The day they'd set aside for the scene, Jon got up early to get ready. He showered and shaved, and doused himself in talcum powder before getting into costume.
The panties were white and lacy, with delicate pink bows on either hip. The brasserie matched. The girdle was a bit of a struggle to get on by himself, but it had the desired effect of nipping his waist in severely, creating the illusion of wider hips than he actually had. The fact that it was a constant pressure around his midsection, forcing him into better posture, constricting his breathing — well, that was probably appropriate.
The stockings and garters went on smoothly over his freshly-shaven legs. Then petticoats, then the dress — Martin had turned it up in a vintage store, a delicate pale blue with a Peter Pan collar. It fell just below the knee on Jon, even with a petticoat to give it a bit more volume, and for a moment he just looked at himself in the bathroom mirror, looked at the character he was putting on.
Five years ago, he never would've been able to propose this. Even now, he couldn't imagine anyone but Martin seeing him like this. But the further he got from his transition, the easier it was to play pretend like this. To see the appeal in the fantasy, now that it was safely distanced from his reality.
The make-up took a while, and there wasn't much to be done about his nails other than dabbing on a coat of clear gloss, which he'd done the night before. Once he'd pinned his hair up and donned the (fake) pearls, he looked the proper little housewife.
Now to set the stage.
Martin woke up to the smell of frying bacon, which confused him for a moment before he remembered what day it was. Apparently Jon was getting a head start.
He followed the smell into the kitchen, buttoning up his shirt as he went, but at the doorway he abruptly forgot how to breathe. It was one thing to talk about the dress, to see the dress spread out on the bed or hanging in the wardrobe, but a very different thing to see Jon in it. He'd gone all out, from the carefully curled hair to the kitten heels that emphasized the slimness of his legs. He was fucking gorgeous.
Jon smiled over his shoulder at Martin, revealing red lipstick and dark, lined eyes. "Good morning, darling," he chirped, while prodding at a skillet with a spatula. "Breakfast is almost ready."
Martin stepped up behind him and put his hands on Jon's hips; he couldn't exactly span Jon's waist, but something about the dress or whatever he was wearing under it emphasized his smallness, his thinness, and made it delicate. "Good morning, baby," Martin murmured, nuzzling at the back of Jon's neck. "Is all this for me?"
"Of course it is," Jon said, as if Martin had said something silly. "Go and sit down, it's just the bacon and then we can eat."
Martin did not sit down; he ran his hands up Jon's flanks, and around to cup his breasts through the top of the dress. "Maybe I don't want bacon this morning."
"Oh?" Jon half-turned towards him, face a perfect moue of distress. "But — but I always make you bacon in the morning. Did I do something wrong?"
It was such a good performance that Martin chuckled a bit before getting himself under control. "No, baby, you're perfect." He turned Jon around to face him, and at the same time steered him towards a moderately clear section of countertop. "I'm just suddenly craving something else for breakfast."
"But I don't have time to fix you anything else," Jon pouted. "And you can't leave without mmm—!"
Martin cut off Jon's protests with a deep kiss, licking his way into Jon's mouth and probably doing something awful to his lipstick. Jon returned the kiss eagerly, melting into Martin's touch. This time when Martin groped his breasts, Jon arched his back into the touch; and when Martin rucked up Jon's skirts, Jon was already spreading his legs. His stockings were old-fashioned, the kind with a seam up the back that needed garters to stay up properly, and Martin took his time tracing the tops of them, working his fingers under the suspenders and tracing patterns on the soft skin of Jon's inner thighs. When he finally made it further up, he found an adorable little tent where his prick was straining against his panties, and an even more appealing damp spot further back—
Jon suddenly wrenched his mouth away. "Oh! Oh, Martin, the bacon—!"
Only then did Martin notice the smell of burning meat; the contents of the pan looked more like charcoal briquettes than rashers. Swearing, he turned off the hob and covered the skillet with a lid before the grease could catch fire.
"Oh, I'm so sorry, dear," Jon moaned, cowering a bit. "I've gone and spoiled your breakfast."
Martin quashed down the instinct to reassure him, to play it off; the point of this scene was that he got to be a bit of a bastard. Maybe more than a bit. "I suppose I should be used to it by now," he said instead, turning back to face Jon. "A stupid slut like you can't be expected to handle something as complicated as frying bacon, now, can you?"
Jon whimpered, but his pupils were very dilated. "I'm sorry, Martin, please don't be angry with me. I can — I can fix something else. Oatmeal! We have oatmeal!"
He darted towards the cabinets; Martin snagged him by the arm and pulled him back, holding him flush against his front. Times like these he really appreciated the size difference between them; even in heels, Jon was so small, so easy to manhandle. "I don't want any goddamned oatmeal," he growled. "God, can't you do anything right?"
Jon sniffled. "Please," he whimpered, "please, let me make it up to you."
Martin chuckled. "Oh, you want to make it up to me?"
He roughly grabbed one of Jon's breasts and squeezed. "You want to make me happy, baby?"
Martin pushed Jon against the same part of the counter where they'd just been snogging; Jon stumbled and caught himself, but Martin stayed right behind him, pinning him against the counter. "Then take your knickers off and spread your legs. You do know how to do that, don't you?"
With a ragged inhale, Jon hitched his skirts up; those cute little panties with their damp spot in the crotch hit the floor, and he stepped out of them before assuming a wide stance, elbows braced on the counter.
Martin picked them up, admiring them for a moment, then wadded them into a ball. "Open your mouth. I don't want to hear you bleating while I'm fucking you."
"No, please," Jon whimpered. "I can be good, I promise. I can be so good for you."
Martin shoved the panties in Jon's mouth anyway before flipping his skirts up over his arse. His pussy was flushed and slick, and Martin was able to sink two fingers right into it. "Look at this," he said, putting as much contempt into his voice as he could manage. "I'd almost think you got off on disappointing me, you know?"
With his mouth gagged, Jon could only moan and shake his head.
"Is that it? You screw things up on purpose so I'll fuck you harder?" He pumped his fingers in and out for a bit, pressing forward until Jon's thighs were shaking. "You do all your thinking with your cunt?"
Without waiting for an answer that Jon couldn't give him, Martin released his cock from his trousers. The heels gave Jon just enough added height that Martin could easily enter him from behind, fucking him open in short, sharp strokes. Jon reacted with short, sharp moans of his own, their own staccato rhythm, driving Martin wild.
When one of Jon's hands drifted between his legs, Martin slapped his arsecheek; it made Jon's cunt tighten around him deliciously. "Don't you dare touch yourself," he snapped. "I'm the only one who's allowed to make you come, understand?"
Jon nodded, moaning miserably.
Feeling a bit merciful, Martin reached around and began stroking Jon's prick for him. The shift in positions let him fuck Jon deeper, and Jon's whole body began to shake. "You come with my cock inside you or you don't come at all," Martin told him sternly. "Because you're a brainless little slut who can't be trusted not to lay about rubbing your own twat all day long."
Jon shook his head, but Martin could feel how much the degradation was getting him off. Christ, neither of them was going to last long like this. He picked up the pace, really pounding into Jon, harder and rougher than he usually let himself get, and Jon positively wailed.
Jon came shuddering, and Martin managed to fuck him through it, but not much longer that that. He buried himself in Jon's tight heat, and through the haze of his own orgasm remembered one more key element of the scene they'd talked about. "At least there's one thing we know you can do right," he murmured as he caught his breath. "You can make a baby for me, can't you?"
Jon nodded vigorously, squirming on Martin's softening cock.
"That's right." Martin had fortunately stashed the plug in his pocket when he got dressed; it was warm from his body heat as he used it to replace his cock, and Jon was so wet he didn't need any additional lube. "Now, I'm going to plug you up nice and tight, to make sure that takes. Don't you dare take that out until I get home. You understand?"
He pulled the panties out of Jon's mouth so he could answer. He sounded hazy and absolutely wrecked. "Yes, dear."
"What are you going to do?" Martin asked, just to make him say it.
"I'm going to stay plugged up with your come inside me."
"And what won't you do?"
Jon's breathing was more than a little shaky. "I'm not going to come unless your cock is inside me."
"That's right, baby." Martin pulled Jon up off the counter and kissed the back of his neck. "And why do we have to have this rule?"
"Because—" Jon's voice broke. "Because I'm a silly slut."
"Yes, you are." Martin stepped back. "Now, can you clean me up before I have to go to work?"
When Jon turned around, his eye makeup had run spectacularly. But he didn't hesitate to fall to his knees and lap his own slick off Martin's cock and balls. The little kitten licks were just this side of overstimulation, and a part of Martin wanted to hang around to see if he could get it up again in time for Jon to suck him off — but they had a schedule to keep.
Martin zipped himself up, and stuffed Jon's panties in his pocket. "I'm keeping these, I think. Sluts like you don't deserve panties."
"Yes, dear," Jon said, pouting.
Martin pulled him to his feet and gave him a long, lingering kiss. "I expect you to clean up this mess by the time I'm home. Don't disappoint me."
"No, dear," Jon said, eyes falling closed. "I won't, I promise. I'll be good."
Even after Martin left for "work," Jon stayed deep in that hazy headspace, almost floating on endorphins. But he'd promised to be good. So he chiseled the burned bacon out of the pan, did the dishes, hoovered the rugs; he tried not to be too distracted by the thick, unyielding plug in his cunt, or the way his petticoats tickled his bare arse, or the feeling of air on his bare, wet snatch.
He did not do a very good job of any of that.
The knock on the door almost gave him a heart attack before he remembered — the grocery delivery! He checked his make-up in the mirror — he'd had to redo it after breakfast — and then opened the door. Martin stood there with his arms laden with groceries. "Delivery for Mr. Sims?"
"Yes, that's me," Jon said, stepping aside so Martin could enter. "Thank you for bringing it up. It looks so heavy!"
"Oh, it's no trouble, Mr. Sims," Martin assured him. "I'll just leave these things on the table, shall I?"
"Could I bother you to help me put a few things away?" Jon asked. "Only my husband isn't home, and I can't reach the top shelf of the pantry on my own."
There was no mistaking how Martin's eyes brightened at that. "Of course, Mr. Sims. Though I can't imagine why anyone would leave a pretty thing like you home alone."
Jon flushed as Martin quite obviously looked him up and down. "He's very busy at work," he announced. "So I have to stay home and keep the house nice for him."
"Well, he's a very lucky man," Martin said with a wink.
They put the groceries away together, and Martin went out of his way to "accidentally" bump up against Jon, crowd him against the counters, brush his hand across his arse or his breasts. Jon was so keyed up that every touch felt electric, and he wondered — no! He had to be good! He shouldn't want to get off with the grocery boy, he should be good for his husband. Jon tried to push the bad thoughts out of his mind, but it was so hard when Martin was right there, taking up so much space. It made him flustered and clumsy; he kept dropping things, and having to bend over to pick them up, at one point crawling under the table to fetch a can of beans that had rolled away from him.
When he got to his feet after that, Martin was openly leering at him, no longer even trying to hide it. "I, ah, I think that's everything, Mr. Sims," he said, licking his lips. "Do you have the payment?"
"The pay—?" Jon's hand flew to his mouth. "Oh, I'm so sorry, my husband must've — I distracted him this morning, I made him forget to leave the grocery money. I'm such an idiot!"
"Hey, it's all right," Martin stepped up close to him, far too close. "I think I can take an alternate payment, just this once."
Before Jon could even ask what that meant, Martin was kissing him, pressing him against the pantry door. For a moment, Jon let his mouth fall open, savoring the feeling of being held down, overpowered, of Martin's tongue invading his mouth —
No! "Stop it!" Jon gasped, wrenching his mouth away from Martin's. "I'm a married man, I — I can't — "
"Oh please," Martin said. "Like you haven't been gagging for it since I walked in the door. Asking me in, bending over to show me that tight little arse of yours."
"I haven't!" Jon protested, even as Martin emphasized his point by grabbing a handful of said arse through his dress. "I don't — please — m-my husband —"
"You said he's at work," Martin reminded him. "Probably won't be home for hours. Plenty of time for me to fuck you senseless."
Jon moaned in spite of himself. He wanted to be good, he did, but it was so hard to think with this large man crowding around him, with the plug that had been teasing him for hours — wouldn't it be nice to get some relief? Did his husband really have to know? Oh, but Jon was trying to be so good! "I can't," he whimpered, as Martin planted sucking kisses on the side of his neck. "I can't, he'll find out."
"'Course he won't," Martin said. "This can be our little secret."
"I don't want to," Jon said, lying through his teeth.
Martin raised his head, and he was wearing a dangerous smirk. "I'm not asking permission, Mr. Sims. I'm just collecting my payment."
Jon moaned in spite of himself. Maybe it was all right if — if Martin just took it? It wasn't Jon's fault, then. His husband couldn't be mad at him. Except he'd promised to leave the plug in all day, so they could have a baby — he knew quite well that his husband would be able to tell if he took it out. He always could. "You can use my mouth," Jon pleaded. "Or — or m-my bottom, if you want to. I won't fight you."
"But not your pussy?" Martin reached between Jon's legs, pushing his petticoat up against the slick folds of his cunt. Even through several layers of fabric, the hard base of the plug was obviously. "But it's all nice and open for me."
"Please," Jon whimpered, panicking. "Please don't — my husband will be so mad, I promised I'd leave it in!"
"Hmm." Martin thought about it for a while, while Jon held his breath. He wasn't sure which option he wanted — or feared — more. "How about this: You get on your knees and show me what you can do with your mouth. If I like it, I won't fuck your cunt. How's that?"
He stepped back, and Jon eagerly fell to his knees on the hard linoleum. Martin's cock was only half-erect, but it was already so big, Jon wasn't sure he could take all of it — but he had to try, didn't he? He grasped the shaft in one hand and began to lick and suck the head, trying to get enough saliva on it so he could take it deeper. Martin sank his fingers into Jon's hair, though, and shoved right into his mouth, just short of making him gag.
"Not a strong start, Mr. Sims," Martin said. "I'd expect a hussy like you to be better at this."
Jon whimpered, and redoubled his efforts, bobbing his head up and down Martin's shaft and lapping up the dripping precum with his tongue. It was all so seedy, pleasuring a strange man in his own kitchen to avoid getting molested … but also strangely exciting. With the hand that wasn't gripping the base of Martin's cock, Jon palmed his prick through his dress, and found it already hard and throbbing. Oh, his husband would be so disappointed in him!
Martin's hips twitched forward a few times, the only warning Jon got before he started fucking his face in earnest. His cock hit the back of his throat, and Jon had to swallow around it or choke. His eyes began to water from the effort, spoiling his make-up yet again, but the heat between his legs only built as he was fucked and used like a common whore. He was so wet he wasn't sure how the plug was even staying inside him. He rubbed his prick harder, dragging the rough texture of his petticoat over it in a mix of pleasure and punishment.
Suddenly Martin pulled out, breathing heavily. He didn't let go of the handful of Jon's hair that he'd taken, and Jon didn't dare move, even to wipe the drool and tears from his face. Martin wrapped his own hand around the base of his cock and just held it for a moment, like he was trying to hold something back. Then, in a choked voice, he snapped, "On the couch."
"Please," Jon tried again, licking at his swollen lips. "Please, I can do better than that, I promise."
"We can do this the easy way or the hard way, Mr. Sims," Martin said sternly. "And you've been such a good boy for me so far. You really don't want to start making it harder on yourself now."
With a mix of shame and anticipation, Jon climbed to his feet and made his unsteady way to the couch. Just trying to walk straight was difficult when he was this turned on and stuffed up. Martin shoved him onto the couch and shoved a hand up his skirt, whistling when he found Jon's slick covered-thighs. "Wow. This from sucking me off, or are you always so desperate?"
Jon decided to try one more time to keep Martin from taking out his plug. "You don't have to use my p-pussy," he stammered over the vulgarity. "You can — people make love in other ways, don't they? You can put it in my — my bottom?"
Martian gave him a twisted sigh. "Your arsehole, you mean? You ever had anything in your arse before?"
"O-o-of course not," Jon protested. "But I know that's — I've read things. Heard, erm, stories."
Martin pushed Jon's dress all the way up, fully exposing his dripping cunt and hard, wet cock. Seemingly on impulse, he bent his head down and licked a broad stripe up Jon's slit, around one side of the plug, and Jon couldn't contain a squeak. "If you want me to put it in your tight little arse," Martin said, "you're going to have to ask me for it."
Jon's face was hot with shame. "Please."
"Please … please make love to my—"
Martin slapped him directly on the pussy. The mix of pleasure and pain shot through Jon like lightning. "This isn't a romance novel, Mr. Sims. Say it properly. 'I want you to fuck my arse.'"
"I-I want you to f-f-fuck my arse," Jon said, choking on the words.
Martin began toying with the plug, twisting it in place. "That wasn't very convincing."
"Please f-fuck my arse," Jon tried, only stumbling a little, and part of that was due to Martin's manipulations of the toy inside him.
"Fuck me in the arse!" Jon yelped. "Please, I need it! I want you to put your cock in my arse!"
"Now we're getting somewhere, lovely," Martin said. He shoved Jon's legs in the air and began probing at his other entrance; somewhere along the line, something cold and wet appeared that slicked his way as he began to push his fingers inside. "How's that feel, Mr. Sims? Bet your husband's never touched you like this before."
Jon squirmed, trying to get used to being touched in such a dirty place. But if it was dirty, why did it feel so good? "I don't like it," he said, though he feared his trembling voice gave him away.
Martin snorted and worked another finger into him. "Don't worry. You will."
By the time Martin finished preparing him, Jon thought he was going to go mad from the unfamiliar stimulation. It was all too much, being filled in both holes at the same time, but at the same time not enough to push him towards an orgasm. But then Martin pushed his legs into the air and lined up his cock, and Jon felt something far bigger than a couple of fingers push inside him. "No," he whiled, "no, no, no, it won't fit, it's too big,"
"You're the one who asked for it," Martin said, steadily feeding Jon his cock in short, sharp thrusts. "Bit late to change your mind now."
Jon whined, unsure if he wanted to pull away or take more of the blunt cock splitting him open. God, he could feel when it nudged against the plug through his inner walls. So could Martin, apparently, as he started twiddling the toy again, and Jon couldn't take it anymore, he couldn't. His hand shamelessly went to his prick and started rubbing it again, desperate for some kind of release — no! He wasn't supposed to come for anyone but his husband!
"Yeah," Martin sighed, breaking character a bit. "There you go, sweetheart … fuck, you take me so well…"
Jon shook his head, beyond words.
When Martin finished, he pulled out at the last second, shooting his seed all over Jon's legs and snatch. When he'd finished that, he stood up, stretched, and put his prick away like he did this sort of thing every day. "There you are, Mr. Sims. I'll be back next week with the usual delivery." He winked mischievously. "Hope your husband won't be home then, either."
With that he departed, leaving Jon sprawled and exposed on the couch, trembling too hard to move.
Martin really wondered what the neighbors were thinking. Only Jonathan Sims could ask to be dommed in a three-act scene with costume changes. (Martin had vetoed any more on the grounds that his dick might actually fall off if he fucked Jon that many times in one day.)
If he took the stairs a bit quickly this time, well, he thought he was allowed. He'd been keyed up and nervous since he left Jon sprawled on the couch, agitated in a way he couldn't quite put into words; it was part of the scene, they'd agreed on this, but waiting to go back in, trying to hold himself in the right headspace with nothing to focus on, was … not great. Once he ran out of errands, he ended up pacing in front of their building like a lunatic, waiting until the time they'd agreed on for him to be home.
He shoved his key into the lock, took a deep breath. Turned it, took another deep breath. It was as much to give Jon plenty of warning, in case he'd lost track of time, as to settle himself back into himself, if that made any sense. This sort of role-play only worked if they both stayed in character.
Martin let himself into the flat, and tried to tell himself it was a normal day like any other day. "Jon? Are you here, baby?" he called.
"Oh!" He could hear scampering from the direction of the bedroom, and then Jon appeared, looking just as put-together as when he'd first woken up. At least in terms of his hair and make-up. The look on his face was pure, wide-eyed panic that a forced smile couldn't conceal. "Oh, hello dear, you're early!"
"Thought I'd come home for tea today with my favorite husband," Martin said, and the word itself made Jon flinch a little. "Have you been good?"
"Yes, dear," Jon said, wringing his hands in front of him. "I've done just as you told me."
Even if Martin hadn't known the truth, he would've known Jon was lying. "Then come here and give me a welcome-home kiss."
Jon's smile slipped. "But — but I don't have anything ready for tea, dear. I wasn't expecting you so early. I should really get something on the stove—"
Martin closed the distance between them in long, easy strides and pulled Jon flush with him, face to face. With one hand on the back of his neck, Martin kissed him, deeply; there was a noticeable haze of — gardenias? — some kind of old-fashioned floral perfume, probably to cover the smell of sex and sweat from earlier. With his other hand, Martin grabbed a nice handful of Jon's arse and gave it a squeeze.
Martin pulled back, staring into Jon's dilated eyes. "Something wrong, baby?"
"N-no," Jon said. "No, I just — you surprised me. I was surprised."
"Liar," Martin said. "Turn around and bend over."
"It wasn't my fault—" Jon started to jabber, pulling away from Martin's grip.
Martin cut him off. "I said. Turn. Around."
With a little frightened noise, Jon did as he was told, turning away from Martin and bending at the waist.
"Lift your dress up for me."
Jon did so, exposing himself. The plug was still in, and dear god, Jon was so wet around it — it must've been driving him mad all day long. Martin gave it a little tweak just to see Jon twitch. Then he moved his hands higher, cupping Jon's arse the same way the "grocery boy" had, and Jon took a loud, unsteady breath. Slowly, Martin spread Jon's cheeks, revealing a pink, sore hole still wet with the silicone-based lube he'd used.
Funny how Martin could channel a jealous rage over, well, himself. "What the fuck did you do, you useless little —?"
"I'm sorry!" Jon wailed, and spun around to fall at Martin's feet. He actually seemed to be crying a bit. "I'm sorry, I didn't — I tried to be good, but he made me — there wasn't any money and he said — he said he'd take the plug out if I didn't let him use my bottom, I know it was my fault but I couldn't help it—"
Martin let him jabber for a few more minutes before he snapped, "Shut up." Jon immediately fell silent, looking up at him with wet, wide eyes. "I should've known you wouldn't be able to resist bending over for any cock in your line of sight."
"No!" Jon yelped. "No, I swear, I tried to be good, I really did."
"Did you come?" Martin demanded. "Did he make you come on his cock like a little whore?"
Jon clung to Martin's legs. "No! No, I didn't, I was good!"
Martin ignored his pleading and went to the couch — ooh, that had recently been cleaned, more incriminating evidence. He sat down and planted his feet. "Come here."
Sniffling and shaking, Jon crawled over to him.
That sight did things to Martin, low in his gut, but he tried to keep them out of his face as he patted his knee. "Get up here. Arse up."
"W-what are you going to do?" Jon asked warily.
"I know you can't help being a silly little slut," Martin explained, in what he thought was a reasonable tone, "but I need to teach you a lesson about spreading your legs for every stranger you come across. Now get. Up. Here."
Gingerly, Jon spread himself out across Martin's lap, and once again Martin hitched up his skirt for him. After a moment's thought, he carefully unclasped the garters holding Jon's stockings up — it wouldn't do for the metal fittings to be in the line of fire for this. Jon trembled as Martin traced the swell of his arsecheeks and the base of the plug with one finger —
— And then brought his hand down in a satisfying slap. Jon yelped adorably, and squirmed as Martin turned the impact into a firm squeeze. "What's the rule, baby?"
"I can't come unless your cock is inside me," Jon said, already sounding remarkably unsteady.
Martin brought his hand down again, on the other cheek. "And why do we have that rule?"
"Because I'm a s-silly slut."
Again, slightly harder, and Martin left his hand in place to feel Jon's skin pink up. "Say that again."
"I'm a silly slut."
This time, Martin angled his hand just so that it caught the edge of the plug, jolting it. "Again."
"I'm a silly slut!"
Martin kept going, trying to vary the speed and intensity, spreading the impacts out along Jon's buttocks and the backs of his thighs. It took far less time than he'd expected for Jon to start rutting against his leg, trying to get some friction on his prick. "Christ, look at you," Martin sneered. "I can't even punish you properly."
"I'm sorry," Jon whimpered, but he also didn't stop.
Martin aimed another swat across both Jon's cheeks, and his hand came away wet. "What do you need, baby?" Martin asked.
"I need to come!"
"And why should I let you do that?" One more swat, and at this point Jon's arse was so uniformly pink it hardly mattered where it landed.
Jon groaned. "I've been good! I've been good all day, I didn't come even when that man had his cock in my arse, because you told me not to!"
"You still let him fuck you, though." Martin started twisting the plug inside Jon, thrusting it shallowly without getting remotely close to removing it. "Prove you can be good for me, baby."
"I will! I'll be good, I'll be so good, I promise…"
"You really think you can do it?"
"Yes, Martin, please, I can be good!"
Martin rolled Jon over, making him squawk with surprise, and then lifted him bodily off the ground. It wasn't quite as effortless as he wanted it to be, but Jon didn't seem to notice, if the way he clung to Martin's neck was any indication. He carried Jon into the bedroom — at some point, Jon must've made the bed, hospital corners and all. He dropped Jon onto the mattress and then began unfastening his belt. "You don't come until I tell you that you can," Martin said sternly, and Jon groaned and scooted closer to the center of the mattress, spreading his legs wide.
Martin crouched over him and unfastened the front of his dress — frankly, he was worked up enough to just rip it off him, but he didn't fancy sewing all the buttons back on later if they wanted to use this again. Jon's bra matched the panties that were still in Martin's trouser pocket, down to the little pink bow against his sternum, and Martin diverted himself for a bit kissing and sucking and biting at Jon's tits until they were as pink and marked-up as the rest of him. Jon arched his back and writhed under him, talking non-stop, though at this point it was mostly a stream of muddled begging and promising and endearments — please please let me come let me have it I need you I need your cock put a baby in me please I've been so good —
Only when Martin was good and ready (and sure he wasn't going to just come immediately) did he hitch up Jon's skirt and ease the plug from his cunt. Jon actually whined as it came out, but by this point Martin was so hard he couldn't see straight. He lined himself up, and pushed in easily — Jon was so wet and open, between the plug and several hours of denial, that Martin could slide right into his slick, clinging heat.
Jon made a strangled noise and clutched Martin like a koala. "Oh, god, please let me come, please—"
"Are you close, baby?" Martin asked, leaving himself sheathed inside Jon's body and not moving.
"Yes!" Jon whimpered. "Yes, I need it!"
Martin gave a couple of experimental thrusts, and watched Jon tremble like a leaf with the effort of holding back his orgasm. "You're so good, baby," he crooned, nuzzling into the curve of Jon's neck while Jon clung to him with arms and legs. "So good for following the rules. You're doing so well."
"Please," Jon moaned, "please, please…"
"Want me to fill you up with my come?" Martin asked, and nipped at the shell of Jon's ear. "Want me to get you all big and pregnant so everyone knows you're mine?" Jon was beyond words now, the surest sign he wasn't going to last much longer. There was no way Martin was going to last, with Jon writhing in desperation like this. "Come for me, baby," he said, and kept thrusting while Jon fell to pieces under him.
Jon sank back into himself by degrees, coming back to Martin's arms, to the pinch of the girdle and the hot pain on his buttocks and thighs. One of his stockings had slid halfway down. He didn't remember the last time he'd been this relaxed.
Martin started giggling.
"What?" Jon asked, unable to even pretend at annoyance.
"I love you," Martin said, still rubbing soft circles on Jon's back. He often got a bit giddy at the end of a scene, which wasn't the worst sort of comedown one could have, even if it tended to kill the mood a bit. "You're incredible. I think I just came my brains out."
"That would be deeply unfortunate," Jon grumbled. He mostly felt sleepy after a scene, especially one that had lasted this long, though he knew from prior experience that if he fell asleep now he'd wake up in an hour or two sticky, sore and filled with an amorphous hatred. That didn't make it any easier to leave the warm niche of Martin's shoulder.
Fortunately, Martin didn't seem to be immediately inclined to move, either. He started fussing with Jon's hair where it was coming unpinned. "How are you feeling? You need any water?"
"There's two bottles in the nightstand," Jon informed him, and Martin pulled away just long enough to retrieve them. The bottles were the kind with squeeze tops, so Jon didn't have to sit up to drink from it.
"You should eat something, too," Martin said.
"I ate before we started."
"Jon, that was hours ago."
"I'm not hungry yet."
Martin sighed, and let Jon get away with it for the time being.
By the time he'd finished the bottle of water, the euphoria had faded enough for him to really feel his arse and his girdle and all the other little things he'd been able to ignore earlier. Grudgingly, he sat up and began to peel off the dress and its infrastructure.
Martin got up as well, and helped Jon unfasten the girdle. "We're going to have to get this dry-cleaned, aren't we?"
"The petticoat, at the very least." Taking off the girdle was at least as freeing as taking off any binder Jon had ever owned, and he found himself taking a few deep breaths on reflex. His feet ached from walking around in heels, and there was a deep soreness inside him from holding the plug in all day. A satisfying soreness, like a muscle ache after a good work-out … which, he supposed, was exactly what it was.
While the bath ran, Jon unpinned his hair and scrubbed off his make-up. Martin came in just as he settled in for a soak, and immediately started lathering up a washcloth.
"You don't have to," Jon protested.
"Hush." Martin planted a kiss on the crown of his head. "This is part of my aftercare. Lie back and think of England."
The hot water soothed most of the physical aches and pains, and Martin's gentle, almost reverent touch helped with most of the others. Jon did get dangerously close to falling asleep, especially when Martin insisted on shampooing his hair, working the lather down to his scalp with deft fingers and then rinsing it with water poured from a cup.
"You want to sit and soak a bit longer?" Martin asked. "I can bring you a snack."
"I'm not hungry," Jon mumbled.
"Yeah, yeah, but you're not taking ibuprofen on an empty stomach, either."
So Jon got up and toweled off; he dithered for a bit about whether to put on his binder, but ultimately decided it wasn't worth the hassle (especially after the girdle). An old sports bra got him flat enough, especially when he nicked one of Martins' sweaters to wear over it. He shuffled out into the lounge, and Martin met him with a plate of biscuits, a glass of orange juice, and the promised ibuprofen.
Maybe Jon was a bit hungry, after all.
"Did it live up to your expectations?" Martin asked while he rubbed the soreness out of Jon's feet on the couch.
Jon hummed. "Almost perfectly. Though remind me next time I start planning for costumes that I'll have to actually wear the damned thing." Martin snickered. "What about you?"
Martin hesitated a bit. "I didn't love the, er, intermissions," he admitted. "Though I think if I hadn't left the flat, it would've been all right. I wanted to see you."
"Hmm. So we're still on for the one where you tie me up and leave a vibrator in me all day?"
That very nearly made Martin choke on his orange juice, and when he saw Jon smirking he bopped him lightly with a cushion. "Awful man. But, ah, yeah. Pencil me in for that one."
As if Jon trusted anyone else to see him so vulnerable. "That'll have to wait until I stop walking bowlegged, though."
"Yeah, this one was a lot." Martin kissed the instep of Jon's foot and switched to the other one. "Pizza for dinner?"
"No pineapples," Jon warned him.
"Not on your half," Martin promised.
Jon turned around so he could rest his head on Martin's lap, and dozed off like that, well-fucked and content.