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The Lie

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"Shh. Lie still." Alan frowned as Adrian shifted. Alan kept his hand firmly planted on the small of Adrian's back. "You don't want to make me misspell, do you?"

They were in the play room adjoining Adrian's office, hidden behind his case of Watchmen figures. The room was windowless. Electric light glinted on metal and latex, and on slick skin. Alan had loosened his tie and cast his jacket over the pony, but had undressed no further than that. He had to be ready for work again soon, after all. No long lunches for young upstart lawyers, unless they were working lunches, and as long as Adrian didn't pay him, this wasn't one.

Adrian was crouched over a metal axle, his wrists and ankles shackled together, naked, moisture dripping down his legs - a mixture of sweat and cum and lubricate. Alan was writing the details of their session on him in black permanent marker.

Along his side, the text went, and up into a swirl on his left buttock, along the line of a welt, and across the small of his back, down his thigh, and up again on the inside. It held nothing back. It was all there, from how Adrian had licked and sucked on the gag before obediently strapping it on himself, to how he had whimpered like a little slut when Alan had shoved an enormous buttplug inside him and then whipped his full ass. It tagged him a cocksucker, a whore, a toy, a slave.

When Alan was done, he recapped the marker, clicked open the shackles, and hoisted Adrian up by his hair. The big man groaned with the pain of strained muscles. "One more thing," Alan said as he shoved Adrian down on the cold floor. Setting his knee on Adrian's chest, Alan took Adrian's foreskin between his finger and his thumb, pulling out a fold until he had plenty of space to write on. He wrote a single word.

"There." He sat back with a little smile. Adrian said nothing – but then he couldn't, as his lips were still stretched over the bright red ballgag. Alan played with his foreskin, rolling it up and down Adrian's hard shaft, and admired his handiwork. It was quite a sight.

"What the hell," he muttered, and unbuttoned his trousers. "I've still got twelve minutes."

It took one of those minutes for Alan to cover and lube Adrian's cock, and less than that to throw his leg over Adrian's ridiculously ribbed abdomen and take it inside him. Alan bit his lip as he eased himself down over it, stretched himself out, and concentrated on the feeling of fucking the most powerful man in the world.

As they began to move, and Adrian grabbed his hips. His tongue was struggling against the gag. Alan leaned over with the marker in his hand and made the necessary additions – for the sake of full disclosure – on Adrian's chest.


"Remember," Alan told Adrian in an undertone before the doors opened. Adrian Veidt, immaculately dressed, nodded, adjusted his tie, and walked into the meeting room. The heads of twenty of the world's richest and most powerful men turned to him, waiting for him to take his seat at the head of the table.

Ink was smudging the inside of his pressed silk shirt, struggling to tell its secrets.


That night Adrian invited Alan over for dinner at one of his mansions. It was only the second time they'd had anything resembling a proper date. There were even candles.

After the meal, which Adrian served himself – stuffed cock and Mediterranean steamed vegetables - they soaked in a jacuzzi under a skylight, alone in an enormous private indoor spa. Alan traced his handiwork on Adrian's skin with a finger. The text was barely running in the water. It would be weeks before it was completely rubbed out.

Adrian smiled at him, and offered a glass of some mind-bogglingly expensive wine. Alan accepted. It tasted bitter. He put his thumb in Adrian's mouth, watched him close his eyes blissfully, and felt his tongue rolling around the digit, soft and pliant.

The word he'd written on Adrian's cock was the only one of them that was a lie. It said "mine".