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[FIC]: sins of the flesh
sins of the flesh, nc-17, kris/suho.
and now he wants to grab her by the hair and tell her.
i want to hold you close
skin pressed against me tight
lie still, and close your eyes
so lovely, it feels so right
i want to hold you close
soft breath, beating heart
as i whisper in your ear
i want to fucking tear you apart
she wants revenge, "tear you apart"
SINS OF THE FLESH
kris/suho
Wu Fan isn't sure what he was expecting, but this tiny man with his disarmingly cheerful smile and soft voice is certainly not it.
"I," he says, tucking his fingers into the pockets of his jeans. "You are Kim Junmyeon, right? The one whose email I responded to? I just, you know, want to be sure about this."
The smile that the man—Junmyeon—gives him is sweet and charming, and he nods a little, reassuring. "You're probably thinking that this isn't what you expected," Junmyeon says with a quiet laugh—it sounds almost private, like he's laughing at a joke that Wu Fan isn't in on. "It's all right. I get that reaction a lot."
"Ah," Wu Fan says. He's not sure if that's reassuring or not.
"Should I show you to my room?" Junmyeon offers, unruffled and polite. He presses a hand to the small of Wu Fan's back—the touch both possessive and stronger than Wu Fan expected—and leads him down the hall, to a bedroom that is, frankly, rather unimpressive. Walls painted a warm shade of taupe, wood furniture stained reddish with some kind of lacquer. In fact, the only thing about the room that indicates anything at all about Junmyeon's lifestyle is the bed itself: Luxurious, huge, sheets colored red like good wine and, if Wu Fan guesses correctly, some kind of silk blend. (Probably washable, considering, but still fine enough to feel like sin against naked flesh.)
"If you're still interested," Junmyeon says, closing the door behind them with a decisive click, "I think now is as good a time as any to discuss safe words."
Wu Fan looks back at him and catches a glimpse of Junmyeon's smile. There's an edge to it now that wasn't there before, a filthy, delicious promise tucked into the corners of it like Junmyeon has all kinds of things up his sleeve that he's just aching to show off. "… Yángtuó," he says slowly, watching Junmyeon as he carefully closes the shutters and dims the lights with the slider on the wall.
"Is that Mandarin?" Junmyeon asks.
"Yeah," Wu Fan says. There's something about Junmyeon's presence—he's not sure what—that is already making Wu Fan feel a little overwhelmed. Junmyeon hasn't even touched him yet, and Wu Fan's palms are sweating. "Do you need me to pick one you understand?"
"That's fine," Junmyeon says. "Clothes off."
The words are straightforward and Junmyeon's tone is light, but when Wu Fan meets his eyes there's an expression there that Wu Fan doesn't dare disobey. He strips his clothes off quickly, without ceremony, and folds them neatly, leaves them in a pile on the floor at the foot of Junmyeon's bed—it's always the sweet ones, Wu Fan knows. The ones with the angelic smiles. They're the ones who really know how to make someone beg for more.
When Wu Fan is naked, half-hard and skin prickling with goosebumps at the chill in the air, Junmyeon taps a finger thoughtfully against his chin and says, “Spread your legs a little.” It’s not quite a suggestion—rather, spoken with the kind of calm confidence that Wu Fan will obey, and he does, spreading his legs to hip-width. Wu Fan isn’t sure what to do with his hands—his experience with this is limited, mostly, to embarrassing, intoxicated forays into light bondage with a boyfriend in his sophomore year of university, but there had only been a couple of those before his then-boyfriend had told him it was getting a little weird. They had broken up a week and a half later.
So, no. Wu Fan doesn’t know the ins and outs, doesn’t really know what to do with his body in order to please Junmyeon.
(To please him, oh god, even thinking it makes Wu Fan’s cock twitch.)
“Fold your hands behind your back,” Junmyeon instructs. He circles around Wu Fan, his steps careful and purposeful. Wu Fan can practically feel the weight of Junmyeon’s gaze on his skin, feels a little like he’s being evaluated. “Have you ever done this before?”
“Yes,” Wu Fan says, which is technically the truth, but it still tastes a little like a lie. “...Not very extensively.”
Junmyeon makes a thoughtful sound, circling around to stand in front of Wu Fan. He has to be at least ten centimeters shorter, Wu Fan thinks, but there’s a look in Junmyeon’s eyes when he meets Wu Fan’s gaze that makes Wu Fan feel about ten centimeters tall. “Then you’ll be learning a lot today,” he says, reaching out to take hold of Wu Fan’s chin. He turns his head to the left, and then to the right, as though Wu Fan is a product being inspected—the gesture makes Wu Fan shiver a little. It’s cold, impersonal. “Pay attention.”
“Yes,” Wu Fan says. His voice is breathless, anticipatory, and it makes one side of Junmyeon’s mouth curl up into a smirk.
“When you address me, you can address me as sir,” Junmyeon says. His tone, previously light, has dropped a register, like a promise Wu Fan can’t wait for him to keep. “You don’t get to use my name while I’m using you. Understood?”
“Yes,” Wu Fan repeats.
“Yes, what?”
He swallows. “Yes, sir.”
“Very good.” Junmyeon sounds approving, which makes a sort of warmth spread out over the inside surface of Wu Fan’s ribs. “My post was specific, wasn’t it? I assume that by answering it, you’re indicating you’re interested in everything I have to offer. Am I wrong?”
Wu Fan thinks about the post, about the things spelled out across his screen—all of the promises, and the way just thinking about it was enough to have Wu Fan hard in his jeans, hunched guiltily in front of his computer screen as he jerked off quick and brutal into his own fist.
“No, sir,” he says quietly. The longer Junmyeon stands in front of him, the more embarrassed Wu Fan gets, and he can feel his brows drawing together, his teeth digging into his lower lip—this is so, so embarrassing and it just makes Wu Fan harder. He’s sure Junmyeon has noticed, by now. Maybe that’s why he’s still standing here, while Junmyeon casually peruses the lines of his body.
“Good,” Junmyeon finally says, stepping back. “On the bed. Knees spread. You have strong thighs, you can hold yourself up.”
Wu Fan almost trips over himself in his haste to obey, climbs onto the bed and settles with his knees spread, sitting back on his heels. He keeps his hands folded behind his back, because that’s what Junmyeon had said he wanted—had said Wu Fan should do. There’s a part of Wu Fan at war with himself, wondering what the consequences would be if he were to step out of line, but another, larger part of him just wants Junmyeon to praise him.
“I’m going to tie you up,” Junmyeon says, his tone almost like he’s commenting on the weather. When he steps back into Wu Fan’s line of sight, he’s holding a length of black rope. “Put your arms behind your back, and hold onto your forearms.”
“Yes, sir,” Wu Fan murmurs.
The rope against Wu Fan’s skin is much softer than he’d expected—probably silk, too, though Wu Fan isn’t nearly connoisseur enough to know. “Is that silk?” he asks, before he can catch himself, and when Junmyeon’s hands still for a moment, Wu Fan braces himself.
“I don’t remember addressing you,” Junmyeon says pleasantly, tightening a loop of rope around Wu Fan’s arms. He’s nearly immobile, arms pulled behind his back at an angle that’s not painful, but Wu Fan knows instinctively has the potential to be so. He wonders what it would feel like, whether Junmyeon would do that to him. “Do you?”
“No, sir,” and Wu Fan is shaking, slightly, his thighs trembling not with strain, but with anticipation.
“You will be silent unless you’re addressed,” Junmyeon says. He ties off the rope, or Wu Fan assumes he does, and moves off the bed—Wu Fan can feel the shift when Junmyeon’s weight disappears. “I’ll be understanding, because you’re new. In the future, I won’t be so kind.” He comes around the side of the bed, reaches out to brush his fingers gently against the edge of Wu Fan’s jaw. The touch, rather than being comforting, feels like a threat. “Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir,” Wu Fan says. (He wonders if all he’ll say for tonight will be yes, sir and no, sir.)
“In addition, you will ask my permission before you come,” Junmyeon adds, his fingertips tracing the edge of Wu Fan’s jaw and then down the line of a tendon in his neck. “Is that understood?”
Wu Fan imagines himself in a couple of hours, bound and begging for Junmyeon to let him come, and shudders, biting down on his lower lip to keep any noise from escaping. “Yes, sir,” he manages, almost a gasp, when words finally return to him. “I understand, sir.”
“Good.” Junmyeon moves back out of Wu Fan’s line of sight, and the absence sets Wu Fan on edge. He can feel his nerves prickling, the hair at the back of his neck standing up as he waits for—something, anything, even just for Junmyeon to move back into his field of vision. There’s a part of Wu Fan that’s embarrassed at himself, that’s too self-conscious, too self-aware to let him relax—because he’s naked and tied and kneeling on Junmyeon’s bed, and he doesn’t even know what Junmyeon is doing. Wu Fan tastes the edges of his safe word on his tongue, but—
But, no. No, they haven’t even started yet.
When his boyfriend had broken up with him, spring of their sophomore year of university, he had said, “To me, you’re the kind of guy who’s always in control. I don’t know if I can deal with being the one who takes that away from you.” And in some ways, it had made sense. Wu Fan is a strong person, a leader—a team player when need be, but with a presence strong enough to make people follow him. He’s in control. And that, Wu Fan thinks, is precisely why he likes someone else taking it away.
Junmyeon moves back into Wu Fan’s peripheral vision. He’s shed his cardigan, now dressed only in a plain t-shirt and jeans. Not the attire that Wu Fan had expected—but then again, he’s not even sure what he really had expected. Leather, maybe. Black. Instruments of torment displayed on the walls.
“Look at me,” Junmyeon commands, and Wu Fan turns instinctively to meet the kiss Junmyeon gives him.
For all that Junmyeon’s demeanor gives away nothing about his, ah, inclinations, the way he kisses—well, that’s another story. It’s Junmyeon in control from the beginning, forcing Wu Fan’s lips to part, his tongue delving into Wu Fan’s mouth without hesitation—Junmyeon licks against the roof of Wu Fan’s mouth, the insides of his cheeks, sucks on Wu Fan’s tongue and bites down on his lower lip, hard enough to make copper burst on Wu Fan’s tastebuds. Junmyeon kisses him to conquer, and Wu Fan surrenders.
“So pliant,” Junmyeon murmurs. It sounds approving, and pleasure sparks up Wu Fan’s spine. “You don’t look like the type, but you’re so good.”
“Thank you, sir,” Wu Fan murmurs, his eyes half-lidded, leaning a little into Junmyeon when he pulls back from the kiss. Junmyeon makes a tsk sound and pushes Wu Fan back upright, his hand strong against Wu Fan’s bicep.
“But greedy,” Junmyeon adds. “If you’re this greedy already, I wonder how desperate you’ll be by the end?”
The idea alone is enough to make Wu Fan shudder a little embarrassingly. He turns away, presses his cheek against his own shoulder and stares at Junmyeon’s comforter, trying to will away the persistent flush in his cheeks, but Junmyeon catches his chin and pulls him back to lock eyes.
“And pretty when you blush,” Junmyeon says. It sounds a little ridiculous to Wu Fan, who has never in his life thought of himself as pretty. “Don’t look away.”
“Yes, sir,” Wu Fan says. His tongue feels thick and unwieldy in his mouth, under the weight of Junmyeon’s gaze, and he resists the urge to look away again. Instead he watches Junmyeon as he pulls away, moves to the nightstand and pulls open a drawer.
What Junmyeon retrieves almost makes Wu Fan choke on his own saliva—lube, first of all, and then a thick, dark blue plug, and then, one right after another, three candles. Red, black, purple, and Junmyeon sets them in a neat row on the nightstand like it’s not a big deal, like Wu Fan isn’t practically straining against his bonds in anticipation at the mere thought of what Junmyeon is planning to do to him.
With everything lined up on the nightstand, Junmyeon closes the door and turns back to Wu Fan. “How are your shoulders?” he asks, bringing one hand up to cup the curve of one. “Not strained?”
“No,” Wu Fan says, and then swallows, even that soft touch enough to make lightning prick along his skin. “Sir.”
Junmyeon smiles, slow and suggestive, and shifts to kneel on the bed in front of Wu Fan. He leans in, kisses Wu Fan again, and it’s just as filthy and controlling as the last, has Wu Fan practically whimpering into Junmyeon’s mouth as he lets Junmyeon conquer him. The part of Wu Fan that’s embarrassed by this, by how needy and desperate he must seem, is rapidly shrinking, pushed to the side by the sheer pleasure of being controlled, being used—and it’s so funny, because Wu Fan doesn’t look like the type to be submissive and Junmyeon doesn’t like the type to be dominating, but here they are, and Wu Fan loves it.
When they pull apart, Junmyeon licks at Wu Fan’s bottom lip and then sits back, reaching down to undo his belt, the button of his jeans. Wu Fan tries to reach for him, to help, before remembering his arms are bound behind his back—there’s no way he’s getting his hands on Junmyeon properly.
Junmyeon has all the control. All of it, and the thought makes Wu Fan’s cock throb, heavy against his upper thigh.
Kneeling in front of Wu Fan on the bed, Junmyeon undoes the zipper of his jeans with a kind of torturous slowness that Wu Fan both loves and absolutely loathes. He closes his eyes for a moment, biting his lip, and when he opens them again Junmyeon is touching himself—slowly, of course, almost luxuriously, like he has all the goddamn time in the world. He’s bigger than Wu Fan expected, and Wu Fan is actually humiliated by the fact that his mouth starts watering at the sight.
“Mm,” Junmyeon hums, watching Wu Fan watch him. Wu Fan licks his lower lip, sucks it into his mouth to bite down on. “So eager. You keep surprising me.”
The thought crosses Wu Fan’s mind briefly: You don’t know anything about eager yet, but it’s gone as quickly as it came, and Wu Fan shifts a bit to spread his thighs wider. Junmyeon hasn’t touched him yet, not once, and Wu Fan is already aching, the lack of stimulation only increasing his anticipation.
With a glance between Junmyeon’s cock and his face, Wu Fan releases his lower lip from between his teeth. “Can I?” he asks. “I mean—may I, sir?”
Junmyeon reaches up and cups the edge of Wu Fan’s jaw in his hand, startlingly gentle. “Good boy,” he says, dragging his thumb along the swollen shape of Wu Fan’s mouth. “You may.”
Permission granted. Wu Fan leans down, braced with his thighs spread, and takes the tip of Junmyeon’s cock into his mouth. He’d been told, once, that he had a great mouth for sucking dick—full lips, quick tongue, but small, so it’s easier for Wu Fan to keep his lips tight around the girth of it. He wonders, absently, how many mouths Junmyeon has had on his cock—wonders if he’s better than they are, if Junmyeon can even keep track anymore. Maybe he can’t. Maybe Wu Fan is just one in a long line, a footnote—the idea makes him shiver, and he presses forward even more, curling his tongue under the ridge of the head and sucking.
Junmyeon hums, his fingers tracing soft patterns along the edge of Wu Fan’s jaw. The touch is thoughtful and proprietary, and feels oddly like Wu Fan is being humored, like Junmyeon is just letting him have his fun before they start for real.
Moaning softly, muffled by the weight of Junmyeon’s cock in his mouth, Wu Fan presses forward and flattens his tongue against the vein running along the underside. He’s rewarded with a muffled grunt, the most minute twitch of Junmyeon’s hips, but it feels like a victory—the idea that Wu Fan is good enough to earn a reaction, Junmyeon’s unspoken approval, is enough to make him moan again, pleasure dripping down his spine.
“So good,” Junmyeon murmurs, his fingers sliding back through Wu Fan’s hair. “Ready?”
“Mm?” Wu Fan hums, meaning Ready for what?
He doesn’t get an answer. Instead, Junmyeon curls his fingers around the back of Wu Fan’s neck and holds him down—lifts his hips up and fucks into Wu Fan’s mouth. He’s not brutal, not yet, but it’s purposeful, makes Wu Fan choke as he tries to remember how to breathe around his mouthful. It’s been a long time since he had a dick down his throat, but some things are muscle memory never really forgotten, and it only takes a few more thrusts before Wu Fan remembers the rhythm. Inhale through his nose, timed with Junmyeon’s thrusts, which grow more forceful every time he moves—not vicious, but it’s so, so clear to Wu Fan that Junmyeon is taking what he wants and he expects Wu Fan to give it.
Oh, he’ll give it. Wu Fan moans low around the shape of Junmyeon’s cock and instinctively reaches to balance himself, but his hands are tied, and the only thing keeping him upright is the shakily balanced distribution of his own weight and the force of Junmyeon’s hand at the back of his neck.
Truthfully, somewhere between Junmyeon’s thrusts and the casual, possessive way that Junmyeon runs his hands through Wu Fan’s hair, Wu Fan loses track of himself. Or rather, he loses track of time, of space—of everything except his own body, the restraints on his arms, and Junmyeon’s body against his. The only goal Wu Fan has, the only thing on his mind, is pleasing Junmyeon, and that makes this simple—there’s no need for Wu Fan to keep himself held together, to nod and smile and shake hands. No deadlines or assignments, just this: Can he please Junmyeon, or no?
Easy.
Junmyeon is silent except for occasional hitched breaths and low grunts, so the only warning Wu Fan has before Junmyeon comes is the way Junmyeon’s hand tightens on the back of Wu Fan’s neck. It takes him by surprise, a hot rush of semen on the back of his tongue, and he chokes on that too, forgetting how to breathe for a moment as he tries to swallow. When Junmyeon pulls back, Wu Fan gasps for air, swallows Junmyeon’s come and winces at the pull on his abused throat—he’ll be hoarse tomorrow.
Cupping his hand around Wu Fan’s chin, Junmyeon pulls him upright to look at his face. “Tsk,” he says softly, dragging the pad of his thumb just below Wu Fan’s lips, catching what lingers in the corners. “Sloppy.” He pushes his thumb into Wu Fan’s mouth, and Wu Fan instinctively swirls his tongue around it, licking away the remnants of Junmyeon’s come. “I’ll train you to be better.”
Wu Fan pants, turning his face into Junmyeon’s touch. For a moment he can’t hold down his thoughts long enough to be coherent, but it comes to him—”Yes, sir,” he says, his voice low and rough, and Junmyeon smiles.
“On your stomach,” he says, and pushes Wu Fan down to the mattress.
It’s an embarrassing position, on his stomach with his legs spread, Junmyeon hovering just out of his peripheral vision. With his face in the pillow, Wu Fan can’t see what he’s doing, can only hear the movements as Junmyeon picks things up. There’s a soft rustle and then a click, the distinctive sound of lube being squeezed out of its bottle, and that’s how Wu Fan knows to anticipate the press of Junmyeon’s fingers against his entrance.
Except he doesn’t get Junmyeon’s fingers. What Wu Fan gets is the startling coldness of the plug against him, slick with lube and pressing into him slowly. “Breathe deeply,” Junmyeon instructs, his free hand resting softly on the back of Wu Fan’s thigh. “Relax.”
Wu Fan breathes, and relaxes, and Junmyeon presses the plug into him just a little further. It burns, a little, the stretch does, but it’s not bad—not unbearable, as long as Wu Fan remembers to keep breathing. It’s clear that Junmyeon knows what he’s doing, knows when to push and when to rest. Wu Fan’s body is an open book to him, and the thought makes Wu Fan stifle a groan into the pillow as Junmyeon pushes the plug in a little deeper.
The stretch hurts a little, even though Junmyeon takes his time. It burns, but it’s a good kind of burn, a satisfying kind—the kind of burn that lets Wu Fan know his body is getting ready for something even better, something even more satisfying than the thickness of the plug pressing against the insides of him.
“You’re doing well,” Junmyeon says, thumb brushing back and forth over the sensitive skin at the back of Wu Fan’s thigh. “Deep breath, hold it—good, now relax.”
Wu Fan relaxes, and Junmyeon pushes—Wu Fan can feel the widest part of the plug sliding into him, agonizing and slow and too much, too much, it’s aching and overwhelming and he’s moaning into the pillow, unsure whether he should push his hips back into it or pull away—
“Good,” Junmyeon murmurs as the plug settles in, base tight against Wu Fan’s entrance, held in place. “Good boy.”
All that Wu Fan can manage in response to that is an inarticulate moan, his face pressed halfway into the pillow. He’s panting, his erection pressed unrelentingly between his own body and the silk of Junmyeon’s sheets—Wu Fan is so hard, his cock a persistent, throbbing ache between his legs, and he can’t help the way his hips keep jerking a little, seeking some of the stimulation he’s been denied so far. No matter how many times Wu Fan thinks No, bad, no matter how hard he tries to keep himself still, he can’t help it.
“Enough,” Junmyeon says, his voice soft but unforgiving. He slaps Wu Fan’s flank sharply—the sound is loud in the stillness of the room, and the slap makes Wu Fan jump and makes the plug press firmly against Wu Fan’s insides. “Stop moving. You will come when I want you to come, and not a moment before. Don’t make me say it again.”
“Yes, sir,” Wu Fan says, shame creeping into his voice. “I’m sorry, sir.”
There’s no response, no forgiveness, and it makes Wu Fan desperate—desperate to prove himself, to prove to Junmyeon that he’s a good boy, that he’s worthy of whatever it is that Junmyeon has up his sleeve. He stills his hips with some force of will and breathes evenly, in through his nose and out through his mouth, trying to calm himself down a little. Wu Fan knows this won’t be the end of it, not even close, but he’s close, and he needs to wind down.
The sound of a match being struck makes Wu Fan’s senses come to attention a split second before the acrid smell of sulfur reaches his nostrils. When he cranes his neck, Wu Fan can see that the red candle is missing from the nightstand, and it’s not hard to put two and two together. Resting his cheek on the mattress, Wu Fan tenses up, only to shudder and moan when the clench of his muscles draws his attention back to the fullness of the plug inside him.
The first drip of wax, just below Wu Fan’s left shoulderblade, takes him by surprise but doesn’t hurt. Still, the promise of pain is enough to have his body reacting, and Wu Fan takes a deep breath and holds it for a moment before exhaling—letting go, letting his body relax. “There we go,” Junmyeon says, as though even the most minute movements of Wu Fan’s body are clear as day to him. He strokes down Wu Fan’s spine, the touch possessive and reassuring, and Wu Fan relaxes a little more. “Good boy.”
The praise makes Wu Fan feel warm, and he’s caught up in it enough that he isn’t ready for the next splash of wax against his skin. It’s hotter now, hurts for a moment before it cools and hardens on his skin—Wu Fan can feel it, the tug against his flesh, and it makes him want to squirm to see how it feels.
But no, he won’t. Junmyeon called him a good boy, and Wu Fan doesn’t want to ruin that.
Junmyeon drips the wax in a controlled stream along Wu Fan’s skin, beginning at the top of his back and curving under each shoulderblade. It seems, to Wu Fan, like the longer it goes on the hotter the wax gets, until he’s stifling moans of half-pain, half-pleasure and resisting the urge to writhe on the sheets.
The torment ceases, eventually—Wu Fan has no sense of time, now, and no way to tell how many minutes have passed—and he hears Junmyeon blow the candle out a moment before it’s set back on the nightstand, in Wu Fan’s line of sight. The wax is cooling on his skin, and Junmyeon blows lightly on it, raising goosebumps at the nape of Wu Fan’s neck—the cool air in contrast with Wu Fan’s too-hot skin is startling, makes him feel too sensitive.
Another shift, and then Junmyeon’s fingernails drag down Wu Fan’s back, right along the places where he’s dripped wax. Wu Fan can feel the wax residue peel away, and can feel with exquisite, agonizing clarity the way that Junmyeon’s fingernails drag against the sensitive skin—he keens, high in the back of his throat, and arches his back a little, the sensation flooding through him, making Wu Fan’s head spin.
“How do you like that?” Junmyeon asks, when he’s dragged his fingernails through all of the wax stuck to Wu Fan’s skin. “It hurts?”
“Yes, sir,” Wu Fan says, breathless and aroused and biting his lip.
“Do you want more?”
“Yes, sir,” and Wu Fan can’t help the pleading in his voice, but he knows he’s easy for Junmyeon to read anyway, and bared like this there’s nothing that he can hide.
Junmyeon chuckles low in the back of his throat and reaches for another candle—the purple one this time, which he lights behind Wu Fan’s back. It’s unnerving, not being able to see where Junmyeon is located, because it means Wu Fan doesn’t know where to expect the wax—he doesn’t know what body part to tense, how to prepare for it. The nerves just make him anticipate it more, though, and the way his body keeps tightening around the plug in his ass is enough to keep Wu Fan half-distracted and painfully hard.
When the touch of wax finally comes, it’s not on Wu Fan’s back like he expected, but on the sensitive skin of the backs of his thighs. It makes him press his hips down into the mattress, whining, the plug pressing up against his prostate and his cock pressing into the sheets, and Wu Fan’s head is buzzing but he can’t get enough of this.
“Please, sir,” he half-gasps, arms tugging weakly at the restraints. “More, sir, please—”
With a soft sound, maybe approval, Junmyeon drips a line of hot wax just under the curve of Wu Fan’s ass, along the top of the back of his thigh. Some of it drips down the inside of his thigh, and the heat and pull so close to such sensitive places makes Wu Fan gasp and shudder—if he’s honest, half of him squirms at the idea and the other half wants to know how it would feel, to have the intensity of that heat on his cock or balls.
Junmyeon pauses to drag his fingernails harshly through the trail of wax he’s left, and Wu Fan closes his eyes, brows drawing together as he bites back a groan. His muscles tense and relax with each pass of Junmyeon’s fingernails over his skin, and it’s distractingly good, feeling the plug shift inside him each time. The pain and heat of the wax keeps Wu Fan a safe distance from the edge of orgasm—for now—but the thickness of the plug, unforgiving when it presses up inside him, is enough to have Wu Fan half out of his head nevertheless.
“You’ve been so good so far,” Junmyeon says, his tone approving as he blows out the purple candle and sets it back on the nightstand. “I think you deserve a reward.”
“Thank you, sir,” Wu Fan says, instead of What kind of reward? which is the question that had been hovering in his mind. He relaxes a little, now that there’s no pain to anticipate, and pays half-attention as Junmyeon runs the palms of his hands flat up the backs of Wu Fan’s thighs, now undoubtedly reddened and definitely sensitive after the wax treatment he’d just been given.
The relaxation, it turns out, is preemptive. Junmyeon slides his fingers up between Wu Fan’s legs, starting just behind his balls, and presses his fingertips against the base of the plug. For a moment all it does is push the plug further into Wu Fan, but then something gives, and—
“Oh my fucking God,” Wu Fan gasps, when the plug starts fucking vibrating where it’s pressed up against his prostate. “Oh fuck oh fuck, sir, fuck, please,” he knows he’s begging but Wu Fan can’t even be embarrassed about it, not when even the slightest movement of the plug in his ass makes him lightheaded with need.
Junmyeon laughs. “Reward enough for you?” he asks, dragging his nails along Wu Fan’s skin again and then pulling back.
Wu Fan is too far gone to reply, or to pay attention, at least not until he’s jolted back into reality by the sharp and painful sensation of wax dripping down his spine. The black candle, this time—as a glance at the nightstand tells him—and its seems hotter than the other two, taking longer to cool against his skin even as the heat radiates outward into the surrounding flesh. Wu Fan squirms, then gasps, then swears, and this is the most vicious cycle—the wax makes him writhe, the writhing makes the plug shift and every shift of the plug puts Wu Fan that much closer to the edge of orgasm.
Junmyeon drips the wax down Wu Fan’s back in one long, unrelenting line, starting at the top of his spine and working his way down—between Wu Fan’s shoulderblades, down towards where Wu Fan’s arms are tied against his back. There he stops, but only momentarily before he traces another line, parallel to the first, the heat even more intense as it burns against skin already made tender. “Sir,” Wu Fan says, the word coming out almost as a sob. “Sir, please...”
“Please, what?” Junmyeon says. He drips some wax over the knuckles of one of Wu Fan’s hands. “You have permission to speak.”
“Please let me come,” Wu Fan gasps, his hips moving in tight circles against the sheets.
“No,” Junmyeon says, calm as anything. “You may not.”
He shifts, and when the wax returns it’s dripping in the hollow of the small of Wu Fan’s back, below his tied arms, in a thick line down until the top of Wu Fan’s ass. The skin is thinner there, more sensitive, and Wu Fan sobs, pressing his face into the pillow and focusing on the pain—focusing on the tug of wax on his skin, the pain of being burned, in an effort to keep himself from coming all over himself and disappointing Junmyeon in the process.
“Please, sir,” he manages, his voice choked and raw and desperate. “Please, sir, I need it—lower, between my legs.”
It’s possibly the most humiliating thing Wu Fan has ever done, begged the way he’s doing right now, but he’s too far gone to care. All he wants is to please Junmyeon, to avoid disappointment, and if that means Wu Fan isn’t allowed to come, then he won’t come. He won’t. The desire is there, hot and pulsing high in the back of Wu Fan’s throat, but he won’t let himself go—he can’t. That would be bad, and Wu Fan is a good boy.
“So greedy,” Junmyeon says, but the way he says it doesn’t sound like Wu Fan is being chastised. “I knew you would be greedy, even like this.”
Wu Fan whines, and Junmyeon laughs again. He shifts and nudges Wu Fan’s thighs apart, reaching down to cup his balls in long, delicate fingers. “Since you’ve been so good,” Junmyeon says, and then—
The pain of hot wax on his balls is the most intense, overwhelming thing that Wu Fan has ever experienced. He makes a noise, somewhere between a wail and a groan, and shudders, his shoulders arching and his whole body quaking as Junmyeon drips the wax over the sensitive flesh. At the very least, it does the job—Wu Fan isn’t thinking about the pressing need to come anymore, at least not as much as he’s thinking about this exquisitely intense pain.
Junmyeon blows the candle out after that, letting the wax cool and cling to Wu Fan’s flesh. When he reaches down to peel it off, he’s gentle, at least, although Junmyeon does follow up by dragging one fingernail ever-so-gently along the newly sensitive flesh—a sensation that’s sharp despite the gentleness, and makes Wu Fan whimper, pressing his face into the pillow.
“Sir,” he says, almost chokes on the syllable. “Sir, please.”
“You’re a quick learner,” Junmyeon says. His tone is casual, almost conversational, like Wu Fan isn’t bound and face-down on his bed. Like he hasn’t just been pushing the very edges of Wu Fan’s sanity for however many hours Junmyeon has had him in here. “I’m impressed. You’ve been so good, and I think you’ve earned your reward.”
There’s a very faint, very small part of Wu Fan’s brain that’s coherent enough to think, if this reward is like the last one, I’m not sure I can take it. Still, he’s pliant when Junmyeon shifts, leaning over Wu Fan and pulling him upright with one arm wrapped around Wu Fan’s waist. It seems too easy, too gentle, and when Wu Fan is upright he finds out why—Junmyeon settles Wu Fan back to sit on Junmyeon’s knee, thighs spread, and the position presses the plug right up against Wu Fan’s prostate in a way it hadn’t done when he was face-down.
“Sir,” Wu Fan gasps, writhing, pressing down against Junmyeon’s thigh, his hips jerking into empty air. He tilts his head back, trying to get oxygen that won’t come, not through the haze of need to come that’s enveloping him, crawling up the back of his throat, setting fire to the pit of his stomach. “Sir, please, please, can I come, please let me come, sir, I need to come, please—”
Junmyeon presses his thigh up, rakes his fingernails down Wu Fan’s back, and murmurs, “You may come.”
Wu Fan comes. He comes, shouting, on his own thighs, and he keeps coming, his orgasm lasting ages, centuries, his entire body quaking with it, and the plug is still against his prostate and Wu Fan is moaning and he can’t stop, can’t stop shuddering, can’t stop coming, until he loses touch with himself entirely, floating in some kind of purgatorial haze of pure post-orgasmic bliss.
When he comes back to himself, he’s unbound, his head in Junmyeon’s lap as Junmyeon massages his right forearm. The tingle of blood returning to the limb is painful, but Junmyeon’s sure touch makes it slightly more bearable.
“Was I out for a long time?” Wu Fan asks, suddenly self-conscious now that the heat of the moment has passed.
“A few minutes,” Junmyeon says, smiling down at him. He looks unruffled, his hair still perfectly styled, shirt unwrinkled. Wu Fan, without even looking, knows he’s still a mess of wax drippings and come and sweat, and the dichotomy makes him shiver. “You did well today,” Junmyeon adds, pressing his thumbs against the inside of Wu Fan’s wrist.
“Thank you, sir,” Wu Fan says automatically, then flushes, scowling.
Junmyeon laughs. “You only have to call me ‘sir’ while we’re in bed,” he points out, releasing Wu Fan’s right arm and picking up his left. “Otherwise, you can call me Junmyeon. I don’t mind.”
“Okay,” Wu Fan says, slowly, his brain still trying to piece itself back together.
“I think we’ll work well together in the future,” Junmyeon continues, working his way up from Wu Fan’s elbow, massaging circulation back into the muscles. “You’re incredibly responsive, moreso than almost anyone I’ve—”
“Wait,” Wu Fan says. “In the future?”
Junmyeon’s fingers still, and he looks down at Wu Fan with one eyebrow raised. “Of course,” he says. “This wasn’t a one-night stand. I have a lot to teach you, and I think you would enjoy learning it.” He tilts his head a little, contemplative. “Unless you had other intentions?”
It’s almost embarrassing how quickly Wu Fan says “No,” except that Junmyeon has just watched Wu Fan beg to come, so the way he figures, there isn’t much left to be embarrassed about. “No,” he repeats, a little more quietly. “That sounds good.”
Junmyeon leans down, arching his back so he can give Wu Fan a gentle, proprietary kiss. “Then we’re in agreement,” he says, and smiles.
Wu Fan still isn’t sure what he was expecting, but he figures this is probably going to be better, anyway.
--------------------
AUTHOR'S NOTES: I DON'T WANT TO TALK ABOUT IT
and now he wants to grab her by the hair and tell her.
i want to hold you close
skin pressed against me tight
lie still, and close your eyes
so lovely, it feels so right
i want to hold you close
soft breath, beating heart
as i whisper in your ear
i want to fucking tear you apart
she wants revenge, "tear you apart"
SINS OF THE FLESH
kris/suho
Wu Fan isn't sure what he was expecting, but this tiny man with his disarmingly cheerful smile and soft voice is certainly not it.
"I," he says, tucking his fingers into the pockets of his jeans. "You are Kim Junmyeon, right? The one whose email I responded to? I just, you know, want to be sure about this."
The smile that the man—Junmyeon—gives him is sweet and charming, and he nods a little, reassuring. "You're probably thinking that this isn't what you expected," Junmyeon says with a quiet laugh—it sounds almost private, like he's laughing at a joke that Wu Fan isn't in on. "It's all right. I get that reaction a lot."
"Ah," Wu Fan says. He's not sure if that's reassuring or not.
"Should I show you to my room?" Junmyeon offers, unruffled and polite. He presses a hand to the small of Wu Fan's back—the touch both possessive and stronger than Wu Fan expected—and leads him down the hall, to a bedroom that is, frankly, rather unimpressive. Walls painted a warm shade of taupe, wood furniture stained reddish with some kind of lacquer. In fact, the only thing about the room that indicates anything at all about Junmyeon's lifestyle is the bed itself: Luxurious, huge, sheets colored red like good wine and, if Wu Fan guesses correctly, some kind of silk blend. (Probably washable, considering, but still fine enough to feel like sin against naked flesh.)
"If you're still interested," Junmyeon says, closing the door behind them with a decisive click, "I think now is as good a time as any to discuss safe words."
Wu Fan looks back at him and catches a glimpse of Junmyeon's smile. There's an edge to it now that wasn't there before, a filthy, delicious promise tucked into the corners of it like Junmyeon has all kinds of things up his sleeve that he's just aching to show off. "… Yángtuó," he says slowly, watching Junmyeon as he carefully closes the shutters and dims the lights with the slider on the wall.
"Is that Mandarin?" Junmyeon asks.
"Yeah," Wu Fan says. There's something about Junmyeon's presence—he's not sure what—that is already making Wu Fan feel a little overwhelmed. Junmyeon hasn't even touched him yet, and Wu Fan's palms are sweating. "Do you need me to pick one you understand?"
"That's fine," Junmyeon says. "Clothes off."
The words are straightforward and Junmyeon's tone is light, but when Wu Fan meets his eyes there's an expression there that Wu Fan doesn't dare disobey. He strips his clothes off quickly, without ceremony, and folds them neatly, leaves them in a pile on the floor at the foot of Junmyeon's bed—it's always the sweet ones, Wu Fan knows. The ones with the angelic smiles. They're the ones who really know how to make someone beg for more.
When Wu Fan is naked, half-hard and skin prickling with goosebumps at the chill in the air, Junmyeon taps a finger thoughtfully against his chin and says, “Spread your legs a little.” It’s not quite a suggestion—rather, spoken with the kind of calm confidence that Wu Fan will obey, and he does, spreading his legs to hip-width. Wu Fan isn’t sure what to do with his hands—his experience with this is limited, mostly, to embarrassing, intoxicated forays into light bondage with a boyfriend in his sophomore year of university, but there had only been a couple of those before his then-boyfriend had told him it was getting a little weird. They had broken up a week and a half later.
So, no. Wu Fan doesn’t know the ins and outs, doesn’t really know what to do with his body in order to please Junmyeon.
(To please him, oh god, even thinking it makes Wu Fan’s cock twitch.)
“Fold your hands behind your back,” Junmyeon instructs. He circles around Wu Fan, his steps careful and purposeful. Wu Fan can practically feel the weight of Junmyeon’s gaze on his skin, feels a little like he’s being evaluated. “Have you ever done this before?”
“Yes,” Wu Fan says, which is technically the truth, but it still tastes a little like a lie. “...Not very extensively.”
Junmyeon makes a thoughtful sound, circling around to stand in front of Wu Fan. He has to be at least ten centimeters shorter, Wu Fan thinks, but there’s a look in Junmyeon’s eyes when he meets Wu Fan’s gaze that makes Wu Fan feel about ten centimeters tall. “Then you’ll be learning a lot today,” he says, reaching out to take hold of Wu Fan’s chin. He turns his head to the left, and then to the right, as though Wu Fan is a product being inspected—the gesture makes Wu Fan shiver a little. It’s cold, impersonal. “Pay attention.”
“Yes,” Wu Fan says. His voice is breathless, anticipatory, and it makes one side of Junmyeon’s mouth curl up into a smirk.
“When you address me, you can address me as sir,” Junmyeon says. His tone, previously light, has dropped a register, like a promise Wu Fan can’t wait for him to keep. “You don’t get to use my name while I’m using you. Understood?”
“Yes,” Wu Fan repeats.
“Yes, what?”
He swallows. “Yes, sir.”
“Very good.” Junmyeon sounds approving, which makes a sort of warmth spread out over the inside surface of Wu Fan’s ribs. “My post was specific, wasn’t it? I assume that by answering it, you’re indicating you’re interested in everything I have to offer. Am I wrong?”
Wu Fan thinks about the post, about the things spelled out across his screen—all of the promises, and the way just thinking about it was enough to have Wu Fan hard in his jeans, hunched guiltily in front of his computer screen as he jerked off quick and brutal into his own fist.
“No, sir,” he says quietly. The longer Junmyeon stands in front of him, the more embarrassed Wu Fan gets, and he can feel his brows drawing together, his teeth digging into his lower lip—this is so, so embarrassing and it just makes Wu Fan harder. He’s sure Junmyeon has noticed, by now. Maybe that’s why he’s still standing here, while Junmyeon casually peruses the lines of his body.
“Good,” Junmyeon finally says, stepping back. “On the bed. Knees spread. You have strong thighs, you can hold yourself up.”
Wu Fan almost trips over himself in his haste to obey, climbs onto the bed and settles with his knees spread, sitting back on his heels. He keeps his hands folded behind his back, because that’s what Junmyeon had said he wanted—had said Wu Fan should do. There’s a part of Wu Fan at war with himself, wondering what the consequences would be if he were to step out of line, but another, larger part of him just wants Junmyeon to praise him.
“I’m going to tie you up,” Junmyeon says, his tone almost like he’s commenting on the weather. When he steps back into Wu Fan’s line of sight, he’s holding a length of black rope. “Put your arms behind your back, and hold onto your forearms.”
“Yes, sir,” Wu Fan murmurs.
The rope against Wu Fan’s skin is much softer than he’d expected—probably silk, too, though Wu Fan isn’t nearly connoisseur enough to know. “Is that silk?” he asks, before he can catch himself, and when Junmyeon’s hands still for a moment, Wu Fan braces himself.
“I don’t remember addressing you,” Junmyeon says pleasantly, tightening a loop of rope around Wu Fan’s arms. He’s nearly immobile, arms pulled behind his back at an angle that’s not painful, but Wu Fan knows instinctively has the potential to be so. He wonders what it would feel like, whether Junmyeon would do that to him. “Do you?”
“No, sir,” and Wu Fan is shaking, slightly, his thighs trembling not with strain, but with anticipation.
“You will be silent unless you’re addressed,” Junmyeon says. He ties off the rope, or Wu Fan assumes he does, and moves off the bed—Wu Fan can feel the shift when Junmyeon’s weight disappears. “I’ll be understanding, because you’re new. In the future, I won’t be so kind.” He comes around the side of the bed, reaches out to brush his fingers gently against the edge of Wu Fan’s jaw. The touch, rather than being comforting, feels like a threat. “Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir,” Wu Fan says. (He wonders if all he’ll say for tonight will be yes, sir and no, sir.)
“In addition, you will ask my permission before you come,” Junmyeon adds, his fingertips tracing the edge of Wu Fan’s jaw and then down the line of a tendon in his neck. “Is that understood?”
Wu Fan imagines himself in a couple of hours, bound and begging for Junmyeon to let him come, and shudders, biting down on his lower lip to keep any noise from escaping. “Yes, sir,” he manages, almost a gasp, when words finally return to him. “I understand, sir.”
“Good.” Junmyeon moves back out of Wu Fan’s line of sight, and the absence sets Wu Fan on edge. He can feel his nerves prickling, the hair at the back of his neck standing up as he waits for—something, anything, even just for Junmyeon to move back into his field of vision. There’s a part of Wu Fan that’s embarrassed at himself, that’s too self-conscious, too self-aware to let him relax—because he’s naked and tied and kneeling on Junmyeon’s bed, and he doesn’t even know what Junmyeon is doing. Wu Fan tastes the edges of his safe word on his tongue, but—
But, no. No, they haven’t even started yet.
When his boyfriend had broken up with him, spring of their sophomore year of university, he had said, “To me, you’re the kind of guy who’s always in control. I don’t know if I can deal with being the one who takes that away from you.” And in some ways, it had made sense. Wu Fan is a strong person, a leader—a team player when need be, but with a presence strong enough to make people follow him. He’s in control. And that, Wu Fan thinks, is precisely why he likes someone else taking it away.
Junmyeon moves back into Wu Fan’s peripheral vision. He’s shed his cardigan, now dressed only in a plain t-shirt and jeans. Not the attire that Wu Fan had expected—but then again, he’s not even sure what he really had expected. Leather, maybe. Black. Instruments of torment displayed on the walls.
“Look at me,” Junmyeon commands, and Wu Fan turns instinctively to meet the kiss Junmyeon gives him.
For all that Junmyeon’s demeanor gives away nothing about his, ah, inclinations, the way he kisses—well, that’s another story. It’s Junmyeon in control from the beginning, forcing Wu Fan’s lips to part, his tongue delving into Wu Fan’s mouth without hesitation—Junmyeon licks against the roof of Wu Fan’s mouth, the insides of his cheeks, sucks on Wu Fan’s tongue and bites down on his lower lip, hard enough to make copper burst on Wu Fan’s tastebuds. Junmyeon kisses him to conquer, and Wu Fan surrenders.
“So pliant,” Junmyeon murmurs. It sounds approving, and pleasure sparks up Wu Fan’s spine. “You don’t look like the type, but you’re so good.”
“Thank you, sir,” Wu Fan murmurs, his eyes half-lidded, leaning a little into Junmyeon when he pulls back from the kiss. Junmyeon makes a tsk sound and pushes Wu Fan back upright, his hand strong against Wu Fan’s bicep.
“But greedy,” Junmyeon adds. “If you’re this greedy already, I wonder how desperate you’ll be by the end?”
The idea alone is enough to make Wu Fan shudder a little embarrassingly. He turns away, presses his cheek against his own shoulder and stares at Junmyeon’s comforter, trying to will away the persistent flush in his cheeks, but Junmyeon catches his chin and pulls him back to lock eyes.
“And pretty when you blush,” Junmyeon says. It sounds a little ridiculous to Wu Fan, who has never in his life thought of himself as pretty. “Don’t look away.”
“Yes, sir,” Wu Fan says. His tongue feels thick and unwieldy in his mouth, under the weight of Junmyeon’s gaze, and he resists the urge to look away again. Instead he watches Junmyeon as he pulls away, moves to the nightstand and pulls open a drawer.
What Junmyeon retrieves almost makes Wu Fan choke on his own saliva—lube, first of all, and then a thick, dark blue plug, and then, one right after another, three candles. Red, black, purple, and Junmyeon sets them in a neat row on the nightstand like it’s not a big deal, like Wu Fan isn’t practically straining against his bonds in anticipation at the mere thought of what Junmyeon is planning to do to him.
With everything lined up on the nightstand, Junmyeon closes the door and turns back to Wu Fan. “How are your shoulders?” he asks, bringing one hand up to cup the curve of one. “Not strained?”
“No,” Wu Fan says, and then swallows, even that soft touch enough to make lightning prick along his skin. “Sir.”
Junmyeon smiles, slow and suggestive, and shifts to kneel on the bed in front of Wu Fan. He leans in, kisses Wu Fan again, and it’s just as filthy and controlling as the last, has Wu Fan practically whimpering into Junmyeon’s mouth as he lets Junmyeon conquer him. The part of Wu Fan that’s embarrassed by this, by how needy and desperate he must seem, is rapidly shrinking, pushed to the side by the sheer pleasure of being controlled, being used—and it’s so funny, because Wu Fan doesn’t look like the type to be submissive and Junmyeon doesn’t like the type to be dominating, but here they are, and Wu Fan loves it.
When they pull apart, Junmyeon licks at Wu Fan’s bottom lip and then sits back, reaching down to undo his belt, the button of his jeans. Wu Fan tries to reach for him, to help, before remembering his arms are bound behind his back—there’s no way he’s getting his hands on Junmyeon properly.
Junmyeon has all the control. All of it, and the thought makes Wu Fan’s cock throb, heavy against his upper thigh.
Kneeling in front of Wu Fan on the bed, Junmyeon undoes the zipper of his jeans with a kind of torturous slowness that Wu Fan both loves and absolutely loathes. He closes his eyes for a moment, biting his lip, and when he opens them again Junmyeon is touching himself—slowly, of course, almost luxuriously, like he has all the goddamn time in the world. He’s bigger than Wu Fan expected, and Wu Fan is actually humiliated by the fact that his mouth starts watering at the sight.
“Mm,” Junmyeon hums, watching Wu Fan watch him. Wu Fan licks his lower lip, sucks it into his mouth to bite down on. “So eager. You keep surprising me.”
The thought crosses Wu Fan’s mind briefly: You don’t know anything about eager yet, but it’s gone as quickly as it came, and Wu Fan shifts a bit to spread his thighs wider. Junmyeon hasn’t touched him yet, not once, and Wu Fan is already aching, the lack of stimulation only increasing his anticipation.
With a glance between Junmyeon’s cock and his face, Wu Fan releases his lower lip from between his teeth. “Can I?” he asks. “I mean—may I, sir?”
Junmyeon reaches up and cups the edge of Wu Fan’s jaw in his hand, startlingly gentle. “Good boy,” he says, dragging his thumb along the swollen shape of Wu Fan’s mouth. “You may.”
Permission granted. Wu Fan leans down, braced with his thighs spread, and takes the tip of Junmyeon’s cock into his mouth. He’d been told, once, that he had a great mouth for sucking dick—full lips, quick tongue, but small, so it’s easier for Wu Fan to keep his lips tight around the girth of it. He wonders, absently, how many mouths Junmyeon has had on his cock—wonders if he’s better than they are, if Junmyeon can even keep track anymore. Maybe he can’t. Maybe Wu Fan is just one in a long line, a footnote—the idea makes him shiver, and he presses forward even more, curling his tongue under the ridge of the head and sucking.
Junmyeon hums, his fingers tracing soft patterns along the edge of Wu Fan’s jaw. The touch is thoughtful and proprietary, and feels oddly like Wu Fan is being humored, like Junmyeon is just letting him have his fun before they start for real.
Moaning softly, muffled by the weight of Junmyeon’s cock in his mouth, Wu Fan presses forward and flattens his tongue against the vein running along the underside. He’s rewarded with a muffled grunt, the most minute twitch of Junmyeon’s hips, but it feels like a victory—the idea that Wu Fan is good enough to earn a reaction, Junmyeon’s unspoken approval, is enough to make him moan again, pleasure dripping down his spine.
“So good,” Junmyeon murmurs, his fingers sliding back through Wu Fan’s hair. “Ready?”
“Mm?” Wu Fan hums, meaning Ready for what?
He doesn’t get an answer. Instead, Junmyeon curls his fingers around the back of Wu Fan’s neck and holds him down—lifts his hips up and fucks into Wu Fan’s mouth. He’s not brutal, not yet, but it’s purposeful, makes Wu Fan choke as he tries to remember how to breathe around his mouthful. It’s been a long time since he had a dick down his throat, but some things are muscle memory never really forgotten, and it only takes a few more thrusts before Wu Fan remembers the rhythm. Inhale through his nose, timed with Junmyeon’s thrusts, which grow more forceful every time he moves—not vicious, but it’s so, so clear to Wu Fan that Junmyeon is taking what he wants and he expects Wu Fan to give it.
Oh, he’ll give it. Wu Fan moans low around the shape of Junmyeon’s cock and instinctively reaches to balance himself, but his hands are tied, and the only thing keeping him upright is the shakily balanced distribution of his own weight and the force of Junmyeon’s hand at the back of his neck.
Truthfully, somewhere between Junmyeon’s thrusts and the casual, possessive way that Junmyeon runs his hands through Wu Fan’s hair, Wu Fan loses track of himself. Or rather, he loses track of time, of space—of everything except his own body, the restraints on his arms, and Junmyeon’s body against his. The only goal Wu Fan has, the only thing on his mind, is pleasing Junmyeon, and that makes this simple—there’s no need for Wu Fan to keep himself held together, to nod and smile and shake hands. No deadlines or assignments, just this: Can he please Junmyeon, or no?
Easy.
Junmyeon is silent except for occasional hitched breaths and low grunts, so the only warning Wu Fan has before Junmyeon comes is the way Junmyeon’s hand tightens on the back of Wu Fan’s neck. It takes him by surprise, a hot rush of semen on the back of his tongue, and he chokes on that too, forgetting how to breathe for a moment as he tries to swallow. When Junmyeon pulls back, Wu Fan gasps for air, swallows Junmyeon’s come and winces at the pull on his abused throat—he’ll be hoarse tomorrow.
Cupping his hand around Wu Fan’s chin, Junmyeon pulls him upright to look at his face. “Tsk,” he says softly, dragging the pad of his thumb just below Wu Fan’s lips, catching what lingers in the corners. “Sloppy.” He pushes his thumb into Wu Fan’s mouth, and Wu Fan instinctively swirls his tongue around it, licking away the remnants of Junmyeon’s come. “I’ll train you to be better.”
Wu Fan pants, turning his face into Junmyeon’s touch. For a moment he can’t hold down his thoughts long enough to be coherent, but it comes to him—”Yes, sir,” he says, his voice low and rough, and Junmyeon smiles.
“On your stomach,” he says, and pushes Wu Fan down to the mattress.
It’s an embarrassing position, on his stomach with his legs spread, Junmyeon hovering just out of his peripheral vision. With his face in the pillow, Wu Fan can’t see what he’s doing, can only hear the movements as Junmyeon picks things up. There’s a soft rustle and then a click, the distinctive sound of lube being squeezed out of its bottle, and that’s how Wu Fan knows to anticipate the press of Junmyeon’s fingers against his entrance.
Except he doesn’t get Junmyeon’s fingers. What Wu Fan gets is the startling coldness of the plug against him, slick with lube and pressing into him slowly. “Breathe deeply,” Junmyeon instructs, his free hand resting softly on the back of Wu Fan’s thigh. “Relax.”
Wu Fan breathes, and relaxes, and Junmyeon presses the plug into him just a little further. It burns, a little, the stretch does, but it’s not bad—not unbearable, as long as Wu Fan remembers to keep breathing. It’s clear that Junmyeon knows what he’s doing, knows when to push and when to rest. Wu Fan’s body is an open book to him, and the thought makes Wu Fan stifle a groan into the pillow as Junmyeon pushes the plug in a little deeper.
The stretch hurts a little, even though Junmyeon takes his time. It burns, but it’s a good kind of burn, a satisfying kind—the kind of burn that lets Wu Fan know his body is getting ready for something even better, something even more satisfying than the thickness of the plug pressing against the insides of him.
“You’re doing well,” Junmyeon says, thumb brushing back and forth over the sensitive skin at the back of Wu Fan’s thigh. “Deep breath, hold it—good, now relax.”
Wu Fan relaxes, and Junmyeon pushes—Wu Fan can feel the widest part of the plug sliding into him, agonizing and slow and too much, too much, it’s aching and overwhelming and he’s moaning into the pillow, unsure whether he should push his hips back into it or pull away—
“Good,” Junmyeon murmurs as the plug settles in, base tight against Wu Fan’s entrance, held in place. “Good boy.”
All that Wu Fan can manage in response to that is an inarticulate moan, his face pressed halfway into the pillow. He’s panting, his erection pressed unrelentingly between his own body and the silk of Junmyeon’s sheets—Wu Fan is so hard, his cock a persistent, throbbing ache between his legs, and he can’t help the way his hips keep jerking a little, seeking some of the stimulation he’s been denied so far. No matter how many times Wu Fan thinks No, bad, no matter how hard he tries to keep himself still, he can’t help it.
“Enough,” Junmyeon says, his voice soft but unforgiving. He slaps Wu Fan’s flank sharply—the sound is loud in the stillness of the room, and the slap makes Wu Fan jump and makes the plug press firmly against Wu Fan’s insides. “Stop moving. You will come when I want you to come, and not a moment before. Don’t make me say it again.”
“Yes, sir,” Wu Fan says, shame creeping into his voice. “I’m sorry, sir.”
There’s no response, no forgiveness, and it makes Wu Fan desperate—desperate to prove himself, to prove to Junmyeon that he’s a good boy, that he’s worthy of whatever it is that Junmyeon has up his sleeve. He stills his hips with some force of will and breathes evenly, in through his nose and out through his mouth, trying to calm himself down a little. Wu Fan knows this won’t be the end of it, not even close, but he’s close, and he needs to wind down.
The sound of a match being struck makes Wu Fan’s senses come to attention a split second before the acrid smell of sulfur reaches his nostrils. When he cranes his neck, Wu Fan can see that the red candle is missing from the nightstand, and it’s not hard to put two and two together. Resting his cheek on the mattress, Wu Fan tenses up, only to shudder and moan when the clench of his muscles draws his attention back to the fullness of the plug inside him.
The first drip of wax, just below Wu Fan’s left shoulderblade, takes him by surprise but doesn’t hurt. Still, the promise of pain is enough to have his body reacting, and Wu Fan takes a deep breath and holds it for a moment before exhaling—letting go, letting his body relax. “There we go,” Junmyeon says, as though even the most minute movements of Wu Fan’s body are clear as day to him. He strokes down Wu Fan’s spine, the touch possessive and reassuring, and Wu Fan relaxes a little more. “Good boy.”
The praise makes Wu Fan feel warm, and he’s caught up in it enough that he isn’t ready for the next splash of wax against his skin. It’s hotter now, hurts for a moment before it cools and hardens on his skin—Wu Fan can feel it, the tug against his flesh, and it makes him want to squirm to see how it feels.
But no, he won’t. Junmyeon called him a good boy, and Wu Fan doesn’t want to ruin that.
Junmyeon drips the wax in a controlled stream along Wu Fan’s skin, beginning at the top of his back and curving under each shoulderblade. It seems, to Wu Fan, like the longer it goes on the hotter the wax gets, until he’s stifling moans of half-pain, half-pleasure and resisting the urge to writhe on the sheets.
The torment ceases, eventually—Wu Fan has no sense of time, now, and no way to tell how many minutes have passed—and he hears Junmyeon blow the candle out a moment before it’s set back on the nightstand, in Wu Fan’s line of sight. The wax is cooling on his skin, and Junmyeon blows lightly on it, raising goosebumps at the nape of Wu Fan’s neck—the cool air in contrast with Wu Fan’s too-hot skin is startling, makes him feel too sensitive.
Another shift, and then Junmyeon’s fingernails drag down Wu Fan’s back, right along the places where he’s dripped wax. Wu Fan can feel the wax residue peel away, and can feel with exquisite, agonizing clarity the way that Junmyeon’s fingernails drag against the sensitive skin—he keens, high in the back of his throat, and arches his back a little, the sensation flooding through him, making Wu Fan’s head spin.
“How do you like that?” Junmyeon asks, when he’s dragged his fingernails through all of the wax stuck to Wu Fan’s skin. “It hurts?”
“Yes, sir,” Wu Fan says, breathless and aroused and biting his lip.
“Do you want more?”
“Yes, sir,” and Wu Fan can’t help the pleading in his voice, but he knows he’s easy for Junmyeon to read anyway, and bared like this there’s nothing that he can hide.
Junmyeon chuckles low in the back of his throat and reaches for another candle—the purple one this time, which he lights behind Wu Fan’s back. It’s unnerving, not being able to see where Junmyeon is located, because it means Wu Fan doesn’t know where to expect the wax—he doesn’t know what body part to tense, how to prepare for it. The nerves just make him anticipate it more, though, and the way his body keeps tightening around the plug in his ass is enough to keep Wu Fan half-distracted and painfully hard.
When the touch of wax finally comes, it’s not on Wu Fan’s back like he expected, but on the sensitive skin of the backs of his thighs. It makes him press his hips down into the mattress, whining, the plug pressing up against his prostate and his cock pressing into the sheets, and Wu Fan’s head is buzzing but he can’t get enough of this.
“Please, sir,” he half-gasps, arms tugging weakly at the restraints. “More, sir, please—”
With a soft sound, maybe approval, Junmyeon drips a line of hot wax just under the curve of Wu Fan’s ass, along the top of the back of his thigh. Some of it drips down the inside of his thigh, and the heat and pull so close to such sensitive places makes Wu Fan gasp and shudder—if he’s honest, half of him squirms at the idea and the other half wants to know how it would feel, to have the intensity of that heat on his cock or balls.
Junmyeon pauses to drag his fingernails harshly through the trail of wax he’s left, and Wu Fan closes his eyes, brows drawing together as he bites back a groan. His muscles tense and relax with each pass of Junmyeon’s fingernails over his skin, and it’s distractingly good, feeling the plug shift inside him each time. The pain and heat of the wax keeps Wu Fan a safe distance from the edge of orgasm—for now—but the thickness of the plug, unforgiving when it presses up inside him, is enough to have Wu Fan half out of his head nevertheless.
“You’ve been so good so far,” Junmyeon says, his tone approving as he blows out the purple candle and sets it back on the nightstand. “I think you deserve a reward.”
“Thank you, sir,” Wu Fan says, instead of What kind of reward? which is the question that had been hovering in his mind. He relaxes a little, now that there’s no pain to anticipate, and pays half-attention as Junmyeon runs the palms of his hands flat up the backs of Wu Fan’s thighs, now undoubtedly reddened and definitely sensitive after the wax treatment he’d just been given.
The relaxation, it turns out, is preemptive. Junmyeon slides his fingers up between Wu Fan’s legs, starting just behind his balls, and presses his fingertips against the base of the plug. For a moment all it does is push the plug further into Wu Fan, but then something gives, and—
“Oh my fucking God,” Wu Fan gasps, when the plug starts fucking vibrating where it’s pressed up against his prostate. “Oh fuck oh fuck, sir, fuck, please,” he knows he’s begging but Wu Fan can’t even be embarrassed about it, not when even the slightest movement of the plug in his ass makes him lightheaded with need.
Junmyeon laughs. “Reward enough for you?” he asks, dragging his nails along Wu Fan’s skin again and then pulling back.
Wu Fan is too far gone to reply, or to pay attention, at least not until he’s jolted back into reality by the sharp and painful sensation of wax dripping down his spine. The black candle, this time—as a glance at the nightstand tells him—and its seems hotter than the other two, taking longer to cool against his skin even as the heat radiates outward into the surrounding flesh. Wu Fan squirms, then gasps, then swears, and this is the most vicious cycle—the wax makes him writhe, the writhing makes the plug shift and every shift of the plug puts Wu Fan that much closer to the edge of orgasm.
Junmyeon drips the wax down Wu Fan’s back in one long, unrelenting line, starting at the top of his spine and working his way down—between Wu Fan’s shoulderblades, down towards where Wu Fan’s arms are tied against his back. There he stops, but only momentarily before he traces another line, parallel to the first, the heat even more intense as it burns against skin already made tender. “Sir,” Wu Fan says, the word coming out almost as a sob. “Sir, please...”
“Please, what?” Junmyeon says. He drips some wax over the knuckles of one of Wu Fan’s hands. “You have permission to speak.”
“Please let me come,” Wu Fan gasps, his hips moving in tight circles against the sheets.
“No,” Junmyeon says, calm as anything. “You may not.”
He shifts, and when the wax returns it’s dripping in the hollow of the small of Wu Fan’s back, below his tied arms, in a thick line down until the top of Wu Fan’s ass. The skin is thinner there, more sensitive, and Wu Fan sobs, pressing his face into the pillow and focusing on the pain—focusing on the tug of wax on his skin, the pain of being burned, in an effort to keep himself from coming all over himself and disappointing Junmyeon in the process.
“Please, sir,” he manages, his voice choked and raw and desperate. “Please, sir, I need it—lower, between my legs.”
It’s possibly the most humiliating thing Wu Fan has ever done, begged the way he’s doing right now, but he’s too far gone to care. All he wants is to please Junmyeon, to avoid disappointment, and if that means Wu Fan isn’t allowed to come, then he won’t come. He won’t. The desire is there, hot and pulsing high in the back of Wu Fan’s throat, but he won’t let himself go—he can’t. That would be bad, and Wu Fan is a good boy.
“So greedy,” Junmyeon says, but the way he says it doesn’t sound like Wu Fan is being chastised. “I knew you would be greedy, even like this.”
Wu Fan whines, and Junmyeon laughs again. He shifts and nudges Wu Fan’s thighs apart, reaching down to cup his balls in long, delicate fingers. “Since you’ve been so good,” Junmyeon says, and then—
The pain of hot wax on his balls is the most intense, overwhelming thing that Wu Fan has ever experienced. He makes a noise, somewhere between a wail and a groan, and shudders, his shoulders arching and his whole body quaking as Junmyeon drips the wax over the sensitive flesh. At the very least, it does the job—Wu Fan isn’t thinking about the pressing need to come anymore, at least not as much as he’s thinking about this exquisitely intense pain.
Junmyeon blows the candle out after that, letting the wax cool and cling to Wu Fan’s flesh. When he reaches down to peel it off, he’s gentle, at least, although Junmyeon does follow up by dragging one fingernail ever-so-gently along the newly sensitive flesh—a sensation that’s sharp despite the gentleness, and makes Wu Fan whimper, pressing his face into the pillow.
“Sir,” he says, almost chokes on the syllable. “Sir, please.”
“You’re a quick learner,” Junmyeon says. His tone is casual, almost conversational, like Wu Fan isn’t bound and face-down on his bed. Like he hasn’t just been pushing the very edges of Wu Fan’s sanity for however many hours Junmyeon has had him in here. “I’m impressed. You’ve been so good, and I think you’ve earned your reward.”
There’s a very faint, very small part of Wu Fan’s brain that’s coherent enough to think, if this reward is like the last one, I’m not sure I can take it. Still, he’s pliant when Junmyeon shifts, leaning over Wu Fan and pulling him upright with one arm wrapped around Wu Fan’s waist. It seems too easy, too gentle, and when Wu Fan is upright he finds out why—Junmyeon settles Wu Fan back to sit on Junmyeon’s knee, thighs spread, and the position presses the plug right up against Wu Fan’s prostate in a way it hadn’t done when he was face-down.
“Sir,” Wu Fan gasps, writhing, pressing down against Junmyeon’s thigh, his hips jerking into empty air. He tilts his head back, trying to get oxygen that won’t come, not through the haze of need to come that’s enveloping him, crawling up the back of his throat, setting fire to the pit of his stomach. “Sir, please, please, can I come, please let me come, sir, I need to come, please—”
Junmyeon presses his thigh up, rakes his fingernails down Wu Fan’s back, and murmurs, “You may come.”
Wu Fan comes. He comes, shouting, on his own thighs, and he keeps coming, his orgasm lasting ages, centuries, his entire body quaking with it, and the plug is still against his prostate and Wu Fan is moaning and he can’t stop, can’t stop shuddering, can’t stop coming, until he loses touch with himself entirely, floating in some kind of purgatorial haze of pure post-orgasmic bliss.
When he comes back to himself, he’s unbound, his head in Junmyeon’s lap as Junmyeon massages his right forearm. The tingle of blood returning to the limb is painful, but Junmyeon’s sure touch makes it slightly more bearable.
“Was I out for a long time?” Wu Fan asks, suddenly self-conscious now that the heat of the moment has passed.
“A few minutes,” Junmyeon says, smiling down at him. He looks unruffled, his hair still perfectly styled, shirt unwrinkled. Wu Fan, without even looking, knows he’s still a mess of wax drippings and come and sweat, and the dichotomy makes him shiver. “You did well today,” Junmyeon adds, pressing his thumbs against the inside of Wu Fan’s wrist.
“Thank you, sir,” Wu Fan says automatically, then flushes, scowling.
Junmyeon laughs. “You only have to call me ‘sir’ while we’re in bed,” he points out, releasing Wu Fan’s right arm and picking up his left. “Otherwise, you can call me Junmyeon. I don’t mind.”
“Okay,” Wu Fan says, slowly, his brain still trying to piece itself back together.
“I think we’ll work well together in the future,” Junmyeon continues, working his way up from Wu Fan’s elbow, massaging circulation back into the muscles. “You’re incredibly responsive, moreso than almost anyone I’ve—”
“Wait,” Wu Fan says. “In the future?”
Junmyeon’s fingers still, and he looks down at Wu Fan with one eyebrow raised. “Of course,” he says. “This wasn’t a one-night stand. I have a lot to teach you, and I think you would enjoy learning it.” He tilts his head a little, contemplative. “Unless you had other intentions?”
It’s almost embarrassing how quickly Wu Fan says “No,” except that Junmyeon has just watched Wu Fan beg to come, so the way he figures, there isn’t much left to be embarrassed about. “No,” he repeats, a little more quietly. “That sounds good.”
Junmyeon leans down, arching his back so he can give Wu Fan a gentle, proprietary kiss. “Then we’re in agreement,” he says, and smiles.
Wu Fan still isn’t sure what he was expecting, but he figures this is probably going to be better, anyway.
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AUTHOR'S NOTES: I DON'T WANT TO TALK ABOUT IT
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(Anonymous) 2012-11-20 10:32 am (UTC)(link)no subject