his arse burning at the perfect temperature.
By the time Harry's skin's gone red for him, Eric's cock is dripping precome. He smears it over the head of his cock, comes up between Harry's legs and snugs the head against Harry's opening. "Perfect," Eric murmurs. "When you've beaten someone 'til they're red," and a hard solid thrust moves him in nearly halfway, "they're so much fucking tighter for you. Fuck, yes."
"Oh, fuck." Harry's cock is wedged tight against the edge of the Ford's grill. Yes, he's tight. Damn tight. Doesn't stop him from consciously pushing back, spreading his legs a little wider, giving Eric as much access as he can.
"Come on, slave," Eric growls, hands working between car and Harry's body, curling around Harry's thighs. "Open the fuck up. Let me in." He shoves forward again, another few inches. Harry still doesn't have him all yet.
Harry's stretching, shoulders burning as he pulls his upper body down snug against the hood, the chains cutting in against his arms. He's opening, giving up everything, relaxing completely. "Take it, master. There for you."
"There," Eric snarls, finally getting himself all the way inside. He leans over Harry's body, pins Harry to the hood by the back of his neck. "Now hold -- fucking -- still," every word punctuated by a sharp thrust, "and take everything I've got for you."
"Yes, Eric." Harry goes completely still, dropping his breathing even . "Not moving." It's hard against the thrusts, but he's concentrating, letting his body be used instead of participating, and it gets easier with each brutal thrust.
It's the ultimate in selfish fucks, Eric simply using Harry's body because he was bored and horny and had his slave nearby to take the edge off. Draping Harry in chains because he knew he'd like the way chains looked on Harry's skin. Turning Harry's arse red just to give it that sweet, tight sensation all around his cock. He grins, closes his eyes and sinks himself deep into the awareness of who he is, who he's got under him, what he's doing. Every thrust is brutal. Every thrust is impossibly, insanely good. It's been a long time since he's had a slave who set every nerve ending in his body on fire. Fuck, yes. So good for me.
As selfish as the fuck is for Eric, it's nearly as selfish for Harry. He relishes being used, doesn't remember a time when he felt so wanted, needed.
Eric grips the back of Harry's neck hard, certain he's leaving bruises. "Such a good fucking slave," he growls, and he slams in one last time, coming in hot, jerking pulses, filling Harry's arse with his come, marking his slave. "Mine."
"Yours." The word's muffled by metal, Harry's face flush into the Ford's hood. He's marked, well and true, bruises already raising on his flesh, his body filled with Eric's come.
Eric sighs, pulling back and running his hand down the curve of Harry's arse. "Good slave," he murmurs, then gives Harry another hard slap. "I'll get the key for the padlock. Get on your knees."
Harry sinks to his knees, wincing from the slap, his arse already sore. It's not a graceful drop, awkward without his hands to balance, but he manages, and he's down, knees against the cold concrete.
Eric gets his cock put away, gets another rag and wipes his hands off. And then it's back to the toolbox, where he comes up with the key and brings it over to Harry.
He drops down into a crouch, sitting on his heels, elbows on his knees. "Your choice. You can come now, and stay in chains through dinner, or I can let you out now, and you don't come 'til after dessert."
"Tough choice," Harry muses, thinking on the options. He's betting either way that coming's not going to be easy, and as nice as the chains feel, he'd like to not have to manage dinner with them. "Out now, come later," he says, letting out a breath. "Please, Eric."
Eric gives Harry a rough pat on the head and leans in to kiss his cheek. And then leans further in to nip hard at his earlobe, almost drawing blood. "My slave," he murmurs. "Mine." And he moves around, fits the key into the padlock and unfastens Harry's chains.
Chapter 5: Overload
Eric decides he wants to take Harry apart, but with pleasure this time.
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
There are masters who insist that their slaves sit at their feet for every meal, and certainly Eric's no stranger to such an arrangement, but he's got no desire to look down to get at Harry's eyes every time they have dinner. Besides which, part of what he likes about Harry is that Harry can be a damned good conversationalist, and hearing what Harry's been working on is interesting. Harry's got more freedom than a lot of slaves, at least in terms of work and leisure, and Eric's fascinated by what Harry chooses to spend that freedom doing.
Dinner's almost over, though, and Eric leans back in his chair, looking at Harry with the full knowledge that he will be dessert. It's just a matter of how he wants to take him this time.
Sitting or kneeling, it's all the same to Harry. He has nothing to compare anything to. Has never been a slave, so he takes what Eric does, what Eric gives him, as the way it's supposed to be. And he finds Eric fascinating. He hasn't quite figured out what to make of him, the work, the hobbies, the obsessions, but Harry figures he'll have time enough.
"Your eyes devour, Eric, cut through and consume," Harry says, taking a last sip of water, "but I'm sure you know your slave feels like he's been eaten and it's not even the dessert course." He smiles.
"Glad to hear it," Eric says, leaning forward and resting his chin on his hands. "You were very good today in the garage. I've been thinking of ways to reward you for that. I think I'll let you have another choice." He grins. "I can take you apart with pain, take you apart with pleasure. What's your poison tonight?"
Harry cocks his head, thinks on the options. Just like choosing chains or release, it's a Scylla-Charybdis situation. Pain is a familiar death, one Eric's dealt him repeatedly. Pleasure, though, is a lesser known conqueror, one that piques Harry's curiosity. "I think I'd like to try pleasure, sir."
"You know, I'd hoped you'd say that," Eric says. "Let's get this cleaned up and then I'll take you back to the bedroom." He slides out of his chair and grabs up his dishes, carrying them into the kitchen.
That's another thing Harry's getting used to, that Eric doesn't want a service slave. He's content to help load the dishwasher, scrubs the pots, even does the laundry if it needs doing. Harry rakes the leftovers into a plastic container, seals it and pops it into the fridge, then finishes off the load of dishes, pouring in detergent and setting it to cycle through a heavy load.
"All done," he says, looking around, double-checking, snagging a drying cloth and folding it before draping it over the sink's edge. "Bedroom?"
"Bedroom," Eric says, nodding at the kitchen door. "Don't strip off. I'll be doing that myself tonight."
"Yes, sir." Harry makes his way down the hall into the bedroom, opts for standing at the foot of the bed instead of kneeling, since there weren't specific instructions for it. He's still mostly hard from the garage fun, and the thought of Eric stripping him has his cock twitching in his jeans.
Eric takes a brief detour to go around the house, check the doors to make sure everything's locked up, wash his hands and generally give Harry just a little time to settle in before he gets back to the bedroom. When he does get there, he smiles at the position Harry's taken up. "Good," he says, stripping his shirt over his head and dropping it on the floor. He kicks his shoes off, too, strips off his socks. "Very good." Jeans go next and then he's bare, and he heads for Harry, settling his hands on Harry's hips and leaning in to press a kiss to his lips.
Harry watches Eric strip, smiling at the praise offered, his eyes and mind more intent on the sculpted body being revealed in front of him. Not overly bulky. Near-perfect proportion. Except the hands. Like Michelangelo's David, they seem out of place on the body. And then they're on Harry's hips and Eric's lips are pressing in and Harry forgets about the director's mind and focuses on being the slave, yielding to the touch, the almost-too-soft caress of flesh.
For the first few minutes it's all about the lips. Just that brush of lips over lips, Eric's hands still on Harry's hips, Eric's lips nuzzling Harry's apart. Eric's cock is getting hard just from that, and by the time he slides his tongue into Harry's mouth and starts tasting him, his cock's pressed nice and tight against Harry's thigh.
The brush of lips on lips tingles, unnerves in a strange way. Harry's not used to pleasure, not without the pain. He's had it, but it's been so long, and he's sure it was never quite like this. Eric unravels Harry, shreds his defenses in ways Harry thinks it'll take a lifetime to understand, if even then.
Eric runs his hands all over Harry's chest, over his back, touching, caressing through fabric, not in any hurry to get to the part where clothes are tossed off haphazardly and it's skin on skin. Every moment needs to be experienced for its own sake; that's the whole point. He's not in any rush. And he hasn't stopped kissing Harry, has let his lips drift over cheeks, nose, chin, back to lips for long, tongue-sliding kisses that leave Eric breathless, but the kissing hasn't stopped.
The kissing takes Harry's breath away. He's gasping between kisses, in those tiny gaps Eric's barely leaving. Lips. Face. Lips. And Eric's hands. They're everywhere. Harry's overloading on the sensory. Pleasure. He's never been allowed this much. Not just pleasure, not without paying for it. He feels dizzy, but he's standing, taking what his master wants to give, not even sure if he's meant to respond other than take.
The next time Eric pulls back, he grips Harry by one wrist -- firm touch, but gentler than usual -- and tugs him into bed, levering Harry down on his back. He stretches out at Harry's side, one leg over Harry's, hand rubbing over Harry's chest and moving lower. "You can touch me," Eric murmurs. "You still don't get to come until I tell you."
"Touch you." Harry reassures himself of the permission granted before laying his hand on Eric's hip, rubbing down, slow-moving fingers gliding over the curves. He's taking time he hasn't in all his weeks of living with Eric, hesitant in his tracing down over thighs.
"Mm. Nice," Eric breathes. "I like your touch." He rubs his cock against Harry's hip before drawing his own hand down, past Harry's cock to tease at his inner thighs.
"I like touching you," Harry says, "but it's strange. I've never been this intimate with a lover." He slides his hand to the back of Eric's thigh, up over his arse, shivering even as Eric's fingers tease at his own flesh. "Never this slow, gentle."
"Never is a long time," Eric whispers. He curls up closer, lips leaving tiny soft kisses over Harry's shoulder, down along the line of his collarbone and moving up to the center of his throat. "Right now, right here, you've got all the time in the world."
"Oh, fuckin' Christ, that's --" Harry loses the words as Eric's tongue slides over his collarbone, the lick rippling into his brain, turning his thoughts and words to whimpering moans. All the time in the world may end up killing him, he thinks, the pleasure quickly becoming more intense than any pain he knows.
Eric shifts, climbs on top of Harry fully and stretches out, cock rubbing against Harry's. He reaches for Harry's hands, catches his wrists in a gentle grip and pushes them down into the pillows, licks softly across Harry's collarbone again, a wide, flat, achingly slow lick that goes from shoulder to shoulder.
The ripple's full-body this time, the shiver hitching Harry's breath and cascading down, his chest drawing in, hips arching up, legs stretching under Eric's. "Fuck, Eric, that, uh, that," he can't find the right words, "never, oh, fuck."
"You're amazing," Eric grins, "and I love driving you wordless." He nudges Harry's legs apart just a little, settles between them and keeps thrusting his hips forward, gentle, easy. Such gorgeous reactions. Eric wonders if another twisting little lick over Harry's collarbone will have him completely out of his mind. Let's try it. Twisting, flickering licks, this time stopping to bite every few inches or so.
It does drive him completely mindless. Harry tilts his head back, his body shuddering, and he bites his lip to keep from coming just at the bite. You don't come till he tells you. He clamps down on the urge to push up, make more connection, knowing it would drive him over the edge.
Eric lifts his head for a moment. "Is this how you'd like to come? The first time," he clarifies. "I'm not going to stop until you're practically passing out on me."
If I have to die, let it be this way. "Yeah, Eric, this way. Please." Harry knows he's asking for more torture. Doesn't care, as long as it's at Eric's hands.
"This way's fine. Come when you want." And Eric slides his hands under Harry's shoulders, curls his fingers around them as he starts thrusting more seriously, cock sliding against cock, lips and teeth slowly making love to one patch of skin after another, licking in that same slow, steady path across Harry's upper chest.
Permission to come when he wants. Harry shakes his head, one sensation piling on another and then the words, those words. Oh, fuck, it's too much for him to take and Eric's middle of the fourth or fifth lick then Harry comes, his cock twitching against Eric's, spurting pulses of sticky whiteness between their bodies. He doesn't scream, much as his body wants to, but moans and whimpers out the orgasm he knows is only the first of the night.
Gorgeous. Absolutely fucking gorgeous. Eric's cock slides through hot smears of come, and Eric shudders, slowing down, not ready to spill his own come over Harry's stomach. He comes to a rest, nuzzling softly into Harry's neck. "Good boy," he whispers, "so fucking good for me, wanted it just like that..."
"Yes, sir," Harry mutters. "Thank you, sir." He can't move, body on edge, not quite down from the orgasm yet, shivering with the sudden chill after an intense heat. "Fuckin' great, sir."
"Mmhm." Eric licks the side of Harry's neck, nuzzling softly. "Go on. Put your arms around me and rest awhile." He chuckles. "Tell me if I'm crushing you."
Putting arms around his lover -- no, he mentally corrects, his master -- is easier said than done. Harry slowly moves them, stretches out the muscles and eases his arms down around Eric's body. "You're crushing me," he murmurs, "but I like it. Comforting."
"Comforting?" Eric asks, levering up just a touch to look down in Harry's eyes. He brushes the hair back from Harry's forehead, strokes the backs of his fingers down Harry's cheek. "That's one I haven't been accused of before."
"Sorry. Didn't mean it that way." Harry shivers again, the touch of Eric's fingers along his cheek. "It's just, the pressure, it hurts, and that's reassuring."
"That's good." It's unfamiliar territory, not being able to set his slave on edge with a look, or -- no. No, that's not what's unfamiliar. What's truly unfamiliar is being able to shut that off. Having a few moments of edgeless pleasure and familiarity.
Harry's not so sure about how good it is. It's unsettling, the pleasure and familiarity. All he's known is pain. It's all he's ever wanted. Till now. It's different with Eric, and that's not bad. It's just, well, unsettling. Harry wriggles under Eric's weight, letting it press him into the mattress, bind him with flesh restraints, work at settling his mind again. Want this. All of it. Just have to get used to it.
Eric presses his lips to Harry's forehead. "You want a bit of rest before I keep going?"
"No, sir," Harry mutters, enveloped in Eric's body. "Not really. Unless you're just wanting me to have it."
"Just checking," Eric smiles. He starts crawling down the bed, then, licking a path down Harry's chest, going for Harry's stomach where he starts licking up the leftover sticky traces of come.
No matter how much Harry might want the rest, he's not going to ask for it. He pushes back into the pillow at Eric's licks, deliciously painful in how they tickle, his body already on edge and begging for more in spite of itself.
When the come on Harry's stomach is all cleaned up, Eric moves lower, taking gentle licks over his cock, careful around still-too-sensitive skin.
Too sensitive. Too much. Harry bites at his lip, small tugs of teeth over flesh. Excruciating in the most subtle of ways. He wraps his hands in the sheets.
Eric lifts his head up. "No?" he asks, sliding a hand up Harry's thigh. "This isn't supposed to hurt, Harry."
"Doesn't hurt," Harry murmurs, "not exactly. Just intense."
"Mm. All right." Eric licks from balls to tip again, long and slow. "You taste good," he murmurs. "Like you've spilled out everything for me."
"Everything. For you." Harry shivers at the long lick. "Like what you take, what you make me want to give."
"I like it, too," Eric says, and he realizes the next time he slides his lips up the length of Harry's cock that that's unusual, too. Being able to say he likes something, someone he's topping. Normally that doesn't even factor in.
You're not supposed to like it. Are you? Harry doesn't know if the internal question's for him or Eric. He clutches the sheets again, that last lick doing its damnedest to make him hard again, and that's painful in itself so soon after coming.
Eric's finished, though, and he comes up the bed, stretching out on his back. "Your turn," he murmurs. "Clean me up. Take your time with it. Carte blanche for whatever you want to do."
There's a "fuck" on Harry's tongue and he barely catches it before pushing up, crawling over Eric's body, settling between his master's spread legs. "Yes, sir," he says, dropping his head and swiping his tongue over Eric's stomach, the come nearly dry but yielding at the moistness of his lick. Take your time.
Eric's hand slips behind Harry's neck and he sighs, scratching lightly, settling in to enjoy his slave's tongue on him. "That's good," he murmurs, "that's excellent."
Harry purrs, rolling his neck into the scratches. It's nice, better than nice, and he licks harder, forcing the sticky white stains up onto his tongue, easing his way down around Eric's cock, languid movements designed to draw out the attention he's being permitted.
It would be easy to shift things, bury both hands in Harry's hair and drag his mouth down over Eric's cock, but Eric's not going to. He's curious, partly, about what pleases Harry when he has free rein, and he's also not in any hurry. He wants Harry nice and hard again before he starts thinking about fucking him, and he wants to fuck his slave more than he wants to come in his slave's mouth. Well... so far.
Harry swirls his tongue around the base of Eric's cock, sucking at the short hairs until every last one's clean, wet with saliva instead of come. Then he drags his tongue along the shaft, feels it stiffen under the slight pressure he exerts, feels himself harden. It would be simple to take it in his mouth, push down, let it rub the back of his throat.
Carte blanche. He gave you free rein. You can take it. With the mental reminder, Harry does just that, slurping as he sinks himself onto Eric's cock, inching down and sucking back up.
"Ohhhh. Oh, fuck, Harry, yes, so good," Eric murmurs. His slave's got an incredible mouth, hot and wet and eager, and Eric digs his fingernails in a little harder, an unconscious demand for more.
Harry gives him more, opening his mouth wider and taking in all Eric's offering, the thick cock stretching his throat as he braces his forearms on either side of Eric's hips, leverages to get just the right angle.
No choking, no forcing, just Eric's cock deep in Harry's mouth, as deep as Harry wants to take him. And it's as delicious as it is unusual, every stroke making Eric gasp. He wonders how long Harry's going to keep it up, and he decides it doesn't matter; he'll hold out for as long as Harry wants to keep doing it.
He's content to go on for hours, but Harry's realistic, too. He knows his jaw will be aching long before then. For the moment, though, he's sucking, long pulls back on Eric's cock, all the way to its head before he sinks back down, making sure the weeping tip brushes his throat on every stroke. Fuck, it's good. It's serving, being used, what he's used to.
"Good boy," Eric murmurs, sliding his fingers through Harry's hair, petting, stroking, scratching through the strands. "I want this in the mornings. Just after my shower. Here, in the bed, this way. Feels so good."
It's a new order. Harry doesn't have many rules, and the overriding one is whatever Eric says, Harry does. That seems to work. He's excited at the prospect of doing this every morning, giving his master this pleasure. He wants to pull back enough to talk, but doesn't dare, not until Eric decides he's finished.
There's a feeling of interest there, and Eric squeezes the back of Harry's neck, implying he can stop if he likes. "Would you like more structure?" he asks softly.
Harry does pull back, off the tip of Eric's cock. "Not necessarily. Only what the master's comfortable with." He smiles, flicks his tongue out, drags it through a drop of precum. "Your slave's wondering, though, if he's to do this every morning, is he to presume he's allowed to make you come?"
"Yes." Eric smiles. "Where I come is something I might decide at the time. And for now, I don't want to come until I'm inside you. I want more than just your mouth."
"Understand. Thank you, for the clarification." Harry licks around the edge of the foreskin, nudging it down with his tongue. "I like being your boy, like doing this, serving you."
"You're doing well." Eric slides his fingers into Harry's hair again, tugs him up. "But right now I want you to ride me."
"Oh, God, yes." Harry doesn't have to be asked twice. He kneels up, shifts, straddles Eric's legs. There's no need for prep, even if Eric would allow it, and he's inching himself down, one hand guiding Eric's cock into his hole. Burn's instant, sharp and seeping, but he ignores it, works through it, bit by bit sinking his body as deep as his mind's going.
"Ah -- yes -- God, so tight for me," Eric moans, hips moving up as his head tilts back and every inch of his body centers on his cock filling Harry's arse, just steady movement in, and Christ it's so good he could scream from it.
It takes a long minute but then he's finally seated, Eric's cock deep inside him, and Harry breathes in and out for another minute before starting to pull back up, then push down, settling into a steady rhythm, building up speed slowly. Yeah, he's tight. And the friction's unbearable. Almost. And sweeter than treacle on toast.
"Yeah," Eric breathes, hands coming down to Harry's hips, "just like that, Harry, come on, fuck yourself on me, show me how much you want it."
Christ, he does want it. Harry slams himself down, hard, deep, and jerks back up, doing it again, taking the full brunt of what Eric can give him on each stroke. "Yeah," he pants out on rising, "fuck," going down, "want it so bad."
"Good," Eric pants, fingers curling deep, bruising. "Fucking perfect. So fucking perfect. Harder."
Master ask, master gets, and Harry drops himself harder, not thinking about how much it hurts, how deep Eric's cock is going. Fuck, he'd swear he could taste it. His eyes water from the pain, the intensity. Fuck, it's gonna hurt later even worse. But it doesn't stop him. Harry keeps stroking, moving up and down as Eric's fingers bruise and mark him. Yours. To take and use.
The angle's not enough. Eric sits up, wraps an arm around Harry's waist and shoves them both over, getting Harry on his back and pushing in all over again. "Mine," he growls, pinning one of Harry's arms down. "Mine."
"Yours," Harry growls back. "Only yours."
Need's been building all night, the need to be here, just like this, buried in his slave's body, and now that he's here Eric wants his marks on Harry, wants his claim all over him. He bends down, bites Harry's shoulder, draws blood to the surface; he can feel it pulsing under the skin, like it's begging to come free, and stops just shy of tasting blood.
Harry screams. He doesn't hold back, not anything. He's claimed, marked, just like he wants. He thrashes, enough to deepen the wound, make sure the bruise will last for weeks instead of days, almost forces the blood to spill into Eric's mouth.
Christ, he's just incredible. Eric growls softly, braces himself on his forearms and bites harder, thrusts in harder, holds Harry down while he's fucking him. Harry's reactions are incredible, everything Eric's been hoping for, and he doesn't know how long he'll be able to hold back with his slave under him this way.
"Please, sir." Harry moans. "May I beg?"
"What do you want to beg for?" Eric answers.
"For you to hurt me, come inside me, mark me."
"Beg for it, boy," Eric growls, "your master's close." And he thrusts in hard, hard enough to stab deep and burn.
"Please, Eric, sir, use your slut, your slave, fuck him till he screams. Please come. Want to feel it inside me." The burn's intense, too much capsican on a muscle ache kind of intense, searing through muscle.
Yes, Eric thinks, but by now he's beyond words, growling and gasping and throwing his head back to scream as he comes, completely blind from the pleasure.
Harry's screaming, as loudly as Eric, his voice, what he can find of it, piercing the room's stillness. No words. Just guttural sounds, Harry pushed beyond the point for needing articulation.
As the sound dies off, Eric lowers himself onto Harry's chest, exhausted and panting and trying to catch his breath. "Christ." He licks at a bruise just above Harry's collarbone. "Christ, that was good."
"Good? Not a strong enough word, Eric." Harry's panting. "It was pretty damned great from this side."
Eric chuckles. "Glad you thought so." He leans up, kisses Harry's forehead... pauses to lick up a bead of sweat from his temple. "We're all sticky," he murmurs. "Come shower with me."
"Yes, sir. Sticky's not bad." Harry's moving slow, shifting under Eric's touches, kisses. "Shower sounds better, though."
"Mmm." Eric drags himself off Harry, crawling down the bed and licking, then biting, at Harry's chest along the way. He curls his tongue in a slow lick over Harry's cock, bites hard at the inside of one thigh.
"Oh, fuck." Bite. Lick. Harry's gonna be hard again, whether he wants to be or not. "That's not helping to get to the shower." He doesn't think Eric minds much at all when they actually get to the bathroom.
"No?" Eric grins, teases the tip of his tongue up along the crease of Harry's thigh.
"No. Fuck, master." Harry doesn't call Eric that much, or even drop into formal tone, but it seems right sometimes. "Your slave can barely concentrate. Know that's your intention, but, oh, god, that's good."
"Yes, it is." There's something about not insisting on hearing Master, not hearing it every day, that makes it all the better when it does come out. Your slave. Eric moves lower, licks at Harry's balls and sucks one, then the other, into his mouth. "You taste good. Like sweat. Like sex. Like you've been such a good slave for me."
Eric's undoing Harry with each lick, unraveling whatever preconception Harry had about belonging to Eric, whatever sense of reality Harry had about his life and where it was heading. All that melts away at the first swipe of Eric's tongue. "He tries, Master," Harry murmurs, liking how the word warps his mouth. "Your slave wants to be good for you."
"Mmmm." Eric breathes hot air up the length of Harry's cock. "I'm getting distracted from that idea of showering. Starting to think I'd rather taste you all over. Make you come again, screaming."
Harry shivers. "You could do that. Easily." He grins. "Or we could take the shower, Master," Harry says, almost purring out the word, "and you could torture your slave under hot steam."
"Best of both worlds," Eric says. He licks up the length of Harry's cock, then stands up. "All right. Off to the shower. And run the water hot enough to scald."
"Yes, sir." Harry scrambles for the edge of the bed, pulls himself off and heads for the bathroom. Getting the water to scalding's easy enough, and within minutes the mirror is fogged over and the room steamy.
Eric follows Harry into the bathroom a few minutes later, already pleased with the way the room's steam-heated. He wraps an arm around Harry's waist and pulls him close, kissing the side of Harry's neck. "Can you stand it that hot?" he asks. "No matter what I'm doing to you?"
Harry nods. "Yes, sir. That's not too hot. Can take whatever you give." He tilts his head, leans back into Eric's body and hazards a brush of fingers over Eric's hand holding him tight. "No matter what."
"Good." Eric squeezes Harry's waist and then pushes him gently towards the shower. "Let's climb in."
Harry steps into the shower, wincing when the first jets hit his shoulders. It's near scalding. He knows he'll adjust, but those first seconds take Harry's breath, have him touching the tile wall for a moment of cool.
Eric loves it when the water's this hot. Nearly enough to take his skin off. He runs his hands down Harry's chest, watches as the heat starts turning them both red, and bends down to bite at the side of Harry's neck. Harry's already marked all over; Eric wants to see more.
The scream's silent, drowned in the water trickling down Harry's face into his mouth as he tilts his head. Eric's hands are leaving white prints in his red skin. Marks on top of marks, claimed and reclaimed, over and over. It's never enough. Never will be, he imagines.
That's how it's supposed to be, the word enough meaningless as long as Eric's got his hands on his slave. Most of the time enough is several steps past too much, but Eric isn't letting himself think about that. Not when he's got his hands all over Harry's body and he's layering bruise on top of bruise under pounding, searing water.
It's oddly therapeutic, being bruising under scalding water. Harry can't feel all the pain he knows is there, should be there, when Eric's fingers dig into his sides, his back. He can't imagine how much he's going to hurt. Well, he can, if he tries, but he's more focused on the moment, on closing his eyes and mentally tracking Eric's fingers pressing under his rib cage before tracing down his stomach.
Down Harry's stomach, fingers wrapping around his cock and squeezing. "Good slave," Eric murmurs. "Want to feel you come for me again. What are the chances?"
You've got be kidding. Harry thinks it, but he doesn't say it. "Honestly don't know," he manages. "Can try."
"Try for me," Eric urges, wrapping an arm around Harry's shoulders and shielding him from most of the scalding water. "Do you know how good you sound when you're screaming?"
"Okay." Harry sucks in a breath, filtered through water. It's going to be torture, not that torture's a problem. "Want to scream for you. Make me. Please?"
"Good slave. Tell me if you find you can't." Eric pushes Harry back, pins him against the tiles and wraps his hand around Harry's cock, starting to stroke. Nothing easy about it, not even this early on; there's no way pleasure's going to give Harry enough to focus on, so it'll have to be about the pain.
It is about the pain. That's all Harry has, all he can concentrate on. Every stroke agonizes, slurs the pain from unbearable to excruciating. There's nowhere to go except through it, so Harry focuses on that, tapping into a place in his brain where he can disassociate enough to let the pain carry him through. He feels his cock respond, slow stretching, blood flowing back into it.
"Good," Eric murmurs, licking Harry's neck. "Focus for me. Let the pain get you hard and then harder. Think about how perfect the burn's going to be when you come through it."
"Yessir." Harry hisses out the word, then another breath. He focuses, getting harder under Eric's touch. He's still not sure he can manage it, but he's trying, 'cause Eric wants him to, is encouraging him to succeed.
Eric squeezes, merciless under steaming water. The ache has to be brutal, and Eric's never pushed a slave for this much before. He's never given a slave so much that the reward's going to be not coming for a day. But he's never had anyone like Harry before, never had someone so ready to give. And he's going to see just how far that willingness goes.
"Goddamn, Eric, fuck, it hurts." Harry pants through the roll of pain, the one that unleashes from his groin and doesn't stop till he's coming. He's never done that, never come under this much pressure, never been asked for this much. His cock jerks in Eric's fingers, the pulses taking an eternity, his body having so little to give to the agony.
"Yes, oh fuck, Harry," Eric groans, licking over Harry's lips and then kissing him hard as the last jets fall. All this, he's been given all this, and he wonders if Harry's going to wake up in the morning with that look in his eyes that says run.
Harry's beyond thinking, beyond reasoning that what's he doing is insane, pushing his body this far. He collapses in Eric's hold, letting himself go limp from the inside out. He'll think about it in the morning. Maybe. Or maybe he'll just put aside thought and go with instinct, and that's telling him this is right, this is where he needs to be.
"Just give me a second--" Eric reaches behind him, gets the water shut off. "Let me get you into bed."
"Bed," Harry echoes. It sounds perfect. Not that he'd argue if there was something else Eric wanted to do. He's past the point of no return on that front, possessed completely.
It's not easy getting Harry out of the shower, toweling him off enough he won't drip when Eric gets him into bed. But Eric's patient, and Harry's worth all the effort, and when Eric has him lying across the foot of the bed, he runs a hand down Harry's arm. "Good slave," he murmurs. "So proud of you."
The words sink in slowly. Good slave. And he's made his master proud. There's no higher praise. Harry sinks into sleep quickly. Tomorrow he'll worry about hurting.
This is the final chapter of Exception. It's safe to assume Eric and Harry lived happily ever after -- for their definitions of happy. ;)