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Chris listened to Brent clatter around the kitchen. Honestly, making coffee didn’t need to be that dramatic. He sat on the couch, sipping his tea, his laptop open on his thighs. Brent’s black mood followed him out of the kitchen, through the living room and into the bathroom, doors slamming behind him.
-
Chris lingered in the doorway of Brent’s room, watching him. He had one hand on the keyboard and the other making notes. There were too many cigarette stubs in the ashtray.
“How’s it going?” Chris asked.
Brent looked up, blue eyes turbulent. “It’s shit,” he growled. “It’s all fucking shit.”
It probably wasn’t shit. He met Brent’s gaze calmly. “You want to take a break?” he asked.
“Fuck off,” Brent said, sharp and scowling.
Chris raised both eyebrows, but left him to it, closing the door gently behind him. He checked Brent’s schedule.
-
It took longer than he wanted for their schedules to align. Chris knew it was getting bad when Brent came home blackout drunk after one of his gigs.
“Idiot,” Chris said, rubbing Brent’s back as he vomited.
“’m sorry,” Brent said, on his knees, hanging over the toilet as he brought up beer and whiskey.
Chris just sighed, getting a glass of water. It was more unusual for Brent to get himself into this kind of state, these days. It made Chris think back to when it would have been two or three nights a week, Brent coming home with bruised knuckles on top of it.
“Drink this,” he said, shoving the water into Brent’s hands, followed by two painkillers. “And take these.” Brent was going to hate himself in the morning.
-
It was a Wednesday. They had ratatouille for dinner, along with grilled chicken and bread and butter for Brent, who needed to eat about twice as much as Chris did.
“That was great,” Brent said. He had eaten everything on his plate, including Chris’ leftovers and far, far too much bread for an average person.
“Good,” Chris said, smiling. Their usual routine was that Brent would clear the table and load the dishwasher, but Chris shook his head as Brent stood up.
“I’ll deal with this,” he said. “You are going to strip, kneel by my bed, and wait for me.”
Brent froze, his eyes flicking to Chris’ face. “Uh,” he said, eloquently. He hesitated, but some part of him knew this was coming. That he couldn’t carry on like he had without Chris doing something about it.
“Go,” Chris said, getting up to deal with the plates.
Brent went.
-
There was something about waiting, on his knees, for someone. Brent knelt with his thighs a little apart, sat back on his heels, not sure how long he would be waiting for. Sometimes Chris kept him waiting for ages, let the anticipation notch up and up until that was a mindfuck all on its own. He was already embarrassingly hard, his mind replaying all the times Chris had made him kneel like this, and all the things he had done to him after.
It felt like forever, listening to the soft sounds from the kitchen – plates being scraped, the dishwasher being loaded. Brent swallowed thickly when he heard the beep of it being turned on, straining for every noise.
-
Standing in the doorway of his bedroom, Chris took a moment just to admire the view. Brent was beautiful in his submission – a big man, tall and well-built, his tan skin a little lighter in winter. His cock was hard, curving upward, his piercing gleaming at the tip.
“Take that out,” Chris said. “Put in on the bedside table.”
He could have clarified, but he didn’t need to – Brent knew. He watched as Brent took the piercing out with a little hiss, putting it on the bedside table exactly as instructed. His cock looked strangely naked without it.
“Get on the bed,” Chris said, his voice soft, casual. He didn’t need to shout for his voice to carry the weight of authority. “On your back.”
Brent rose up from his knees. Chris wasn’t short, but Brent was tall. Brent was big and muscular where Chris was slim and slender. And still, Brent got onto the bed, passive as Chris bound his arms to the headboard with leather cuffs. Brent would let him do anything.
-
Brent tested the cuffs with a couple of quick yanks before settling. He knew he wasn’t going anywhere. Chris had gotten a headboard with metal framework, years and years ago, just so that Brent knew he couldn’t go anywhere. He still tried it every time, the helplessness of it making his cock twitch.
He parted his thighs as Chris settled between his legs, warm and familiar and still aggravatingly clothed. Chris slapped his thigh, so he parted his legs wider, watching as Chris warmed lube on his fingers.
“You going to fuck me?” he asked, a hopeful note to his voice. He still wasn’t sure what this was – it could be so many things.
“Have I got anything out to fuck you?” Chris asked, raising his eyebrows.
“No,” Brent conceded. The harness was still tucked away.
He was distracted from his racing thoughts as Chris pressed slippery fingers in behind his balls, teasing over his perineum before sinking two slim fingers into him with very little preamble. Brent groaned, pulling reflexively on his cuffs.
-
Two fingers were easy. Chris fucked Brent on them until they were even easier, until Brent relaxed a little, opening his knee a little wider, wanting more. There was a single drop of pre-come at the head of Brent’s cock, begging to be licked up.
Chris watched Brent’s face and pressed his fingers deeper, curled them. He knew Brent’s body so well that he found his target with ease – knew how Brent would react before he even did it. It was still something to behold.
Brent made a quiet noise, his cock jerking visibly, hips rolling. Chris would have him fucking air, by the end.
-
“Ah fuck,” Brent gasped out. Chris’ fingers were slow, but insistent – finding and pressing and rubbing until Brent’s cock ached. He shuddered, already breathing hard, the pleasure pulsing through him in waves.
“Touch me,” he begged. His cock, long-ignored, was rock hard against his stomach, leaking, wet at the tip.
“I’m not going to touch you,” Chris said.
Suddenly, Brent knew what this was.
“No,” he said, yanking hard at the cuffs. “I can’t.”
-
“You can,” Chris said, watching it dawn on Brent’s face exactly what Chris was going to do to him.
Brent could. It took work, but he could. His wrists and fingers would cramp long before Brent got there, though. With one final caress – one that made Brent shudder and swear – he pulled his fingers out. Brent was nicely warmed up for what came next.
“Chris, please, I can’t, anything else,” Brent said.
“You can,” Chris repeated, a reassuring note in his voice. He stroked Brent’s thigh gently and got up. Brent knew the safe word.
-
Brent watched as Chris opened a drawer and retrieved a toy – a prostate massager, with an arm designed to press into his perineum. He stifled a groan.
“Not that,” he said, even as his cock pulsed like it had a mind of its own.
“It’s your favourite,” Chris said, settling back into place. Chris lubed it up and Brent pulled at the cuffs again, somewhere between trepidation and hunger.
It slid in easily – smooth and slim, just big enough to be satisfying. Brent hated it.
For a few seconds, nothing happened. Brent breathed, tense. Chris stroked his thighs.
“Don’t fight it,” Chris said – and his body wanted to obey Chris more than his mind did, because Brent immediately clenched, and it started.
Brent’s protest died on his lips as his body pulled the toy in deeper, riding right up against his perineum. Inside, the curve of it pressed into his prostate perfectly, until he was shaking with it.
He rode it out for several seconds and then relaxed. He fought his own body but only lasted a couple of breaths before he clenched again.
“Fuck,” he swore, his voice rough.
-
There was a certain allure to watching a man come utterly undone. Even better when the cruel fact was, Brent was doing it to himself. All he had to do was relax, and it would stop – but every time he clenched, it pulled the toy in, driving it up against that sweet spot inside him more intensely and directly than Chris could ever manage with his fingers.
The more excited Brent got, the longer and harder he clenched, his breathing rough, his cock twitching visibly.
Chris just stroked his thighs and talked him through it.
“You’re doing so well,” he said, his eyes on Brent’s face, his heaving chest, the way his stomach was speckled with drops of pre-come, his cock slick with it.
It didn’t take long before Brent started begging in earnest.
-
“Please, I can’t,” Brent said. “If you just – I would just – just a little.” He was so close. It would only take a couple of strokes, and he would be there. He couldn’t get there, like this. But he could, had, would, was going to, a small voice in the back of his mind told him. He just needed to suffer a little more first.
“I’m not touching your cock,” Chris said.
Brent groaned, pulling hard at the cuffs. If he could just touch himself, just a little. He clenched and made a pathetic, whimpering noise as the toy resumed its awful, wonderful work. He arched up, looking for something, anything to rub against. Nothing.
“You can do that all you want,” Chris said, his voice soft. “You’re not getting anything. You don’t need it. You’re going to come, just from this.” He paused. “And I wouldn’t do it to you if you didn’t love it so much.”
It was true. He loved it.
“Please, please, please,” Brent said, desperation overflowing, unable to contain it. “I can’t, I can’t do it, please, it hurts,” he sobbed. His cock strained against his stomach, his hips shifting restlessly.
He gave in, stopped fighting, clenching involuntarily around the toy with a whimpering gasp. It started from the very tips of his fingers and toes, pulsing through him in waves, centring on his stomach, on that spot inside him. It built and built and built, every muscle tensing, the toy pulling firmer and firmer against him with every wave.
“That’s it,” Chris said. “Let it go.”
His cock jerked. He was going to die.
And then he was coming. He grunted, curling in with the intensity of it, his cock pulsing as he spilled all over his stomach and chest. Wave after wave of it. He clenched and relaxed with every spurt, the toy still inside him, drawing it out, milking it out of him until he had nothing left to give.
Finally, he relaxed, breathing hard, his head full of nothing. Floating.
-
Chris was still stroking Brent’s thighs. When Brent relaxed fully, every last drip and shudder rung out of him, he pulled the toy out gently.
Brent made a faint noise and looked at him. Chris smiled - there wasn’t a thought behind those pretty blue eyes. He paused to kiss Brent’s thigh, then his hip, reaching up to let Brent out of the cuffs. Brent’s arms just thudded onto the bed like he had forgotten they existed.
“You did so good,” Chris said, kissing Brent softly.
Brent made a soft noise – Chris wasn’t sure whether he was responding to the words or the kiss, wasn’t sure Brent was even hearing him, when he was like this. He kissed Brent’s forehead, then his cheek, then the side of his face, showering him with all the soft sweetness that he deserved.
“I need to get you cleaned up, love,” Chris said. Brent was absolutely covered in come – which had its appeal, but he couldn’t put Brent to bed like that.
Brent made another one of those soft noises, which was as much acknowledgement as Chris could hope for. He kissed Brent one last time and got up, coming back with a damp towel. He cleaned Brent off gently. Brent didn’t even flinch when Chris gently cleaned his cock, even though it would be sensitive.
“I’ll be right back, pet,” Chris said. The towel went into the laundry basket. He got Brent a drink of water, running the tap to make sure it was nice and cold. He put the glass on the bedside table. Brent was still staring up at the ceiling.
“Come on, sit up for a minute.” Brent wasn’t so out of it that he couldn’t obey orders – he sat up, albeit a little wobbly. Chris handed him the glass, and with a little urging, he drained it.
“There’s a good boy,” Chris said, taking the glass from Brent’s numb fingers. “Get into bed, I’ll join you in a minute.”
-
Brent came back to himself in the early hours of the morning, blinking awake in the darkness. He was in bed, Chris wrapped around him from behind, his face pressed into the back of Brent’s neck. His breath tickled.
He took stock of himself slowly. Wiggled his toes, stretched out his fingers. His balls felt a little sore. Most importantly, all that noise in his head was gone.
He gave a soft, contented hum, and fell back asleep in Chris’ arms.