The interior of the club is just as... as swanky as the exterior had suggested, and Quentin feels distinctly like a fish out of water as he skirts the edge of the dance floor. He still isn't sure how he got in, why he caught the attention of one of the co-owners, but he does know that that kind of woman is not the kind to be disobeyed. And he does want a drink, if he's going to be sitting here trying to figure out what's so appealing about...
"Sticks and stones may break my bones, but chains and whips excite me," Rihanna sings over the speakers, and Quentin can't help an amused snort, both at the timing and the song choice.
The bar is unmistakable, and Quentin settles into a stool at the end. He turns to watch the writhing mass of bodies on the dance floor as he waits for the bartender to come back down the bar to him. It's busy, even at seven o'clock on a Sunday night, so he's waiting long enough for his gaze to wander. The dance floor is small, smaller than one might find in a usual club, with tables scattered around it and the walls lined with intimate-looking nooks, some of which are already occupied. Everyone here is dressed to impress, most in usual club attire, but others are barely wearing anything at all. A girl in a sheer baby doll and little else walks right by him, following a woman who is leading her by the hand. Across the room is a guy in leather pants and no shirt with some kind of harness across his chest, a collar around his neck. The collar is attached to a leash, which is attached to the wrist of a guy in full fucking leather daddy gear, Jesus. At one of the tables, another man kneels beside an imposing-looking woman with red lipstick, his head bowed and his hands folded behind his back, his feet bare and his knees resting against a plush velvet cushion.
Quentin doesn't realise he's staring until a deep, sultry voice murmurs right into his ear. "Like what you see?"
Quentin startles so hard he nearly falls off of the stool. "Jesus," he blurts, whipping around to stare at - at the bartender, who's still leaning against the bar, a smirk on his lips. "I, um. It's just not - not something I'm used to seeing. Sorry, I know staring is rude."
The man laughs at that. The light catches his eyes when he does, the shiny gold tie pin resting against his burgundy-and-gold tie. He's wearing a navy vest, the sleeves of his crisp white shirt rolled up to expose his lovely forearms, and delicate curls are tumbling over his forehead and into his eyes. He's... Fuck, he's gorgeous. "Oh, sweetheart," he's saying, his smirk even sharper now like he knows Quentin's mouth has just gone dry. "They're here because they want to be stared at. Please, stare away."
Quentin has to swallow before he can get his tongue to work. "Right, um. Yeah, okay," he says - stammers, really, and wow, he's just making an amazing first impression, isn't he? "What - Um, what kind of drink would you recommend, then, while I'm... observing?"
"Well, that depends," the bartender says, though he's already reaching beneath the bar for a glass. "What do you like? In a glass, generally, and... in bed."
Quentin feels his face heat. "I like mixed drinks, usually tart," he says. "And, um. Well, in bed... I don't know. Nothing's really... stood out."
"Oh," the bartender says, and his gaze turns appreciative, even a little hungry. "I find that very hard to believe."
"I'm not one of those people who lies to impress strangers," Quentin says, gaze dropping to the bartop because he can't quite handle the look in the other man's eyes. "Really, I'm just... your average guy, I think."
The man's hand slides along the bar and into his view, his fingers wiggling invitingly until he forces his gaze back up to the bartender's face. "Then what," he says, "pray tell, are you doing here? It's not cheap to get in, especially for your average guy."
"Oh, I, um. I was admiring the architecture, and uh - Okay, so I was brooding a little bit, right outside the door, and Ms Hanson spotted me, asked what I was doing, and invited me in when I said I was just looking, and didn't have any plans for tonight. Told me to have at least one drink before I left, so."
The man laughs again, the sound rich and warm. "Oh, Ms Hanson, is it? She'll like that - but be careful. She'd chew you up and spit you back out - you'd thank her for it, but you'd also walk away a changed man. I'm not sure you're ready."
Quentin makes a face. "I'm not sure I'm ready for any of this, but she kinda. Didn't give me a chance to back out, when I said I'd always been curious about this place. And she kinda sounded like she isn't the kind of person you argue with when she told me to go have a drink, so."
"Oh," the man says, and an entirely new smile creeps over his face. It makes all the hair stand up on the back of Quentin's neck, though he's not sure it's in a bad way. "Then I'd better get you a drink."
"Yeah, um. Maybe just a, like. Raspberry daiquiri?" Quentin says, face still flushed as he reaches up and brushes his hair out of his face in a nervous gesture.
"Oh no," the man says. "You asked me what I'd recommend. I've got this." He works quickly, so quickly that Quentin can't follow the ingredients he uses - though that might be because he's more than a little distracted by the fluidity and grace with which he moves his hands. At last a glass filled with a deep amber liquid and crusted with salt is pushed in front of him. "Blood orange margarita," the man tells him, his gaze all smug and knowing. "Trust me."
Quentin hesitates, and then looks up at the bartender with a raised eyebrow. He tries not to give away how his pulse is pounding as he asks, "Why should I trust a guy whose name I don't know?"
The man smirks. "My name is Eliot," he says. "And I have other people to serve, so why don't you try that, and if you have any problems, take it up with the owner?"
Quentin blinks. "The owner?"
Eliot shrugs, careless. "Not Margo; she won't care. But I'm sure you'll figure it out." He smiles. "Keep looking around. I'm sure you'll find something eventually that speaks to you. I'll check on you in a little while."
Quentin frowns, but shrugs, reaching out to take the drink. "Alright," he says easily enough. "I'll talk to you later, then."
"Can't wait," Eliot says, and saunters away.
Quentin turns away from the bar, his drink in hand, and returns his attention to the rest of the club. The drink is actually pretty good, just like Eliot had promised it would be, but... Well, it can't hold Quentin's attention for long, not when there's so much else to see. Nobody's really getting explicit out here, in the main room, but he can definitely see more than a few couples - and even some groups - ducking through a door at the back, and they aren't always entirely clothed. He finds his gaze drawn more to the people who are letting themselves be led around, the few kneeling on cushions, the ones being pressed up against a wall and moved just so.
He's hard, Quentin realizes moments later. He's... actually really hard. He hadn't thought that this sort of... thing was his thing, not after the last time he tried it, but his body is insisting otherwise, insisting that it's really very interested in what's happening in the rest of the club. Quentin's so caught up in this revelation, in wondering if maybe he'd be brave enough to venture away from the relative safety of the bar, that he doesn't hear Eliot approaching, and once again gets a few years scared off of his life.
"Finally enjoying yourself, I see," he says, voice pitched just loud enough to be heard over the music. "And you liked my drink."
Quentin very carefully puts the glass he nearly threw across the room back on the bartop before giving Eliot a glare that's far too lacking in heat, since all of it's in his cheeks and ears. "Do you get off on scaring unsuspecting people shitless?"
"No," Eliot admits, laughter in his eyes. "But I get off on plenty of other things."
Maybe it's the lack of blood flow to his brain, but Quentin can't stop himself from asking, "Like what?"
Eliot gives him a look, like wouldn't you like to know, and gestures towards the crowd. "I'm not the one having a sexual reawakening tonight," he says. "Come on. Tell Daddy what you've learned about yourself."
Quentin makes a face, shifting in his seat. "I just - Last time I tried this sort of thing, it... didn't go well. And I thought I just didn't like it, but, um. Well."
To his surprise, Eliot frowns. "Bad experience?" he asks. "Did something happen?"
"In the sense that basically nothing happened, yeah, you could say it was a bad experience," Quentin says wryly.
"But you've seen something tonight that's different?"
Quentin shrugs. "All of this - " He gestures vaguely around the club " - is nothing like what my ex-girlfriend asked me to do to her. I mean, these people all look like they're really enjoying themselves, and we... very much did not. She said, um. I wasn't like. Bossy enough? But I didn't like trying to boss her around, so. We didn't have a good time."
Understanding dawns in Eliot's eyes. "Oh," he says, and the smirk is back. "You were supposed to be the Dom."
Quentin's brow furrows. "Why are you using that tone?"
"I'm not just going to give you the answers to your own soul-searching," Eliot says, dismissive. "What have you seen tonight that makes you think you might like this after all?"
Quentin hesitates. "Um, well." He drums his fingers against the bartop, wondering if he's really going to say this, but... Well, if Eliot laughs in his face, he can just. Never come back here. He swallows, then says, "I. The people who are - being led. Kneeling. That looks... interesting?"
Eliot's eyes fucking glint. "Because you want someone to do it for you?" he asks. "Or because you want to do it for someone else?"
"I, um." Quentin feels rather like he's being hypnotized, and he's not sure if he likes it. "The - The second one," he confesses, fighting the urge to hide behind his hair.
Eliot smiles, slow and pleased, like Quentin just got the answer right to a particularly difficult question. Maybe he did. "All right," he says. "Why don't I make you another drink, and leave you to explore a little more?"
Quentin blinks, a little thrown by just how pleased he is to make Eliot smile like that. "Okay," he says slowly, unable to help the way his gaze flicks thoughtfully towards the back door, the one he'd watched so many people walk - and be led - through, and wondering if this is what those people on leashes and being led around by the hand feel like, even a little.
Eliot follows his gaze, and chuckles. Every time he laughs, the sound washes over Quentin like a warm wave crashing on the shore. "Oh, no," he says. "I don't think you're quite ready for that just yet."
Quentin flushes. "No, that's not what I was - " He blows out a breath, slightly huffy. "I wasn't going to go back there, I'm pretty sure I don't want to watch... whatever they're doing back there. If anyone's doing it like, in the open."
"Some of them are," Eliot says, mirth in his eyes. "There are more alcoves like the ones out here, with varying degrees of privacy. And there's a stage."
Quentin feels his face get impossibly hotter. "Yeah, no, I'm not really... into watching. So probably not going back there just to explore."
One of Eliot's eyebrows ticks upwards, but he doesn't look unimpressed, just... considering. "Well," he says. "Keep sitting there looking pretty and making eyes at the crowd, and who knows? You might attract the right girl. Or... Guy?"
'Pretty'? Jesus, Eliot must be determined to see if he can get Quentin's face to light up the whole damn club. He clears his throat, and focuses on something else. "Haven't been with a guy for a few years, but..." Quentin shrugs one shoulder. "If the right person asked, maybe I'd say yes. Guy or girl."
Eliot nods, thoughtful and still smirking. "Noted," he says. "Well. Duty calls." And then he hands Quentin the drink he was making, and leaves Quentin alone again.
He flits in and out of Quentin's orbit for the next hour or so, always with a new drink but never to linger for long. It's gotten even busier since Quentin got here, and Eliot is in high demand, even with all the other bar staff working alongside him. Quentin would like to think that he doesn't watch Eliot just as much as he watches the crowd, but the more he drinks, the harder it is to keep his eyes off of him. At least Eliot is too busy to notice.
Or maybe not. "See something you like?" Eliot asks, and Jesus, he's got a talent for picking the moment Quentin isn't looking at him and scaring the shit out of him. And then he has the gall to laugh, the sexy asshole.
"I think I hate you," Quentin grumps, but he knows that Eliot knows it's all show. "You're an ass. A sexy ass, but an ass."
Eliot's smirk deepens. "Oh, so you think I'm sexy?"
Quentin gestures vaguely at Eliot's... everything. "Was that not the look you were going for?"
"I always dress to impress," Eliot concedes. "But it's nice to know my efforts are appreciated."
Quentin hums. "Well, I'm not the only one appreciating them. Pretty sure everyone up here is staring at you."
"Yeah, but I don't care about them," Eliot says, something shifting in his gaze. "I only care if I've got the attention of one person tonight."
Quentin's mouth goes dry - again - and he swallows. "Oh?" he asks, just grateful that the word didn't come out as a damn squeak.
"Oh," Eliot agrees, smiling. He leans against the bar. "So, what else have you learned? Seen anything interesting?"
Quentin shrugs. "I don't know," he says honestly. "I mean, I don't - I really don't even know where to... to start with trying to figure out what I'm even seeing."
"Okay, well." Eliot glances back down the bar, at the harried-looking but mostly coping bar staff and the long line of customers, more than a few of which keep stealing hopeful looks in Eliot's direction, and throws the dish towel he's holding down next to Quentin's empty glass. "I'm officially off the clock. Ask me whatever you want to know."
Quentin blinks. "Wait, really? I mean, I'm sure you pick up a lot because you're the bartender and it's your job to, like, watch people, but..."
Eliot laughs, and Jesus, is that ever going to stop sounding so good? "I guess you could say that I've... dabbled, before. Extensively - though not frequently, of late. Besides, as the bartender, I know everyone here - patrons and professionals." He lowers his voice to almost a whisper, but leans close enough that Quentin can hear him fine, and smell his intoxicating cologne. "I know all the trade secrets. Try me."
"Um, okay," Quentin says, and tries his best to ignore how breathy his voice sounds. "What's with the - the collars? Looks like a lot of people are wearing them."
"Well," Eliot says, "I'm assuming I don't have to explain pet play to you. But most people wearing a collar aren't actually into that. It's more about... ownership. Letting people know that the sub is spoken for. And letting the sub know that they belong to their Dom, which is equally important, if not more so."
Determinedly ignoring the tightness in his pants, Quentin leans in a little closer, folding his arms on the bartop. "Really?"
Eliot nods. "It brings a feeling of security, of safety - as well as it just being hot, to be collared by someone." He waggles his eyebrows. "Sometimes it's just for the night, or just for a scene. Some people wear their collars permanently."
Quentin tilts his head. "A 'scene'?"
"Oh, wow," Eliot says, "you are new to this, aren't you?" He tosses his curls out of his eyes and starts again. "Okay, basics. A scene is a pre-negotiated session, where a Dom and a sub... play. It's not sex, though it can include sex. It's something more than that."
”I thought this whole - thing - was about sex?” Quentin asks, confused.
"Not always," Eliot says. He gestures towards the tables, where another couple, not the one Quentin saw before, are seated. This time, it's a woman on her knees beside another woman. "Does that look sexual to you?"
"No," Quentin concedes. "I guess I didn't really come across any of that in the research that Alice and I did. She wasn't really interested in anything but the sex part, so that's what we were looking for."
Eliot nods. "That makes sense," he says. "Most people are more interested in the sex part, at least at first. But is that... not what you think you might be interested in?"
"I don't know, I mean - I don't know what the - the sub really does, in sex. Like what do they get out of it?"
"That's difficult, because it's different for everyone," Eliot says. "What did... Alice, was it? What did she want to get out of it?"
Quentin shifts uncomfortably in his seat. "She just - wanted me to be... more in charge. Like, telling her what to do, that sort of thing. But we couldn't even really get started, and then she called it off, and then we broke up, so."
Eliot raises an eyebrow. "And do you think that would feel good?"
”I… don’t know?” Quentin answers. “Not the way she wanted me to do it, I don’t think.”
"What about any of this?" Eliot asks, gesturing to the club in general. "Do you think anything here would feel good?"
Quentin hesitates, licking his lips. “Maybe, um. Being told what to do? Not like… being bossed around, but just - given instructions? Maybe a little of the manhandling?”
"Okay," Eliot says, slow and drawn out like he thinks they're getting somewhere. "Talk more about that."
Quentin fidgets. "It's just - I want to know that I'm like, doing things right? So that my partner is having a good time. And I have anxiety, so sometimes my brain kinda... gets in the way."
"So you want someone to get you out of your head a little," Eliot surmises. "Have you thought about spanking? Pain in general? Would you kneel like those subs you can't take your eyes off of?"
It takes Quentin a moment to get his lungs to remember how to work so that he can speak. Jesus, the way Eliot's voice just dropped on that last question - He clears his throat. "Um, I don't - I don't know about pain? But maybe - maybe kneeling. If that's what y - my partner. Wanted." He's going to pass out from lack of oxygen, honestly, because all of his blood is either in his cock or in his face at this point.
Eliot's smirk deepens, and when he speaks, so does his fucking voice. "Sounds like you already have someone in mind."
Quentin does his best to glare at Eliot, but falls short of the mark. "Yeah, well, probably not going to happen, so let's just - forget about what I almost said."
"Or we could... not," Eliot suggests lightly; when Quentin looks up sharply, however, Eliot's eyes are kind.
It's almost enough to throw Quentin off, but all he does is blink. "Are you serious?"
"It's not quite as simple as that," Eliot admits, "but yes. If you're interested."
Quentin hesitates, a little voice that sounds like Alice warning him that he probably doesn’t want to find out what Eliot means - doesn’t want to disappoint Eliot - but then there’s a little voice that sounds like Julia, louder, that tells him to quit fucking worrying so much, and have some fun. He licks his lips, and decides to listen to that second voice. “Why isn’t it that simple?”
"Well," Eliot says, "there's paperwork. Consent forms, for one. This isn't something to be entered into lightly, especially for a beginner. How drunk are you?"
Quentin blinks. “Not very,” he says. “I wouldn’t say I’m more than tipsy. Barely that, honestly; I’ve only had what you gave me, and drank those slow. You guys actually have consent forms?”
"Of course we do," Eliot says. "The owners are incredibly particular. Why don't I... get the forms, and you can look over them while I get a room ready? If you decide you're not feeling it after all, that's fine."
Quentin bites his lip, but nods. "Sure. I can at least read them over, I guess."
Eliot smiles, pleased. "I'll be right back."
Quentin does his best not to jitter right off of his stool with nerves while Eliot disappears through a door behind the bar. Is he really going to do this? He isn't the kind to do one night stands, and he isn't the kind to leap into something without looking at all of his options, but what Eliot was talking about, what he can see here in the club... He's curious, and that's always been his downfall, like the proverbial cat, and most times he doesn't even really get any satisfaction out of knowing. Why does he think this will be any different?
Thankfully, he doesn't have long to disappear into his head before Eliot returns, bearing a sheaf of papers and a clipboard. "Huh," Quentin says once he's back in earshot. "I thought that'd be bigger, the way you were talking."
"The font is small," Eliot says, teasing. He hands over the clipboard and a pen. "Take your time, and remember that you don't have to go through with this if you don't want to. If you're still up for it, I'll pick you up in a little while."
”Alright,” Quentin says, turning his attention to the forms in front of him. The top page is, unsurprisingly, a non-disclosure agreement, stating that Quentin is legally obligated to keep whatever he sees, hears, or participates in while on the club’s property under wraps. He signs that one without hesitation; he’s probably never going to tell anyone about this, anyway, so keeping whatever else he might see a secret won’t be an issue. The next page asks for his contact information - name, phone number, address, the usual - as well as an emergency contact. Quentin hesitates for only a moment before putting Julia’s information down; not even Penny or Kady would make fun of him if Julia had to come get him from a sex club, if something bad enough happened that they needed to call her. There’s a page detailing the requirements of the club - condoms are required for use if anyone participating is not currently tested for any and all STDs and STIs, and are required for any penetrative sex that might result in pregnancy. The page also details the frequency with which the staff are tested - every month, with a mandatory re-check if there is any suspicion they’ve been exposed to anything. It’s reassuring, and Quentin ticks the box that states he does not have current paperwork proving his own tested status, and that he understands the conditions surrounding condom use and will abide by them. He also ticks the box saying that he, to the best of his knowledge, has not been in contact with anyone carrying an STI or STD, since Alice was his last relationship, and that lasted more than a year before they broke up a month ago, and he hasn’t fucked anyone since.
The next form makes Quentin hesitate. It’s asking for confirmation that he’s agreeing to everything in the packet, and providing the information within, with his full consent, and with a sound mind. He’s not quite sure if he really qualifies for the latter, what with the clinical depression, anxiety, and Asperger’s, but… Surely there’s other people, other - clients… who are in a similar boat? Quentin doesn’t sign that one just yet, resolving to ask Eliot about it before he does so, and moves on to the next page.
The next page immediately makes his face flush and his dick harden, all at the same time. It asks, flat out, what his likes and dislikes are - and about ‘hard limits,' the things he absolutely will not do. Quentin recognizes the term from the research he’d done before that ill-fated adventure with Alice. There’s a few suggestions, and Quentin notes them all down - scat play, watersports, and blood play? No thank you, not for him - and, after a moment’s thought, adds a note about degrading or derogatory language. He’s here to see what it’s like, being submissive, not to hear the same sort of shit his brain tries to tell him from another person.
There’s a section for things he’s interested in, too, and Quentin worries his lower lip while he fills it out. Instructions, rough sex, and manhandling, he notes down without hesitation. Those are all things he’s pretty sure he’d like. He also, after a moment’s thought, adds in fingering, anal sex, and oral sex - giving and receiving. He’s not sure about anything else, but he does linger over the word ‘restraints’ in the suggested kinks. In the end, he notes it down with a question mark.
Then, at the very bottom of the page, it asks for his safeword. There’s another sentence, promising that everyone inside the club is bound to abide by its use, and if they don’t, they face legal repercussions for assault, as well as the wrath of the owners, but Quentin doesn’t pay that part much mind. He and Alice hadn’t really discussed safewords, since they were just trying out some lighter stuff, and they had agreed that ‘stop’ was enough, but - obviously that won’t be enough here. After a few moments’ thought, he puts Plover in the space.
Just as he’s lifting his pen, he sees Eliot come back into sight, and waits until he’s close enough to hear before asking, “Hey, um, about the ‘of sound mind,’ thing. Does having depression, anxiety, or Asperger’s like, disqualify you?”
Eliot takes a slow breath while he considers that one. "That depends," he says eventually. "Are any of those things keeping you from being able to consent to anything in the paperwork, or anything I might suggest once we get started? If I pushed a hard limit, do you think you'd feel unable to stop me?"
Quentin doesn’t answer right away, giving that some careful thought. “If you listened to the safeword, then… yeah. I could stop you.”
"Then you should be good," Eliot says. "If you feel comfortable to sign it, then that's fine."
”Okay.” Quentin takes a deep breath, and signs the last page, handing the clipboard over to Eliot when he’s done. “That’s all filled out.”
"Great," Eliot says. "Do you want to see any of my paperwork? I've also signed a disclosure to say that I'll respect a safeword under any circumstances, and I have a copy of my latest test results."
”I - Yeah, that’d… be reassuring,” Quentin decides.
"Sure," Eliot says. "We can stop by the desk on our way to the room?"
Quentin nods. “That sounds good. So, um, is there anything else we need to do out here?”
"Not unless you need to take a minute?" Eliot offers.
Quentin smiles at that. “No, I’m good. I’ll let you know if I’m not, promise.”
"Great," Eliot says, and holds out his hand. "Shall we?"
Quentin takes a deep breath, slides off of the stool, and takes Eliot's hand, marveling a little at the warmth of it, and at his own daring. "Let's go."
Most people have barely glanced in Quentin's direction the entire time he's in been here, but now, as Eliot leads him confidently through the crowd, people are staring. Quentin feels himself go even redder. He gets it, of course - what does someone like Eliot want with someone like him? - but they're so open about it. It makes his skin burn, and it's almost so much that he pulls away, but then they're out of the main part of the club and the door bangs shut behind them. The effect is immediate: the music is muffled, and Quentin blinks in the warm orange glow of the low-hanging light fixture in the middle of the room, bright after the relative darkness of the club.
Eliot draws him to a stop in front of a desk that Quentin bypassed entirely on his way in, thanks to Margo plucking him off the sidewalk. He takes a moment to catch his breath while Eliot, still holding his hand, plucks the clipboard from Quentin's grasp and says curtly, "Todd. If you could file these and get Mr Coldwater a copy of my paperwork, please."
Todd, who looks pleasant enough, goes round-eyed with understanding. "Oh God, Eliot, I didn't realise that you were--"
"Then why do you think I asked for my room to be ready?" Eliot asks. His tone is different from any he's used with Quentin tonight, not sharp but not kind, commanding and authoritative. Quentin is a little surprised to find he doesn't... exactly dislike it.
"Well, yes, of course," Todd is saying. "Of course. I'll just-- right away."
It takes some rummaging, but Todd eventually locates Eliot's file and pulls out a sheaf of papers that don't look too dissimilar to the ones of Quentin's that Eliot trades for them. "Here," Eliot says, and his tone is soft again, like melted butter. He finally lets go of Quentin's hand. "Take your time."
Quentin takes the papers, and tries not to think too much about the fact that he's already missing Eliot's hand in his. He reads through them, and it is reassuring to find Eliot's signature - dated just two months ago, even; they must renew the paperwork every so often - on a form similar to Quentin's. This one says that Eliot, as an employee of Salt & Liquor, is legally bound to respect a client's safeword, no matter the circumstances in which it's used. The next paper is Eliot's test results, from two weeks ago, certifying that he's clean, and Quentin briefly glances through the next one. It's Eliot's own likes and dislikes, but Quentin doesn't spend too long on them before he hands the papers back to Eliot. "Thanks," he says, trying to ignore the way that Todd is clearly trying to pretend he isn't staring at Quentin, and pushing down the urge to reach for Eliot's hand again. It had just been so that Eliot didn't lose him in the club's main room, he's sure. "That was... helpful."
Eliot smiles at him, and hands the papers to Todd without looking away. "Still time to back out," he says.
Quentin somehow finds the courage to laugh. “Keep telling me that, and I’ll think you want me to back out.”
Eliot raises a single eyebrow, and holds his hand out to Quentin. "Then let's go."
"Um, Eliot?" Todd asks, before Quentin can even think about taking Eliot's hand again. "Do you have the key?"
Eliot huffs out an impatient breath. "It's my own fucking room, Todd," he says. "Of course I have the key."
Todd titters. "Oh, right, of course."
Eliot rolls his eyes, and wiggles his fingers at Quentin. "I don't like to be kept waiting."
Quentin smiles, and takes Eliot’s hand once more. “Lead the way.”
Eliot takes him through another door and up a flight of stairs, which lead them to a long corridor lined with rooms. They go right to the end, and when they stop in front of the last door Eliot produces a sleek golden key from his breast pocket and unlocks it. The door swings open, and Eliot steps back. "After you."
The room, when Quentin brings himself to cross the threshold, is just like Eliot - gorgeous. Someone else has obviously been in here before them, or maybe Eliot was up here while Quentin was signing his paperwork. Either way, the lights are dim, the same warm, golden glow that lit the desk downstairs, but here it somehow feels sexier, more intimate. The walls are dark, black maybe, or a deep plum colour, it's difficult to tell in this lighting, and the furniture is dark, too. An impressive-looking bureau, black with gold accents; a matching desk; a huge, claw-foot chair with rich, velvet upholstery that looks like a fucking throne. The floor except for the dais which holds the bed is done is a rich, plush carpet, a cream color that reflects the light and offsets the furniture nicely. And the bed...
The bed is massive. It could easily fit three people in it comfortably with room to spare, maybe even four. It's a fucking four-poster, and the sleek black sheets look soft and inviting and vaguely shiny, like silk. Quentin wants to touch them.
Rather than walk over and run his hand over the bed, however, he turns in place, to see the door closed and Eliot lingering in front of it, the golden key dangling from his fingertips. "What do you think?"
”I think this room probably cost more than I make a year,” Quentin says honestly, laughing a little. “It’s - amazing doesn’t even do it credit.”
Eliot smiles, pleased, and turns to lock the door. When he turns back, Quentin notes that the key is still in the lock. "Shall we sit?" he asks, and gestures towards the bed.
”Sure,” Quentin says, not bothering trying to hide the slightly nervous tone of his voice. Eliot already knows he’s never done this, not properly, before.
"Okay," Eliot says, calm and collected as always. "Take your shoes off and sit down on the bed. I hope you don't mind if I make myself more comfortable." He's already peeling his vest off and folding it neatly on top of the bureau, loosening his tie. "Tell me how you feel."
"Right now? Glad I'm not wearing my fancy shoes," Quentin replies with a slightly nervous laugh. He toes off his shoes, explaining as he moves to sit on the bed, "I'm not the most coordinated at the best of times. Um, other than that, I'm just - a little nervous? I'm not sure how this is going to go, so."
Eliot finishes with his tie and undoes the first few buttons on his shirt, leaving the collar open invitingly, and leans back against the desk. "How would you like it to go?"
"I mean, I - I want us both to have a good time, but, like, specifics?" Quentin shrugs, fiddling with the sheet below his hands. It is soft. "I don't know."
Thankfully, Eliot takes pity on him. "Would it help if I told you what I have in mind?"
Quentin knows his smile is probably pathetically grateful. "Yeah, that would help."
"Well," Eliot says, slow and considering. "I read through your file while you were reading through mine, and it seems that in most areas we are... quite compatible." The ghost of a smirk graces his lips before it's gone. "So I was thinking that we'd start with you sucking my cock. Get you nice and relaxed; give you something to focus on. And then I'll take my time opening you up. You wrote that you're interested in light restraints - would you like a blindfold?"
It takes Quentin a moment to find the breath to answer. "I, um. Maybe not a blindfold, but, uh, tying my hands? But the rest of that sounds - good. Really good."
"Okay," Eliot says. His gaze is intent on Quentin's face. "Then I'll tie your hands, and I'll finger you open - and then, if you're really good, I'll fuck you."
Quentin nods, maybe a little too fast - or maybe that's all of his blood rushing south - because he abruptly feels a little light-headed. He also feels - good? There's a buzz beneath his skin, but it's not anxiety, not really. It's anticipation. "That sounds - " He has to stop, clear his throat. "That sounds pretty good to me."
"Good," Eliot says. "What's your safeword?"
"Plover," Quentin answers, glad Eliot had brought this up, because he'd... kind of forgotten to check what Eliot's was. "Yours?"
Eliot nods, like he approves of the question. "Whiteland," he says. "If you use your safeword I will immediately respect it - but if I use mine, I need you to do the same."
”Whiteland,” Quentin repeats, just to make sure he’s got it right. “Yeah, no - that was pretty… important, in the research I did, respecting safewords. I’ll remember.”
Eliot graces him with another of his breathtaking smiles. "Is there anything else you'd like to ask?"
Quentin thinks for a moment, then shakes his head. “No, I’m good.”
"Then are you ready?"
Quentin licks his lips. "I - Yeah," he says. "I think I'm ready. Never done this before, so..." He laughs, just a little nervously.
Eliot crosses the room in two long strides and slides his hand into Quentin's hair, guiding his head back so that when he dips down to him their lips almost brush. "Don't worry," he murmurs, his breath hot on Quentin’s face. "I'll break you in gentle, sweetheart."
Quentin really couldn't stop the whine that leaves his throat if he tried. "Okay," he breathes, trying desperately not to just - close the distance between them and kiss Eliot. He hadn't said they could do that, after all. "I trust you."
He feels it rather than sees it when Eliot smiles. "Good boy," he says, and kisses him.
Quentin can’t help it; he practically melts against Eliot, letting Eliot take his weight as he kisses back with a noise that should be embarrassing. He can’t bring himself to care about it, though, since Eliot is a damned good kisser. Quentin’s hands shift about, uncertain as to where he wants to touch - where he’s allowed to touch - and eventually, he settles for letting them rest against Eliot’s hips, certain that Eliot will tell him if they need to be somewhere else.
Eliot doesn't, but he does pull away once they're both breathless. There's an inviting flush to his cheeks, his eyes dark and hungry, and Quentin has just enough time to think I did that before Eliot turns and walks back over to the bureau. The look he gives Quentin as he leans back against it like some kind of god sets Quentin's blood on fire. "Strip," he says.
Quentin barely remembers to actually undo his belt buckle before he starts undressing. He's grateful that he wore a polo, not a button-up shirt, so he can just tug his shirt out of his waistband and over his head. He doesn't bother sliding the belt entirely out of his pants, either, just undoes it and the buttons on his jeans before sliding them down and stepping out of them. He takes his socks off while he's still bent over, and then straightens up so fast his head spins a little bit.
"Be careful," Eliot says. There's a laugh in his voice, though when Quentin looks up there's no mockery in his face. If anything, he looks... appreciative. "You have quite the body hidden under all those awful clothes. You should show it off more. Leave your underwear on for now."
Quentin swallows. “Okay,” he says. “What next?”
"Come here," Eliot says, and points to the floor by his feet. "Kneel."
Quentin does so without hesitation; there’s that same authoritative note in Eliot’s voice as when he spoke to Todd, but it’s still much softer than Todd got. Once he’s on his knees, the carpet plush enough that he doesn’t need any extra cushioning, Quentin hesitates for a moment before fisting his hands in his lap, fighting the urge to reach out and touch Eliot, and looks up, meeting Eliot’s gaze. “Okay?” he asks, a little nervous.
Eliot gazes down at him. "Perfect," he assures him. "Now open my pants. Take your time."
Quentin’s breath catches in his chest, but he does as Eliot orders. He’s rather proud of the fact that his fingers aren’t trembling as he reaches for Eliot’s belt, undoing the buckle in one slow, careful movement. Eliot’s outfit is probably more expensive than half of Quentin’s entire wardrobe, and he’d hate to ruin any part of it. He slides the buckle out of its loops, shivering at the sound of the leather hissing against the material of Eliot’s slacks, and then reaches for his fly. He keeps his movements slow and careful, still, and slips the button loose before tugging down the zipper, and then curls his fingers over Eliot’s waistband. Here, Quentin hesitates, and glances up, looking at Eliot with a question he can’t quite bring himself to ask verbally - pull his pants down, or reach into them to take out Eliot’s cock?
"So polite," Eliot murmurs, his voice warm with approval. "Do you want my cock, sweetheart?"
The words slip out before Quentin's even aware he's going to say them. "Yes, sir."
There's a moment of perfect silence, but it isn't long enough for doubt to creep in before Eliot's fingers sink into his hair, tugging gently. "Good boy," he says. "God, look at you. You want it so bad, don't you? Go on, baby. Take my cock out."
The breath Quentin lets out then is slightly shaky with relief, and he leans into Eliot's touch briefly before doing as instructed. He tugs Eliot's waistband down just far enough to be able to reach into his boxer briefs and finally, finally get his hands on Eliot's cock. He can't help the small, shocked noise he makes as he pulls Eliot's cock from his pants. "Christ, you're big," he breathes, his own cock twitching in his briefs at the prospect of getting his mouth on Eliot's dick - on being fucked by Eliot's dick.
Eliot smirks down at him. "Too big?" he asks, like he already knows the answer.
"I hope not," Quentin says without thinking, and then flushes. "I mean - You're bigger than... Anything I've taken before, but. I want to try."
Eliot hums his approval, and tightens his hand briefly in Quentin's hair. His other hand reaches into a drawer at the top of the bureau behind him, pulling out a condom. "Go on then," he says, holding the condom out for Quentin to take. "You have permission - and like I said, I don't like to be kept waiting."
Quentin's breath hitches, and he obeys. He takes the condom and tears the wrapper open carefully, making sure not to drop it or damage the condom itself, and hands the wrapper back to Eliot who drops it - somewhere, Quentin's not paying attention to that. He's paying attention to Eliot's cock, to feeling the girth and weight of it as he rolls the condom on, and once he's sure it's secure, he bites his lip, does his best to ignore the way his own cock is throbbing with anticipation, and gets to work. Quentin wraps his hand around Eliot's cock, stroking once, almost reverently, and then he leans in, licking up the underside before he takes just the head into his mouth. Even that is a bit of a stretch; not uncomfortably so, but still a stretch. Eliot's cock doesn't exactly qualify as a monster cock, in Quentin's opinion, but it's big enough for the stretch to be exciting, not intimidating.
Eliot's breath sighs out of him as soon as Quentin gets his mouth on him, and he tugs at Quentin's hair just a little before he lets go entirely. "Fuck," he breathes. "That's it. God, I knew you'd look so good with a cock in your mouth."
Quentin makes a pleased noise, a quiet little hum, and starts experimenting, trying to find what Eliot likes. He varies his grip, testing different strengths and combining them with different strokes, and works his mouth over whatever he can fit inside, occasionally pulling off so he can catch his breath or lick around the head. The taste of latex doesn't do much for him, but the weight of Eliot's cock on his tongue is addictive, and Quentin quickly decides that he likes having Eliot's cock in his mouth, as much as he can get without gagging, and working the rest of it with his hands.
"You love it, don't you?" Eliot asks, his head thrown back. "Fuck, you were made to suck cock. Just like that. Keep it slow and wet and fucking-- ah, filthy. Should've let you warm it first. Just made you kneel at my feet and hold my cock in your mouth, just keeping it nice and warm… How quickly would you have lost your mind for it? Would you have been good for me, like you're being now?"
Quentin squirms in place, does his best to nod with his mouth full of Eliot’s cock. That’s - a really tempting thought, kneeling at Eliot’s feet, Eliot’s cock in his mouth, slowly getting hard and filling his mouth. He’d like to think he’d have been good - just like he’s being good now. Quentin’s a little surprised to find just how much he enjoys knowing that he’s doing a good job, that Eliot likes what he’s doing, but, hey; tonight’s a night for self-discovery, apparently.
"Fuck, you like that," Eliot breathes. "Like being told you're good. You're so good, sweetheart." His hand finds Quentin's hair again, pushing it back out of his eyes and then wrapping it around his fingers so that he can hold on. He doesn't try to control Quentin with his grip, though, just tugs hard enough to send sparks down his spine. "And so pretty. Can you hold still for me, baby? Can you open your mouth and stay still so I can fuck your pretty face, just a little, oh fuck."
Quentin’s eyes widen, and he feels his cock throb. He really wants Eliot to fuck his face. He can’t exactly nod, though, not with Eliot’s hand in his hair, so he settles for going as still as he can, his hands drifting to Eliot’s hips, not quite gripping, but hovering in question, and looking up at Eliot with his best pleading expression.
Eliot responds immediately. His grip on Quentin's hair tightens just enough to hold him steady, and he rolls his hips, nice and slow, gliding the head of his cock over Quentin's tongue. He's staring down at Quentin now, his pupils blown and his mouth slightly open, his breathing coming harder than before as he watches Quentin take his cock.
Quentin lets his hands settle a little more securely onto Eliot’s hips, hanging on more than anything else, and lets Eliot do what he wants. There’s something… reassuring, maybe, is the word, in knowing that he’s giving Eliot pleasure by just - being here, just allowing himself to be moved about and fucked the way that Eliot wants. He kind of loses himself to it for a while. Eliot keeps the rhythm of his hips steady, fucking his cock in and out of Quentin's mouth almost torturously slowly, even as he curses up a storm above him, telling Quentin how pretty he looks, how good he feels, how good he is. It's perfection: the weight of Eliot on his tongue; the steady glide of his cock that's never too much, never too deep; the sound of his voice, deep and breathy and thick with praise. It's heady, so heady that Quentin barely notices when Eliot’s thighs start to tremble, when he loses coherent sentences in favour of sharp moans and breathless curses - but he does notice when Eliot's hand in his hair suddenly tightens, and he's being eased back, the head of Eliot's cock slipping from between his lips for the first time since he got his mouth on it. He mourns the loss immediately.
Quentin barely manages to keep from straining forward, Eliot's hand in his hair a reminder that he's not in charge, not tonight, and all he needs to do is obey. Instead, he looks up at Eliot, and is shocked at just how hungry he looks. Quentin licks his lips, not even frowning at the aftertaste of latex, and swallows. "Eliot?"
Eliot tugs sharply. "I thought I was 'sir'."
Quentin gasps, more in shock than anything else as his cock throbs. “Sorry, sir,” he says, breathless. “I’ll remember.”
Eliot's cock twitches right before Quentin's eyes. "Good boy," he sighs. "God, it would be so easy to come in your gorgeous mouth. You take it so well. But I promised you I'd fuck you. Do you still want that?"
Quentin makes a formless little noise, high and wanting, in the back of his throat. "Yes, sir, I want you to fuck me."
Eliot smiles down at him, reaching for the condom to tug it off. Quentin can’t quite repress the urge to lick his lips; he wants suddenly, viscerally, to get his mouth on Eliot again, feel him hot and heavy and bare against his tongue. "Then get on the bed."
"Yes, sir," Quentin breathes. It takes him a moment to get his legs to cooperate, but when he shifts his weight, he's suddenly acutely aware of just how wet the front of his briefs are. His face heats, and Quentin hopes Eliot doesn't look down too far in the time it takes him to stand up and turn, making his way to the bed. Just before he reaches the dais, he pauses, hands going to his waistband -
"Ah ah," Eliot says, like he's chiding a mischievous child. "Did I say you could take those off? Leave them on, please. On the bed, on your back, hands above your head."
Quentin freezes, debates for a split second about arguing - but then, with a deep breath, does as he's told. He climbs the dais, hops up on the bed, and lays himself out just like Eliot asked him to, and tries not to vibrate out of his skin with rapidly-climbing anxiety as Eliot approaches.
He takes his time. While Quentin was getting into position he must have taken off his pants, but he's still in his shirt, his cock still hard and bare beneath it, fuck, that's hot - and there's a scarf between his hands that he must have retrieved from the bureau at the same time. He clearly has plans, but the way he walks over to the bed, languid and lazy, is like he has all the time in the world, like he's in no rush to get there. But he does get there, and he pauses at the foot of the bed, and his hungry gaze feasts on Quentin, following the flush on his face down his neck and onto his chest, down even more until...
"Fuck," Eliot sighs, his eyes wide. "You're soaked."
Quentin's face gets even hotter. "Yeah, I know," he mumbles, staring determinedly up at the ceiling. "Sorry, I know it's - a bit much."
"You're going to make such a mess of my sheets," Eliot breathes, like he hasn't even heard Quentin.
Quentin tenses in his attempt to hide a flinch. "I'm sorry," he repeats, still staring determinedly up at the ceiling so that he doesn't have to actually see the look on Eliot's face.
"’Sorry’?" Eliot's laugh is warm, too warm to be mocking, which is the only reason Quentin doesn't quit right now. "Sweetheart, it's so hot. I love it."
That gets Quentin to look at Eliot, his eyes wide. “That’s the first time someone’s said that,” he says without thinking.
"Then you've been sleeping with the wrong people," Eliot says. "Look at you. You're literally leaking with how much you want it. You're gorgeous."
Quentin’s cock throbs with Eliot’s praise, and he flushes impossibly hotter when he feels another bit of precome drip out. “It’s not - messy?” he asks, and kind of hates how vulnerable and uncertain he sounds.
"Oh, it's definitely messy," Eliot says, a filthy smirk on his lips now.
Quentin bites his lip. “Okay,” he says, still a bit thrown by the fact that Eliot apparently likes just how wet he gets, but willing to roll with it for now. “What’s with the scarf?”
"I was thinking I could tie your hands," Eliot says, twisting the sheer, silky material around his own wrists. "See if I can discourage you from touching that needy cock of yours."
Quentin’s eyes widen, and his breath hitches. “Oh,” he says, a bit dumbly. “Okay.”
"Is that okay?" Eliot asks, one eyebrow raised.
Quentin nods. “Yeah, yes,” he says, tongue nearly tripping over the words. “Yes, that’s - that seems like… fun.”
Eliot smiles. "Then why don't you take those off, and we'll see how much of a mess we can make?"
Quentin replies without thinking. “I thought you wanted my hands over my head?” he asks, just a little cheeky.
That eyebrow raises again. "I will spank you," he warns him.
When Eliot had suggested spanking as a thing, back at the bar, Quentin hadn’t felt much - vaguely embarrassed, as a matter of fact, since it seemed so childish - but now, with Eliot standing over him, looking at him like that with his voice full of authoritative promise… Quentin swallows, hard, and tries vainly to ignore the way his cock jerks in his briefs at the thought. “Sorry, sir,” he says, because while that’s certainly an interesting reaction, he kind of wants Eliot’s hands on his ass in a different way, tonight.
Eliot inclines his head in approval. "Then do as I ask, sweetheart."
Quentin licks his lips, a small, nervous tic, and reaches down to slide his thumbs under his waistband. There’s no real sexy way to remove your underwear while you’re lying down, and even if there was, Quentin knows he’d find a way to screw it up, so he settles for just getting his underwear off as quickly as possible, dropping them over the side of the bed before he lies back, looking at Eliot expectantly, and a little self-consciously. “Anything else, sir?” he asks, for lack of anything better to say - and maybe seeking a little bit of reassurance, too.
Eliot's gaze on him is answer enough, dark and hot, as he feasts on the sight of Quentin laid out before him like... he doesn't even know what. At last, though, Eliot's eyes meet his own, and Quentin would have to be blind not to see the appreciation in them. "You're perfect," he says. "Hands above your head for me."
Quentin does so immediately, and watches Eliot intently, waiting for his next instruction. But Eliot doesn't speak. He walks around the bed in silence and Quentin knows better than to turn his head to follow his progress. A moment after he disappears from sight, Quentin feels Eliot's hands gently grasp his own, and then that soft, silky scarf is being wrapped around his wrists and pulled just tight enough for him to feel the bite all the way down to his toes.
Quentin can’t help a sharp intake of breath, his hands clenching into fists, arms flexing as he tests the scarf. “That feels nice,” he murmurs, almost without thinking.
"Good," Eliot says, his voice warm with approval. Quentin hears a drawer open and close, and then Eliot reappears at the end of the bed, and moves closer until he's kneeling on the mattress, not quite looming over Quentin. "How are you doing?"
Quentin takes a moment to consider that, and then gives Eliot a small smile. “Pretty good,” he says. "Still just a - a little nervous, but. That's my brain being weird; I like that you know what you're doing. It's… reassuring."
Eliot doesn't answer right away, just reaches out to brush his fingers teasingly against the inside of Quentin's thigh. A soft sigh escapes him, and his legs fall open without a thought. Eliot smiles, and trails those fingers upwards, towards Quentin's eager cock. "You wrote in your file that you like anal," he says, his tone almost thoughtful. "When was the last time you were fucked?"
Quentin’s hands flex above his head while he thinks and tries not to squirm under Eliot’s touch. “Um. Back in - senior? No, junior year, of undergrad. Then I went to grad, and met Alice my last year.”
"Let me guess," Eliot says, his fingers moving ever closer. "She wanted to spice things up, but you never considered pegging?"
Quentin can't help the snort he lets out. "She wasn't interested in it."
"Pity," Eliot says, dismissive. His fingertips find the thatch of dark hair between Quentin's legs. "When was the last time you fucked yourself?"
"Um, maybe - a month ago? After we broke up, I used one - one of my toys." Quentin's breath hitches, and his stomach tenses with the effort of trying not to thrust up, move his hips to get Eliot to touch him. "Not as big as you, though. Sir."
Eliot's hand trails away, back down his thigh and lower, moving inward. "Well then," he says, smug. "I guess I'd better do a good job of getting you ready for me."
Quentin sucks in a sharp breath, his legs falling open readily, giving Eliot even more space. “Please, sir.”
"Good boy," Eliot purrs, and drops his hand. Two fingers rub firmly over Quentin's hole, making him gasp, and then they disappear. The click of a bottle cap echoes in the silence of the room, and when those fingers return, they're cool and slick. Quentin makes a quiet noise, hands clenching, and does his best to stay still; the lube on Eliot’s fingers warms quickly, and he doesn’t push in, not yet, just… touches Quentin, which is what Quentin wanted, but suddenly it’s not enough, and Quentin can’t remember feeling like this during sex, this wanting without any - any hesitation. He barely catches the desperate plea - demand? - for more behind his teeth, throws his head back against the ridiculously comfortable bed instead, and whines when the pad of Eliot’s finger drags slick-and-soft over his hole.
"Oh, you like this," Eliot purrs. "You should indulge more often, sweetheart, if you like it this much." He firms up his touch, pressing with just the tip of his finger like he's testing the give of him. He leans over Quentin, the pressure against his hole increasing, and murmurs, soft and intimate. "I'm going to ruin you for anyone else."
Quentin sobs, a desperate gasp. "Please, sir," he begs, unable to form more than those two words. "Please, please, please."
Eliot hushes him, soothes him with one hand on his hip - and finally, finally presses his finger inside.
Quentin keens, his head thrown back against the bed, as Eliot works him open slowly, torturously. It's far, far better than any time Quentin's worked himself open, and leagues better than the last time he got fucked. Quentin gives himself over to Eliot, lets Eliot work his body like an instrument he's determined to coach the sweetest music from, and revels in Eliot's touch - until it's near too much, and he's chanting, "Sir, sir, sir - please, sir, I'm going to come, I don't want to come yet, sir - "
"Not without my permission, you're not," Eliot says. He has four fingers inside of Quentin, working him up to take that massive cock, and he drags the pads of two directly over his prostate before stilling his hand entirely. Quentin howls. "Get yourself together, and I'll give you my cock."
Quentin sobs, desperately trying to do as Eliot says - and it’s only through great effort that he’s able to haul himself back from the edge, until he’s trembling under Eliot’s touch, cock weeping over his stomach, a filthy mess that is going to be a bitch to clean up later. He can’t speak, doesn’t think he has the brain power to do so, and there’s this - curious sensation, almost like there’s a blanket starting to settle over his mind, curtaining off the parts of him that don’t matter, here in this room, leaving only the parts that Eliot wants, the desire to please him, to follow his orders.
"That's it," Eliot murmurs, coaxing him away from the edge as he slowly, torturously eases his fingers out of Quentin's body. "God, you're gorgeous. You want this so much. And I'm going to give it to you." His fingers slip free, leaving Quentin feeling loose and open. He can't suppress a whimper. "Sit up, baby. You're going to ride my cock."
Quentin whines; his bones feel like noodles, he doesn't think... But Eliot told him to sit up, so Quentin gathers all of his strength, scrapes together his focus, and slowly sits up. Eliot helps him, rolling onto his back against the pillows and encouraging Quentin to throw one leg over his hips. Quentin braces himself, his hands still bound, against Eliot's chest while Eliot rolls a condom onto his own cock behind Quentin's back, flashing the ripped foil packet at him before he tosses it onto the nightstand.
"You ready, sweetheart?" he asks, smoothing his hands up Quentin's sides - but Quentin hesitates.
"I, um. I've been told I'm - I'm not very good at this," he confesses, unable to look Eliot in the eye.
Eliot stills. "At being on top?" he asks carefully.
"At, um, sex. In general. This part, especially."
"Oh," Eliot says. He takes a breath, and then his hands start moving on Quentin's skin again, slow and soothing. "Why don't you let me be the judge of that?"
Quentin bites his lip, but then he nods, and makes himself take a deep breath, letting it out slowly. "Okay," he says quietly, unable to stop his hands from clenching and unclenching where they're braced on Eliot's chest, a slow knead. "Okay."
"Good boy," Eliot rumbles. His touch becomes more intent, steadying Quentin’s hips now. "Come on. Let me help you."
Quentin takes a deep breath, and lets it out slowly. “Thank you, sir,” he sighs, trusting his weight to Eliot’s strong hands as he rocks backward, feeling Eliot’s cock brush against his ass, just missing the mark.
"Easy," Eliot murmurs. He lets go with one hand, reaches behind Quentin to steady himself, rub the head of his cock over Quentin's hole. "That's it, sweetheart."
Quentin shifts back again, and focuses on keeping his breathing steady as he feels Eliot’s cock press against his hole. It’s hot, not nearly as hot as Quentin remembers the last time he went bareback with someone, so Eliot definitely put that condom on, didn’t just rip the wrapper open and throw the condom somewhere. Not that Quentin thought he’d do something like that, but -
Quentin loses his train of thought as Eliot’s cock finally enters him. He gasps, heat jolting through his body, and rocks back a little faster than he probably should have, taking more of Eliot’s cock a little too quickly. “Fuck,” he breathes, more than a little shaky.
"Easy," Eliot says again, sharp with warning though a little breathless. "If you hurt yourself, this won't be nearly as fun as I wanted it to be. Take it slow."
"Yes, sir," Quentin says, breathless, and does as Eliot asks - orders.
They're both breathing hard by the time Eliot is fully seated within Quentin, Quentin's ass flush with Eliot's hips, but Eliot is a great deal more composed about it than he is. His big hands sweep comfortingly up and down Quentin's sides while Quentin gets used to the stretch, to the feeling of being so unbelievably full for the first time in a long time - maybe in forever. But then Quentin realises he's ready, and rocks a little on Eliot's cock, encouraging him to move, to do something - and Eliot tuts at him.
"Ah," he says, reproachful, even as his hands keep moving on Quentin's skin. "Did I say you could move? Stay still. Tell me how you feel."
Quentin stills, and struggles to find his words - in a good way, for once. "Full," he says, resisting the urge to shift again, just to feel Eliot's cock in him. "'s good. Never had a cock as big as yours, sir."
Eliot smirks like he knows it's true; like he knows exactly what Quentin's thinking. "Stay still," he says again. "Hold as still as you can, and just feel it."
Quentin can't quite bite back a frustrated whine; he doesn't want to hold still, he wants to move, to feel Eliot's cock in him. But the greater part of him wants to obey Eliot more than anything else - wants to please him - so Quentin does his best to stay still in Eliot's lap, to keep his squirming to a minimum. Eliot's hands are still moving over Quentin's skin, his hips, his waist, his thighs, but never touching his cock. Quentin glances down just in time to see himself literally drip onto Eliot's chest, where his skin is already slick like it's not the first time. He slams his eyes shut against a hot wave of shame, even as his cock gets impossibly harder.
"God, you're beautiful," Eliot sighs, and his voice is even more intense now that Quentin can't see him, but he doesn't open his eyes. It's like Eliot is everywhere - on him; inside him; all around him. "I wish you could see yourself. Your skin flushes the prettiest pink when you're turned on. And you're wet." A shiver runs through Quentin. "I can see how badly you want to fuck, but you're trying so hard to be good. You're so good. You'll only take what Sir gives you. And I'll give you anything if you're good enough. I'll fuck you until you can't even remember your own name. You now I can do it, baby. You can feel my cock inside you, filling you up so full. I'm going to ruin you with it. You just have to stay still. Think about nothing else. Let me give you what you need. You're so gorgeous. You're so good, sweetheart. Such a good, beautiful boy."
Eliot’s words soothe something deep in Quentin’s chest, somewhere in the back of his head; as he speaks, a curious warmth settles over Quentin’s skin, spreading from Eliot’s palms. In its wake, everything seems… quieter. It’s easier, now, to sit still in Eliot’s lap, to listen to Eliot, focus on his voice and his hands, his praise, his orders. Quentin lets out a slow breath, and sinks into the feeling, relaxing into Eliot’s hands on his hips, wrists flexing against the gentle restraint around them just for the reminder that it’s still there, and he lets himself go, lets himself settle into position to wait for Eliot’s next order.
It doesn't come. Instead, a few moments later, Eliot makes a low sound, like he's impressed, like he's awed. "Wow," he murmurs. It's like his voice is coming from far away. "You're in deep, aren't you? You were fucking made for this. Look at you. God..." One hand trails inwards, but Quentin barely notices it until a gentle fingertip runs up the length of his cock. Fuck, he's wet. He shudders; he whines. "Can you ride me like this?" Eliot's asking, curious. "Or do you need your Sir to fuck you?"
Quentin swallows, and rocks his hips experimentally; his whole body feels far away, like it's running five seconds behind his brain. Or maybe it's the other way around. Either way, he shakes his head. "I need your help, Sir," he admits.
"All right," Eliot says, tender. A gentle hand cups the back of his head, the other grasping his waist, and then Quentin is slowly being tipped backwards. "Legs around my waist, gorgeous boy. I've got you.'"
It takes a moment to get his legs to cooperate, but then Quentin shifts, moving as Eliot directs him to. His wrists tug at the material binding them, the pressure sparking something down his spine that makes him shiver. Eliot lays him out on the sheets, cool and soft against every overheated inch of Quentin's skin, without his cock leaving Quentin empty for even a second. Quentin keens, hands twisting beneath him as he pleads without words for Eliot to move -
And Eliot does.
He makes Quentin scream in pleasure, every nerve in his body lighting up in a chaotic cacophony. The feeling of Eliot pounding into him, fucking him with ruthless abandon, makes Quentin feel faint - but pleased, at the same time, as Eliot gasps and murmurs praises, never letting up until Quentin is begging to come, unable to do more than chant please over and over and over again, his stomach a sticky-wet mess, his cock jerking every time Eliot's stomach brushes against it.
Just when Quentin thinks he's going to go out of his mind with wanting, Eliot groans, "Do it." He sounds wild. "Come for me, baby. Right now."
Quentin is helpless to do anything but obey, sobbing as he comes, hard, his cock jerking and making even more of a mess between them. Eliot isn't far behind, praises and filth still spilling from his lips as his rhythm falters and he loses himself to the clutch of Quentin's body.
Quentin loses who-knows-how-much time then, pressed to the mattress and sheets below him with Eliot's weight above him, Eliot's heat, and feeling, possibly for the first time in his life, wholly settled in his skin. That feeling is almost better than the mind-shattering orgasm he just had, honestly, and Quentin just... basks in it, taking the opportunity to just exist without worrying about - about anything at all.
When he finally comes back to himself, Eliot is easing free of him, his hands warm and gentle on Quentin's skin. He makes a soft sound, of protest or entreaty, he's not sure, but Eliot hushes him and quickly discards the condom, tying it up neatly, before he starts working on the scarf at Quentin’s wrists.
"Hey there," Eliot murmurs, when Quentin eventually opens his eyes to look at him. The scarf loosens and slips away, and Eliot lifts one wrist gently between his hands, starts massaging the skin like it could have ever been tight enough to hurt. "You with me?"
Quentin can't quite make his throat work enough to form words, but he does manage a nod, letting himself relax against the mattress and enjoy the feeling of Eliot's hands on his wrist, his touch gentle and soothing something deep in Quentin.
He doesn't know how long Eliot spends on his wrists, tenderly rubbing the feeling back into Quentin's whole body, breaking away briefly to return with a warm, damp cloth that Eliot uses to clean Quentin up, but eventually that touch becomes more sure, encouraging him to-- what? "Come on," Eliot says, as gentle as his hands, "up here." Oh, he wants Quentin to sit up.
Quentin has to concentrate to get his body moving, and even then it's slow going. Eliot helps, though, keeping him balanced and tugging Quentin gently into position against his chest once Eliot himself is sitting at the head of the bed, propped against several plush pillows. Once they're settled, Quentin hesitates, some distance voice saying - He shuts it out; that little voice doesn't matter right now, because it's not Eliot's. Instead, he slowly, carefully, lets one arm slide around Eliot's waist, and lets himself relax against Eliot with a soft sigh.
"There you go," Eliot says, his voice still impossibly soft, and warm with what sounds like approval. He strokes Quentin's hair. "How are you feeling?"
Quentin hums quietly, searching for words. "Floaty," he settles on. "A little... cloudy? Getting better."
"That's normal," Eliot tells him kindly. "A little intense, for a first timer, but I had a feeling you'd get there."
"Subspace," Eliot says. "We'll talk about everything when you're feeling more yourself. Just enjoy it for now."
Quentin hums quietly. "Okay."
Eliot just holds him while he comes back to himself, while the tingly sensation fades from his body and the rest of the world starts melting back in around him. After what seems like a long time, Eliot's arms tighten around him briefly, and Quentin feels his lips brush his forehead. "How you doing?" he prompts softly.
Quentin blinks, and then takes a deep breath. "Better," he says. "Not so floaty? That was... intense."
"Yeah," Eliot says. His fingers are still carding through Quentin's hair. "For me, too. But that's why we do the next part."
"What's the next part?"
"Aftercare," Eliot says. "I'm going to feed and water you, make sure you're feeling okay, and then we're going to talk."
Quentin's brow furrows. "Talk about what?"
"About what we just did," Eliot says. "About how it felt, what we liked and didn't like, how you feel now and how you might feel over the next few days. It sounds boring, but it's really important."
Quentin can't help the way he tenses. "Oh," he says quietly. "Okay, yeah. That does sound... important."
"It is," Eliot agrees. The hand in Quentin's hair moves now, stroking down his back instead. "Come on. Let's get your blood sugar up, and then maybe we can get under the covers? I don't want you to get cold."
Taking a deep breath, Quentin nods. "Yeah, that sounds - good. Room's a little cold now that I'm all... sweaty."
Eliot kisses the top of Quentin's head, and then nudges him gently upright until he can slip out from behind him and get to his feet. He stretches, drawing Quentin's eyes to the long lines of his gorgeous body, and strides across the room, completely unconcerned by his nudity. And why should he be, when he looks like that? "Make yourself comfortable," he says, opening one of the drawers in the bureau. "Are you feeling chocolate or granola? Chocolate and granola?"
"Um, chocolate and granola sounds good," Quentin decides; he is kind of hungry, and does have that vaguely-shaky feeling he gets when he hasn't eaten in too long.
"Great," Eliot says. He turns back to Quentin with two bottles of water and multipacks of chocolate and granola bars balanced between his hands, which he tosses onto the bed before he crawls up to join Quentin. "Drink something, and eat at least one bar. Then we'll talk."
Quentin reaches for a water bottle first; his mouth is a little dry, and a dry mouth makes granola bars taste like sawdust. Once he's drank about half the bottle in slow sips, he caps it and reaches for one of the granola bars, carefully unwrapping it and eating just as carefully.
Eliot watches him do it between sips of his own water, though he doesn't touch the food until Quentin crumples the wrapper of his granola bar. Then he reaches out to snag a bar of chocolate. "Feeling any better?" he asks. "I'm going to keep checking in for a while, and I need you to be honest with me. That's a big part of it."
Quentin nods his understanding. "Yeah, I feel better," he adds for the sake of clarity. "What exactly is all... this?"
Eliot takes a breath. "Aftercare is about bringing each other back to earth, making sure that we're both okay physically and mentally. It got really intense for a while there, and that can mean that you could crash pretty hard in the next few hours. I want to make sure that doesn't happen."
"What does a... 'crash' look like?" Quentin asks, frowning slightly.
"It's called sub drop," Eliot says. "Doms can get it too, but it's called Dom drop, obviously. Think of it as, what goes up must come down. You've just experienced a huge adrenaline rush, and a fuck-tonne of endorphins. You feel great right now - or--" He smiles; "--at least, I hope you do - but it won't last. If we don't ease you down from that high, or even if we do, instead of going back to normal you might start to feel worse. That's called dropping. So we need to do everything we can to prevent that."
"I do feel pretty great," Quentin concedes. "And I did, while we were..." He flushes. "But yeah, that. That makes sense. So it's just, like, eating and hydrating and talking?"
"A lot of talking," Eliot says, nodding. "A lot of affirmation and reassurance." He peers at Quentin thoughtfully. "But it can be more than that, too."
Quentin tries not to tense again, but isn't very successful. "More... how?"
"It can be physical," Eliot offers. "A lot of subs like to be held for this part. But everyone's different. It's up to you."
"Oh," Quentin sighs, relaxing. "Yes, please."
Eliot smiles and opens his arms. "Come here."
Quentin goes easily, settling against Eliot's side with his head on Eliot's chest, and letting out a quiet sigh. "This is nice," he murmurs. "Almost as good as the sex."
"Good," Eliot chuckles, and strokes his hair. "I'm glad you enjoyed the sex. I'm glad it felt good, and that you trusted me enough to make you feel good. Do you have any questions about what happened? Anything you particularly liked or didn't like?"
Quentin considers that for a moment. "I liked having my hands bound," he says eventually, tentatively. "More than I thought I would."
"That's good," Eliot says, encouraging. "It didn't feel uncomfortable, or make you feel trapped?"
Quentin shakes his head. "I could still move," he says thoughtfully. "Don't think I want to try, like. Being tied to the bed or anything. But I liked that... that little reminder that I wasn't in charge? I just had to listen."
"And you did so beautifully," Eliot tells him. "Really, you were perfect."
Quentin feels his face heat, pleased. “You were really good at giving orders,” he offers, a bit clumsily. “They were pretty easy to follow.”
"That's what I wanted," Eliot admits. "Not that I didn't think you could handle anything tougher, but I wanted this to be a good experience for you. I didn't want you to have to work too hard."
Quentin nods. "It was good," he says - and then is struck by a thought. "It - It was. Was it good for you, too?"
"Oh, sweetheart," Eliot says, warm laughter in his voice as he pulls Quentin closer against him. "It was so good for me. I love nothing more than sweet, good boys like you. You were amazing."
Quentin frowns slightly. "You sure?" he asks, unable to shake that stupid little voice in the back of his head.
"Positive," Eliot says. "You made me feel so good."
And Eliot keeps saying that to him, for the next hour or so they're together, so often and in so many different ways that Quentin has no choice but to believe it. They take full advantage of the continued intimacy, holding and touching each other and even kissing a few times while Eliot explains subspace to him, what it means and how it happens and how important it is to come back to earth carefully. It seems like a very vague concept, but the more Eliot talks Quentin realises he doesn't doubt that that's what he experienced. A floaty, out-of-your-body sensation where the whole world melts away, and all that matters is pleasure, yours and your partner's? It's incredibly seductive. If he'd known about this beforehand, he's sure he would have found himself in one of these clubs long ago.
But eventually things start to wind down. Quentin is feeling a little more settled, a little more at home in his skin, and Eliot seems to sense that. He eases away, full of reassurances, and gently encourages Quentin to get dressed, to eat another granola bar - and then, when they're both dressed, the rumpled sheets in the middle of the bed the only evidence of their incredible night left behind, he pulls Quentin in for one last hug.
"I'll see you out," Eliot says, and the detached, professional words might sting if Quentin couldn't still feel the way Eliot’s lips lingered on his forehead just now. "This place is like a maze if you don't know it well."
"I bet," Quentin says, chuckling quietly. "I'm not great with directions at the best of times."
"Somehow, I don't doubt that," Eliot says, a teasing smile on his lips. He keeps Quentin close as they navigate back down to street level. It's still dark outside, music thrumming from the main part of the club. It feels like they've been upstairs for hours, but Eliot assures him the place will be open for a little while longer. Todd isn't on reception anymore, though, so Eliot tells the girl in his place to book Quentin a cab and charge it to Eliot's own card. This is clearly unusual, because the girl raises an eyebrow at the instruction; Eliot raises one right back, and guides Quentin outside with a hand on the small of his back.
"I'll wait with you," Eliot offers, taking a moment to inhale the cool night air. "This is the nicest part of town the owners could get away with opening a literal sex club in, but that doesn't actually mean much."
Quentin snorts. "Yeah, not much," he teases. "Still, thanks for walking me out. And for, you know. Everything else."
"No problem," Eliot says. "I enjoyed myself thoroughly. Thank you for letting me get you out of your head for a little while."
Quentin feels his smile turn shy. "Thanks for doing it so well," he says. They fall into a companionable silence then, broken by the sound of the street - including an approaching car which slows, pulling to a stop in front of them. Summoning all of his courage, Quentin just barely manages to get out, "This was a good night. Think I might come back later."
"You're more than welcome to," Eliot says, and his tone is just gentle enough to make Quentin wary. "I don't... play with people more than once, though," he goes on. "I'm sure you'll find any of our other Doms more than up to the task."
Quentin makes himself keep his tone as light as possible. "Doesn't seem like you guys do anything 'low-quality,'" he hums, stepping away from Eliot's warmth and towards the car. "I'll see you some other time, Eliot."
"Oh, I'll be around," Eliot assures him. He waves as Quentin gets into the cab, but Quentin doesn't look back to see if he watches until he reaches the end of the street.