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Rough Day

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The thing the movies get wrong about the criminal underworld is that the last thing organized crime wants is to kill people. Killing attracts attention, whether from your enemies in the business or from your enemies in law enforcement. Killing is not the way a sophisticated businessman resolves his problems; killing makes it harder to move merchandise. It’s called organized crime for a reason.

But sometimes Montparnasse really, really, really wishes things were different.

Because today, everything spiraled out of control, and he couldn't kill the ones responsible. Today, he'd had the bastards in his sights, but he'd let them walk, because he couldn’t afford to do otherwise. Coming up with a clever plan to freeze them out of future profits doesn’t provide the same balm to his blackened soul that crushing someone’s windpipe probably would.

Montparnasse is a professional, though, so he’s going to handle this like a god-damned professional. 

He takes a deep breath and texts Jehan.

Wanna watch some HBO later? 

If he actually wanted to watch TV, he’d specify the program. Jehan knows what HBO really means: sex and violence.

The response is lightning-fast, almost immediate.

Sure. Rough day at work?

Jehan still thinks Montparnasse buys and sells warehouse space for a living. It’s surprisingly close to the truth, and yet still so, so far.

Stabbed in the back by some business partners, he sends. Wanted to stab them in return, but my hands were tied.

I want you tied up for me, he thinks. I want you ready and waiting when I walk in, biddable, controllable, fuckable.

I hear you, Jehan sends back. I’ll queue up some HBO.


When Montparnasse arrives, Jehan is waiting at the door, kneeling on a square cushion the two of them keep out for just this purpose. Jehan’s hands aren’t tied — yet — but they're holding a slim nylon rope, which they offer wordlessly to Montparnasse.

“Hands in front,” says Montparnasse as he takes it. He loops the rope around Jehan’s wrists, around and around, until there’s nothing left to do but tie off the ends. “Safewords?” he asks as he does so.

“Red for stop, mercy for pause, and nod if everything’s okay,” recites Jehan. The two of them had tried using green for a check-in word, but they’d both felt it ruined the mood of the heavier scenes for them. “Bang on the floor five times for nonverbal stop.”

“Very good,” says Montparnasse silkily. “Now shut up. Eyes down, slave.”

Jehan’s eyes linger on him a moment too long before falling demurely to the floor, and Montparnasse slaps them without hesitation, first palm-forward and then backhanded. “Don’t test me, slave,” he says, voice cold and dangerous. “It will not end well for you. Apologize.”

“‘m sorry, master,” says Jehan, voice low.

“Did I say you could speak?” hisses Montparnasse. He wraps a hand in the hair by Jehan’s scalp and shakes them. “That hole you call a mouth is only good for one kind of apology. Now suck me.”

Jehan lurches up on their knees, gaze intent on Montparnasse’s fly. It had taken ages to train Jehan to open Montparnasse’s pants with their mouth, but it’s paying off now, as Montparnasse’s cock is freed quickly from his slacks and eagerly swallowed.

“Yes, that’s it. Show your master how very sorry you are,” purrs Montparnasse. Jehan lists forward, struggling to keep their balance as they lick and suck. “That’s a good start,” says Montparnasse, “but I think I’ll take over this apology from here, what do you say?”

The tiniest of nods from Jehan is all he needs. Moments later he’s fucking into Jehan’s lax throat, forcing the head of his cock deliciously deep. It took even longer to train away Jehan’s gag reflex than it did to train them to open a zipper, but it should go without saying that this particular skill was worth exponentially more to Montparnasse than the zipper thing.

It takes a heroic act of self-control to remove his cock from Jehan’s bruised throat, but Montparnasse won’t be satisfied if he ends it here, so out it comes. 

“Get up,” he tells Jehan harshly, yanking the nylon rope and forcing Jehan to his feet. “Now you’ve apologized, I think it’s time you learnt some discipline.”

He throws Jehan’s tied arms forward and Jehan can’t help but follow, stumbling toward the dining room on unsteady legs. 

Montparnasse covers the distance to the dining room in three long strides, outpacing Jehan’s unbalanced tottering. He pulls out one of the dining room chairs, upholstered in smooth black leather, and pushes Jehan onto it.

“This should do nicely,” he says. “Keep still, pet, or I’ll have to truss you up like a side of meat.” 

He slaps Jehan’s upturned ass again and again, lightly at first but quickly growing harsher, warming Jehan’s dark olive skin to a dull red.

On the last, hardest slap, Jehan moans, shivering against the cool leather and squirming so that their ass is even more prominently presented.

“You pathetic little tart,” spits Montparnasse. “How can I teach you discipline when all your slutty ass can think about is getting fucked?”

This time he aims his strike not at the fleshy part of Jehan’s backside but at the newly exposed real estate between their legs, delivering a sharp slap to Jehan’s most sensitive parts. Jehan screams and writhes, nearly falling off the chair.

“Ah ah, that won’t do,” tuts Montparnasse. “Let’s get you tied down, shall we?”

He taps Jehan smartly on the shoulder, waiting for Jehan’s tiny nod, and when he gets it, he leaves Jehan panting and shaking on the chair to collect his ropes from the credenza.

When Montparnasse is the one being tied up, he doesn’t mind quiet. Though Jehan might sometimes murmur soft praises, whisper endearments and sweet nothings, for the most part they're silent, helping Montparnasse float into a gentle place in his mind that only Jehan can unlock.

But when Montparnasse is the one tying the ropes, he’s restless, impatient. He wants the scene to move forward.

As a compromise, he lets his mouth do the walking.

“Sluts like you only pretend to submit so you'll be well-fucked," he says conversationally. "You play the part, pouting and showing off, but you still think you're the one in control. You think you're using me to get what you want." He cinches the ropes tight around Jehan's upper arms, securing them to the legs of the chair.

"But you're mine, slave. This isn't give and take." He's moved on to Jehan's thighs, now, tying them to the legs of the other side of the chair so that Jehan's back is fixed in place over the seat. "Your only pleasure should be pleasing me. You're just a set of convenient holes for me to fuck. And I'm going to beat you until you understand that."

Lastly there are the ropes connecting Jehan's thighs to their ankles, keeping their legs bent a vulnerable 90 degrees.

Montparnasse keeps up his running commentary. 

"I bet that little hole wants to be filled, doesn't it?" he says, his tone condescending as all hell. "I can see it twitching. And..." He frees up a hand to spread Jehan's exposed hole a little wider. "Already lubed up? Aren't you greedy." He runs his thumb around Jehan's glistening perimeter. "Now you might have done it to make things easer for me," muses Montparnasse, "but really you're just thinking of yourself, of how you can make getting fucked a better experience for you. What if I'd wanted to fuck you dry? The things that happen to your holes are up to me, not you." He clicks his tongue. "I don't want you thinking, hole. I just want you obeying."

The knots get one last check, and then Montparnasse straightens, surveying his handiwork. Jehan makes a lovely picture, their plump rear end red with handprints and their bare back prickly with goosebumps.

"Time to teach you a lesson," says Montparnasse, haughty. "I suppose I'll start with the belt."

Again he carefully notes the discreet nod from Jehan.

He takes off his belt, folding it in half and holding it near the two ends. The riding crop would be more precise, and he'll get there eventually, but for the two of them nothing can top the visceral intimacy of beating someone with an otherwise innocuous item you wear on your person in polite company. 

Well, not that Montparnasse is often in polite company, but it's the thought that counts.

He strikes Jehan once, twice, three times, working his way up toward harder blows. Jehan's wheatish skin takes marks beautifully — the contrast may not be as stark as it would be on Montparnasse's peaches-and-cream East Asian skin, but the rich palette that can be brought out of Jehan's golden-brown base tone takes Montparnasse's breath away.

Jehan is well and truly warmed up, now, and Montparnasse stops pulling his punches, laying into Jehan with a vengeance. They say it's not safe to play with sadomasochism when your emotions are running hot, but if that's true, then what's the fucking point? Montparnasse's blows are vicious with simmering resentment, sizzling with all the rage he'd had no outlet for this afternoon. Jehan's back, ass, and thighs are crisscrossed with angry red stripes.

At this rate, there'll be no need for the riding crop. He'll go straight for the cane.

"Now do you understand?" he says to Jehan, punctuating his words with strikes. "Or do I have to make you bleed for it? You're mine, and I am in control here. decide your fate."

Jehan's breathing is labored; pained whimpers echo out from inside their closed mouth, but they don't speak.

Montparnasse hums, pleased. He feels better, exponentially better, but still enough like he wants to murder someone that he knows this isn't over.

"I hope you've taken this lesson to heart, slut," he says. He smoothes a hand over the raw, raised flesh of Jehan's rump, and is rewarded when a sound approaching a sob is torn from Jehan's throat.

Another dry sob erupts as Montparnasse rakes his nails down Jehan's back. Montparnasse chuckles. "Very good, slave," he says darkly. "You're almost ready for me to use. But I think I'll drive the lesson home, first — how do you feel about being caned?"

He nearly doesn't bother to wait for the nod this time; Jehan loves the cane. And sure enough, Jehan abandons their earlier subtleties for huge, jerky bobs of the head that look more like spasms than nods.

"With each stroke, I'm going to need you to repeat after me," says Montparnasse when he's retrieved Jehan's favorite cane. "Your mouth is only good for what I decide to put in there, understand? Sluts like you don't get to have thoughts of their own."

His first stroke falls right where Jehan's ass meets their legs. It's not a heavy stroke, but it's clearly torture on Jehan's abused skin. Jehan cries out.

"Tell me," says Montparnasse as Jehan shudders, "who's just a toy for me to fuck?"

"I'm — I'm just a toy for you to fuck," says Jehan quickly.

"Correct, fucktoy. Now," says Montparnasse, readying his arm to deliver a second blow, "say 'My pleasure means nothing.'"

"My—" starts Jehan, then wails as the cane cracks down across the back of their thighs. "My plezsh... my pleasure means nothing."

"That's right, slave," Montparnasse crows. "And in a similar vein... tell me your pain means nothing."

Jehan waits for the strike of the cane this time, a harsh, bruising blow low enough on their thighs to be excruciating. Their voice has the hint of tears in it as they repeat, "My pain means nothing."

"It really does," says Montparnasse. "Except in the sense it sometimes pleases me to hurt you. All that matters is my pleasure. Say it."

He sweeps the cane down once more, leaving a livid red line on the fleshiest part of Jehan's ass. Jehan's agonized cry is a thing of beauty.

"All that ma... all that matters is your pleasure," they manage.

"My body belongs to you," says Montparnasse, and he brings the cane down for his hardest hit yet.

Jehan bursts into tears, gulping down air, sobbing their way through their recitation of Montparnasse's words.

His lover is a blubbering, shaking mess, and Montparnasse can hardly breathe with how badly he wants to fuck them.

He abandons the cane on the floor with a clatter, stripping his pants from his legs with alacrity. It's the work of a moment to take up a position behind Jehan, kneeling on the Persian rug and lining himself up for entry.

"This is not a reward," he says harshly. "You're going to lie there and take it, slave, not because you allow it but because I demand it."

Yet of course he still waits for Jehan's small nod.

When he takes Jehan, he takes them brutally, fucking into Jehan's hole with no thought to how Jehan is feeling. He knows from experience this is how Jehan wants it, but that knowledge is muted right now, distant; for the moment he is first and foremost focused on seeking his own pleasure.

And what pleasure! Jehan's hole had been conscientiously slicked with lube prior to Montparnasse's arrival, its muscles loosened, but that had been long enough ago for some of the effect to wear off, and Jehan's hole is now a magical balance of wet and tight, sucking Montparnasse inside with each instinctive clench and ripple, ensuring just enough friction for the kind of delicious burn they both live for.

Jehan is providing no such friction themself, bowing their head like they're resigned to their fate. The ropes hold them in place, a perfect fuckable little sex doll. 

Montparnasse knows that if he could see Jehan's face right now it would be slack with satisfaction, their mouth open and likely drooling, their eyes rolling into the back of their head, lost in the haze of subspace. Such a good pet — such a soft, pliant toy — such a warm and willing hole for me! The praise bubbles to his lips. 

But that's not the kind of scene they're doing.

"Seems you're learning, slave," he says instead. His hips never slacken, pounding into Jehan relentlessly as Montparnasse nears his climax.

He keeps one hand tight on Jehan's waist as he thrusts, but lets the other tease its way up Jehan's lacerated back, digging the pad of his thumb into one particularly noticeable imprint in order to push an animal howl out of Jehan.

"You're mine," growls Montparnasse once more. He's intoxicated by the way he can use Jehan like this, play his lover's pain like an instrument. "Everything you are belongs to me."

He comes with Jehan's answering moan in his ears, his bloodlust finally, gloriously sated.


The scene goes on a little longer after that, with Montparnasse ordering Jehan to grind themself to orgasm against Montparnasse's boot and then lick up what's been left there in the process, but it's strangely difficult for Montparnasse to stay in character — he's been overcome with a nigh-irresistible wave of affection for Jehan, and he's impatient to get to the aftercare part of the evening.

Aftercare is for doms too, Jehan would say, if they weren't currently prostrate on the floor tonguing their own juices off a leather-clad toe.

Montparnasse is a ruthless man, generally speaking; he doesn't have the moral compunctions of the average person, and a court-appointed youth counselor had once told him his affective empathy was worryingly underdeveloped. But despite his difficulty mirroring the emotions of strangers, he still feels deeply about a trusted few, and Jehan, such a strange, otherworldly mix of light and shadow, has worked their way into Montparnasse's heart in record time. 

When it's all over, Montparnasse cares for Jehan tenderly, rubbing anti-inflammatory cream into their bruises and plying them with cashmere and tea until Jehan is all but purring their contentment.

"Feel better now?" they ask softly, as Montparnasse snuggles in beside them on the couch.

"Worlds better," says Montparnasse, wrapping his arms around his lover and burying his face in their neck. "So much better, in fact, that I've decided all the idiots can live."

"Oh?"

Montparnasse grunts. "Well, for now, at least."

Jehan laughs a little through their nose, a gentle hum of amusement. "I suppose I'll just have to be prepared to do this again. I can't have you murdering anyone. Promise you'll come to me first?"

And it's just a joke, just idle banter, but Montparnasse is deadly serious when he says, "I promise."