The lights are low, but there are a dozen men here in the back room; Brandon feels like everyone's staring. It doesn't seem to matter to Wesley, who pushes Brandon into the wall and stands on his toes, biting into the side of Brandon's neck.
Brandon tries to push Wesley down, the way he's done with other men, but Wesley won't go. "Say it," Wesley growls. "Out loud, where everyone can hear you. Or you're not getting it."
"Please." Brandon grits it out, and then says it louder. "Please fucking suck me."
"Good boy," Wesley says, dropping to his knees.
Brandon's morning routine comes to a screeching halt when he sees the mark on his neck.
It's huge. Purple around the edges. He strokes it with his fingertips: it's hot to the touch, and it hurts when he presses against it.
He wears a button-down shirt and a tie to work. The tie covers the bruise in more ways than one, keeping pressure against it so Brandon can't forget it. He tucks a finger underneath his collar when he jerks off in the bathroom, presses against the bitemark and thinks about Wesley's mouth, Wesley's teeth, Wesley's tongue on his skin.
"Let me," Brandon says, trying to reach between them to get at Wesley's cock. Wesley's relentless, though, thigh pressed between Brandon's legs, hands roaming up and down Brandon's body, finally tugging Brandon's hands away and shoving them aside.
"Like this," Wesley says, leaning up to snap at Brandon's mouth. Brandon opens to it, already too far gone to remember that it doesn't work this way, that he doesn't see people more than once. Wesley didn't give him a choice. He doesn't give Brandon a choice now, either, thigh rubbing at Brandon's cock until Brandon gasps against Wesley's mouth and comes.
"Cruising a public bathroom at the park," says Wesley. "That's original."
Brandon whips around.
"How do I keep finding you," Wesley anticipates. "Maybe I'm an undercover cop." He indicates himself, jeans, white t-shirt, brown jacket, boots. Anonymous. "You wouldn't know. You don't know anything about me, you like it better that way." He produces a pair of steel handcuffs, backing Brandon up into the stall. "Maybe I'm arresting you. Hands in the air."
Brandon doesn't want this, he just wants to get off and get out. But he puts up his hands, and his wrists itch for those cuffs.
The impressions left by the cuffs stick around a while. Even when his wrists aren't red anymore, Brandon can still feel the steel on them. Maybe I'm an undercover cop. Maybe I'm arresting you.
His sick-dread fantasies used to revolve around the arrest, the judge's chamber, the fine. Now they're about Wesley in a beat cop's uniform, the bribe, Brandon's mouth around a fiberglass nightstick.
Convince me, Wesley says, while Brandon lies in bed, hand moving on his cock. Make it worth my while. I don't have to let you go.
Brandon chokes out a gasp-- don't-- as he comes.
"How come you never hired a dominatrix?" Wesley asks. "Seems like that'd be right up your--" he shoves the plug in, making Brandon grunt and arch to get away, too late. "Alley," Wesley smirks. The plug's not big, but it's unyielding, and Brandon's not used to this, he doesn't do this.
Wesley tugs Brandon's slacks back up, reaches around him and does up his fly for him, buckles his belt. "It wouldn't work, would it?" Wesley asks. "Any say over what happens to you is too much."
"Fuck off," Brandon says, breaking away, but he wears the plug all day.
Brandon's aching; it's been a long day, with the plug inside him. "Take it out."
"No." Wesley nods at the floor, at his feet. "Down."
Brandon frowns. "I don't do that."
"Now you do." Wesley grabs Brandon by the arm and pushes. Brandon watches, wide-eyed, kneeling, as Wesley unbuckles his belt and shoves his jeans down around his thighs.
Brandon isn't very good at it; he chokes, drools, coughs whenever he takes a breath. The plug in his ass feels bigger than ever, but suddenly he's not sore enough, not even when Wesley starts to fuck his throat for real.
At work, Brandon gets a phone call. Unlisted number, Wesley's voice: "Go straight home. Don't go out tonight."
Brandon hadn't even been planning to go out, but once Wesley says he can't, it feels hard as hell to pack up and go right to the subway, get off at his stop and head straight to his place.
His apartment's too small in a way it hasn't felt since Sissy left, and he resents that he's thinking about that, pacing the floors, looking out the windows. He could do all this and Wesley might not even show.
He's right. Wesley doesn't.
Brandon wakes up, heart pounding, terrified, but somehow already knowing the body pinning him down, the hand holding his wrists at the small of his back.
"Were you smart enough to get yourself ready for me?" Wesley asks, his fingers roughly seeking Brandon's hole. "Nope. Bummer." He snickers. "C'mon, you're Irish, right? That's funny."
"You're not fucking me like this," Brandon says. He's not helpless. He's taller than Wesley, stronger, there's nothing stopping him.
"Not like this," Wesley agrees. "Not yet," and he slides down, still tightly holding Brandon's wrists, his mouth wet and burning, tongue slipping into Brandon's ass.
Tuesday. Ten-thirty. Grey sweatshirt. Jeans. The stale smell of urine and urinal cakes. Fluorescent lights, buzzing and flickering.
He's late tonight, caught up at work, dinner delivery delayed, a million reasons. When Wesley isn't there, he takes the next available body. Another man, quick and brutal, it's what Brandon deserves. He had his chance.
When he steps out of the little park restroom, he's caught by his shirt, someone's hand clamped over his mouth, and Wesley slams him into the wall.
"So now you're going to make that up to me," Wesley says, and Brandon just nods, yes yes yes.
"I know you can't keep it in your pants for an hour, let alone a day," says Wesley, "but you're on your own til Friday night. No one else til I see you again."
Brandon laughs in his face. "Why the fuck would I do that?"
"What, am I supposed to make up some bullshit punishment?" Wesley asks. "We both know you'd get off on anything I do."
Brandon flushes, but he can't deny that.
"You'll do it because I told you to," Wesley drags his gloves on, rolls his fingers. "You want control. You're getting it. See you Friday."
No one else, Wesley said, but if Brandon couldn't even get himself off he doesn't know how he'd survive until the weekend. He beats off in the morning, before he even gets out of bed; he does it in the shower like always, and again at work, before and after lunch.
He's sore, he's chafing himself, but he's doing it. He isn't looking at people on the subway (on your own) or at work (til Friday night) or after work (til I see you again), and he closes his laptop instead of loading up his websites, spending the night alone.
Sometimes Brandon feels like he hired Wesley, and somehow made himself forget. It would explain a lot. Even the things Wesley does that Brandon hates, he craves, he gets off on. Sometimes it's almost like Brandon dreamed him.
So it's surreal, a shock, when he trails his hands down Wesley's sides and Wesley shivers and growls, "Quit it" with a weird shake in his voice. Brandon does it again. This time Wesley squirms outright and a laugh escapes before he turns it into a cough, barking, "I said quit." He wrestles Brandon into bed, hard; he's for real. He's real.
"Hey, you got banged up," Wesley says appreciatively, his fingers finding the ridge under Brandon's hair.
Brandon figures that remnant-of-the-Neanderthals line isn't going to do anything for Wesley. "Got it when I was a kid," he says.
"Bet it wasn't in a brawl. I can't see you as much of a scrapper."
"A lover, not a fighter," Brandon slips, still thinking of pickup lines; he hasn't used one in a while now, he can't even remember how long.
"You're sure as fuck not that," Wesley snorts. "So you better start fighting, 'cause you're running out of options."
"Give me a fucking break, it's a stick, you swing it," Wesley tells him. "It's not rocket science."
"Why would I do that?" Brandon argues.
"You're taking one end of this thing or the other. Are you ready for that?"
"Either way, there's nothing in it for me..."
"How do you know," Wesley snaps back, "you don't even have the balls to try it."
It's childish, but Brandon's ready to raise the cane after that.
Wesley turns around again. "About fucking time. Thighs and ass, no higher than this," he indicates a scar on his hip. "Watch the tailbone. Go."
Caning Wesley really fucking does something for Brandon.
By the time he's laid six stripes down on Wesley's ass-- six the way Wesley wants them-- Brandon would do anything to be inside Wesley, feeling the heat from those stripes against the front of his thighs.
Anything including this: bending over first, holding still while Wesley's nails bite into his hips and Wesley's cock slams into him, almost tears him open. He didn't know he could take this, any of this, all the shit Wesley's done to him, but now he wants to take it and give it right fucking back.
"Not bad for a first time," Wesley says, stretching out on his stomach.
"I didn't know that could break skin." Brandon wants to regret it, but he's staring at the marks he put on Wesley's ass with the cane, red lines he felt growing hotter and welting up while he fucked Wesley hard. They look good.
"Here," Wesley passes a jar back, unmarked, some waxy white goop inside.
It's just a short line, trickling blood, a couple of inches long where the tip of the cane hit hardest. Brandon paints it with the white stuff carefully. Wesley has enough scars.
Wesley has scars. A round depression, maybe a bullet wound. A thin scar on the back of his hand, a matching mark on the palm, like something went through.
The next time Brandon sees him, Wesley's marked up. An abrasion on his cheekbone, his jaw. Scabs on his knuckles. A bandaged shoulder, blood seeping through the gauze. It reminds Brandon of things he doesn't want to think about.
What happened, he doesn't ask, as Wesley twists fingers in his hair and kisses him, lets go to open Brandon's fly, jerks him off. Brandon doesn't ask, but he wants to know.
"Where are we going?"
But Brandon knows this place. It's where they met. It's the place Wesley first pushed him into a wall, first kissed him to the sounds of a dozen strangers fucking.
Tonight it's a free-for-all, everyone after everything they can get. Brandon's been here. He's been every single one of these people, fucked his way through these rooms and come home filthy.
"Is this what you want?"
Brandon drags Wesley over to a bare patch of wall, puts his shoulderblades against the concrete. Wesley leans in, pins him, bites. It's not like the first time at all.
"I can't." Brandon says it while Wesley's there, says it alone in bed, in the shower. "I have to."
No getting yourself off today, Wesley ordered, and wrote on him. There's a "NO" on each wrist, front and back, under his shirt cuffs. A little "NO" hidden in the life lines on each palm. "NO" on his belly, his thighs, directly on his fucking cock, like Wesley has a right.
But he doesn't jerk off all day, somehow.
After Wesley fucks him, once he's asleep, Brandon finds the scar on Wesley's hip and writes yours, small, right there.
"I didn't," Brandon says, "I went all day, do you even know--"
Wesley narrows his eyes, and Brandon shuts up; Wesley nods. "I know. And now you're going to go three days. But you're going to need some help." He cracks a smile. "Hey, show a little gratitude." He eyes Brandon's cock. "I had to special order this."
It's not uncomfortable, Brandon can't even complain about that part. It's smooth clear plastic, polished on the inside, made so he can piss through it without any trouble.
Wesley locks it on him. "This isn't a punishment. It's a reward. You'll see."
Three days later, when Wesley produces the key, Brandon almost doesn't want the cage off. It's been driving him crazy, he thinks about it constantly. But he thinks about it, about Wesley, instead of the next orgasm, his plan for the next time he'll get off.
"Relax," says Wesley, "I've got you," and he buckles a collar onto Brandon before he takes off the cage.
"What," Brandon scoffs, because there's kinky, and then there's this.
Wesley pulls it tighter.
The pink impression lingers under Brandon's tie the next day. It's not like the cage, but it's good. It feels good.
Wesley comes to him pale and nervous one night, fucks him without a word, shakes a little after and doesn't let him go.
"I'm going out of town for a few days. Family business."
"I have something for you. Before I go."
"Something else?" Brandon asks, squirming lightly underneath him. Wesley's still inside him, only just going soft.
He's let Wesley do everything to him, but this still takes him by surprise: the ice, the needle, the quick sting in his earlobe. He doesn't complain.
"I'll be back before this heals," Wesley promises, kissing Brandon's ear. And he is.
Wesley has a new mark, a slash across the back of his shoulder. It's already fading, though it's too soon for that.
"I heal fast," Wesley says, when Brandon's fingers trace it. "That white stuff helps."
"How..." Brandon asks.
Wesley turns and looks at him, wavy brown hair falling into his blue eyes, freckles, the perfect red mouth that was all Brandon wanted from him, the first time: that mouth on his cock.
"I won a fight," Wesley says.
Brandon writes master under the new scar that night. He's not sure Wesley's asleep this time. He's not sure he cares.
By now they've had each other in every imaginable way. Wesley's sucked Brandon, fucked him, bit him, pissed on him, pierced his goddamned ear. Brandon's given Wesley his cock, his mouth, his fingers, his fist, pain, everything down to his air and his blood.
This is perverse, though, this, lying here in bed together with no moves being made. It's not foreplay. It's not afterglow. Brandon doesn't know what it is.
Wesley keeps an arm around Brandon-- to keep Brandon from bolting, or for some other reason-- and tucks himself up along Brandon's back, spooning him as they fall asleep.