Straight To Number One
by ClarySage
His skin shivered in the slight chill of the room, goosebumps rising, little hairs standing on end. It was dark on his side of the blindfold; the soft cloth folded lovingly about his head, sheltering his sight from the world beyond. It made him more aware of his surroundings, pinpoint sensitive to every breath of change, every shifting of the other person with him. The pad of a finger ran down his spine, so light as to be nearly non-existent, yet still firm enough to draw his attention immediately to it with magnetic force.
He opened his mouth to let out a soft gasp, forcing the words back down his throat; they would give away his weakness. The fingertip tracing a path over his back stilled, becoming a palm, a warm and firm comfort. He wiggled, twisting his hands in the ropes that wrapped them together at the wrists. His legs and feet trying equally as futilely to release themselves, finding they had no such escape either.
He lifted his head, staring into the darkness of the black cloth over his eyes.
"One." That voice whispered in his ear, breath tickling, lips brushing.
{Ten . . . kiss me on the lips}
The hand on his back slid, upward to the curve of a shoulder, over, brushing the shell of his ear. Still, he couldn't move, merely tremble in the ropes; biting his lip to keep back those damning words again. A feathering of hair over his cheek, lips traveling softly over his neck, biting and then moving on. His fingers twisted, gripping each other when nothing else could be found to hold.
The fingers of that wandering hand slid down his chest, turning his neck to the side as they moved. That mouth opening hot and wet against his flesh, tongue flickering out for a moment before it followed the path of the hand. Again his mouth opened in response, and again, he held it back, a moan barely escaping from his lips.
"Two." And teeth sank into his chest, nipping and licking, a hungry cat at play.
{Nine . . . run your fingers through my hair}
Fingernails like perfect knives slid over his belly, indenting the skin but never leaving a mark. Intended to heighten the craving that roiled throughout him, force him to beg for it. But he wouldn't, he couldn't give in. He didn't want it enough yet.
His thighs tried to spread apart, hips trying to lift his erection into what hopefully would be a touch. Though he could not see, he could feel everything, so much clearer now that one sense had been removed. The ropes wrapped carefully around his thighs stopped any such movement, reminding him again of his helplessness. To give his body to someone like this, it was submission. That had been the point, and yet he kept finding he wanted to fight it.
"Three." The lips that uttered it were chastely tracing his ribs, while another hand had joined the first. Both taking up residence against his skin, burning their way down the side of his calves, only to stroke upward, pressing down on the ropes before sliding further up to find skin again.
{Eight . . . touch me . . . slowly}
His ankles tensed, toes wiggling as the hot breath paused, sliding over his skin in a wave, withdrawing on a chill.
{Slowly}
His body jerked in betrayal as the tip of a tongue slid out, tapping lightly on the head of his arousal and then disappearing. He found his breath coming faster, his chest struggling with it. His head bowed, as if he could peer through the blindfold, see what was happening. But he could only guess what would come next, exquisitely aware of the meaning of mercy. He bit his tongue as words tried to tumble out, swallowing them back inside before they could escape.
"Four." Teeth grazed his hipbone, the angle of it sharp from the position the ropes had forced him into.
Forced, seemed like a strange way to describe what he'd willingly given in to. That tongue was tracing the line right above his erection, teasing touches, too light to even supply the small amount sensation he needed. Those hands now gripping at his ass, spreading it apart, and merely grazing skin, still not firm enough.
{Seven… Hold it!}
The thudding of his heart seemed to reverberate throughout his body as once again he felt that mouth over his arousal. He wanted to struggle now, break free and use force to get what he wanted. But slumped instead, knowing he had to give in to it before he'd be released from it. And would it really be so bad? This giving in, begging…
The hands and mouth seemed to know what he was thinking, that low voice drifting up to his ears, purring before it was filled. "Let's go straight . . . to number one."
His back tried to arch, the complexity of the ropes that bound him halting all movement, mouth, lips, tongue, enveloping the hard and heated flesh which rose between his legs. His head rolled back, mouth opening, still refusing to give in, release the pent up words, the magic words that could end this. Except, somewhere inside of him, he found he didn't want it to end. Wasn't that the real problem? To give in, to beg, would mean the end of this. Yet, to try to remain in control, to fight the giving in, it would go on as long as he could hold out.
{To number one}
The soft, slick wetness of the tongue was slithering down and around his shaft, lips wrapping around him tightly, suckling, hot. The muscles in his back tensed, shoulder blades sharpening to points as he pulled at his bonds. No results, a throaty chuckle, the present of a finger penetrating his body slowly.
{To number one}
His mouth opened, so ready to betray him. But the syllable merely turned into a groan, no words comprehensible through his clenched teeth.
{To number one}
It turned into a whine as the finger inside of him was joined by another, the mouth enfolding his erection and wetting it, sliding up and releasing him.
"Five." That voice was so filled with satisfaction, the tone so knowing.
He hated it, loathed it, and yet, wanted it to fill him up from the inside out. A fish out of water, he was gasping like one, the air thick and greedy for it. He shook his head, mutely denying everything. His body showing what he would not.
{Six . . . lips}
His breath caught as those warm lips brushed his own. One hand sliding between the press of his thighs, the other still busily caught inside his body. He leaned into the warmth of that mouth as if it could deliver him. Thinking if he could show his trust in a kiss, then words wouldn't be necessary. They smiled as they again merely brushed against him, savoring the shuddering breath that escaped. Pressure, he wanted pressure, firmness, something to either put out the fire or stoke it higher.
"Six."
His need was briefly given in to. His tongue able to do something other than betray him with words. Instead exploring the inside of that mouth, feeling it surrender in this one way, even if it would not in others. That mouth couldn't lie to him, it spoke without a word, letting him be aware of the need that was not only his own. That was a power he still had, when he thought he'd had none left. He tilted his head, thrusting further, invading, swallowing the moaned responses eagerly.
{Five . . . fingers}
Still, he wanted more, needed it. Craving that body fully against his skin, covering every inch like a human blanket, warmth and heat filtering through his flesh from the contact. Warming him from the outside in, inside out, filling the urge to crawl inside of another human, and merely bask in the life that could be found there.
"Seven."
He was so close to giving in, standing on the edge of a cliff, ready to leap from it without any encouragement. The increased thrusting of the fingers still inside of him, his mouth merely hanging open, gasping, still tasting the lips that had left him. And he wanted it, god he wanted it, knowing what his ultimate prize could be, if only he'd ask for it. Another moan fell from his lips, coloring the air with need and desire.
{Four . . . play}
The fingers left him, sliding out, grazing sensitive skin, slippery as they pressed against the cleft of his rear. His body became tense, quivering; it knew exactly what it wanted, urging him to give in with every shattering beat of his heart. So easy, just one little word and he'd be free, just one tiny word, and he couldn't say it. He couldn't even begin to bring himself to utter such an admission, a plea.
His body tilted forward, hands on his back pushing him until his cheek rested against the softness of the bed sheets. He breathed in the scent of laundry detergent, musk, arousal. Behind the blindfold his eyelids twitched restlessly. He was exposed now, and there was nothing to do about it. Ass in the air, legs bound together, hands behind him, ankles firmly encased. He waited, feeling the drafts of air that shifted over his skin.
"Eight."
He nearly pulled his shoulder out of joint as that hot mouth slid wetly down his spine, struggling to sit up, unable to move from the position he'd been put in to. He could feel the excited breathing against his rear, hands gripping his hips as that tongue tentatively nuzzled forward. Teasingly light as it traced around the clenching muscle, before it began driving into him.
{Three . . . to number one}
Fingers spread him apart, the sharpness of fingernails a nagging pain, the feel of that tongue thrusting into him only serving to harden him further, the ache in his groin hurting with its intensity. He had pressure now, his toes curling with it, fingers flexing, mouth drawing in quick spurts of breath. Was this submission then? Was he giving in? No, he shook his head, blindfold brushing against the sheets with a rasping sound. He hadn't said it yet, until the words escaped, he was himself still.
{To Number one}
His body had other thoughts, other feelings, as it was opened and primed. It shivered and shimmied, begging for him when he would not. It was sensed, through the hands that coaxed him, they knew what he wouldn't admit.
{To number one}
One hand slid down his back, caressing the nape of his neck, the other spreading him apart. The heat of that mouth met his exposed back, tracing each ridge of his spine. And again his mouth opened, on the verge of spilling words.
{To number one}
The heat of something slid against the top of his ass, reminding him that one thing had not come into play yet. It was wet and hard, awareness of it burning through his mind as it slid down between his cheeks, coming to rest and moving no further.
"Nine." That voice managed to find its way through the fog that had enveloped his mind. And he quaked, fear of himself falling, of giving in at last.
{Kiss me on the lips}
He was teased now, again. The head of that shaft resting gently against his entrance, tapping, moving in only to stop and rock backwards and forwards. A mere inch of it, not enough, but just enough to let him know who was in charge.
{Run your fingers through my hair}
But wasn't he? After all, just one word would release him, so easy to say it.
He had the worst moment of clarity then, knowing at last, that this could go on forever. Unless he gave, he would be denied. Nothing after all, led to nothing, only emptiness and a need denied.
{Touch me}
"Please." His lips opened, saying it softly, barely moving. Doubtful that he'd been heard he tried saying it again, finding it needless as he was filled. Heat and friction, a road towards completion, that length ever so slowly burning its way into his body, fingers kneading restlessly at his hips. It stopped, rocked a bit, moved deeper, stopped, rested, moving deeper still. His breath wheezed from his lungs, fingers fisting and flexing in rope, eyes burning behind the blindfold.
"Ten."
A final push, and nothing followed, the warmth of a body bending against the curve of his ass the only thing that warned him.
{Let's go straight . . . to number one}
A roll of hips against his skin, a breeze of moist breath against his back. And a slow pull backwards, every solid inch sliding from him, feeling like it would start a fire inside with the friction of it. Then back in, pushing past resistance, filling him until he was whole.
{To number one}
He was lost, his body taking over, releasing his mind from all thought, all doubt. His worries that this was wrong, his fear of the unknown, his trembling trust. It faded, paling in comparison to what his body felt. He became merely a vessel, willing, wanting, and needing to be used. Begging for it.
{Number one}
His gut clenched, cock throbbing as it struck against air. The penetration inside of him was stroking his desire and madness. He wanted to curl backwards, envelop more of it. It would slide deep, slide out, tease, move back in hard, push. He could feel those hips swivel behind him, a lewd dance.
{Slowly}
He couldn't hold back the long, ragged moan that melted from between his lips, spilling like candy, sweet on the air. The strokes from within became slower then, each soft skinned inch, steel coating it inside, was felt, savored.
A hand found its way over his hip at last, leaving behind the brief calling card of indented prints along his skin. It smoothed over his pelvis, buried itself in the soft nest of hair surrounding his erection, squeezed lightly. Fingertips grazed over the head of his shaft, slickening with the moisture found there, the whole hand enfolding his arousal.
{To number one}
Thoughts were fragments, shattered and shifting on the tide of erotic want that swept through him. His body opened like a flower, ass lifting high, muscles drawing in instead of out. He fell into the rhythm of it, bouncing against the hips that slapped his rear, rubbing his head against the sheets, nuzzling their laundry detergent smell and musky confines. Behind the blindfold, his eyes were open; staring into a space that could only be seen from within.
A crescendo of the screams he was unaware of making pushed past his clenched throat muscles, bursting into the room on a wail of completion. His body began to spasm, jerky motions, tense with release. The body behind him folding over, closing around him and wrapping him inside a carnal embrace. He welcomed the sudden tightening of fingers, the catch of breath; the moan as wet heat filled him, spilling out to drip down between his thighs.
His feet were numb, the ropes now digging uncomfortably into his skin. He wiggled his fingers, breathing deeply, gasping for air. A long sinuous shudder of his body, the echo of it from behind. He smiled, his eyes behind the blindfold closing in triumph. He'd learned the first lesson well. This game was a two-way street.
{Touch and go… to number one}
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