Fuck Him Pt 02

I guide him through the "business" hallways in, not awkward, but a giddy sort of silence. Being Monday, there's little muffled yelps to be heard. I mentally thank the coolness of this place. If not, he would be feeling a...less dry hand. I'm still doubting the realness of the situation, though I know I don't possess the gift of lucid dreaming. If I did, boy, I'd have had my way with him, multiple times.

"You can talk, by the way." I say, wondering if he's feeling tense. It all changes, knowing that I affect him too.

"Wouldn't that break your authority?"

Still a smartass I see.

"I promise you, that won't happen," I say as we come to a stop, my free hand finally resting on the door handle of my usual workplace, "I prefer communication...which was heavily absent in my morning session. I had to keep on guessing how he was doing."

"Oh...an earlier costumer?"

"You're my third for the day. Ha, guess I'm getting popular."

"I'd imagine so." He comments, giving a weaker smile. Feeling jealous are we? How well deserved.

"You can hang your jacket there."

I gesture to the clothing stand with my jaw as we enter the dull colored room, designed to look abandoned. Letting go of his hand, I stride over to large mattress at the center of the cement floor and proceed to observe him. He have definitely worked on toning his body. The R back in uni had much more loose weight. More insecurities, by my guess.

After placing his jean pocket trinkets below the stand, he turns to meet my gaze. I spot a flash of timidness before it got covered by a smirk.

"Anything else you want off?"

"Your jeans," I answer bluntly, "And did Sam inform you of how to clean yourself up?"

"...Yes love." There's that shyness I want.

"You'll head to the washroom and do that, after those jeans are off," I gave another gesture as I talk, not caring whether he saw it. That white, half-opened door is obvious enough, "Lay yourself down on the mattress once you're done." I finish, tossing off the flats I'm wearing.

He gave a quick response as he squirms out of his pants. Alright, got a bit of fuzz on his body too. I catch sight of yet another tattoo at the side of his right, no, his left hip...a bisexual-colored...paint mark? Cool, I'm into that. My, his boxer is planet-patterned, with little stars and all. Well, whatever childish innocence he still holds, it won't last much longer.

~ ~ ~

It took a while for him clean his curvy ass, which I expected. Speed will come with practice. Sitting here, I can't deny the nerves in my stomach...my whole body. By now I've accepted that I'm probably not dreaming of this scene, but that only makes this more overwhelming. It's not like I'll mess up on anything...but with him, I doubt I'd be able to feel in control. Though, he did took on his role quite naturally.

As I begin to imagine the sexual experiences which got him into subbing, the door opens. I shift to a less casual pose by instinct, tucking away the restraints I've prepared. Judging by his remaining air of dignity, I assume the cleaning went well. Without much hesitation, he walks towards me, his flower-tattoo hand running through his hair. Fuck. By the words of a gal I met back when I attempted theater, that move is illegal.

It's only when he got close that I realize I forgot to stand up. Shit...pretend that I planned to look up at him then. At least he still seems to be the more timid one.

"Well? Forgot what to do next?" I tease as I slide out of my wool tank top, amused by his haste kneeling and shifting to the middle of the mattress. As he sinks in, I pull down my equally wooly legging, intentionally taking my time.

"...I see you got the abs you wanted." he says, still propped up on his elbows.

It took a moment before I remembered saying anything about abs to him. It was first year, the one time he sat with me at the crowded cafeteria...the time and place where, likely, I began drowning.

"Looking far more in shape yourself," I reply, shifting till I'm hovering over him. "Let's go over the rules."

"The colors?"

"Yes. Explain them to me," I command, leaning over him to grab the pouch-of-goods that's tucked above his head. Should I eventually take off my binder? I did with the gal earlier, but with him, it feels too soon.

"...Red, stop. Orange, slow down," He recounts, seemly distracted by the pouch I'm holding in front of my chest, or perhaps my chest itself, "And green is go?"

"Correct," Without warning, I wrap my free hand around his neck and pull him to me, wrapping my other arm around to keep him upright.

"Oh, I like this."

Before he could muffle out anything more, I shake out the white cloth I've acquired and stuff it firmly into his unexpecting mouth. A move I've done countless times to others. As he made lovely sounds and wiggles of resistance, I shift back, having him stay up on his own, before pressing a large piece of classic-gray duct tape over the cloth. Before I'd delight in his new look, I push him down, seeing that he sinks fully into the mattress this time.

"What if you can't say the colors then, love?" I ask, a hand sliding under his white shirt, finally feeling his burning skin, "How do you get me to stop?"

He merely clenches his hands, not giving me an answer. Did Sam leave that part out? Or is he just more distracted? Oh, there it is, two soft taps to my thigh with his knee.

"That's right. Two taps, I'll stop what I'm doing, and confirm with you whether it's an orange or a red."

As I made the promise, my hand sneaks its way down from his torso to his galaxy boxer, stroking him through the fabric. It got me a muffled, but highly audible moan. Sensitive and expressive? Perfect.