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"You are such a strange little man," Greg says. He's slouched against the wall of Alex's dressing room, watching him as though he's trying to decide what to make of him.
This is not the first time Alex has heard himself described thusly (and it's certainly not the first time someone hasn't known what to make of him). By this point, he's more-or-less chosen to lean into it, so he doesn't feel the need to offer up much of a rebuttal. He simply nods in agreement and continues flitting around the room, darting here and there, gathering up his things post-filming, making sure he's got his cell phone and his car keys and some notes from the Andys that he needs to review.
Greg, in contrast, is stood perfectly still, a predator watching his prey, maybe.
"Do you have it here, now?" he asks.
"Do I have what here, now?" Alex replies, light-hearted, seemingly oblivious. He turns his attention to a pile of costumes that need to be put away.
"You know what."
"I don't..."
He does.
But, really, why would he have it here in his dressing room now? It's true that Greg had only just seen the contestants' VTs a few hours before but they were all filmed months ago and miles away. Greg's well-aware of that. The beverage cart isn't waiting in the hallway; it's long-since been dismantled. The remainder of Mawaan's Bin Juice isn't sitting in a thermos in the fridge in the green room; it's been sent back to the bin where it belongs ages ago. The decibel meter isn't slyly hidden under the pile of clothes Alex is rearranging--
"Show me your hands," Greg says.
Alex's lip twitches. Slowly, he draws his left hand out from under the heap of fabric. He holds it up in the air beside his head, fingers spread, palm visible.
Greg raises his eyebrows, clearly amused. "You're really going to make me--" he mutters before shrugging and appearing to accept that this is now his lot in life. He pushes himself away from the wall and takes a step in closer to Alex. "Now the other one, please."
Alex could, of course, come up empty-handed. There's nothing that says that--just because the decibel meter is there, hidden under the clothes, his fingertips brushing against it--he has to bring it out. He's a masochist, though, not a self-saboteur. He wants to lay his cards on the table probably more than Greg even wants to see them. He draws his right hand out from under the jackets as well. This one he keeps level with his waist. This one is clutching the decibel meter.
Greg laugh outright as it appears, though whether he's delighted that the meter was there or he's simply delighted to have seen straight through Alex's game isn't clear. "Right. Such a strange little man," he repeats. "Well, you might as well bring it along."
Alex has to work hard to suppress a smile at that. He tucks the gadget into his bag and is already halfway to the door (costumes be damned) when Greg catches him by the collar of his shirt. "And take your time about it," he says, sounding only slightly exasperated. "I need the head start to figure out what on earth you were imagining happening to you."
It's Alex's turn to laugh at that. He has every confidence in Greg.
Still, he does as Greg's asked (of course he does as Greg's asked) and he takes his time getting to his house. He stops to pick up some takeaway, which he eats in his car. He reads over the notes from the Andys. Before he gets back on the road again, he phones his wife and has a nice, long chat with her, one that actually manages to entirely distract him from the thought of the evening ahead, at least until there's a lull in the conversation and Rachel asks, an amused lilt in her voice, "Aren't you supposed to be busy working late tonight, darling?" The implication here (nicely euphemized for the sake of any eavesdropping children) is: how are your hands free enough to be holding a phone right now? They both know how filming nights can end. How Alex always wants them to end. Pulled abruptly back to reality, Alex glances at the dashboard clock. It's 8:30, probably late enough.
"Just about to get into it," he has to admit.
"Ah well. Good luck, then," Rachel says. He can hear that same type of laughter in her voice, too, the kind that says: I know exactly what your game is.
"Do you think I'll need luck?" he asks.
"I can only hope."
"You're amazing," is all Alex can say, immensely grateful. He gives her his love and sends love to the children and then he tidies up his napkins and Styrofoam containers and heads over to Greg's.
"Took you long enough," Greg says brusquely when he opens the door. Again, Alex doesn't offer a rebuttal. He's confident in the knowledge that he did exactly what was asked of him and if Greg's attitude is already making him feel harried and guilty, well, that's only because that's the way both of them like him to feel.
He does, at least, offer up a clipped, "Sorry, Greg," but only out of habit, not out of remorse.
Greg doesn't seem too impressed by his apology but nor does he seem to want to dwell on it. He holds out his hand, palm up, and Alex reaches into his bag and--almost shyly--places the decibel meter into it.
"Thank you," Alex can't help but say. After all, he's the one who's asked for this, isn't he. How can he not be grateful for how much the people in his life indulge him? Because Greg is indulging him. He can hear it in his tone, half annoyed, half amused, as he says, "Go on. Get upstairs."
Alex doesn't dare dawdle anymore. Taking his bag along, he heads up into the bedroom. Greg follows slowly after, fiddling with the decibel meter. Once he's through the doorway, he doesn't even look at Alex. Instead, he crosses straight to the bed and throws himself purposefully down onto it, pointing the decibel meter towards the mattress. The frame squeaks and the springs protest under his weight.
"It'll be about 35," Alex supplies helpfully, setting his bag down in the corner.
Greg laughs out loud. "Oh, fuck but you're predictable," he says. "Of course you've already tried this out. Of course you have." He bounces on the bed again and then glances down at the meter. "35.2."
Alex nods, quite pleased at his accuracy.
A self-satisfied Alex, though, is like a red flag to a bull at moments like this. Or like a mouse to a very devious cat. "Where did you set the limit during the task?" Greg asks, still looking at the meter, watching how it reacts to his voice. "60? Seems almost too easy."
"I don't think it will be," Alex promises.
"Good. We'll make it 50."
Alex gasps before he can stop himself and reflexively follows up with a "Thank you, Greg," even though 50 will make things a good deal trickier. But, of course, there's little that Alex likes better than when Greg is making things trickier for him. He can feel his cock twitching to life at the mere thought of it.
With that first rule settled, Greg puts down the decibel meter, grabs a pen and a pad of paper off the nightstand and asks, brusque and businesslike, "And what did you have them say, when they fucked up."
Alex lists everything out. He has to make a concerted effort to keep his voice measured and even, to give Greg time to write, since--with every phrase he recites--he can feel himself getting more excited, more eager to get started. Once everything's written down, Greg rips the paper off the pad and then tears the sheet itself into strips. He starts laying the strips out on the pillows, one by one, from left to right: I'm so sorry. I've done it again. Failure. Woof. I love this.
Alex's eyes dart from slip to slip and he repeats the words silently in his head as he tries to remain patient. He'd be lying if he said this wasn't exactly what he'd imagined and he has to work to stop himself from smiling.
Finally, after what seems like an eternity of fiddling, Greg sets the pad down on the bedside table and points to each scrap of paper in turn. "This is what I've decided. You get five strikes before you're out. Every time you cross 50, that's one strike. Obviously. You run out of strikes? You don't get to come."
Alex licks his lips. This, actually, isn't exactly what he'd imagined. He opens his mouth to speak but Greg holds up a finger and cuts him off. "Yes," he says, longsuffering, "It occurred to me to have you start back from 'the beginning,' whatever that means, every time you misbehaved, but that seems to imply I'd have to get you calmed back down, doesn't it. And I don't think I could manage that before we all died of old age." He glances pointedly at the fly of Alex's trousers which, it has to be said, is looking a lot more filled out than it was even a few minutes ago. "No, definitely not."
Alex really can't argue with that. In his imagination--and even during filming--there had been something so agonizingly, deliciously frustrating about the thought of a Sisyphean task, of failing over and over and over again...but Greg's plan also seems to hold the potential for frustration. He darts his tongue out over his lips again and inquires--as though he doesn't know--"And every time I make a noise louder than 50 decibels, I have to..."
"You have to scream one of these phrases, yes, please. In order." Greg pauses and reviews the slips of paper. "Well." He jabs his finger at the "Woof" slip. "We'll have you actually bark for this one, of course."
"Of course." Alex wouldn't have it any other way.
"Of course."
Greg looks out over the scene he's set up for a final time and seems to notice he's forgotten something. He opens a drawer in the bedside table, rummages around for a moment and pulls out a bottle of lube which he tosses onto the bed. The lube's sudden appearance makes Alex's breath hitch even as the way it clatters against the decibel meter leaves him feeling slightly queasy. Greg, at least, doesn't seem to care that the meter temporarily reads 84.1. The game hasn't started yet.
"Before we begin," Greg inquires. "Is there anything little Alex Horne would have done differently?" His sarcasm is out in full force but Alex suspects there's a legitimate request for feedback hidden under that harsh tone.
Alex's eyes dart over the assembled items, looking for flaws in Greg's plan. He's nervous, he has to admit, about how much noise the bottle of lube will make when they open it. Will Greg do it himself? And if he does, will he be careful to do it quietly to keep things fair (or rather, since fair has no real meaning between him and Greg, will he do it quietly to make sure that--if Alex fails--his failure is entirely his own fault)? Or will he throw caution to the wind, pop the bottle open and force Alex to pay for his own crimes? Honestly, either option has things to recommend it, so Alex decides he has no criticisms to voice. Anyway, if he wants to be strict with himself (and he does), he's privately of the opinion that the time for him to offer his input ended once he'd finished penning the original task. He's set up the rough outline; where things go from now ought to be out of his hands. Ultimately, he shakes his head in answer to Greg's question.
"No. Thank you, Greg."
There is genuine thankfulness in his voice, and he knows Greg's heard it, because the stern, sarcastic expression breaks for a moment as Greg gives him a sincere smile. Then his features harden again and he settles back onto the bed, picks up the decibel meter and tells Alex, his voice sharp but newly-quiet, "All right. Get undressed." There's a slight pause and then he adds, "I'm going to love making you squirm."
With a soft hiss, Alex begins unbuttoning his shirt.
Greg watches him closely, only keeping an eye on the decibel meter in his peripheral vision. Alex doesn't particularly like being watched while he undresses, but usually it's an intensely ephemeral moment: normally, when Rachel or Greg have him strip, they tend to get his clothes tugged off rather quickly (or quite quickly, if he's been particularly poorly-behaved) with almost no mind paid to how they're going about it, and then it's over and they can get on with whatever they were planning to do to him. And, too, on many occasions, there isn't even a reason for his clothes to come off at all.
But now, with the meter sitting innocently in Greg's hands, Alex knows tugging his clothes off would be disastrous. So, slowly, he pushes each button carefully through its hole, keenly aware of the rustle of fabric against fabric. Once all the buttons are undone, he slides his shirt off his shoulders, inch by inch. Much to his dismay, he can feel his chest and his shoulders going hot and damp as they're exposed, as Greg's eyes rake lazily over him. The situation almost seems to call for a rule-breakingly-loud wolf whistle, but even in a relationship like this--a relationship where Greg is free to be as arbitrary and unreasonable as he likes--that might be hard to justify right now, so he's not surprised when Greg remains silent, impassive.
Alex strips his shirt from his arms and then tiptoes across the room to discard it in the corner, next to his bag.
When he's done, well...he has to try. Instead of returning to precisely the same place from whence he started, he walks only halfway back across the room, letting himself come to a stop a little bit further away from Greg. A little bit further away from the decibel meter's sensors.
"Ah, ah, ah," Greg says softly. "None of that, or I'll dock you a strike anyway." He pushes himself to the edge of the bed, the bedsprings creaking again, sets his feet on the floor and points at a spot just in front of him. Guiltily, Alex pads over, cock hardening further at just how close he is to Greg (and, needless to say, to the decibel meter) and at the thought of the hurdles that still lie ahead. With a slow intake of breath, he starts undoing his belt, cringing every single time the buckle clanks. He's always found the sound of a belt being unbuckled slightly erotic--whether because it promises pleasure or because it promises punishment--but he doesn't think it's ever gotten him as excited as his desperate attempts to suppress those very same noises are making him now. He does his best to hold his thumb over the prong as he draws the belt slowly through its loops. He's so close to Greg that he can see the screen of the meter now too and he watches it, hypnotized, as it ticks up to 40, up to 45, up to 48.3...and then his belt is off and he tiptoes away again to set it down.
"That was close, wasn't it?" Greg whispers when Alex returns (this time, to exactly the same place he started from). He sounds both pleased and disappointed. The duality isn't a testament to his skills as an actor though. Alex--if he dared to speak now--would sound exactly the same way. They both want to see him succeed; they both want him to be an obedient, conscientious good boy. And yet, both of them get hard at the thought of him failing miserably and then being made to suffer for it.
Nonetheless, Alex refuses to deliberately fuck up, so he unbuttons his trousers and then starts unzipping them, cringing at every click of the zipper's teeth. He can only imagine that this is the least-erotic strip tease Greg has ever seen but Greg--somehow--does seem enthralled, though perhaps more by the pained expression on Alex's face than by the slow reveal of his underpants.
"I should have thrown in a time limit too," Greg murmurs and Alex finds himself shivering in pleasure. "I might still do."
He doesn't, though, which Alex is thankful for. As much as he wants this part to be over, he's not reckless enough to feel comfortable speeding up. It's not that he likes having to dwell on the threat of the metal button of his jeans knocking against the likewise-metal zip (what kind of a deviant would enjoy that sort of pressure?). It's not that he likes having Greg stare at him (likewise). What can he do, though, but continue working slowly, carefully and methodically to strip: trousers, then socks, then--with a shudder of embarrassment--pants. And then he's naked, and it's a bit of a relief, because his clothes were definitely a source of peril. But they were also a barrier. They gave Greg a reason to stay sitting on the bed at arm's length. Now, Greg need no longer do any such thing Instead, he gets to his feet (creak, rustle), the decibel meter still clutched in his fist, and he runs the palm of his free hand possessively down the middle of Alex's chest, down over his stomach, down to his cock, which he gives a few utilitarian strokes. "The show's been a bit dull so far," he whispers in Alex's ear. "But we'll fix that, won't we."
Alex gives a stilted nod, not sure what he's agreeing too but also not sure he cares, not while Greg's playing with his cock. And even once he stops, Greg is still so close to him and so fucking tall and his hands keep moving over him, his chest, his ribcage, his hip, and then around to grab one of his arse cheeks.
"What would happen," Greg asks, "If I smacked you?"
Alex knows what he's really asking and of course he has the answer at the ready. Moreover, he knows Greg wouldn't expect anything less of him. "80," he whispers. "Or thereabouts."
"I guess that's out," Greg drawls, and then his hand's on the move again, looking for greener pastures. It slithers back to the front of Alex's body, to his inner thigh, where Greg grasps a bit of Alex's flesh between his thumb and forefinger, waits just a moment...and then pinches. The pause, at least, gives Alex a moment to anticipate what's about to happen and he has enough warning to brace himself, but Christ it hurts. His mouth opens in a silent scream but, as the decibel meter loyally attests to, it is silent. Greg doesn't seem satisfied with that. He twists the skin caught in his grip and it's all Alex can do not to swoon against Greg's chest. He knows, though, that he'd likely brush against the meter's sensors and any kind of direct hit sends the reading off the charts. He settles for getting out, quietly, between gritted teeth, "God, that really fucking hurts, Greg."
Greg only grins. "I'll bet. Want to scream for me? I'll stop if you scream."
Alex may well end up screaming, but he has his pride. He won't do it quid pro quo. He shakes his head. And so, the pinch goes on for a few more agonizing seconds before Greg finally releases him. By the time it's over, Alex is properly whimpering--45 dB, 46, 46.6--and when the pain finally ceases, he has to take a few reeling steps back before he can compose himself.
"Lovely," Greg murmurs, and he doesn't even sound sarcastic. Alex's hard-won composure threatens to crack all over again. He stares down at the floor, still catching his breath, at least until Greg tucks a finger under his chin and makes him raise his head. Greg holds him like that for a moment before he finally relents. "All right. Go get on the bed. Hands and knees."
Under normal circumstances, Alex might feel a modicum of relief at an order like that. Under normal circumstances, it might mean more physical things were about to start happening to him, things that would feel good enough or bad enough that he'd be able to forget about the way Greg's been watching him.
Then again, under normal circumstances, Alex would just be able to drop gracelessly down onto the bed. Tonight, he has to crawl into place like some pornographic contortionist. Halfway through getting settled, he makes the mistake of looking back at Greg, who only raises his eyebrows and smiles lecherously at him. Alex is pretty sure he's thinking about smacking his arse again, decibel meter or no decibel meter. He hurries into position, getting his knees bent, his arms straight and his head...his head hanging down to take in the array of phrases still waiting patiently for him. Greg sits down behind him and Alex locks his elbows to keep from getting tossed about as the mattress shifts under his weight.
"There's a good boy," Greg croons, running his free hand over the curve of Alex's arse. Then--perhaps before he gets too distracted--he places the decibel meter up by the pillows. Greg can probably still see it there, if he strains, but it's front-and-center for Alex. "Keep an eye on this for me, will you?" Greg asks. They both know Alex will.
With two hands free, now, Greg smoothes them over Alex's arse again, and it's all Alex can do not to groan. He's more convinced than ever that he's about to get spanked and a refrain starts up in his head, oh no, oh no, oh no, not because he doesn't like when Greg spanks him, but simply because the thought of having to shout about what a failure he is makes his chest feel tight. The blow doesn't come though. It's just Greg stroking him, rubbing his arse and his thighs as he coos about what a sweet boy he is. It feels--really--wonderful, but just as Alex is starting to let his guard down, he's pulled up short as Greg begins grinding his knuckles particularly forcefully into the meat of his arse. It's a slightly uncomfortable experience all on its own, with as much weight as Greg has on his side, and it gets Alex squirming. More than the discomfort, though, it feels...it feels like the wind-up, not to a spank, but to a punch, a punch which--unlike the bright, loud pop of a smack--promises to bring with it only a dull, muffled thud.
Except Alex knows that it's a false promise. When he'd tested this out at home, he'd found that even a careful punch (at half strength, being careful to press his knuckles hard into his flesh on the follow-through to dampen the noise as much as possible) would still spike the decibel meter up to a solid 70. Does Greg know that, though?
He does not.
The punch comes fast and sudden, right where Alex's arse meets his thigh and it's hard enough that he knows he'll feel this deep into his muscle for days afterwards. The numbers on the decibel meter spring to life immediately, jumping to 76.3. A different man might let it slide, because this is Greg's fault, isn't it? But Alex is who he is, which means that, at the moment, Greg can commit no faults; all sins fall to Alex...and besides, the sheer shock of the impact forced a grunt out of his mouth that--he has a sinking feeling--would likely have hit 50 on its own anyway. Even if he thought he should get a pass on the sound of the punch, he can't let his own indiscretion go unremarked upon.
That's not to say he's happy about it. No. All Alex wants to do right now is to take a moment to process the blow he's just been given. He wants time to stop while he savours the feeling of the pain dissipating through his muscles. He wants to sink down onto the covers and let out a proper, desperate moan. He wants Greg to do it again; a current of air tells him he's already winding up. Instead, heart in his throat, he holds up a hand to halt Greg in his tracks.
"Greg," he whispers. "It..." The meter, he means, but it's not really about the meter. The meter was just doing its job. "I..."
"You...?"
"I was too loud," Alex says. "A-and so were you. I'm so sorry." It's not the shameless scream he knows he's now on the hook for. That will come. This is a soft, choked, heartfelt admission, because he is sorry that he's broken the rules (he's even sorry that his body--somehow--enticed Greg to break them as well). If he's also thrilled--if his cock is all the harder because he knows he's about to humiliate himself and because he knows he's snapped one of the threads in his safety net and is now that much closer to being made to be truly miserable--well, that's neither here nor there.
There's a moment of silence. Greg, it seems, truly didn't realize how loud a punch could be. He doesn't respond right away, instead just grinding his knuckles back into the now-tender spot on Alex's arse. It almost seems...it almost seems like he's vacillating, fidgeting with Alex's body as he tries to make up his own mind as to whether the punch should count for anything.
Alex braces himself against the continuing pain and holds his breath.
"Well, apologize properly and we'll move on," Greg finally says.
Alex lets his breath out in a relieved rush. It is absolutely the correct decision and he will absolutely apologize. Nonetheless, before he does...
"Are you going to hit me again?" he asks. He just wants to be ready, if they're going to burn through all his strikes right away.
"How loud was it?" he asks.
"High 70s" Alex admits guiltily.
"Well." Greg taps his fingers thoughtfully against Alex's arse (23, 27). "Do you want me to do it again?"
Slowly, Alex tenses and untenses his leg and feels the ache of the punch echoing through his muscle. Even more guiltily, he nods,
"Something else, then," Greg says abruptly, because of course he does. "After you've stopped wasting my time...?"
Alex swallows. "I'm so sorry!" he says, at something somewhat above his normal volume. In the quiet of the room, it sounds deafening but--with his eyes glued to the decibel meter--he sees he's come nowhere close to cracking 100. And, indeed, as soon as the words have fallen from his mouth, he feels a sharp smack on the back of his head. Clearly Greg is watching how he performs too. As it happens, the smack almost drives the meter's reading higher than his own apology did, but Alex assumes all other rules about staying quiet are suspended until he's produced the requisite noises, which means Greg is free--at least for now--to hit him and then to bark out, "Louder."
"I'm so sorry!" Alex says again, doing his best to shout. Again, there's a blow to the back of his head and, again, Greg orders him, "Louder."
"I'm so sorry!" Alex gets out, cringing, stomach muscles tensed, nerves sparking pleasurably at how out of his depths he feels right now. The meter--blissfully, mercifully--ticks over to 101 and this time Greg strokes his head instead of smacking it.
"Good boy."
From the back of Alex's head, Greg's hand jumps down to his thigh, which he touches gently with two fingers (and it is just a touch; clearly he's learned his own lesson about what a tap of his palm might do). "Get your arse up," he whispers. They are, indeed, about to move on.
Alex obeys quickly, hunching over on his forearms and raising his arse higher in the air. As undignified a position as it may be, it's still less humiliating than being forced to scream. Once he's settled, Greg leans in and picks the lube up off the covers.
"Fuck," Alex whispers under his breath, though he's not sure if the emotion washing over him is fear of the sound of the cap or simply eagerness to get Greg's fingers inside him. The fact that his cock throbs at Greg's movement provides no hint either way, since fear and desire often work similarly in Alex's body. He is--unconsciously--spreading his knees ever so slightly farther apart. That might provide some clue to any interested observers...But Greg, he suspects, might not qualify as such. He might only be interested in his fear. At any rate, he's holding the bottle where Alex can see it, his finger playing threateningly over the cap. He might not have been able to imagine how loud a punch would be, but it seems he can imagine the pop of the cap.
"Do you want this?" he asks Alex, his voice sinuous and soft. Making sure Alex can see, he tucks his thumb more firmly against the cap and starts to push.
"Do I have a choice?" Alex whispers.
"Of course you do," Greg says. "We could skip the lube." That's a bit much for Alex and he makes a face. Greg chuckles, so quietly. "Or we could skip putting anything up your arse at all." That's far too much for Alex.
"I...I mean, there's no need to be hasty about it..." Alex says. Greg snorts out a laugh and then rubs a hand up and down his spine, slow and gentle. "So, so predictable," he says smugly, clearly calling Alex a giant slut, even if not in so many words. "All right. Lube it is." And then the cap pops, exactly as Alex had feared.
Alex wants to squeeze his eyes shut, but instead he keeps them glued on the decibel meter. To his relief, it tops out at 49.3. He no longer has any reason to be afraid--at least for the time being--so it must be desire flooding his body, now, making him arch his spine and press backwards as he impatiently awaits Greg's fingers.
Greg's fingers don't come. Instead, he hears a soft, ominous click.
Greg has closed the bottle.
"Oh no..." Alex pants out quietly. "Oh no, Greg, don't."
"I'll do as I please, thank you, Alex," Greg says. He pops the cap open again. 49.8. Alex does close his eyes now, because what does it matter. It's inevitable at this point. All he can do is to try to relax and embrace being a plaything entirely at the mercy of Greg's capricious whims. It's unfortunate that he's not terribly good at relaxing. He can already feel his cheeks starting to burn as he practices the words in his head: I've done it again.
He hears the cap click shut and pop open again, and then again, and then he's caught off-guard by another sudden smack, this one to his arse, open-handed and loud. The rules are clearly suspended once again.
"All right, Alex," Greg says, at full volume. "You know what to do."
"I've done it again," Alex cries out, his voice almost cracking in shame as his scream cuts through the room. He can taste the full irony of the phrase, too. He's done absolutely nothing, this time. This is all Greg's doing and so far everything's been entirely out of his control, which is exactly how he likes it. "I've done it again," he repeats, straining to make absolutely sure he hits 100.
"You certainly have," Greg scolds him, his voice dripping disappointment and condescension. "You. Certainly. Have. So, let's see what happens to naughty boys, in that case."
The next sound Alex hears is that of the lube being squirted from the bottle; he's pretty sure he knows, then, what happens to naughty boys and he has to hold back an excited cry, both at the thought of what comes next and then--again--when it does come, one of Greg's fingers pressing against his hole. He spreads his legs just that much further and bites his lip as Greg's finger slides slowly in up to the knuckle. With the way he's resting on his forearms, he chances burying his head in the covers so that he can groan in pleasure, the sound muffled by the bedclothes. The decibel meter doesn't object, but Greg does.
"If you have something to say," he murmurs, "You can straighten your arms back up and say it." It's phrased as merely an option, but the steely tone suggests otherwise. Alex pushes himself drunkenly back up onto his hands and knees and whispers, "Feels good, Greg..."
"Yes," Greg coos. "I know. You like that, don't you, you little whore."
Alex likes that even more and he fists his hands in the blankets to keep from groaning again. He wouldn't dare, now that he doesn't have the covers to protect him...except when Greg's finger starts moving, pressing slowly deeper inside him and then drawing back out, he doesn't really have the choice to stay silent any longer. He settles for a series of high-pitched, breathy moans, emitted as he grips the blankets for dear life. The tables are turning, now, maybe. There wasn't much he could have done about the first two strikes against him but now that the lube is open, Greg is being politely quiet...if one ignores the pornographic wet sound his finger is making inside Alex, of course. Now it's starting to seem like it will be up to Alex himself, Alex and his own self-control, to keep from stepping out of line. He can manage that, surely. Even if Greg has reared up onto his knees to give him a reach-around, his left hand wrapping around Alex's cock and starting to stroke while the index finger of his right hand slides back inside him, he can manage that.
"Oh god...that's so good. That's so good," Alex whimpers out, voice 45 decibels of small, pathetic neediness. 48, once Greg starts pressing a second finger inside him. 51, once Greg has them both inside him and starts moving them in earnest.
"Oh fuck, fuck," he groans in annoyance.
Greg's hands both still. Instinctively, Alex finds himself squirming back against the fingers inside him, which just gets Greg to release his dick in order to give his arse yet another smack. "Bad little whore," Greg admonishes him. "Do what you have to do, and then--and only then--you can get your arse fucked."
"Failure," Alex is quick to shout out. The word slides off his tongue easily this time. He's already warmed up, by this point, and, besides, with Greg still inside him, he's got the right motivation.
The source of that motivation, though, is a double-edged sword; when Greg had been pinching him or petting him, it had felt nice, but Alex's nervous system actually isn't that extraordinary. Being hurt and humiliated turns him on something fierce but it doesn't get him off. Greg's fingers, especially now that they're moving again as promised, are another story. Alex could come from this, he absolutely could...if his two strikes hold out, that is. The problem is that the mere thought of how little wiggle room he has remaining sends a pleasurable twist of anxiety through his gut and--even having just transgressed mere seconds ago--he still finds himself moaning again. 48.3, thankfully, but that's before...Greg brings his left hand back to Alex's cock to start stroking him off again.
"There," he murmurs, "That feels so good, doesn't it?" Alex gives an awkward (but very heartfelt) nod, in between equally-awkward (but very, very heartfelt) thrusts of his hips. "Why don't you forget about the decibel meter and just focus on how nice this is?"
It's a seductive thought. Alex is not, normally, all that loud a lover. Maybe if he just concentrates less on second-guessing Greg plans and more on how good Greg's fingers feel as they start stroking over his prostate--god, fuck--he might well be able to sneak in a restrained, quiet orgasm. He nods again, albeit uncertainly, and lets himself sink back down onto his forearms. This time, he's not doing it strategically so that he can muffle his sounds in the covers, but simply out of instinct, because he wants to let his arms go limp, wants to have as much leverage as possible to thrust back against Greg's clever fingers, which are showing no signs of stopping now. Greg's fist is also moving fast and predictable around his erection and the stretch in his arse is absolutely exquisite and the soft hitches of his breath are topping out at 43, 44 and he's so close and...
A jarring, electronic noise blares out from the corner of the room. It doesn't register as loud as it could, because it's relatively far away, but the decibel meter still ticks politely up to 52.1 as both Alex and Greg freeze in their tracks, completely caught off guard.
Greg comes back to his senses first, and no wonder. He may be turned on (Alex can only hope he's turned on) but there's no way he was as close to the edge as Alex was. Is.
"Someone," Greg says, in an amused sing-song, "Forget to turn off his phone, didn't he?"
Alex swears under his breath. Surely this won't count against him?
"It...it could be an emergency," he says, half-pleading. "Something at home..."
Greg appears to consider this for a moment. Then he slips his fingers out of him and sits back on his heels. "Go see," he orders. "No penalties if it's something serious."
Cotton-mouthed, Alex slips off the bed. He's aware of just what a pathetic figure he cuts, naked, cowed, cock still jutting out at attention, practically dripping. He hurries to the corner where he's left his bag and searches through it, wincing instinctively at every loud noise he makes. Once he finds his phone, he turns on the screen and checks his notifications.
"It's a text from my wife," he says. He has to speak at full volume to be heard across the room and his voice feels creaky from disuse.
"Read it out," Greg orders.
It goes without saying, of course, that if the message had been even slightly private, this would have been one of the few situations where Alex would have had no problem disobeying Greg. Greg knows that and Alex knows he knows. As it happens, the text isn't remotely confidential, only so deeply, sadistically unfortunate in its timing that Alex almost suspects it might be a fix. Nonetheless, cock still standing happily at attention, Alex does as he's told.
"It says, 'Hopefully, you're too busy "working" right now to even be seeing this. Good luck again!' And then there's a four-leaf clover emoji, and a heart."
Greg looks so pleased that Alex is surprised he hasn't simply burst out giggling. He's still on his knees on the bed and he looks almost like a child who's just sprung awake on Christmas morning. "She does know you're not working, right?" he asks, halfway to giddy.
"She knows," Alex says, his own grim tone contrasting nicely with Greg's.
"Excellent. What a sweet little message! But no way is that an emergency. So send her a heart emoji in reply," Greg commands, ever the romantic, "And then come back to bed and bark like a naughty little dog for me."
Again, Alex does as he's told. He sends out the text and then he tucks his phone back into his bag (making sure to turn the ringer off this time) and he creeps back into bed, feeling weak at the knees.
"Might as well have you on your back," Greg says, when Alex goes to resume his previous position. He sweeps aside the slips of paper (surely Alex will be able to remember the two remaining phrases?) so that Alex can set his head down on the pillows. Yet again, Alex does as he's told, but he's not happy about it. He does not, as a general rule, like looking his partners in the eye when he's being fucked. He particularly does not like looking Greg in the eye when...
Tensing every muscle in his body, he lets out a half-hearted yip. On his back, he can no longer see the decibel meter, but the stern expression on Greg's face lets him know loud and clear (as it were) just how off the mark he is. Alex turns his head to the side so that he can fix his eyes on a spot on the wall and he tries again.
"Louder," Greg says. He grabs Alex's chin and forces his gaze back onto him. "And get your legs up, please." Feeling like he's dying inside, Alex bends his legs shakily at the knee and raises them so that his arse is on full display. This, he thinks, is probably what his version of hell will be like, except, when the time comes, he won't be as desperately turned on as he is now. His hips keep giving abbreviated jerks up into the air and--when he barks again--the moan that follows on the bark's heels is probably louder than the bark itself.
"Louder."
"Greg, I can't, I--"
"Louder."
Alex lets out a forlorn whimper and then another bark. Before it's even halfway out of his mouth, Greg is already snapping, "Louder!"
Maybe this evening won't be entirely free of Sisyphean tasks after all, because Alex thinks he might be stuck here forever, naked and exposed, barking like a scared dog, legs burning from the stress of being held aloft, cock red and dripping. He barks again, and then again.
"Louder, little Alex Horne," Greg hisses, "Or you will regret it."
Alex takes a deep breath and tries one more time, squeezing his eyes closed (even though he knows Greg won't want him to) as he does. This time, after he barks, there's only silence for several long seconds.
"Barely. Just barely," Greg says at last, and then the quiet that has marked the evening descends again, hard and fast. The only sounds remaining are threefold: Alex's harsh, panicked breathing; Greg's own breathing, slower and calmer; and the noise of more lube being squeezed onto Greg's fingers (he left the bottle open it seems; thank god).
Actually, Alex is exerting a conscious effort to get his breathing back under control. He knows that unrestrained panting, if it's done close enough to the decibel meter's sensors, can easily hit the high 40s, and the decibel meter is lying on the bed right beside his head. If Greg is exerting a conscious effort to shatter that control, well, that's just a cross Alex has to bear. Now that Alex is face-up, Greg is being even handsier than he was before, two fingers pressing back inside him, fingers stroking over his torso and neck and ribcage, fingers wrapping around his cock...Alex does his best--for a moment--to squirm away from the touches he doesn't want (face, neck, sternum, anything that feels affectionate and intimate rather than sexual) and towards the ones he does, but in the end he gives in and just lets Greg touch him as he pleases. He was so close to coming, before his phone rang, and--honestly--being flipped over and forced to humiliate himself has only pushed him closer.
"You look like you're enjoying yourself," Greg whispers. He sounds infinitely pleased. And then, for the first time tonight, he shares, "I am, too." For a moment, his left hand leaves Alex's body to press the fabric of his trousers flat over his own erection. The confession paired with the visual make Alex writhe on the bed until Greg takes pity on him and gets his hand back on his cock. "Are you going to be a good boy and come for me?"
"I want to..." Alex whines.
"You can," Greg reminds him. His voice sounds deceptively, dangerously kind. "Do you need just a bit more?"
Alex doesn't know what he needs, at this point, but he's not going to say no to the third finger Greg is starting to push inside him, even if it's stretching him uncomfortably open, even if it stings a little, it's nothing he can't take, it still feels so, so good...
"Oh god, Greg," he moans, "I'm com--"
He's cut off by Greg slamming his left hand over his mouth.
"No. You're not," Greg says. He's speaking in a normal voice and yet it still takes Alex a moment to realize what he himself has done. And when he does...it's the most arousing thing that's happened yet. He thrashes on the bed, grinding down hard against Greg's fingers, the stretch of them somehow even more exquisite than it was even a few seconds ago.
He doesn't have long to appreciate the feeling.
Greg pulls his hand away and gives Alex's inner thigh a sharp smack. "No more of that," he says. He smacks Alex again, right over his hole, and now there's no reason anymore for Alex not to cry out when he does. "This is for me now."
"God..." Alex whispers, under his breath, even though there's no reason to whisper anymore, either.
Everything, tonight, has been so slow, so careful, from how Alex had gotten himself undressed to how he'd crawled onto the bed to, even, for god's sake, how he'd breathed. Now, that's all in the past. Before he knows it, Greg is opening up the drawer in the bedside table again, reaching inside, pulling out a box and then slamming it shut with a bang. Next, his clothes come off, his shirt first and then his trousers, belt buckle clanking as the whole mess is tossed on the floor. Finally, Alex hears the snap of the elastic on Greg's pants, the crinkle of a condom wrapper, and then his own desperate moan of excitement.
"You kept me waiting long enough," Greg says, kneeling up and positioning himself at Alex's hole. He plants his hands on Alex's thighs, gripping hard enough to hurt. "Don't you think?"
Alex assumes the question is rhetorical and he doesn't answer, at least not until Greg's right hand tightens still further. "Don't you think?" he repeats.
"You could have...whenever you wanted..." Alex pants out.
"I could have, whenever I wanted. But not the way I wanted. You'd have me keeping quiet or stopping every three seconds so you could bark or meow or chirp like a parakeet, wouldn't you." Greg's fingers press even deeper into his flesh as he says, "You're really very bossy, aren't you, little Alex Horne."
Alex groans in embarrassment at that insult which hits far too close to home in far too many ways. Meanwhile, Greg--who has just jerked his hips forward to start sinking inside Alex's arse--groans too, in what Alex can only assume is pure, blessed relief. "We both knew it was going to come to this. We both knew I was going to wait for you to fail so that I could fuck you properly, exactly the way you want: with you in a state of absolute disgrace."
Greg is completely right and it's almost unbearably good.
"Oh god...Greg, fuck, I'm so close. I'm so close."
"I really don't care."
Greg jerks forward again and presses himself deeper inside Alex's arse. Then, slowly, he slides back out.
"There's only one more thing I want to hear from you right now, Alex," he says.
For a moment, Alex has no earthly idea what Greg is talking about. Then, the penny drops.
"I love this," he whispers out, face aflame, cock throbbing. "I love this."
"Good enough," Greg says before slamming inside him and starting to fuck him properly. Alex really can't do anything but hang on for the ride. And--ironically--make noise. Five minutes ago, he was doing everything in his power to hold his sounds back so that he could come. Now, he's making as many sounds as he can because he can't: moaning, yelping, babbling nonsense as though that will somehow change Greg's mind about his fate. He's so close. It feels so good. True to his word, though, Greg really doesn't care. He fucks Alex as though he doesn't have a worry in the world, and he doesn't: he has a warm, lubed-up hole to thrust his cock into; he has a man underneath him begging him for mercy; he has no more complicated and elaborate restrictions place upon him; and, on top of all that, he doesn't even have the responsibility--anymore--of seeing to Alex's dick. His hands remain clutching tightly at Alex's thighs until, all of a sudden--with a cry of satisfaction that makes Alex burn with envy--he's coming inside his arse.
Alex, of course, gets no matching satisfaction, not with the way he's behaved. He has to settle only for the slight relief that comes when Greg releases his grip and then again--once Greg has pulled out of him--when he's finally free to drop his raised legs back down onto the covers. Those joys are fleeting, though, and then he has to grapple with the overwhelming urge to wrap his own hand around his erection while Greg's goes into the bathroom to wash up. Somehow, he behaves, and soon enough Greg returns and slides back onto the bed. He picks up the decibel meter, switches it off, sets it onto the bedside table and then holds his arms out for Alex. They've been over this in the past, many times, and Alex knows his only option is to slide into Greg's embrace for a cuddle.
For a moment, Greg just holds him in silence. Then, at least, he lets out a deep, contented sigh. "I really enjoyed that," he purrs.
That's...good. That's definitely good, and it's something Alex will certainly cling to later, when he's thinking back on the evening. It's cold comfort now, though, with his erection still digging into Greg's thigh.
"Did you enjoy that?" Greg asks him, voice honeyed and languorous and only the slightest, slightest pinch mocking. Alex makes a face that can only be described as a grimace. Greg laughs, kisses the top of his head and then begins rubbing his back in small, hypnotic circles.
"Frustrated?" he asks.
Alex nods. "Beyond belief."
"Just like you wanted?"
"Just like I wanted," Alex has to admit. "And yes," he has to admit as well, "I really enjoyed that, too." He burrows in against Greg's chest and closes his eyes as Greg wraps his arms around him.
"Such a strange little man."