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He can feel the blood pool down, further down. Heat rising up to his head as he’s capsized over onto McLaren’s thigh. Tugging down his trousers with one quick shake and exposing that sad, pallid, thin excuse of a rear end his body has graced him with. He hadn’t been wearing any underwear. His two last pairs have too many holes in them.
“That’s a big one,” he’s out of breath, mostly because he hasn’t been breathing in the past few seconds. The little air he’d been holding his lungs is gone with just those words, followed by a sudden gulp so he doesn’t keel over.
“Oh. Yes, it is.” Malcolm replies. The arm of the padded, wooden office chair digs into his ribs. Hard to breath with the pressing pain limiting all his movements. Malcolm himself seems to only care about keeping his hips nicely secured over his thigh. The rest of John’s body can dangle and tremble beside where the main point of attraction is, for all he cares.
John’s body is not very pleasing to the eye, that’s nationally, if not universally, agreed upon. Traces of puberty mark every step he takes into young adulthood; the lack of hair on his body. The acne, red, angry spots with yellow tips of pus, and its faint scars peppered across the sallow skin of his back, arse, shoulders, thighs, face. He even has some on his scalp, and they hurt, too. Yet, McLaren runs his hands over his backside, and gropes at the little there is to grab with plenty of interest. Touching and feeling to his heart’s content. Rearranging bits and pieces of his anatomy to make the composition he’s looking down towards more pleasing to his trained eye.
How big is a thermometer, typically? John isn’t sure. He hasn’t seen one in about five years. Just no point in measuring a fever in his own particular case. He’s sick on an average of 295 days a year. If he’s snotty and warm to an uncomfortable degree, he doesn’t need betting on the fact he might have a fever. Childhood Illness itself has left him rather careless. Not dressing adequately and not eating for a couple of days doesn’t do his immune system any good. Still, he’ll blame it all on the old meningitis. He’s a hapless victim, nothing he can do. Still, in all his years of life- and the couple of rectal thermometers he’s been met with- he doesn’t remember any of this length or circumference. Like glassware meant for a laboratory, the tube in Malcolm’s hand registers, through the short glances John can steal over his shoulder, at 5 inches in length, and 2 inches in circumference. Do they make thermometers for horses? He’s beginning to get a couple of ideas of where he might have acquired this.
Malcolm asks him “Why are you so tense?” with plenty of sadistic delight. Taking two fingers to spread him apart by both cheeks. A chill soothing itself down the crevice in between them, having exposed his ass to the cold air of the office they’ve lodged and locked themselves in. He asks it like he genuinely can’t wrap his head around why John’s body suddenly got so tight. Closing in on itself. Like an animal, attempting to scamper, and hiding its most sensitive spots when it realises there’s no escape to be had. “This is just my suggestion,” He isn’t necessarily attempting to hide his amusement. This is funny. “But, you really should relax. This is going in you, after all.”
Being the not-so-hapless victim of his situation, John almost snorts. How thoughtful of him, wouldn’t want to rupture his vocalist’s guts while he’s at it. He still takes more than offense to Malcolm, and the caring hand that follows, and comes and rides up his shirt. Excused in the form of stroking his back. A violent mother feeling remorse after spanking her only child, the subtle carnal intentions are all the same. What displeases John are the pretences of kindness, he rolls his eyes so physically hard it blurs his vision as Malcolm follows under some solicitous rhetoric “This is as bothersome to me as it is to you, John. As your manager, it’s important to keep your health and well-being in order.” getting off on playing this false good Samaritan.
“Of course.” John groans, head still spun upside down. He doesn’t have the core strength required to hoist himself up, having wasted it all on those stolen glaces. He’s so puny, he thinks, in a short stint of self depreciation. There’s more urgent things to focus on, though. Like McLaren stroking the puckered hole (a ‘perfectly tight thing’, per one of his previous unsolicited evaluations) in between his cheeks in short successive motions with his middle finger. Opportunely wedged as the rest of his hand continues holding his nates apart.
He’d passed Malcolm’s long drawn out series of ‘exams’, something that’s taken them… about a week to complete. There’s only so much time to be poked and prodded in the privacy of his Glitterbest office, and by the next day, Malcolm has already come up with a new ‘test’ to run on his favourite human guinea pig. Whenever the use of tools, especially thermometers of the rectal kind, had been brought up with always came with a long succession of sighs from Malcolm, because “Oh, but they’re so short…” or “Oh, but I could end up piercing through your rectum with it!” Obviously, all that had been to build up anticipation. It was only a matter of time until Malcolm managed to procure himself a manufacturer producing fully functioning objects with wide and lengthy dimensions. It was also to slowly stoke up terror in John. Him, and his elephant’s memory, who’d immediately prompt into the forefront of his consciousness the previous mention of very possible injury.
McLaren graces the thick glass tube in his hand with a thick dribble of spittle, followed by coating one of his fingers in the same fluid before varnishing his arsehole with it. Attempting to soften the thick ring of muscle, circling around it with his spit, like John’s body is made of buttery biscuit. Soggy, soft and crumbly when wettened. He tries to wiggle his hips, follow Malcolm’s motions in an instinctual movement- how cruel of him to not use any form of lubricant- but, that just earns him a slap on the back.
When he takes the thickly bulbous teardrop shaped tip to the rim of his hole, John’s breath hitches. Whole body jerking forward in an instinctive attempt to get away. Lots of disarming left to do when it comes to penetration. Malcolm holds him down, broad hand flat against the small of his back. Laughing slowly, heartily, in a steady rhythm John can feel below his body. It’s not to stabilise him. Quite the opposite, in fact, On McLaren’s knee John shifts and wobbles slightly. Screwing his eyes shut until he sees white, sucking in breaths as quickly as he can, feeling the cold metal press again, holding still, breathing some more and hoping to merciful God, all mighty, that he won’t moan.
His body betrays him, once he’s past the fat metal tip. Groaning, with a raspy tone full of phlegm, at the discomfort. It’s still too dry for comfort as it begins piercing through him. Uneasy motion as the flesh of his rim is slowly pushed in. Malcolm stops, pulls back, muscle wrapped tight around the glass tube, protruding out like an ugly set of lips, bearing just about the same hot pinkish shade. Ever so charitable, he gives it a new, generous, helping of spit. Follows with another gob, misaimed, landing smack dab on one of John’s cheeks. Smearing over onto his hole, in an attempt to amend his utter failure before it dries and leaves a nasty film over John’s skin. Lydon follows this whole campaign with a series of incoherencies full of vocal discomfort, disgust and disagreement. Only soothed by the return of the cold metal next to his taint, traveling up in a straight line up to his arse. The same will to not moan now working as paralysing terror towards the act he’s submitted himself to.
The next entry performed doesn’t earn a single noise out of him, but it does gain the kicking of his feet against the carpet beneath them. The sprawling of his legs. A finger twirls, then twists, around a loose strand amidst the mass of nearly matted hair. Malcolm pulls, quick and short, only once. A warning to sit still and behave, more of what that previous slap had been. He doesn’t need to nag with him like he’s a naughty little boy, throwing the typical tantrum. They both know he can handle it. He’s handled far thicker, far lengthier challenges. Sure, they came with proper preparation and thorough lubrication, but John’s strong enough to be spared such extensive ordeals. Alas, he’s the one who complained previously about how prolonged and boring foreplay was. Questioned the validity of such acts in the bedroom for how drawn out they could get.
The pressure immense the further the vial sinks. John can feel the tip following around the soft and sensitive lining of his insides. It’s so cold it nearly burns, whatever bit of Malcolm’s spit that hadn’t dried in the three seconds it took to place, aim and penetrate seems to make the glass vial more frigid. Like ice inside his scalding bowels. Merciless in the fact it doesn’t melt, or merciful, as it slowly adheres to his internal body heat. John gets to finally sigh at the halfway point, when he’s beginning to get used to the intrusion. Until Malcolm begins pulling back, of course. The fat tip, sturdy, inorganic matter, dragging against his innards. John tenses and finally gives up, lets himself groan, a constrained noise without much breath to give it sound. The awkward clench around the cylindrical glass part sends a shiver from the spine to the brain, the response that follows back down that nervous structure is his moving hips. Grinding awkwardly (whichever way the capsized position he’s in permits) against Malcolm’s thighs, the warm fabric of his plaid trousers.
He can feel the side of his palm against his balls, skin on warm skin. His knuckles returning to manage the instrument further, spittle melted into the mucus lining his insides coating the thick glass marking John’s progress.
He feels each tender, agonising, caress between rim and wall as he takes it again, just a little more than that halfway point (Malcolm still needs something to hold on to). The metal and glass now accustomed to his body’s temperature. He bets the red mercury line has begun to rise. Some part of him bracing for Malcolm’s zany voice to comment on how hot- or not- his temperature is, knowing he’ll never be fully prepared.
For now, it’s only him, the dusty carpet he’s hovering over, and the hard thing rutting up against the soft tissue, attempting to find the hard spot lodged somewhere in between both his organs. Had it been with fingers, Malcolm would’ve gotten to it in no time. They would’ve sat here for three minutes, with him mercilessly grinding his fingers into it, in that motion that’s so hard and torturous to bear. Curling up his blunt fingers against his prostate. And, John would eventually come, and that would be that. End of scene. Close curtain.
The thermometer is hard and inhumane inside of him. Feels like a plastic dick, or maybe not. He imagines they’re squishier than hard metal and glass. Not that John would know. He’s made a point to never consider nor allow anyone to use those things on him. Malcolm would never dare- he hasn’t, so far- to use something so generic and boring on him, but he sure seems to be enjoying all physical ruin he can surrender John’s body to. Hard to forget the second time they’d been together, and the first time Malcolm had brought him over to the wide, full length, mirror in his (shared) bedroom, turned him around, and presented to him the wide gape of his arsehole. The muscle red and puffy after being thoroughly abused. The lubricant leaving a greasy glint all over his skin, making everything more vivid and grotesque. The fact that John had found it arousing is another thing, and completely irrelevant to the point he’s making; which is, he’d rather not trust Malcolm with those things. He’s awful and he’ll ruin him completely. That’s a mere, limpid, simple truth.
But, the instrument in his hand right now isn’t oversized and plastic. The instrument is thick, hard and warm, having mingled with his body heat and emissions. The head, a blunt curve, occupying the little space his guts can supply. He grinds, he aims. Tries to guide it where it belongs, despite the consistent pulling back, the consistent rearranging and Malcolm’s various iterations of “Stay still.” increasing frustration, which are always met with some form of punishment, between squeezes, slaps and hair pulling, to make it seem urgent. To make his words hold weight.
John must look ridiculous. Grinding up his ass, or lack there of, against McLaren’s hand, and that instrument, too thick to make any threat of perforation seem possible (call him a sodomite, he has had bigger). He can’t even stabilise himself properly, making each move a challenge between tipping over and falling on his face, when his hip, his point of equilibrium, is balanced on Malcolm’s thigh. This isn’t for his pleasure. He knows that, back there, Malcolm is just watching him take it, and enjoying the sight. Memorising each movement to play back once in his lonesome.
When he finally aims downward, John nearly loses his grip, having been holding to the wooden legs of the chair for stability. He nearly jumps off Malcolm’s lap and runs for the hill, thermometer still up him and all. The first rasp is nearly painful, his body flashes cold, then hot, and sweat begins to form. His thighs flex, his face scrunches. John nearly cries out in a panicked frenzy like he’s in hysterics. Then, the rasp comes again, as Malcolm pushes in then pushes out, and he realises that, oh, he can handle the sensation, actually. What was he on about a minute ago?
John settles on keep low and breathing slow, in with each plunge the instrument takes, and out each time it returns, pulled back. Moving in time, life bringing motion to keep him calm. That palm falls apart as soon as Malcolm forgoes the stroke-like movement he’d been using. No longer that come-and-go, the pattern now used mills away at his insides. Like he’s circling the curve of the bulb around him. Grinding his nicest spot into a smooth nothingness. Next, Malcolm will cut his balls off. Would be great for his career as a vocalist.
Intensity rises, John grinds awkwardly, ashamedly. No way to be subtle about it. He grinds against Malcolm’s tries to try and make the pressure at the base of his cock lesser. Maybe he does have a bad disease. He feels like his whole section down there is burning up, or maybe it’s just a fever, the fire spreads up to his head, hands and fingers just as quick.
John stomps and trashes, ramming the tips of his shoes down into the carpet with sudden kicks brought about through the sudden jabs of pleasure at his groin. Thighs and calves already tense to keep the rocking motion going, no way to grind otherwise. McLaren himself hasn’t gotten more forgiving on his need to move, though he appreciates the show he’s putting on. It’s a humble excuse to pull out the old horns, he did warn John, he needs him as still as can be for this. Wouldn’t want to pierce through his intestines, now would they? The palm of his hand meets John’s backside more than once. He’s being gentle, he assures, and this is strictly necessary. What’s a bit of disciplinary skin-on-skin contact to a boy who has surely been caned and belted by teachers and parents alike. It doesn’t hurt, anyway. John sure doesn’t cry about it.
Until he does, of course. Groaning, after a while, “Will you stop?” John even makes a peace offering “I’ll stay still. Just stop, and move the bloody thermometer right. Do either one or the other, but do it right. I’m trying to enjoy meself here.” Drinking in the apparent sobriety, when he’s so unsteady and flushed. One or the other, oh, he will. Johnny ought to know he’s giving the gennie’s lamp an old rub here. He’ll regret his words, but not tonight.
“Well, you best stay still, then. I’ll remind you that door is locked,” Malcolm knows that, right now, threats don’t hold much weight. They’re seriously running out of time. He’s pushing it, with how amusing it’s been so far, they should’ve been done with this five minutes ago, and they’re far from the finish line. Still, it’s just as much fun to remind John, give them both the illusion, that he can play tyrant as he pleases. He’s got him submitted to his will thus far, has he not? “If you keep being a little insolent brat, I might as well stop what we’re doing and give you a good lashing.” John huffs like a workhorse, pretending to be bothered. He lets Malcolm pull his head back down, settles into position, lifting his arse back up, settling back on the zenith of Malcolm’s thigh. Grabbing once more those wooden legs. Ribs in between the wooden arms, pressing him out of his breath.
Harsher and urgent comes the metal tip. He doesn’t give a warning, that would be senseless. The pressure in his groin builds back thrice as fast, John whines, and tries to keep good on that past promise, and fails. Back to kicks to boost his grind. Even when Malcolm finally grabs his cock with that one free hand, prying it between his fingers, pressing and pulling to reveal the glands until there’s a little whimper to warn him that the skin can’t be pulled back further. That he’s already hurting him, like hell. John has little to nothing to work with down there, giving him a full handed frig would be impossible. There would still be room for one more if he were holding John in his fist. Holding him like this, between his fingers, is already dwarfening him to a ridiculous degree.
Without his foreskin to cover part of the head of his penis, precum drools unhindered over his trouser leg, down his thigh. Droplets falling in between, landing on the leather cushion. John isn’t as interested in getting frigged, it’s just hindering his finish. He still lets himself be fiddled between thumb and index. Pretend-medical sodomy continuing once Macolm discovers a way to manoeuvre both pieces at once. If John had any strength in him left to speak now, he’d sing his praises. Surely Malcolm could invent the wheel, smart geezer he is, if he was sent back to the prehistoric age with no memory of the modern world. How he wishes he could manoeuvre his leg around now, and give Malcolm a kick or two to send him back to work, instead of letting his obsession with his tiny penis be indulged further.
The rest of his remaining strength is splurged on covering his face, still holding to the chair for balance with another. The filter has wavered since long. He doesn’t moan, he never does, but he does whimper. Babbling faltered words that die in his throat before their form, not that he wants them uttered to begin with.
Now, with breathing in time comes the movement of his hips, rolling with each grind he’s given. Grinding into Malcolm’s hand, letting his cock be driven further into a near climax. Forgetting shame for a moment, and let it melt into the white molten heat pressing deep inside of him. He never vocalises the fact he’s near. No such concept in his mind. Pornographic bollocks that is, and his trips to such Soho theatres are rare. Malcolm, somehow, can still always tell.Once he has him by the neck, John knows he’s been got once more, having pulled on his hair to have him painfully curl outwards on his spine, then letting the pallid expanse of his throat catch itself on his palm in the fall. He presses lightly at his jugular, between index and thumb. Threatening to throttle and choke but never doing so.
When John finally comes, it’s anticlimactic. The strangled noise only follows after the first white spurt, landing in between Malcolm’s thighs, somehow missing his hand completely. It’s no great release. No pornography splurging climax where the big and tough, virile and hung male makes a show of what a good time he had. Everything is subdued, intense for barely a second, and then it’s like water, flowing soundly and scenically. It helps that John looks ill, with how much he’s been toyed with already, makes the weak grind concise. He can’t even hold back for his own sense of decency and pride, the rest oozes and comes to coat all of Malcolm’s palm, and he grinds and grinds. Has himself frigged though the urge to keep moving. He almost sobs in helplessness. If only Malcolm was merciful, and let him go once he’d gotten his own fill, leaving the job to get off in his hands, so he can get up to this embarrassing business in his quiet lonesome, where no one can see him, and no one can touch him. Malcolm strokes his back, like he’s a child throwing up for the first time in his life, telling him that “that’s good.” and to “get it all out.” Like his jism is fluid sickness.
Good thing he’s forgotten the thermometer by now, and the fact it’s still deep inside his arse. He’d die, mortified, on the spot. Plugged like an odd tail, wiggling about with every move his hips give. John curls up on the arm supporting him, gripping loosely with thin fingers, not for support, but for the notion he won’t fall. Having the thermometer pulled out, after two or three minutes of settling down, is an absolutely deranged feeling. Like his entrails had molded themselves to the shape and length. John uses the three and half seconds it takes for Malcolm to read the number the red line has settled on to pull his damn trousers up. An awkward task he’s set himself to. Knowing his penchant for running as soon as playtime is done, Malcolm settles an elbow on his back, leaning good part of his body weight on John’s flimsy excuse of a spine to immobilise him “36.6℃– that’s not bad! Not bad at all! That’s very good, actually! You’re not sick, at all!”, he nearly reaches back and strangles him.