Timothy jumped off the 38 Geary bus and walked the half-block to the Edinburgh Castle. It was well after midnight and the street was practically deserted, but there were times a real Englishman had to make sacrifices. Specifically, those were the times when Arsenal was playing a premiership match at some ungodly hour in the morning, Greenwich Mean Time. Timothy snorted. If he'd been back in England, he never would have bothered getting up for a match that started that early and it was only one of the rare bouts of plain old homesickness that had persuaded him to head down to the edges of the Tenderloin in the wee hours of the morning. Damn those idiots that made up the fixtures tables!
He walked into the pub and straight to the back, where a wide-screen television had been set up for the occasion, and scanned the assembled crowd. It looked like a thirty-strong contingent of expats was already there, almost an hour before the game proper was supposed to start. There was a lot of red in evidence, so it looked like it was going to be a good match -- even if it was in the middle of the fucking night.
He sighed and made his way to the bar to get a pint of lager.
Simon stomped up Geary Boulevard in a foul mood. What he really needed was a beer or three, some chips, and for Birmingham City to beat the crap out of whoever they were playing. Sometimes you just needed to channel your inner football hooligan.
He'd managed to shake off some of the mood by the time he got to the Castle, and shrugged out of his coat on his way to the bar for a pint. He surreptitiously gave the guy next to him the once-over. He wasn't bad-looking -- tall, well-built, kind of middle eastern looking with black curly hair and dark skin. Simon guessed he was at least 30, 35, maybe even 40, and when he was younger he had probably been beautiful. He was a little rumpled and, on second glance, really, really nice to look at. Simon was cheered almost immediately standing next to him at the bar. He got the barman's attention and ordered a pint.
"Tetley's, cheers," Simon fished around for his money and then turned to tall, built, and good-looking. "Here for the football?" He asked, nodding towards the wide-screen TV.
Timothy'd just caught the barman's eye -- finally! -- and was about to shout his order over the din of the crowd when some skinny-arse lad jumped in and ordered a pint of Tetley's. Well, so perhaps not quite so skinny-arsed as all that, he decided upon closer inspection. In fact, kind of nicely round-arsed. Kind of muscly and toned... oh, alright, the lad was nice to look at: bleach-blond hair, piercing blue eyes and a kind of stance that seemed to scream 'fuck with me and you won't know what hit you.'
He swallowed his irritation when the lad looked at him and asked, dialect pure Birmingham, "here for the football?"
He nodded nonchalantly and turned to the barman. "Pint of Stella, please." Then he turned to the lad---who looked somehow familiar he couldn't help thinking---and gave him a toothy grin: "Ready to take a good thrashing then, are you?"
Simon grinned back. He hadn't been gone so long he couldn't recognize a real London accent when he heard one. Tall and pretty was obviously rooting for.... Shit. Who the hell were City playing...? Right. Arsenal.
"Reckon your Gunners can take us?" he asked cheerfully. "Buy you a pint if they do."
"Like taking candy from a baby," Timothy replied good-naturedly. "Alright, you're on! Birmingham's without a chance, I reckon, after all, Arsenal's been at the top of the premiership all season."
"God's a Blue, you didn't know that?" Simon's grin widened as he pointed to the ceiling. "Why you think the sky's that color? He's just been testing the faithful." He nodded decisively, sipped his pint, and held out a hand. "Name's Simon."
"Timothy," Timothy replied, offering his own hand. "You're a long way from Birmingham, Simon."
He knew that lad from somewhere, he was sure, just couldn't make up his mind where he'd seen him before. He wondered briefly whether he'd been a trick at some point, but he was sure he'd remember, and even if he didn't, what were the chances of both of them forgetting? Oh well, it'd come to him sooner or later, most like a couple of nights from now at four in the bloody morning. He paid the barman and started making his way over to the wide-screen TV in the back.
Simon watched him go, suddenly struck by a weird sense of deja-vu. He was sure he didn't know any Timonthys from London, and he couldn't figure how he'd forget a face and a body like that. He always remembered the pretty ones. Although, come to think of it, he didn't always remember their names. He didn't usually know their names.
"Huh," he said out loud, swallowing some more beer and following Timothy back to the TV and (he hoped) a sound football thrashing. There was an empty spot conveniently right next to Timothy from London, so Simon took it.
Timothy could almost feel the lad's eyes at the back of his head as he found himself a seat against one of the walls. He could have sworn that the back of his head wasn't the only place those eyes had taken a good hard look at, so he chose a seat within a small group of empty barstools. He hadn't really come here to score, just come to see the game really, but if the night ended with him taking a pretty young thing on home, who was he to argue.
He smiled too himself as he felt someone sliding onto a stool next to his. Without turning around, he knew that it was the Brummie lad.
It briefly crossed Simon's mind that Timothy might think he was coming on to him, but that thought dissipated as soon as it formed. There were more important things at stake here. The honor of his city and the honor of his team. Oh, who was he kidding? He had no pride in Birmingham. If he had, he never would've left. He did want to see his team win, though. Always nice to show people up.
He turned on his stool, nudged Timothy with his shoulder, raised his glass, and said: "here's to a good game, mate."
"Here's to taking your money," Timothy grinned, touching his glass to Simon's. "So, been in the colonies long then, have you?" He asked after a quick look at the screen confirmed that the game hadn't started yet.
"Year and a half, about. I like the sun. What about you? You're a long way from home too."
"About fifteen years, give or take," Timothy replied. "Got sick of the politics back home... what sun?"
Simon laughed. Exactly. "Friend of mine dragged me up here from LA. I might never forgive him. Been gone from Queen and country since I was 16, though. Lived in France, Greece... Spain.... Bunch of places. But I like it here, even without the sun." He sipped his beer. "You know, I don't even know when the game starts."
"About ten minutes ago, but that's Birmingham for you: can't even start a bloody football game on time," Timothy laughed after consulting his watch. Then he took a little gamble -- still desperate to place Simon -- and asked, "so, tell me, Simon, do you hang out in the Castro much?"
He figured that either the lad would take it in stride and say 'yes,' in which case the possibilities for a little light diversion after the game were suddenly looking up, or he'd say 'no' and there'd be no hard feelings. There was of course a third option, namely, that Simon'd try to thump him, but he didn't really think that would happen: firstly, because he really was a lot bigger and few people were quite as stupid as that, and secondly, because unless he'd been reading the lad completely wrong, he was as bent as a three-shilling note. Takes one to know one and all that rot.
At any rate, he was feeling rather nostalgic right now and wouldn't mind just talking to a pretty little lad from Brum, regardless of whether there'd be bumping and grinding involved later on.
"Christ, I live there," Simon said without missing a beat. Maybe that's where the deja-vu had come from. Another bar, another street? A club? "You know it well?"
"Well enough," Timothy smirked, "though I doubt you'd know any of the places I frequent, they're rather... extreme."
Oh, now, Simon thought, you're asking to be tested. This was a game he would happily play.
"Try me," he said, grinning.
"There's Daddy's'for one," Timothy said, closely looking at Simon for a reaction. When there wasn't so much as the bat of an eyelid, he figured it was safe to continue. "Then there's Eros and of course the Dungeon," he said grinning widely, "but I doubt you'd know about those..."
Simon choked on his Tetley's, he was laughing so hard. "Timothy, luv," he said, when he could talk again, "you're sitting next to the Dungeon's favorite son."
That was too fucking funny, and it certainly answered his question. It wasn't strictly true -- he hadn't been there nearly long enough to be their favorite anything -- but it was fun to say.
Timothy smiled. He'd read the lad right after all, though he wasn't sure that the Dungeon was where he had seen Simon before -- he tended to remember people he saw there if only because their performances would be replayed nightly in front of his closed eyelids while he was having a quick one off the wrist. No, he would have remembered Simon if he had seen him at the Dungeon, especially, if Simon was, as he said, something of a celebrity down there... In fact, it was safe to say that if he'd ever run into Simon at the Dungeon, a years' worth for tossing off fantasies would likely have been supplied.
"Interesting, don't think I've ever seen you down there before," he said. "I would have remembered anyone as... startling as you. Still, I can't shake the feeling I've seen you before... what do you do when you're not playing, Simon?"
"OK, you caught me on the Dungeon," Simon said cheerfully. "Only been there a couple months. Crowd's good, money's good... think I'll stay." He grinned. "When I'm off I pine for the beaches of Greece. Watch football, go to movies, eat. Hang out. I like to dance. Ever been to a place called Man Ray?"
"That's down South of Market, innit?" Timothy asked distractedly. What was the important thing there amid the babble? Money's good. That was it. The pieces of the puzzle slid into place: that's where he'd seen the lad before, on Polk Street. Oh well, that certainly put a different spin on things. Still, he'd no intention of embarrassing the lad with his new-found knowledge.
"Lad, game's started," he grinned, nodding his head at the screen and surreptitiously brushing his hand across Simon's knee. "What say we continue our chat during half-time."
"Right. I'll try not to rub it in too bad that City're giving your boys a good beating." Simon clinked his glass against Timothy's again and settled in to watch the game. He had a good idea that the man's hand hadn't brushed his knee accidentally, but he wasn't going to fuss about it now. Had better things to think about, hadn't he? Like the fact that it was clear within fifteen minutes that Birmingham City were fucked.
Timothy couldn't believe his luck when Arsenal scored two goals within the first fifteen minutes of the game. Well, technically they'd only scored one goal -- the other one had been a home goal by City -- still, it was more than he could have hoped for. Simon, on the other hand, was starting to look a little miffed.
He leant across, almost touching his lips to Simon's ear and whispered, "Never you mind, lad, you know what they say: unlucky at games, lucky in love. Isn't that so?"
Simon was more concerned with the game. It always sucked him right in, to the detriment of whatever else was vying for his attention. "You fucking blind?" He yelled at the TV, following what looked to him like a penalty. "Sorry, you say something?" he asked Timothy distractedly. "Lookit that, they're just letting him pass -- close him down, you bloody pansies! Christ, you play like a girl!"
OK, so that was the Mikes' favorite taunt, but it worked well enough.
"May as well buy you a pint now," Simon grumped. "I'll get it at half-time."
Timothy smiled at the sudden outburst of emotion. Of course, if it were Arsenal playing like that, he'd be yelling the house down too. But that was the point though, wasn't it: if you were going to support a team, you might as well pick one that could play. Winning always made him horny too, which was why he supported Arsenal: they very seldom let him down on that account.
"They may be playing like girls," he drawled, placing his hand firmly on Simon's thigh, "but I'd wager you play like a man."
Oh Christ, Simon thought, he could almost break his no-cheating-on-Jay rule for this one. Maybe.... Simon tore his eyes from the TV long enough to better assess Timothy's size and likely preferences. He'd mentioned leather bars, extreme places, so it was a fair bet he wanted more than a quickie in the men's room. Simon's gaze lingered on the hand on his thigh, traveling up to forearm, biceps, shoulder. How good was this guy with a cat? Because he didn't seem the submissive type. Simon could generally pick them right the first time. Better lay it all out, then, get their terms straight.
"What'd you have in mind?" he asked seriously.
Timothy edged his hand further up Simon's thigh, started squeezing a little bit. He wet his dry lips with his tongue and murmured: "I've got my own little dungeon at home. Much more interesting than playing in front of all those people, innit?" He didn't really expect the lad to respond, but his leg twitched under his palm. "Much more dangerous too, if you want it to be..."
He left it at that for the moment: he wanted to turn the lad on, not scare him, though he suspected that Simon still suffered from a youthful belief in his own immortality. Either that, or he simply didn't care whether he lived or died. Timothy couldn't quite make up his mind whether to admire or to pity him. He just knew he wanted the lad.
Switches in Simon's head started flipping with alarming speed. Man had his own little dungeon at home, and he wanted to play with Simon in it. If Simon had been someone else -- anyone else -- if he'd been Jay, that little bit of information would be a huge, screaming red flag. Call it a draw and stop the game. But he wasn't Jay, and this man with a hand on his thigh was very serious and likely very good. He knew what he wanted, and that was Simon.
But what did Simon want? (Besides a crushing victory for the Blue.) Well, for one thing, he wanted that hand to squeeze a little higher and a little harder. Another minute's thought and he wanted to see Timothy's dungeon, see how dangerous the man really was. But there was a price. There was always a price. It was the deal Simon had made with himself that allowed him to go off with men who weren't Jay.
"I don't play for free," he murmured. "And I ain't cheap."
Now he'd see how serious Timothy really was.
Timothy bit down on his tongue before he could say anything that would indicate that he already knew that Simon was for rent. "Two hundred dollars," he said hoarsely.
"What do you want, Timothy? You wanna give it? Take it? Need to know your desire first."
Timothy swallowed hard. His cock was suddenly showing much more interest in the negotiations. "We'll play," he said roughly. "My rules, but nothing that causes permanent damage. I fuck. If you're extremely good, I suck."
Simon tried not to shift on his seat. His jeans were uncomfortably tight. "Five hundred," he said, his voice scarily even and his eyes on the TV. That was an absurd amount of money and they both knew it, but he could negotiate down from it. And if Timothy accepted five hundred dollars, well, served him right.
Timothy laughed out loud. The lad had balls, big hairy ones by the sounds of it, and he liked that. Still, he knew the going prices... "I can buy five hustlers to do whatever I ask for that amount Simon," he said coldly.
"Polk Street's crawling with 'em. Good luck and go to!" But Simon didn't really want to lose this. He turned away from the travesty on the TV to look Timothy in the eye. "You want me, though, don't you? Want to hear me scream for you. Want to see me hard for you. Want to fuck me, yeah? Flog me, make me come? Tell you a secret, luv. I want you too." He leaned forward, put his hand on Timothy's well-muscled thigh, and squeezed. "Really fucking badly. Price is negotiable. Four hundred."
Timothy almost hissed when Simon touched his leg. He knew his prick was leaking precome into his trousers something rotten and he really didn't give a damn at this point whether Arsenal got relegated to the third division, just so long as Simon spread his legs.
And yes, logically he knew that the lad was just doing his job, picking up a trick and getting him hot and bothered enough to agree to an outrageous amount of money because that meant he'd have to fuck fewer punters, but damned if his cock was going to listen to logic at this point. And Simon was giving him a look that was pure sex, better than he'd seen in years, and squeezed his thigh -- Timothy had to bite down on his bottom lip to suppress the groan that was trying to make its way out of his mouth. Damn the lad was good at what he did!
"Three hundred and no time limit. You stay until I tell you to get out. That's all I can get out of the cash machine at one time anyway and I doubt you're the sort that takes checks, am I right?" Simon grinned toothily in acknowledgement. "It's my final offer, Simon, more than I've ever been crazy enough to spend on a hustler before, take it or leave it," Timothy rasped, "but for god's sake make up your mind and stop messing about before I come in my drawers."
"We both come and I'm out before sunrise."
"Deal, let's get the fuck out of here," Timothy replied, getting up from his stool.
"One last thing." Simon stood as well, grabbed Timothy's chin, pulled his face down, and kissed him hard. Bloody stupid thing to do, kissing another bloke in front of thirty-odd dedicated football fans, but hey, you only lived once. And he was getting three hundred bucks later on, and that was much better than anything he'd come to expect.
"Right," he said, pulling away and grinning hugely. "Let's go."
Oh yeah. That would be three hundred dollars well-spent, Timothy thought as he dragged Simon out of the Castle. Anybody who had the gall to snog another bloke in front of God knows how many football hooligans crazy enough to be up watching a game at two in the blooming morning -- even in San Francisco -- was going to be a damn good fuck.
He stepped into the street, Simon in tow, and hailed a cab, telling the driver to make a slight detour past the closest ATM he was willing to use in the middle of the night.
Once in the back of the cab, he grabbed Simon by the shirt lapels and pulled him half on top of himself. "Call that back there a snog, do you?" he hissed. "Let me show you how it's done properly, lad."
"That was a handshake, like," Simon panted, grinding against him. "To seal the deal. You wanna show me how it's done? I'm willing to learn."
Timothy took Simon's head in a vise-like grip and started kissing. No messing about with this one: he forced his tongue straight past Simon's lips and started thrusting it in and out of Simon's mouth in an imitation of what he fully intended to do to Simon's arse in an hour or two... after making the boy beg for it. Repeatedly.
Simon moaned into his mouth and flung his leg across Timothy's lap, shifting around until he was straddling the man, probably blocking the cabbie's view and so far from giving a shit he was in another country altogether. Simon ground against him, hard now and hungry, kissing back with all the force he could muster.
And Simon was strong, but Timothy was stronger, and after trying to get control Simon gave up entirely, riding it out as he imagined that tongue replaced by a hard, hot prick, fucking his arse and not his mouth. He reached between them, stroked Timothy's hard-on through his trousers, moaned, "Christ, Timothy, think I'm gonna come."
Timothy pressed hard against Simon's raging hard-on and hissed, "don't you dare come without my permission, lad, you're playing with the big boy's now and there's rules to this game. Hold it." Then he bit Simon's earlobe hard, just to well and truly ram the point on home that this was his show -- well, and if it caused Simon's erection to flag a little, that wouldn't hurt either.
Unexpectedly though, Simon just moaned and Simon's cock twitched against the denim of his jeans. Fucking hell, he'd lucked out alright. This was going to be the trick to end all tricks. If he survived the night without suffering either a coronary or a hernia, he'd count himself a very luck bastard indeed. "Hold it till I can get a cock ring on you," he hissed into Simon's ear and then pushed the lad off his lap to give him some time to calm down.
Simon fell against the back of the seat, panting heavily. This was going to be the best three hundred dollars he'd ever earned. He had a feeling that in another world, he'd be the one shelling out the money.
"Oughta tell you, luv," he gasped, "biting gets me off."
"So I noticed," Timothy said cooly.
The cabbie chose that moment to come to a screeching halt in front of the ATM and gave Timothy a dirty look in the rear-view mirror. Timothy just shrugged it off: occupational hazard, wasn't it?
"Stay right where you are, back in a tick," he said to Simon and ran to the dispenser to withdraw three hundred dollars from his account. He reckoned he'd never withdrawn money quite that quickly. "Corner of Guerrero and Valencia," he said to the cabbie even as he was slamming the door shut, "and step on it. There's an extra tip in it for you if you can get us there in ten."
Simon laughed a little breathlessly as the cabbie floored it and the car lurched forward, throwing the two of them back in their seats. Timothy was in a hurry, wasn't he? Simon couldn't say he minded.
"Give us another kiss?" he asked. "Promise not to come unless you say." There were rules, after all. Not his, but he'd follow them just the same.
"Naw, think I'll make you wait," Timothy grinned with a glint in his eye. "Who do you reckon won the game?"
That drew another laugh, short but amused. A man after his own heart.
"Arsenal were putting in a pretty good showing. Bet they took it easily." He turned his head, grinned at Timothy. "Means I owe you a pint, luv."
"You know, I don't think anyone's called me that since last time I was in Old Blighty," Timothy chuckled. "OK, looks like we're here. "Third house over on the right, driver. Hope you're in as good a shape as you look Simon, I'm on the top floor."
"Oh, I'm young and strong. Can take stairs, no problem. Can take whatever you wanna give me." The cab pulled over and Simon got out. He gave the house the same once-over he'd given Timothy, and came to the same conclusion -- best thing he'd done all night was say yes.
"Ok, luv," he said, spreading his arms, "I'm all yours. Take me up and let's play."
Timothy paid the cabbie, grossly overtipping him, while digging through his pocket for his keys at the same time. "Think you can handle all I want to give you," he asked as he unlocked the front door.
"Wouldn't be here otherwise. Tell you another secret: it's not always about the money. 'Sides, we won't know until we try, now will we?" Simon grinned. Oh, was this going to be fun. He had no doubt Timothy could give it good, could make him scream. He couldn't wait to find out.
Timothy started taking the stairs two at a time. Simon was right behind him. He unlocked the front door to his own flat with shaking fingers and stepped inside quickly, already shrugging off his jacket. "Need any water? Poppers? Anything before we start?" He asked, hoping to hell Simon wouldn't -- he really wasn't in the mood for a detour past the kitchen.
"Just water, yeah, and a quick piss. Where's the loo?" No poppers, no nothing -- Simon wanted to do this sober. He thought of cricket and ice-cold Norwegian fjords, willing his hard-on to go down enough so that he could piss. He shucked off his jacket in the front hall and looked around for the bathroom. He really had to go.
"Second door on the right, I'll get the water," Timothy said hurriedly walking off to the kitchen without a second look back. The sooner they got the bodily functions out of the way, the faster they'd be able to get down to business. Unless, of course, Simon was into water sports... hmm, he'd have to find out, could be an interesting kink...
He grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and headed back out into the hallway at just about the same time Simon was coming out of the bathroom. He went straight for the door that led to his dungeon -- well, properly he should call it his aerie, he supposed, seeing as it was the top floor of the building -- and opened the door. He didn't see Simon's face, but he could hear the in-drawn hiss of breath.
"Holy fuck," Simon said, not exactly sure what to think. "Christ, Timothy, how'd you rig that?"
Timothy couldn't help it, he preened a bit. "Well, first I had the room sound-proved. Well, I had to, I mean, this is a multi-party building and most of the other parties probably wouldn't appreciate being woken in the wee hours of the morning my some bloke screaming his balls off." He gave Simon a meaningful look. "Then I had internal steel braces added to re-inforce the walls. These fucking woodframe building they build all over the place here can't support the kind of weight I want to put on them. The steel braces were specially designed by a mate of mine who's a structural engineer and a lot of the restraints are integrated. There, see? Those cuffs are welded into the steel."
Simon stroked his forearm to keep from stroking himself. This guy was really fucking serious about his fucking.
"Go on," he said hoarsely.
"Well, the sling there is suspended from the structural network. That's for the serious bondage shit, you know, the bottoms that really get off on the whole weightlessness thing... Then there's the rack over there, custom-designed, my pride and joy! It's totally adjustable, can be swung around through 90 degrees, so you can have the guy upright or at 30 or 45 degrees for whipping and flogging and shit, or you can have him horizontal, which is much better for fucking and fisting. The best part is, it's designed so you can adjust the angle while somebody is strapped into it. Then of course there the usual assortment of chains and ropes and god knows what, but that's for the pussies: the blokes who're just experimenting you might say..."
Simon's eyes glazed over at the mention of fisting.
"So what -- " He cleared his throat. "What do you wanna do to me, luv? Your money, your toys, your rules. How do you want me?"
"Anything you don't do, Simon?" Timothy asked. "Now would be the time to say it."
"Don't do burning or branding, golden showers, or scat. Pretty much everything else is fair game. Your call."
"Got it. Think it's time you took your clothes off, Simon. Slowly." Timothy smirked. "Give me a good show."
"Think I can do that." Simon grinned, then slowly turned around, slowly bent over, and wiggled his ass teasingly while he untied his boots and pulled them off. He straightened, turned, and, still grinning, peeled his shirt off, taking his time, swaying his hips slightly like he was dancing. He couldn't have said what his internal soundtrack was, but it was definitely something sultry and sexy and made for a drawn-out strip. He kept his eyes on Timothy's the whole time, pale blue locked onto brown, trying to give the man the show he'd paid for.
"Everything?" Simon asked, after he'd thrown his shirt off to the side and stood there in bare feet and jeans, fingers pushed down inside the waistband. "You want me to take it all off now?"
"Oh yeah," Timothy sighed. "Wanna see if that arse of yours is just as pretty out of the jeans as it is in. Want you naked except for this," he held up an adjustable leather cockring and grinned, watching for Simon's reaction.
Simon's answering grin was wide and white and anticipatory.
"That'll go well with the jewelry," he said, unbuckling his belt and sliding the leather out of the beltloops with a long, soft hiss. He popped the button, slowly drew the zipper down, and just as slowly pushed off his jeans. He had to bend over to shake them off, and when he straightened up his cock stood at attention, curving up slightly, the ring in the end glimmering faintly under the lights.
"Like what you see?" he asked, preening a little. Simon was proud of his body -- it was tight and hard and he worked for it.
"Not bad at all," Timothy grinned, stepping up to the rack and moving it to its horizontal position with just a couple of easy adjustments. "I can think of one or two improvements though that would make it even prettier. Hop on here, lie back, spread your legs and think of England. It won't hurt. Much."
"Mmm," Simon murmured, climbing on the rack and doing as he was told. He spread his legs and thought of Jay, because thinking of England meant thinking of the Queen Mum, and that was a definite turn-off. He didn't think Timothy would want him deflating so soon.
"Hurt me, Timothy," he murmured. "Make it good."
Timothy quickly grabbed the wax strips from the shelf and started applying them to Simon's groin before Simon had a chance to react to what was going on. It wasn't strictly speaking necessary -- Simon was quite hairless over most of his body -- but it was a kink: he liked his lads smooth and baby-skinned all over and Simon hadn't said anything about shaving being out of the question.
Now that's unexpected, Simon thought. He hadn't even considered wax. Not that he minded. The rip, the sting, the burn.... Made him gasp.
"Alright, ready?" Timothy asked lifting up the corner of one of the wax strips.
Simon nodded. "I am if you are."
Timothy didn't mess about, just pulled. Then he grabbed the next strip and pulled and so on until Simon's groin and balls were as hairless as the day he was born. Only one more to do, this one being the really difficult one. "Alright Simon, up on all fours and spread your legs. That's the last one. Gonna have you nice and smooth for me," he said.
Simon was panting now, riding out the sharp and honest pain of having his balls waxed, and wondering at the strange feel of his hairless skin. He rolled onto his hands and knees and spread his legs, breathing deep and ready for the last rip.
Timothy used one hand to spread Simon's cheeks, the other to firmly press the last strip of wax on Simon's body. Simon shivered under him, whether with pain or pleasure he wasn't certain.
"Take a deep breath now," Timothy said quietly and while Simon was inhaling and not expecting it, he quickly tore the wax off.
And Simon yelled his breath right out, taken completely by surprise.
"Bloody hell," he exploded, "give a bloke some warning!"
But the burn warmed him right through, pulled at his cock and climbed into his chest, and he couldn't say it was entirely unpleasant. In fact, now that he'd gotten over his initial shock, the afterburn was... well, it was pain, wasn't it? And pain got him off.
He wiggled his now smooth and hairless ass. "It's ready for you now, I reckon," he said. "That all you got?"
"That wasn't playing, wasn't even foreplay, Simon. That was just me preparing you for my own visual enjoyment. Now we start to play," Timothy whispered right into Simon's ear. "Need a safe word, Simon? Tell me now or this won't stop again until I decide it's over."
"Keener." The only time he'd ever use that name. "Now it starts, yeah? Make me work for my money."
"Keener," Timothy repeated. "As you wish."
He reached under Simon and placed the leather cockring on his dick, tightening it to the point of pain to ensure that there wouldn't be any orgasms taking place unless he said so. He didn't trust Simon to be able to hold it in once they got really going. He tapped Simon's back to let him know that he could lower himself to the rack and then methodically started strapping Simon down in a spread-eagled position: he did not intend to release him again until their session was over.
Once Simon was securely fastened to the rack -- like Christ on the cross, Timothy thought with a smile -- he swung the rack around until Simon was almost upright and stepped back to look at his handiwork.
"Here are the rules Simon," he explained. "I'm not into the whole don't speak unless you're spoken to bullshit, because I quite like to hear people beg. You can beg and shout and scream as much as you want -- sound-proved room, remember? Don't care too much about the discipline part either, because you're not trained or nothing, but I do expect you to do as you're told without question. You may not refuse anything from this point on, unless you use your safe word. Using your safe word ends the session completely. You will not be untied until the session is over. You may not come without my permission. Any questions before I start?"
"How much longer you gonna talk at me?" Simon asked, grinning. He'd always been a smart-aleck. "Nah, I got it. Can't come with this cockring on anyway." He tested his bonds to see how tightly he was strapped, nodded to himself, and said, "right, luv, I'm ready for you."
Simon had barely finished talking when the tails of the cat started raining down on his back. Timothy didn't give him any time to get used to the idea, just started flogging, not holding back.
He was once again taken quite by surprise, but at least he was used to being flogged, and Timothy knew what he was doing. Simon moaned as the tails landed on his skin, cried out at particularly painful lashes, found words and told Timothy to go harder.
He let the sensations pull him out of himself, the sound of the tails striking his bare skin, the sound of his moaning, Timothy's breathing, the scent of lust and need and the painful, painful constriction around his swollen cock.
Oh, Christ, it was good.
He wanted to come but it was too soon to beg. He'd yell for Timothy, he'd scream and cry, but he knew there was more -- he hoped there was more -- and then he could beg. Simon let his eyes fall closed and rode it out, letting Timothy's arm take him where the older man wanted to go.
Timothy watched the red welts appear on Simon's back impassively. Watched the pretty, pretty criss-cross pattern that they formed. Simon was moaning and panting and occasionally crying out, but he was riding with it. The lad was a natural.
Little specs of blood started appearing on Simon's shoulders and back, so Timothy switched the focus of his blows to Simon's buttocks and thighs, let the cat come down on him time and time again until Simon was shaking and whimpering and bright red from his neck to his calves. "Had enough of the cat, Simon?" He asked.
"No," Simon gasped. "Need to come... Timothy... please... let me... let me come...."
Ok, so he'd lied about the begging. But he was trembling like a palm tree in a hurricane and he could barely see and he'd felt the cat break his skin, knew Timothy had drawn blood, and just that little bit had him trying to hump the rack, get some friction on his cock, push his blocked orgasm past the tight leather ring.
"Timothy... please... you wanted... wanted to hear me... beg.... Gotta come, just... once...."
"I think not," Timothy said with a tight little smile though quite breathlessly. "And I see you've discovered another design feature of the rack? The fact that there isn't anything solid around your cock you can rub yourself against? I told you this was an entirely different game from the one the dungeon has to offer. Now, let me demonstrate one of the more brilliant adjustment possibilities."
His breathing had levelled out now and he was grateful of that. He used the lever on the side of the rack to bring Simon's torso forward and down, while keeping his legs straight, so that he was now bent over just as he would be had he been bent over the side of a table for instance. He grabbed a condom, latex gloves, and a tub of Crisco from the shelf by the door and then walked over to the display case to select the largest plug he owned.
"I, on the other hand," he said unsnapping his fly, "am free to come any time I like, and I think I'd like to do it inside that pretty arse of yours while it is still tight."
"Been waiting for that," Simon panted. "Feel your dick inside me... hard, huge.... Got me... got me strapped down... ready.... I'm ready, luv, do it, please."
His cock twitched, as much as it could, and Simon tried unsuccessfully to draw in a deep breath. He didn't want to be taken by surprise this time, although wasn't that part of the fun? It was all about giving up control, wasn't it? It wasn't for him to be ready for Timothy, it was just for him to take the man.
Timothy grinned and took his dick out of his trousers. He was rather glad he went commando all of a sudden. He rolled the condom down onto his cock and covered two finger in grease. Then he stepped between Simon's spread legs and thrust them into his body without warning.
Simon cried out, every muscle in his body trembling with the inability to ride those fingers like he wanted to.
"Oh Christ," he panted, "Christ, luv, so good, slick and... ohhh -- fuck me now, Timothy, now, I need it, need you -- "
And he did. Surprise. Simon didn't need just anyone inside him now -- he needed Timothy, needed the strength in the man's hips and the thickness of his cock and the power of his dominance. (Actually what he really needed was to come, and he was sure he'd be begging for that in short order, but first he needed Timothy's cock inside him.)
Timothy chuckled and greased up his cock with the other hand while jabbing his fingers in and out of Simon's arse a few times. Then he withdrew his fingers and lined his dick up with Simon's hole and plunged.
He entered him in one long thrust, all the way in and balls-deep. Simon yelped. He hadn't actually seen Timothy's cock. He'd felt it, but only through denim... Timothy's dick wasn't overly long, but it was thick, getting thicker towards the base and it also had a very noticeable curve to it, which mean that Timothy -- more or less without trying -- brushed across Simon's prostate with each move.
Timothy didn't give Simon time to get used to any of it though. One of the most thrilling aspects of the game -- the one that made playing so much more interesting -- was the unexpectedness of it all: as long as Simon could not once anticipate Timothy's next move, his state of arousal was heightened even more so than was usual. Timothy just started fucking, hard and fast and unforgiving, while Simon was helpless -- almost entirely immobile -- beneath him.
And Simon couldn't anticipate, couldn't thrust back, couldn't thrust forward, couldn't do anything besides lie there and take it. He was sobbing now, wordless hitching sounds as Timothy fucked him, literally crying as the pleasure built at the base of his spine and the base of his skull, pleasure mixed with harsh rubbing pain as Timothy's balls slapped against his newly-waxed skin and Timothy's thick, plunging cock scraped his sore ass.
Simon's own balls were hyper-sensitive now, and the heat of his skin made him squirm and whimper. His vision clouded. He could barely breathe. He couldn't beg if he wanted to, and he did want to. His cock hurt unbearably.
He let go and let it carry him away, let the agony build to ecstasy, let go of who he was and what he wanted. As he had when Timothy was flogging him, he just... let go.
But he couldn't stop sobbing.
Timothy completely ignored Simon's sobbing and whimpering and continued fucking him with abandon. The lad was having the time of his life, wasn't he? He leaned forward slightly though, ran his hands up and down Simon's back, which was still criss-crossed with welts and starting to bruise quite impressively, and panted measuredly, never once stopping his thrusts: "I'm going to come inside your pretty little arse in a minute Simon. You'll like that won't you?"
Without waiting for a response, he continued: "I'll come so's you know that while you are still there, desperate and wanting, getting a serious case of blue balls, your tight little pretty arse drew all the come out of me." He increased the speed of his thrusts. "Only it's not going to stay so tight for much longer Simon, because once I've done with it, once I've come, I think I'll be wanting to fuck you with my hand some, see if I can make you beg and cry and sob with my fist as much as I can with my cat and cock."
Simon whimpered. Then he managed to gather enough of his shredded consciousness (and enough breath) to gasp out: "Fucking hell... yes...."
It was enough to make his eyes roll back in his head. Flogging. Fucking. Fisting.
The second time in his life he'd have a person's hand inside his arse, and you better believe he was going to beg and cry and sob.
He should be paying Timothy for this, not the other way around.
"Gonna... gonna come, luv? Or just... talk me... to, to death?"
"Still snotty, are we? I must be doing something wrong!" Timothy snarled and started increasing the speed of his thrusts again. This time though he started pulling almost all the way out, so far out in fact that his cockhead slipped past Simon's muscle each time and only the very tip remained inside Simon's arse, causing Simon to whimper and sob even more each time the thickest part of Timothy's cockhead forced its way past the tight entrance to Simon's body.
With one last long thrust he went all the way back in so his balls were pressed almost painfully against Simon's arse and he started shooting, his dick twitching and jolting as if electrified inside Simon's hole. He rode it out for a few seconds, then pulled himself together and started withdrawing.
He was already putting on the latex glove while discarding the used condom with his other hand. Speed was of the essence here: he didn't want to give Simon any time to recover, wanted to push him further over the edge with everything he did. Wanted to make him so desperate he'd never forget the orgasm he'd have at the end of the night....
He scooped up a dollop of Crisco and started working it into Simon's arse using three fingers---well, Simon had already had his cock, there was no point to messing about with anything less than three.
Simon gasped at the entrance of those three latex-covered fingers, and just knowing what came next made him moan. Timothy was a big guy. He had big hands. He had big hands and Simon was helpless under him.
But Simon Kay was gone. All that was left was this quivering, whimpering, sobbing bundle of nerves and muscles, this body being pushed to its limit, nothing but the unbearable, uncontrolled pleasure and the ever-shifting pain, those two things twining around each other and taking his mind with them.
He'd never, in his entire life, lost his mind to such brain-bending ecstasy, and considering the things he'd done and the drugs he'd taken, that was saying something. It was almost too much, one thing right after another with no time to breathe and no way to anticipate. Every one of his nerve endings stood on edge. His muscles jumped and twitched under his skin, flushed now and sheened with sweat. His head dropped forward. His breath hitched as Timothy's fingers worked inside him.
Oh Christ, when the man finally let him come he was going to pass out from sheer relief.
Timothy worked quickly. The three fingers were soon joined by a fourth and then his hand was pushing all the way into Simon's hole and he was buried to his wrist. Without pausing, he formed his hand into a fist and started thrusting with careful yet fast moves, designed to make Simon forget his name if he hadn't already.
"Simon, if this gets too much, it's alright to use your safe word, lad," he said, fairly certain that Simon wouldn't. All the while he continued moving his fist up and down Simon's channel, as Simon quivered and moaned and sobbed around him.
Then Simon's arse started convulsing around his fist. As quickly as he dared, he uncurled his hand and started pulling it out while getting the plug he had selected earlier ready with his free hand. As the widest part of his hand started sliding out of Simon's body he readied the plug and started slipping it in even as his fingertips were still pulling out. As soon as the plug was all the way in, he moved around to the front and underneath the rack.
"You may come now," he said measuredly, before taking Simon's purple and swollen cock into his mouth. Then he unsnapped the cockring and swallowed.
Simon wouldn't have thought he had any breath left, but apparently he did, because as soon as Timothy unsnapped the cockring he was screaming his head off, just howling his release as he spasmed and shook and flooded Timothy's throat with spunk. The plug in his ass rubbed against his prostate as his muscles contracted, which just made him come harder, temporarily trapping him in a feedback loop of sensation. (It didn't feel temporary, but nothing that good could be permanent.)
He screamed until he was out of air, hips straining against his bonds, now wanting nothing more than to be untied so he could fuck Timothy's mouth with abandon. Spots popped in front of Simon's eyes. His ears buzzed. Jesus Christ, he was going to pass out. But he didn't. Finally, finally, he was empty and silent except for his harsh, labored breathing. That was without question the most intense thing he'd ever done.
Timothy swallowed it all -- he reckoned Simon deserved it for being such a good sport and all that rubbish about proper tops not sucking was just bollocks as far as he was concerned: he quite enjoyed sucking cock every once in a while and he'd swallow too if he thought the bottom had put in a stellar performance, and Simon had, no question about it.
After Simon'd stopped coming and shouting and looked like he was going to be OK and not pass out after all, Timothy let go of Simon's dick and moved back around the rack. He carefully removed the plug from Simon's body and then started undoing the restraints, arms and chest first, but Simon didn't move, didn't even raise his arms by himself. He was completely utterly fucked, for lack of a better term.
Finally Timothy undid the restraints holding his legs, and -- sending up a silent prayer thanking God that he was a big guy -- squeezed in an arm underneath Simon's chest and heaved.
"Gonna take you next door to the bedroom for a bit of a lie-down now, yeah," he said conversationally. "Give you some time to recover an' all. I could even fix you a nice cup of tea if you like. You did real good there, Simon. Worth every penny. Now let's get you horizontal somewhere so's we can get you all fixed up by sunrise."
He started half-carrying, half-dragging Simon out of the dungeon and into the bedroom.
"Just spread me out and let me sleep," Simon mumbled. "You're fucking amazing, Timothy. Not to mention amazing fucking." Here he managed a grin. Damn, but he was glad Timothy was a strong guy. How the hell was he going to get home now? He couldn't even lift his arms.
"Fucking hell," he muttered. "Took me to the edge and pushed me over. Should say thanks."
Timothy got him onto the bed and laid him out. Simon had to lie on his side -- his cock was too sore and sensitive for him to lie on his stomach, and his arse was worse. But it was a good pain, the residue of those things that made him shake and scream and come like he had no future.
"Hey... Timothy... kiss me again."
Timothy smiled and leaned down and pressed his lips to Simon's softly, not slipping him any tongue. He reckoned Simon wasn't really up to anything more energetic than a little peck right now.
"You're good, luv. Thanks." Simon was falling asleep. "Gotta nap now, that OK?"
"Sure," Timothy chuckled. "Take all the time you need." He spread the blanket out over Simon and went to switch off the lights, but left the hall-way lights on and the door open, just in case Simon was one of those blokes that freaked when waking up in the dark in a strange bed -- you never could tell, could you? Then he shucked off his jeans and his shirt and climbed into bed as well.
He wondered whether Simon had a pager number or something. Whether he'd be willing to have repeat customers. Timothy didn't really want to fork out the hundred bucks on a regular basis, but as a special treat... he'd been telling Simon the truth about that: he was worth every penny, was better at this than the people who did it for free because they liked it so much...
Simon heard Timothy leave and from under his eyelids he could just see the light on in the hallway. That was considerate of him, to leave the hall light on. Sometimes you woke up suddenly and couldn't remember where you were, and it always helped to have a light to orient yourself by.
Simon's last coherent thoughts as he drifted off were that he couldn't do that very often but he'd certainly given Timothy his money's worth, he'd gotten more out of it than he'd been expecting, and he'd have to remember to give the man his mobile number.
And then he was asleep.
If you like GioGio's writing, check out her mainstream(ish) literary novel, which is available from the publisher or online retailers/bookstores.