It happened because Jim was bored. And as always when he was bored, he searched desperately for something to focus his attention on. Most of the time he just found a new project to play with, whether it was the Holmses or causing havoc on the stock markets or taking over some small country.
This time, unfortunately, the project was you.
The scent of fresh linen and the musk of sex and sweat. The quiet sound of skin against sheets and the occasional bitten-off moan and whimper. The shifting muscle of his thighs beneath your hands and the weight of his cock in your mouth, heavy and hard, the taste of him, the ridge of foreskin and the veins and the taste of precome leaking from the tip…
Even with your eyes closed, sex with Jim is an experience.
His fingers – curled firmly around the back of your neck – suddenly go tight. About bloody time, given that you’ve been between his thighs for more than half an hour.
You open your eyes and peek up. Jim is writhing on the bed, his hand thrown behind him in a tight grip on the headboard, and his hips are jerking up and – there you are. Mouthful of his come.
He falls back on the bed, breathing hard. You sit up and swallow, then give him a hopeful look. His eyes are closed, and he’s smiling.
“Are you gonna…” you try.
He turns onto his side. “No.”
“Fine.” You lie down next to him, snuggling as close as you can without disturbing him. He doesn’t react.
Well, it’s hardly the first time.
You spit into your hand and reach down, but before you can reach your cock Jim’s fingers clasp around your wrist. “No.”
He pulls your hand away and to him, resting it on his hip.
“I thought you said you weren’t going to…”
You get up on your elbow and give him a look. Eyes closed, amused smile.
“Fine. Night.” You turn onto your side and, in petty revenge, spoon him. He shudders, but lets you.
It only takes a few moments to realise your mistake, though. ‘Cause having your hard-on trapped between your stomach and his arse when you’re not allowed to touch is –
- not that fun.
Jim wriggles. “Comfy?”
“No, Seb. Your dick, that’s the issue.”
“You – ”
“Night, darling,” Jim says cheerfully. “Sweet dreams.”
Five minutes later he’s gently snoring.
You need a lot more time before you can even begin to think about sleep.
You wake up to an empty bed and domestic sounds coming from the living room.
You close your eyes and bask, just for a moment. It still feels like a luxury, the possibility to just – lie in, undisturbed. The freedom of it, the peace…
'Course, more often than not Jim takes great delight in rousing you from your sleep in various sadistic ways. Only two days ago you woke up at six AM to a full-volume blast of Rihanna. But not, thank fuck, today.
You roll out of bed and go straight to the bathroom. God, your mouth tastes horrid, and there’s still some dried blood stuck to your shoulders and arms, and you stink of sweat, and there’s something on your cheek that could, possibly, be dried semen.
You step into the shower and turn it briefly to cold, just to wake you up all the way. Then you turn the temperature up again and, humming under your breath, wash off the filth of last night.
You let the hot water cascade down across your back, then look down.
Ah, right. That.
You lean out of the shower. “Hey, Jim,” you yell in the general direction of the living room. “Does the no coming rule still stand?”
“Yes!” Jim yells back.
So you try to glare your half-hard cock back into obedience and turn off the water. Games, again. Probably means he’s got something in store for you.
That thought really doesn’t help your overexcited cock.
You pull on a shirt and jeans, wincing at the zipper pressing against your hard-on, and go to the living room. Jim is sitting on the sofa and reading the paper, two cups of steaming coffee on the table in front of him.
“Why?” you ask.
“Why not?” he says, eyes on the paper, smile on his lips. “Sit down,” he adds, “and drink before it gets cold.”
You sit down on the other end of the sofa, feeling a tiny bit like you’re crossing a minefield filled with blooming daisies.
He doesn’t look upset. Then again, it’s Jim.
“You haven’t done anything wrong,” Jim says calmly, without needing to be prompted.
You sag in relief. “Oh, thank fuck.”
He gives you a quick, amused look. “Although it might have been easier for you if you had, really. Then you could apologise, feel like there’s some meaning, some action you can take to influence it all.”
You stare at him.
He flips a page and adds, casually, “Now you’ll just have to suffer.”
“Close your mouth, Seb, at least try not to look as stupid as you are.”
You lean forward, arms leaning on your thighs. “So, just to clarify…” you say slowly. “No orgasms at all?”
“None.” Jim turns another page. “Until I tell you to, that is.”
“And when will that be?” you ask sharply.
“Well…” He gives you an angelic look. “That would be telling, now, wouldn’t it?”
You groan and drop back against the sofa, arms spread. Jim chuckles.
Fuck him. How hard can this be, anyway?
Sometimes it worries you how fucking domestic your life has become. Sure, there’s the dangerous parts, the car chases and gunfights and undercover spy missions, but right now you’re marinating meat in the kitchen of your shared flat, humming along to Chet Baker on the radio, waiting for your partner to come home. It’s not exactly the life you envisioned for yourself when you were an excitable ten-year old with too much John Le Carré in your bookshelves.
Fuck, all that’s missing is an apron.
And, as if summoned by the sound of embarrassed thoughts, you can hear the door open. “Seb?” Jim calls out.
More little noises, keys jangling and the thud of a briefcase or something. Christ, maybe you should just go with it and bring him slippers and a scotch.
Soft footsteps come into the kitchen, and an arm wraps around your waist from behind. “Evening,” Jim purrs in your ear.
“Evening,” you say. “If you’re thinking about making any wife-jokes, I’d like to remind you I’m currently holding a skewer.”
“Noted.” He nips at your earlobe and his hand slides down over your stomach to rest on your crotch. You close your eyes, smile. It’s been a boring day, and some sex would –
- oh. Right.
You tug Jim’s hand away and get back to cooking.
Jim puts his hand back.
You close your eyes. “Jim…”
“What?” he asks, innocently, his hand firmly massaging your cock through your jeans.
Maybe he’s forgotten about the game. Maybe he grew tired of it, called it a halt and neglected to tell you.
“Nothing,” you say, carefully casual.
Jim pops the button open and slowly drags the zip down. You lean your hands on the counter and breathe out, slowly.
He dips his fingers behind the waistband of your boxers and runs his fingertip delicately over the tip of your hard cock. “Gosh,” he says softly. “That’s quick.”
“Sorry I’m not demure enough for your tastes,” you say, slightly breathless.
“Hmm, I quite like your sexual forwardness.” He pulls his hand back and lazily rubs his palm against your cock through your pants, his teeth gently grazing beneath your ear. You tip your head back, giving him access…
And he steps away.
You blink. “Wh – ”
“Thought I’d forgotten, did you?” Jim says cheerfully. He turns on the tap and starts washing his hands. “Honestly, Sebastian, you should know better.”
“Can’t blame me for trying,” you say, slightly breathless.
“Can’t I?” He turns the tap off and dries off his hands, giving you a sweet smile.
“No orgasms,” you says. “That’s all there is to it, right? Did you see any orgasm happening?”
“You were thinking about it, though.”
Your lips twitch up in a smile. “Going to punish me for my thoughts, now?”
He stretches, then yawns. “Maybe later. When is dinner ready?”
“Half an hour.”
“Fabulous.” He turns on his heel, hands in his pockets. “Don’t misbehave, darling.”
“I thought that was the whole point of me?”
He looks over his shoulder and smirks. “Only in the ways I tell you to. Don’t get cocky, Seb.”
You roll your eyes and turn back to the counter, and Jim leaves.
With a deep breath you do up your jeans again. Bloody Jim.
You jab the skewer into the piece of pork and leave it standing there, quivering.
“And you won't do it again, will you?” Jim asks.
The man in front of him quivers.
“Because then I would be very, very cross,” Jim whispers, leaning in confidentially.
You shiver. Doesn't matter how often you've been here, how many times you've seen him perform this particular trick. It still has its effect on you.
And, of course, on the people in front of him. A whole bloody room full of gun-toting criminals, and they're shaking like terrified schoolgirls. All because of him, because of his reputation, because of the threat he can project just by smiling.
“Right!” Jim says suddenly, loudly. The whole fucking room jumps in fear. “I think I've made my point.”
And he turns and goes through the door, leaving them shocked, dumbstruck. Intimidated.
You give them all a smile, then turn and follow after Jim.
The cold air outside hits you like a punch, but it does nothing to dissuade the adrenaline still rushing in your blood, because - well, they could’ve killed him. They could’ve killed him easily, and they didn’t because he’s Jim Moriarty, because he’s fucking untouchable, and fuck he’s never quite as attractive to you as when he’s grandstanding.
“God,” Jim breathes, heavily. “I needed that.”
You cock you head, watch him. He's been restless lately, too few things to focus on - apart from you, obviously - but right now there's a bounce in his step, a glint in his eye, the start of a grin around his mouth. And if that's the mood he's in, he’s likely to need –
Right on cue, he grabs your wrist and pulls you into a dark alley. He reaches up and kisses you, hungrily, hands on your neck.
You break off. “Here?”
“Here.” He leans back against the wall and grabs your coat to pull you close.
“Can’t even wait until we get to the car?”
“No.” He takes your wrist and pulls it down, and yeah, fine, you can take a hint. You lean one hand against the wall and fit your other against his crotch and he smiles, wide, beatific.
You would die for that smile.
“Good?” you ask, softly.
You lean down and nose underneath his jaw, hand working to get his belt out of the way, then his underwear. He’s already hard – good thing to know you’re not the only one who gets excited by dangerous shit – and he inhales sharply when you wrap your fingers around his cock and start stroking.
“Hurry,” he says, breathlessly.
You nibble at the side of his neck while you jerk him off, his hands on your waist, and – no. No getting carried away. Not getting your hopes up. You’ve learned that much.
Jim’s face scrunches up and he comes, teeth in his lip. You pull your hand away as soon as he’s done and take a step back, inhale deeply.
Jim gives you a lazy smile. “Getting used to it, then?”
“Used to is overstating it.”
“Poor thing. C'mere, let me - ” He reaches out to you but you dance out of the way before he can touch you.
“I’d rather not, thanks,” you say hurriedly.
Jim shrugs, then does up his flies. “Your loss.”
You pull a handkerchief from your pocket and clean up your hand. Your loss. Would he have...?
Nah. It's far too soon to stop the game. He's just fucking with you.
“Jim?” you ask, carefully.
“How long are you going to keep this up?”
“Right,” you say, after a while. sarcastically. “Stupid of me to ask, obviously.”
“Exceedingly stupid.” He jerks his chin. “Come along, now.”
You thrust your hands into your pockets fall into step behind him, breathing in deep gulps of ice-cold air and forcing your libido down again.
You’re not going to give him the satisfaction of hearing you beg.
The difficulty with all this is that you’re used to sex. You’ve never had any problems finding partners when the mood struck you, and if that wasn’t an option you had no issues either with having a quick wank. And given that you’ve been with Jim for two years now, your libido is used to getting off. It’s just a physical thing.
Like now. You were reading, and not even something especially titillating, and yet somehow without you noticing your free hand drifted down to your crotch.
You glare down at your cock, which is straining hopefully against your pants. Poor disappointed bastard. You sigh, resignedly, pull your hand away and go back to your book.
Then the door slams open and Jim strides in. “Evening,” you say casually, turning a page. “Did you – ”
The book is ripped out of your hands, and before you can protest he’s straddling you and kissing and groping your chest and okay, yeah, this is better.
“Finally done with this game, then?” you gasp as he attacks your neck.
“Of course not,” he says, then bites down at your jaw. You moan.
Then his words sink in. “Wait, what?”
He sits up and flips you over. You go on hands and knees automatically – he’s got to be joking, playing a mind game of some kind, just messing with you. Right?
“You heard me.” He puts his hand on your back and leans over you to the bedside table. “The game is very much still on.”
“But – ” You crane your neck, try to keep him in sight.
He grabs the lube, then tilts his head and grins at you. “Look at you. You look devastated.”
“With reason,” you say, slightly panicked. It’s one thing to suck him off or give him a handjob while ignoring your own needs, but actually being fucked by him? Without permission to come? That’s…
“Oh, shush. Show me some of that legendary self-control, Sebastian.” He yanks your pants down and runs one finger down your crack.
You shudder. “I’m – ”
“Oh, reminds me. Top drawer.”
You reach out, teeth gritted, Jim’s fingers slicking lube all over your arse. There’s nothing in the drawer except a packet of condoms and –
“Please tell me you meant the condoms,” you say hoarsely.
“Nope. Going bareback. Unless you have a rather interesting confession to make?”
With a leaden feeling in your stomach you take the cock ring from the drawer. For one second you seriously consider just throwing it out of the window.
But if there’s ever been a time not to antagonise Jim, it’s now.
Jim takes the cock ring and shoves it unceremoniously over your cock. You’re not fully hard yet, the sheer fucking panic overtaking the rest. For now; you know perfectly well that’s not going to last.
Can you come from being fucked and nothing else? You never have before, but then again, you’ve never been in this precise situation before either.
Jim shoves his fingers hard inside of you and you wince. Must have been three or four at once, it feels too tight and too painful for anything less. He twists them, opening you up with no patience at all, then pulls out. A second later you can feel the head of his cock nudge you.
Please let him make it quick. Please don’t let him draw it out.
He shoves your thighs wide – short-arsed bugger – and grabs your shoulder and thrusts in. Your curl your fingers in the sheets and bend your head. Your cock swells, the ring digs in painfully.
Part of it is just pure psychology. Jim might be excessively cruel sometimes, but the times you have sex and he doesn’t make you come are pretty rare. You’ve grown used to this ending in orgasm. But that’s the mental bit, so that, at least, you can try to control a little. Thinking non-sexy thoughts.
Hello Margaret Thatcher in a bathing suit.
The others part of it is bodies, though, Jim’s cock occasionally nudging your prostate and his hand on your hip and shoulder and the cock ring giving an extra edge of pain, and against that you’ve got no defence.
You groan, deep, filthy.
“Careful,” Jim says, laughter in his voice, but he sounds breathless so please, god, let him be finished soon.
He grabs your hips and thrusts, falling into a hard quick rhythm. You lace your fingers together and squeeze, head bent, teeth buried in your lip.
There’s a third thing to all this, and that’s that it’s Jim, and the noises he makes and the feel of his hands – his – on you and just, Jim being Jim. Using you. Getting off on you.
There’s a reason why you spent months half-mad with sexual frustration before he decided to let you in his bed.
Jim grunts and shoves his hips hard against you, then shudders and stops. There’s that weird wet feeling of his come leaking inside of you.
He pulls out. You roll onto your back.
Your cock is purple.
Jim frowns and clucks his tongue. “That looks painful.” He runs his thumb over the head.
“Careful,” he says, again. He tries to tug the ring back up but it won’t budge. “Well, damn.”
“I can…” You swallow. “I can wait it out, right?”
“You can, but that's the boring option.” He leans over you, reaching for the drawer.
The smart thing to do - especially after a comment like that - would be to lie back and wait until he tells you what to do. But he’s close, and warm, and near, so your lust overrides your sense of caution and you run an appreciative hand over his side.
He immediately grabs your wrist and falls back, straddling you. “What do you think you’re doing?” he asks, sharply.
“Touching you,” you shoot back. “What, that’s outlawed as well?”
“Everything sex-related is outlawed until I tell you otherwise.” He sits up again, going back to the bedside table.
“Oh, really? Changing the rules halfway? That’s a bastard move, even for – ”
You stop talking.
Jim is holding a scalpel.
“Now,” he says calmly, changing position. “You’ll have to hold very very still, Seb. I’ve got no desire to castrate you.”
“Me neither,” you say, throat dry.
The light catches on the edge of the blade. Your eyes are glued to it. And you’d think this would be the moment where the danger takes away the sexiness of this whole fucking situation but no, of course not. If anything, you’ve got even harder.
Jim leans forward, frowning in concentration. The cold scalpel touches your cock. You press up unto your elbow and watch, transfixed, terrified, turned on beyond belief.
And then the pressure falls away and Jim holds up the cut ring up in triumph. You fall back on the pillows, hands over your face.
“Je-esus fucking Christ,” you gasp. “Please don’t do that ever again.”
“You’re that flustered by a knife near your balls?” He clucks his tongue. “Really, Seb, I’d have expected better of you.”
“I’m that flustered by you holding a knife near my balls, important distinction.” You sit up, wincing as the change in movement makes more come drip out of you. “Can I please go take a cold shower now?”
He cocks his head. “Do you have any idea how tempting it is just to put a plug in you now and let you walk around like this for the rest of the day?”
“Jim – ”
“Yes, fine, go shower,” he says indulgently. “Since you asked so nicely.”
“Thanks.” You stand up, then wince again. It’s not just the slow, slightly disgusting feeling of his come dripping down the inside of your thighs, or the muscles of your legs twinging, or the soreness in your arse.
It’s the way he looks at you.
“You’re evil,” you tell him, then go to the bathroom accompanied by his laughter.
Jim is fondling a pencil.
You’ve been unable to look away for a whole five minutes now. He is, without a doubt, fondling. Nobody normal holds a pencil like that. Normal pencil handling etiquette does not include slowly rubbing one’s thumb over its length, or repeatedly and gently stabbing the tip into the flesh of one’s palm, and definitely doesn’t allow slapping said pencil against the inside of one’s wrist with a sound that’s worryingly like the sound of spanking.
Jim taps the back of the pencil against his chin, then slips it between his lips.
He sucks, cheeks hollowing out, then opens up again. His tongue swirls over the tip, softly flicking –
“Alright, you’re doing it on purpose,” you say, slightly hoarse.
Jim plops the pencil from between his lips and gives you a sunny smile. “I do what on purpose?”
“Fellating that pencil.”
Jim widens his eyes. “I have no clue what you’re on about, darling.”
“Fine, sure, whatever.” You fall back and close your eyes. You can practically hear the wet slide of his lips.
It’s been like this for the last few days. He’s been getting increasingly creative, whether it’s wearing suits that are just a slight bit too tight, or preparing food that requires an inordinate amount of sucking and nibbling, or even when he just tells subtlety to fuck off and walks around naked after a shower…
It just keeps coming. You keep not coming. And it’s driving you slowly insane.
Something nudges your thigh. You open your eyes to Jim rearranging himself in the couch, so his feet are up on the armrest and his head –
His head is resting in your lap.
He turns and smiles at your crotch. “Needy?”
“Desperately.” You tip your head back against the couch. “Jim, come on. A little mercy here?”
“Mercy?” He snorts.
Then he leans in and closes his teeth lightly around the shape of your erection, over the fabric of your trousers.
At this point, you’d almost wish he’d just bite down. At the least it would end this constant fucking need.
“Jim…” you groan.
He pulls his mouth back. “Need something, Seb?”
“Please can I come,” you say, through gritted teeth.
He sits up and straddles your lap, an expression of delight on his face. “Say it again.”
“Please can I come?”
He grabs your face and plants a wet, bitey kiss on your mouth. “Again,” he says, heated.
“Please can I – ngh.”
He slowly presses his palm harder against your crotch. “Again.”
“Please can I come. Jim, please, just, stop, give me, please…” You moan.
“Again,” he whispers hotly in your ear, pressed close against you.
“Please let me come.”
He hops off your lap and stands up in front of you. “No,” he says, grinning.
You stare at him through hooded eyes. You didn’t seriously expect him to give in, of course, but it’s still a shock, the sudden absence of his warm weight, your cock giving a forlorn twitch inside your underwear.
Who’d have thought begging was actually a turn-on all on itself? You’re discovering all sorts of new things about yourself here.
“You’re looking a bit flushed,” Jim says, full of sadistic glee. “You alright, Seb darling?”
“I think I may be dying,” you say flatly.
He leans down and pecks you on the lips. “Don’t be overdramatic, now. No one has ever died from sexual frustration.”
“How many people got murdered because of sexual frustration?” you ask, darkly.
Jim laughs and chucks your cheeks. “Bless. You really are adorable when you’re sulking.” He falls heavily back into the couch. “Anyway. Back to work.”
And the tip of the pencil disappears back between his lips.
You watch for two seconds, then manage to tear your eyes away and stand up, to find something distracting and difficult and preferably violent to do instead.
It’s been two weeks.
Two weeks, and already you’re coming close to breaking point.
The hot water cascading down your back is doing nothing to dissuade your hard-on, which annoyingly sprang to life the second your thoughts started to stray and turned to sex.
You put your hands against the walls of the shower, above eye-level, and glare down at your crotch. “Stop it,” you growl, but if it was that simple Jim would never have bothered.
You tilt your head back into the spray, try to think of anything but sex, or Jim’s smile or his hands or his -
Fuck it. You reach for the knob - no, not that one - and turn the temperature as cold as it goes.
“You look cold,” Jim says when you walk into the living room.
“You look - ” you start, but then you get distracted because Jim’s left hand is resting lightly on his crotch.
“Hard?” Jim suggests cheerfully. “Because you’re right, and something needs to be done about that, don’t you think?” He snaps his fingers and points at the carpet in front of him. “Knees.”
“Jim, can’t you - ”
“Knees,” he repeats, and the cheerful smile twists a little and you swallow, go to him, kneel down.
The simple act of unbuttoning his trousers is enough to undo all the effect of the cold shower already.
“How long has it been, again?” Jim asks, because of course he’s going to draw as much attention to your predicament as possible.
“Fifteen days,” you say between gritted teeth, “Seven hours, and…” You pull his underwear down, let his cock spring free. “Approximately fifty-two minutes. Not that I’m keeping track.”
Jim pulls a sympathetic face. “Ooh, that must sting, mustn’t it?”
“You’re a fucking sadistic cunt.” You wrap your fingers around his cock and bend down, take him in your mouth. His hand falls to your hair and he pulls, hard. The sharp little shock of pain is enough to make your cock twitch. Maybe if he’ll keep this up you’ll just come spontaneously, no direct contact needed.
A man can hope.
You keep sucking and tonguing until Jim groans and slides down a little, tilting his hips up as he comes. You swallow neatly, lean back and wipe your mouth. And put your hands back on his thighs, because you’re not entirely sure if you can trust yourself to keep your hands free right now.
“How hard is it, Seb?” he asks, eyes crinkling in delight at the pun.
“I’m not going to reply to that.”
“Spoilsport. Well, that leaves me only one option, doesn’t it?” And before you realise what he’s about to do he bends down and cups your crotch.
Your breath catches. Your hands tighten on Jim’s thighs. Jim leans down closer and brushes his lips against your ear. “Do not come now, Sebastian. You haven’t got permission.”
“Then can you - could you please stop touching me?” you say. Your voice is shaking.
You stopped begging a couple of days ago, because Jim had implied that he added a day for each please that came from your mouth. But you started up again the day before yesterday because you were beginning to lose it.
Not that it helps, of course.
He lets go with one last sadistic squeeze and puts his fingers under your chin. “It’s difficult, then?”
“Torture,” you say, staring at him.
“Keeping your hands to yourself, all that willpower… Would you like something to make it a bit easie-”
“Yes.” It comes out before you can stop yourself, and you should have stopped yourself because nothing is ever straightforward with Jim.
“Well then.” He gets up and pats your shoulder. “Stay there,” he says, and then he disappears to the bedroom.
You try to slow your breathing. One of the side-effects is that you’re extremely aware of every kind of touch - like now, the roughness of the little hairs of the velvety couch tickling your palms, or the hard pressure of the wooden floor against your knees. Go dry for long enough and everything starts feeling slightly sexual.
It isn’t like this is the first dry spell you’ve ever had. Back when you were on deployment there hadn’t been time or privacy for even a quick wank, but then you had something else to concentrate on.
And the army didn’t have Jim, prancing around like a walking aphrodisiac.
The door closes, a few footsteps sound, and then something lands on the cushions in front of you. It takes a second before you can identify it, and then - “No.”
Jim ambles up and stands at your shoulder, hands in his pockets, looking down thoughtfully at the shiny cock cage. “I could have made it worse, you know,” he says casually. “Could have gone for a whole chastity belt. Although, I still might. Consider this a trial run.”
You look up at him. “Please, not this, I’ll - you know I can control myself.”
His hand falls to your nape, fingers scratching lightly. It doesn’t help. “I don’t see why you’re complaining. This is going to keep you from getting hard, I thought you’d be pleased. Every used one of those before?”
“No. I know the principle, though. Jim…”
He puts his hand under your chin and jerks your head up. The amused light has gone out of his eyes. He’s checking you, isn’t he? Seeing how far you can be stretched before you snap. He’s been doing that a lot, the last few days.
Not for the first time you wonder what this would be like with someone who - well, someone normal. Someone who uses safewords and limits instead of just reading your mind and your body like an open book.
But there’s no point in wondering, because you would never even consider doing this with anyone but Jim.
He drops his hand and sprawls into the couch, then takes the cock cage and turns it around curiously. “It’s supposed to be impossible to get hard in this - there are even little pointy bits attached, isn’t that thoughtful? Of course…” He trails off and grins at you. “Not sure if pain is an effective deterrent for a masochist.”
You fold your arms on the couch and drop your forehead onto your forearm. “Well, you’re going to have to wait to put it on, anyway,” you say, voice muffled by the cushions. “No way I’m going fit in that now.”
“Oh, that’s alright, I thought of that.”
You raise your head. He’s holding a bag of ice.
You meet his eye and hold your hand out. His smile grows and he puts the bag in your hands.
One breath, two. You steel yourself.
Then you smack the ice bag down onto your crotch.
Jim is looking at you.
You try to ignore it, but it’s Jim, and – well, he’s doing it on purpose. He loves just staring at you until your trousers start to tent.
“Too easy,” he says derisively.
He got tired of the cock cage pretty quickly; apparently half of the fun of all this is in seeing you walk around trying to hide your erection, or wince when something brushes up against your crotch. There’s no fun when he can’t see the result of his actions.
“I’m simply not made for celibacy,” you say tiredly. “You can’t expect me to be ready, willing and able several times a day whenever the mood strikes you, and then complain that I’m overeager when I’m not getting any.”
“Telling me what I can and can’t do, now?” Jim asks, carefully casual.
Your manners have started to suffer, lately.
“Really?” Jim snaps his fingers and points at the carpet. “Trousers down and arse up, darling.”
You glare at him. “And what if I say no?”
Jim grins. “Want to try?”
You open the buckle of your belt and snap it off, still glaring at him. Jim leans back against the table and raises his eyebrows.
You open your flies and drop your trousers and boxers, then move to step out of them, but Jim shakes his head. So you turn and go down on your knees. Jim wolf-whistles, then nudges your arse with the tip of his shoe.
You link your hands and lean on your forearms, knees spread, trousers and underwear bunched around your ankles, and bare arse sticking up in the air. Probably meant to be humiliating; personally you just find it tiring.
Somewhere behind you, Jim pops the cap on a bottle. A moment later there’s a rustle of clothes, a soft thud as presumably Jim’s knee hits the carpet, and the cold slick touch of his fingers on your arse.
“Don’t drip on the carpet,” he says cheerfully.
You close your eyes and let him work. He’s going slow this time, not like last time, when he didn’t even bother with preparing fingers before fucking you through the mattress.
You’re not entirely sure which is worse.
He continues curling his fingers, pushing and slowly sliding in and out. You stay quiet and don’t make a sound – stupid, perhaps, sheer stubbornness, and the only thing this is going to do is make Jim even more determined to get a noise from you. But right now, you don’t care. You need to push back somehow.
Because god, your tempter has been mounting.
“Trying to prove a point, Seb?” Jim asks. The amusement is starting to go from his voice; instead, there’s something brittle about it. Cold.
You stay quiet.
Jim pulls his fingers back and something nudges against you. You try to look behind you but Jim grabs your neck and squeezes. “No looking.”
You drop your head forwards. The pressure of the – plug, dildo, whatever, increases to the point where it almost gets painful, then stops.
“There,” Jim says, satisfied, with a little pat on your arse.
“I’m presuming that’s a plug?” you ask, getting up again.
“You’re presuming right.” He grabs your shoulder and pushes you back again. “Down, sweetheart.”
“Really?” you say, amused. “Getting into human furniture now? I never thought that would – ”
Pain blossoms across your arse in one fiery line.
“Was - ” You take a deep breath. “Was that my belt?”
“It most certainly was. You’re so perceptive, Sebastian.” He hits you again and you pitch forward a little, your forearms scraping against the carpet.
The next hit doesn’t come.
“So, er…” you say. “You’re…”
The plug begins to buzz. You bite your lip, hard, but before you can even begin to adjust Jim hits you again.
You curl your fingers into the carpet, breathing hard. It’s not a really intense kind of vibration, but you’ve been, what, running dry for almost three weeks now?
“Don’t move,” Jim says. The sadistic glee is gone from his voice. He sounds cold, distant.
It really doesn’t help.
You brace yourself and he starts pummelling, giving no breaks in between hits. You lose count quickly enough, just riding on the pain and that fucking vibrator cheerfully continuing its buzz.
Then it stops. The hitting, at least. The plug is still happily buzzing against your prostate.
You stay quiet, unmoving. Trembling.
The belt comes across your vision, then lodges around your throat, and Jim hauls. You’ve got no other choice but to sit up, hands at the belt in a desperate attempt not to choke.
Jim runs his hand over your cheek. “Not tempted?” he asks, softly. “Your hands are free, you know.”
You’re so hard it hurts.
But that wasn’t permission.
You breathe in as much as you can, the belt not actively choking you but not giving you much room to breathe it either. And you drop your hands by your side.
For a moment nothing happens.
Then Jim removes the belt and the buzzing stops. You fall forward on your hands, wince as Jim pulls the plug from your arse. Your vision is going blurry at the edges.
Fuck him. Fuck him.
You get up, shakily, and turn to face Jim. Your hand clenches into a fist, and you honestly want nothing, nothing more than just beat him into a bloody pulp.
Jim tilts his head, watching you. Expression unreadable.
“Fuck off,” you mutter, then turn and limp away to the bathroom.
They’re hanging up a giant new billboard of a model in lingerie, two streets away from the flat. You stare at it dully, trying to work up some interest. It doesn’t really work. Maybe your libido is broken, put on active for too long. Like you OD’ed on lust.
You sigh. It’s evening. Maybe you could just go to a club, pick up a stranger, have a quickie in an alleyway somewhere.
But it wouldn’t be Jim, so what would be the point?
You trudge down the street, the rain slowly seeping in through your collar. Your mood has been foul, lately. It’s a little worrying. It feels like all it would take is just one more of Jim’s cheerfully sadistic tricks and you’re going to end up physically attacking him.
You take the lift to the flat and try to shake off as much off the rain as you can. Your clothes are sodden, and you’re tired and stiff. The only good thing from all this is that you’re so bloody miserable even your desperate cock has temporarily gone out of service.
You lock the door, hang up your coat, and freeze as your eyes fall to the living room. There’s a pair of handcuffs lying on the kitchen table, as well as something that looks like a sleeping mask. A blindfold.
You take off your coat, then lean your hands on the table and bend your head.
A soft rustle of clothes behind you announces Jim’s presence.
“I’m really not in the mood for this kind of thing,” you say tiredly.
“Well, I am,” Jim says.
“I’m tired, Jim. Can’t you just – ”
“What if I told you you could come this time?”
Your head whips up.
Jim gives you a smug smile. He’s leaning in the doorway, in shirtsleeves and trousers, looking immensely attractive.
You grab the cuffs and the blindfold and throw them at him. “Let’s get moving, then.”
He undresses you, even taking the time to towel you all dry and warm again, then chains you to the bed, on your back. The blindfold is a touch you could do without, but if that’s the price you have to pay to finally end this fucking demented game, then fine. Gladly.
Jim settles down on your thighs and puts both hands flat on your chest, thumbs on your nipples. “Comfortable?” he asks, voice smooth and warm.
He takes his hands back, and a few seconds later something cool drips onto your stomach. “If that’s lube, Jim,” you say, amused, “your aim’s a bit off.”
“It’s oil,” he says calmly.
You can hear the wet sound of his hands rubbing together, and then his hands go back to your chest.
It’s incomparable to anything you’ve had the last few weeks. It’s warm, and comfortable, and soothing, and even when he starts paying attention to the top of your thighs, your nipples, your hips and sides, even then the arousal that rises is slow, mellow.
Your breathing slows down. You arch lazily into Jim’s slick touch – he’s good at this, finding all your sore muscles and avoiding the ticklish spots, pressing down long and deep into your body until you’re basically melting into the sheets.
You give a happy hum.
“If I didn’t know better I’d think you’d gone in subspace,” Jim remarks.
He leans down and bites down lightly at your neck, and, okay, maybe it’s getting less mellow now. He bites down again; you pull against the cuffs and there's a warm puff of air against your shoulder, a small sound - is he laughing at you? Probably, the sadistic cunt, but that doesn't matter, not if he gives you what you want.
He slowly works his way down, mouth following the path of his hands, and you arch up, breathing coming faster. God, fucking finally.
He’s reached your hips, and his hand drifts down and cups your arse. You're beyond hard, so much it's become painful. His fingers, still slick with oil, push inside and curl up, and his mouth closes over your cock. You bite your tongue and bury your fingernails in your palms –
And he disappears.
“Jim?” you choke out.
Nothing happens. You’re panting and shaking and all the friction you can get is the cool air against your overheated skin. You yank against the restraints, in a blind panicked attempted to finally get this over with – maybe that’s the plan, maybe he just wants you to do the final honours – but the cuffs don’t give.
You try to turn over, get at least some friction from the sheets, but Jim’s hand appears again and yanks you back.
“You said – ” you croak.
“I didn’t say anything,” Jim says smoothly. “Or, well, I said, but I didn’t promise. What if. You really should start paying more attention to my words, Seb.”
You trash against the cuffs. “You fucking filthy liar – ”
“Shhh.” He pets your shoulder.
You turn your head and bite at his fingers.
He laughs. “Honestly, Sebastian. Calm down. You didn’t think it would be this easy, did you?”
“I’m going to fucking murder you – ”
He’s briefly close – you can smell him, feel the body heat coming off him – and then there’s a jingle and, yeah, that’s the cuffs, unlocked. You shake them off, then tear the blindfold away and whirl on Jim. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, smiling.
But there’s an edge in his eyes.
“Go on, then,” he says. “Your hands are free now. Murder me first, get off later? Other way around? Or, ooh, go wild and do both at the same time.”
You take a deep breath.
He’s still watching you, and that look… It isn’t sadism. It isn’t mockery either.
If anything, it’s vaguely suspicious.
You carefully swing your legs off the bed. Jim scoots back suddenly as if he’s expecting an attack.
“I’m taking a shower,” you say casually. “Joining me?”
“What?” Jim says, sounding completely blindsided.
“Or not.” You go off to the bathroom, feeling Jim’s eyes on the back of your neck.
You might still be trembling and panting with sexual frustration, but you still can’t shake the faint feeling of victory.
- his hand on your neck, his mouth on yours. His legs are around your waist and he grunts as you push in, back arched, beautiful gorgeous his nails leaving fiery stripes down your back and his teeth in your shoulder and -
You open your eyes.
You’re still hard.
For fuck’s sake, only a few seconds longer and it would’ve ended in an orgasm, you’re sure, and not even Jim can blame you for your dreams – but no, obviously even your subconscious hates you.
You kick against the footboard of the bed, cursing a blue streak. The pain helps, briefly, but it doesn’t last.
You get up, tense with frustration, and go to the bathroom and the shower. Temperature on freezing, straight under the spray. You lean against the tiles, breathing shallowly, and let the water cool you down until your teeth are chattering and you hard-on has gone down at least a little.
But that’s about as much as you can get, these days. Not even ice is enough to deter you for more than a few minutes.
You turn off the water and get a towel. You’re still trembling a little with the cold, not even drying off really helps there. But at least it’s a distraction.
You sit down on the toilet seat and close your eyes, breathing slowing.
Your little victory three nights back may have given you a momentary advantage, but the situation still remains the same. It’s gone beyond frustration. You can barely remember what it feels like, having satisfying sex. Not being this fucking needy all the time, sensitive. Obvious.
No. It’s fine. You can cope. It’s alright. You’ve just got to last until Jim decides to stop. That’s all.
The door creaks. You look up.
Jim is leaning in the doorway, watching you. Arms crossed, frowning, a strange look in his eyes.
“What?” you snarl.
He just keeps watching you. You run your hands over your face.
“Look, Jim,” you say, irritated. “If you’re just going to stand there I’d prefer if you’d just fu-”
“I didn’t predict this.”
“I didn’t predict it would be that difficult for you.” He cocks his head. “And I definitely didn’t predict you’d go along with it. I was expecting a quick secretive wank after a day or five, and then I could punish you for that. That was the point of the game. Not this.”
You look up at him, tiredly. “Sorry.”
He steps in close and grabs your chin, tilts your head up. “Why didn’t you?”
“Because you told me not to,” you say hoarsely.
He runs his thumb over your bottom lip. “Loyal boy,” he murmurs.
You close your eyes, tilt your head. He runs his hand over your cheek.
You get up, legs unsteady, and lean against the wall. Jim stands in front of you, still frowning at you.
Then he drops down to his knees.
You curse and grab hold of the sink, desperate. “Jim, please, don’t – ”
“Shush.” He puts his hand on your lower back and grabs the base of your cock with his other hand and sucks hotly on the head. You groan.
“Jim – ”
He pulls off. “The game’s done.”
“You – what?”
He nips at your thigh, then looks up at you. “What do you want?”
It could just be another trick, like the ones he pulled on you before. Promising you things, then re-interpreting, or giving it a nasty twist, or changing his mind at the last possible moment. But…
He smiles and gets back up again, then hooks his hand around the back of his neck and kisses you, gentle and slow.
Feels like ages since he last kissed you like this.
“I mean it,” he says softly. “You decide.”
You blink, briefly overwhelmed by the possibilities. “Bed,” you croak, “cause I’m gonna collapse if I come now.”
You shrug. “Don’t care. Just you.”
A strange look crosses Jim’s face.
Then he takes your hand and drags you along. He pushes you onto the bed and you fall back, and he crawls over you.
“Can you hold your legs up?” he asks, all calm and considerate.
You nod, speechless.
“Good.” He reaches for the drawer and pulls out a bottle of lube, then starts slicking up his fingers. He gives you a quick look and a smile. “Might as well make this worth your while.”
“This is – you’re serious, right?” you ask desperately. “I’m – you’re not gonna…”
He puts the tips of his fingers just below your balls and leans in, mouth close to your ear. “I’m going to fuck you,” he says, softly. “And you’re going to come screaming my name. Alright?”
You nod. He pulls back again and settles between your spread thighs, slowly rubbing around your hole. You close your eyes.
Maybe you're still dreaming. It's too good to be true, isn't it? Wish fulfillment. You're going to wake up any second now with a new high in frustration and -
You open your eyes. He's got his fingers inside of you, pushing in slow and careful.
“Am I awake?” you ask weakly.
He laughs, then works in another finger. “Yes,” he says, something warm in his voice. “Yes, you're awake.”
“Ah. Good. You're - nngh.”
He makes a shushing noise, then pulls his hand back and changes position, pushing your thighs wider.
“Alright?” he asks.
You’re stunned. He never does this, he’s never this careful. He never asks for your opinion, and now he is, and it’s…
“Yeah.” You clear your throat. “Yeah, I’m good.”
“Good.” He shifts his weight, then leans against the back of your thighs.
When he pushes in it feels like heaven. Not that this is the first time he’s fucked you the last few weeks, but now you know that this isn’t a tease, that it’s the real thing – and with him being so fucking nice about it... It's perfect. It's literally fucking perfect.
He falls into a slow rhythm, pulling almost completely out before thrusting in again. Fucking you deep. You hook your hand behind your leg and pull, giving him more space. He chuckles and leans down for a quick kiss.
You briefly close your eyes, overwhelmed, then force yourself to open again because the sight of him… He’s frowning, in concentration, and he looks fucking gorgeous and then his fingers close around your cock and –
“Seb,” he says, softly.
You throw your head back and keen.
He shushes you again. His free hand comes up and strokes your throat and your chest, tracing the marks he left there a few days ago, adding a little pain to the mix. And he just keeps fucking you, and his hand around your cock is moving with the same slow careful deliberation and you reach out, desperately, grab his shoulders and he leans down and kisses you hungrily.
You pull off, arch up from the mattress. So fucking close now but that says nothing, he's forced you here several times before only to pull back at the last moment, but not now, for the love of fucking god not now, but -
- he grabs your hair and kisses you teeth in your lip -
- thrusts in hard hitting your prostate -
- twists his hand fingers running over the head of your cock and -
- and –
It's overwhelming. You're vaguely aware of clawing at Jim's shoulders and your mouth moving, saying something - his name, yes, not quite screaming - but for the most part there's just pleasure, and not much room for anything else.
And then it's manageable, just about. You fall back against the mattress, panting and shaking like you've just run a bloody marathon, and Jim, where - lying next to you, touching at shoulder and hip.
You run your hands over your face. “Jesus.”
“Good, then, was it?” Jim asks, mocking.
You roll your head. You’re still panting, and god knows what your face looks like but it makes Jim smile, in a small understated kind of way. “I think I may just have had a near-religious experience,” you say hoarsely.
Jim laughs, then scoots up and sits back against the headboard. You move closer, your head resting on his thigh. He puts his hand on your neck, strokes your hair.
Strangely, you never really realised just how much you missed this post-coital peace as well.
“Was this a test?” you ask, after a while.
Jim's hand stops moving. “No. You just – surprised me.”
“Bet that doesn’t happen very often,” you mumble.
“With others, no,” Jim says. “But with you?”
You open your eyes in surprise, then roll over so you can see Jim's face.
Jim shrugs, something in his expression that in anyone else you would call awkward. “You've always been the exception.”
He pets your hair. “Go to sleep, Seb,” he says softly.
You close your eyes and roll over, comfortably pillowed on Jim's thigh. “You too, you know,” you mutter, already on the edge of sleep.
“Are an exception. To me. I wouldn't - ” You yawn. “I wouldn't even think about letting anyone else do this to me.”
“I wouldn't let anyone else do this to you,” Jim says, the kind of possessive grandstanding that you usually take the piss out of, but right now it feels... weirdly nice.
“Yeah.” You snuggle a little closer to Jim, drinking in his scent, his warmth, his closeness. “That too.”
He continues petting your hair and neck. You breathe in slowly, sinking deeper, feeling - calm. Peaceful.
And just as you're drifting off - so soft it might have been different words, of just a sigh, or entirely your imagination - you hear Jim's voice.