He lets go of Alecto, meeting his eyes steadily as his fingertips dance up the curve of his backside and along the long line of his spine, bent over and presented for Josh's avid gaze.
"You do so want to be good for me, don't you, my pet?" He asks, his palm resting between Alecto's shoulderblades, a deceptively gentle pressure through the thin mesh of the shirt. "You want my marks on you, showing everyone exactly how I've used you, that you belong to me?" He unhooks the buttons holding the shirt together, one by one. Objectively, Alecto looks far from dignified at the moment - his tight leather shorts pulled down to his knees, the shirt falling open around his torso, his hard, dripping cock pressed up against his stomach making it clear how worked up he is from the night and the treatment so far - and Josh cannot pull his eyes away.
"Take your pants off," he orders, airy and unconcerned, and lets the shirt drop to the ground next to the bench. He steps back, curious what Alecto will do. "I want to see you completely bare for me, my pet, except for my collar around your neck, reminding you exactly who you belong to."
Alecto and the concept of good don't always align. He's never been, objectively, a good person and, as his job requires, often finds himself sitting comfortably in moral gray areas. And, he's never really been good in the other sense either: coloring within the lines, following directions, observing social graces. No, Alecto preferred to make things uncomfortable, to ask difficult questions and make risky moves, be a challenge.
And that's exactly why he loved being put into his place like this, in the intimacy of a scene, under the calm and steady hand of a man he - no, he's not in love, don't be ludicrous - trusts. Everywhere else, Alecto has his carefully cultivated walls, masks, and metaphorical knives. He keeps his cool, his edge, and stays mission-driven. It keeps him and the people under his care alive.
It's only here, in this private moment, that Alecto ever obeys another.
Slowly, he strips himself out of his pants. It's only one piece of simple clothing but Alecto takes his time, inching his way out of it as if pushing the fabric down to the slow beat of a song only he can hear. He slides one long leg out, then the other, and kicks the offending thing under the bench, stretching just a bit before getting back down on all fours and peering up at Josh with nothing but focused attention and the will to please him. The leash at his neck, tethering him, swings lightly as if begging to be held, tightened.
He waits until Alecto is entirely back in position again, settled down while facing Josh and waiting for his next directive. There's something so hot and intent in his gaze, wholly different from the looks they exchanged even in the aftermath of the directed and almost ritualistic sessions that had been deemed necessary for the long-term cover identities. There were still moments of connection - Josh still remembered that first exchange, fucking Alecto against the kitchen counter, the way he'd said 'Josh' when he came - but Alecto was fastidious and otherwise perfectly professional. If Josh had to put a label on it, it sometimes felt like he was being graded and - well, usually he wasn't found wanting, per se, he could pride himself on that much, at least - scoring adequately. A fulfillment of a duty that happened to be physically enjoyable, but nothing more than that.
This was... something else entirely.
"Stay," he says, his tone forceful but even, as though he weren't affected by the sight of Alecto stripping down for him at his orders, by the way he gazes at Josh with his focus utterly fixed on him, by long limbs and a body utterly on display for his eyes alone.
He forces himself to turn around, to walk with steady steps and not a hint of impatience, to select the toys and implements that had caught his eye (or that seemed to have caught Alecto's own interest and attention, that he had managed to observe) and bring them back within easy reach. He takes his time, passing them before Alecto's gaze, ever attentive and attuned to his reactions. There is the spreader bar, of course, the obvious choice, given Alecto's earlier suggestions, but he notices a humbler - two carefully shaped halves with a hole between them for Alecto's scrotum, which would render him utterly unable to shift from a bent position without causing himself pain - and sets it within sight but out of reach, a silent threat (or promise). He removes the leather cuffs and the riding crop from the briefcase he'd been carrying about all night and tries not to think too much about their provenance. He selects a wooden paddle, considers his options for positioning, and keeps it close by.
He wants to hear Alecto, wants to hear the way his calm, measured words, each one carefully calculated, dissolve into incoherence, if Josh can manage it, so foregoes any gags or other restraints for the moment. Besides, in a pinch, he could definitely improvise.
"You barely have any of my marks on you, my pet," he points out, sounding thoughtful and vaguely displeased. "How are people supposed to know you belong to me like this?"
"Well. I haven't done anything to earn them yet, have I, master?" he replies back, smoothly, placing his words under the careful cloak of submission. His body language too is pliant and soft, thighs spread just so to be teasing and inviting, but not obviously His eyes though, his sharp gaze - Alecto always had trouble tempering them. They're bright and eager and vibrant with something vicious, determined, expectant.
He glances up at Josh, at the several tools and toys he's brought over (he stares at the riding crop with extreme interest), and unconsciously wets his lips, leaving them slightly parted afterwards, plush and damp.
There is a pause - just a fraction of a second - as Josh struggles to process the implications, trying to determine the right kind of response. (He also kind of hates that he now knows far too much about exactly how in tune M was with the sexual preferences of at least some Agency employees, even if it did cast a very different and intriguing light on some of the other items in that briefcase...)
He reaches forward and grabs Alecto's trailing leash, tightening the strap by slow degrees until the hook is linked about halfway down the length, tugging Alecto down further, until he is being forced into an almost-bow, unable to raise his head higher than the level of his hips, a position that accentuates his slightly spread legs and his ass, making them readily accessible to whatever Josh might choose to do to him.
He gazes up into Alecto's eyes from his briefly kneeling position, still fully clothed, still utterly in control. "And what is it you think you can do to earn your stripes, my pet? Other than following my orders?" He knows exactly what he wants to do next, but he holds his breath all the same, waiting for Alecto's answer.
He slides his hand up to Alecto's collar, feeling almost daring, as though he were taking a significant liberty, and hooks his fingers in the metal ring for the leash, pulling Alecto forward - not enough to drag him off the bench, but just enough to force him to lean on Josh, to rely on the steadiness of Josh's hold to maintain his balance - and kisses him, hard, demanding, insistent, absolutely assured of his compliance.
"Oh, you will, my pet," he whispers, the slightest hint of teeth. "You will."
He suddenly pulls back, shrugs his clothes back into perfect array, and reaches for the spreader bar before walking around Alecto to put the restraint on him, cuffing his ankles and positioning his legs so they just match the width of the bench, spreading him out to Josh's view and whims without straining his balance. He seems utterly composed as he adjusts the tightness, the fit. "I'll keep your hands free, for now," he says, letting his own slide up along Alecto's thighs, palming one cheek of his ass possessively, as if testing how he might react to a slap. "But if you don't behave, that can easily be changed for you."
He straightens again, and walks back into Alecto's field of vision, reaching for the riding crop, and swishing it experimentally, making it whistle through the air. Apparently satisfied with his handling of the implement, he slides the leather tip up along Alecto's neck, using the slightest pressure on his chin to force him to look up, his own eyes intent on Alecto's face. "I have a feeling red is a lovely color on you, my pet," he observes, almost condescendingly. "Shall we test that out? Stay still."
The movement is barely visible, a small flick of the wrist, the edge of the crop leaving a gentle sting against Alecto's right cheek, then his left. There is the slightest hint of a test, a threat - a reminder for absolute obedience and stillness.
He allows Josh to restrain and arrange him as if he were nothing but a doll to be posed to its owner’s desires. And Alecto keeps himself still and quiet, only occasionally letting out small sounds of delight or surprise at Josh’s sudden, warm touch: on his ankle, up his thighs, gripping his ass so hard it feels like it might bruise.
But what really starts to crack his composure is seeing Josh with the crop. Seeing him fully dressed and how he grips the handle with his still gloved hands, uses it with such ease and purpose. Alecto feels his throat go dry when his face is tilted up before the crop meets his cheeks in two successive smacks, the sting and sound of it making his dick twitch. His skin starts to smart but only slightly. Not nearly enough, he thinks.
Now, he knows Josh is holding back, is waiting to build this up with some degree of controlled suspense but Alecto can’t help but shooting him a targeted glance that almost seems to say, playfully: I know you can do better than that. But that specific glance melts away almost as quickly as it flew onto Alecto’s face and in the blink of an eye, he’s back to being demure and wanting, mouth partly open on a gasp.
“That feels good, master,” he says, a little dreamily. “I like that a lot.”
As much as he'd been aware, this entire time, of Alecto's penchant towards submission - or, at least, of his incredible ability to act as such, this additional element almost breaks him.
In his role as Daniel, part of a pair of suburban newlyweds exploring their preferences and married life together, he was eager, goading; he liked sex and he liked it rough, and he loved demanding more from his doting (not a stretch for Josh by any means) husband, from Thomas. They flirted, teased, and thought themselves adventurous when they introduced a few improvised toys to their twice weekly sessions, a little hairpulling or biting as they fucked (Thomas usually topped) and sucked (Daniel - or was it Alecto? - was not a fan) and touched. And in the aftermath, Alecto would emerge again, calm, put-together, fastidious, would offer some comment (he got compliments more than critique, which was giving him really inappropriate reactions to Alecto's idea of feedback), would shower and dress again, then settle onto his side of the large bed and pretend to fall asleep immediately or scroll through news on his phone. And that was...fine. It was just what they needed for the cover (apparently), nothing more, nothing less.
This...was something else entirely.
He meets Alecto's gaze straight on, reads the challenge hidden beneath the demure, almost melodramatic facsimile of submission. He's not sure for whose benefit the role is being maintained, for himself or for Alecto, given the promised privacy of the room they were in.
He keeps himself calm, his expression almost bored, as he uses the tip of the crop to trace down the lines of Alecto's back, letting the leather drag along bare skin, just testing his reactions to the little hint of friction as he walks around Alecto again, until he is standing behind him. He pauses, just a moment, to really admire the aesthetics - the careful presentation of his ass in the slope of his body, his knees spread wide on the bench, his legs bent gracefully and straining against the cuffs of the spreader bar, his feet flexing against the restraint, his balls and cock both clearly visible and within easy reach for whatever Josh might choose to do, tense with arousal and anticipation.
He takes careful aim, and the crop flashes out, landing squarely against Alecto's right ass cheek. He pauses only a moment to gauge his reaction before he strikes again and again. For the moment, he focuses mainly on the fleshy part of his ass, watching red bloom over pale skin.
He's used to Josh being...vicious. Not in a cruel way, but in a determined, hardened way, naturally shaped by what his choice of career demands of him. Alecto is used to seeing the way Josh's arm flexes when he hauls a machine gun out of the hidden compartment of his Aston Martin DB5, the way his eyes sharpen and chill when he takes aim. This side of him, this commanding version of him, has always made Alecto's heart race (either with anxiety or arousal, he's unsure. Maybe it's a combination of both), his knees weak.
He'd never admit it out loud though.
Instead, he lets himself fall into situations like this, where they communicate in code, behind personas and guises under the safety of a scene, a private room, a place where neither of them have any history, no past traumas, no hurts. No dead lovers haunting their every move. Alecto allows himself to whimper, to keen at each merciless hit of the crop. The sharp pain that blooms up his spine makes his chest feel tight with something he can't put into words. It makes him feel: controlled, useful, indulged.
"Thank you, Master," he gasps out, when Josh finally pauses for just a moment. "Can I have ten more?" Because of course, Alecto had been counting.
He pauses, still, quiet, out of sight - Alecto can't quite turn his head far enough to see Joshua, with the tightening of the leash - and considers. Alecto's skin is a beautiful pink with darker red lashes and bruises crisscrossed across the canvas of his lower back, his ass, his thighs, every strike skillfully dealt, stopping just short of actually breaking skin and drawing blood. He'd been creative but sparing; the majority of blows had focused on the willingly presented curve of Alecto's back and ass, but he'd snapped the crop against a few strategic places, just to keep things interesting: the exposed sole of his right foot, the back of his left knee, and twice, the soft skin of his inner thighs, spread open by the bar he'd asked for, that Josh had granted him, straying close to the more sensitive portions of his body: his vulnerable taint, his balls, his throbbing erection.
"If you choose the number of strikes you want from me, my pet, I get to choose exactly where they all fall," he says, quiet and stern, as neutrally as he can manage, curious how Alecto will react.
His cock twitches clearly with interest at that condition.
"Good," he pants back, feeling already a little dizzy with desire, with the hunger for more of this treatment: an utterly sweet combination of debasement and discipline. For a moment, he is so curious to see the expression on Josh's face and he tries to turn his head but the leash pulls taught, constricting the collar around his throat hard enough that Alecto moans at the feeling. Fuck, that's nice, he thinks, before he eases back into position, his fingers digging into the fabric of the bench instead, bracing.
He tsks, a sound of displeasure but it carries a note of disappointment, as though Alecto had failed to live up to expectations. He swishes the riding crop through the air, the whistle of it clearly audible in the space. But when he speaks, he is all patience, thoughtful and measured. "How well can you balance for me, my pet?" he asks, honey sweet, with perfect innocence, as he strolls closer, up towards Alecto's head, and taps the riding crop against his right hand, digging into the padding of the bench. "Will you hold yourself open for me, my pet? After all, you belong to me utterly, don't you? Mine to play with, to punish or please, as I see fit?"
"Or do I need to tie you up more, so you understand exactly what I expect from my posessions?"
That sound of displeasure only makes Alecto more alert, sending a shiver down his spine in anticipation.
"No, Master, I can be good for you. I'll balance myself," he replies, eyeing the way the crop smacks Josh's hand with a significant hunger before lowering his gaze as if out of respect for him.
"Have I...upset you, Master?" he asks softly, almost bashful, resisting the urge to smirk with delight, feeling it twitch at the corners of his mouth.
He doesn't rise to the very obvious bait, simply taps the crop against his palm again, wrapping his gloved fingers around the shaft, and squeezing it, watching Alecto's shifting expressions expectantly, raising one eyebrow.
"Well?" He asks; it's not quite impatience, but it is a pointed reminder, as though Alecto needed a little more support to meet Josh's expectations. "I'm waiting, my pet. Show me that needy, desperate hole of yours, so you can take the strikes you asked for."
Gingerly, he leans forward, motions a fluid dance, thighs tensing as he moves his hands back down his body to grip his ass cheeks and spread them, forcing that tight ring of muscle between them to open up, clenching around nothing. This new, punishing position forces Alecto to lean his weight mostly on his neck and shoulders, his cheek pressed to the bench. From here, he can no longer see Josh's face or his hands, merely the shine of his leather shoes and the peek of his ankle from beneath the hem of his pant leg. It's strangely arousing this way too, Alecto realizes suddenly, being able to see only parts of Josh, to have to guess his next moves and intentions through such an impersonal, sliver of a view of him.
He stays quiet, grateful for the forced shift in Alecto's field of vision that this position automatically imposes. He keeps his steps steady, as graceful and deliberate as he can make them.
"Since you asked for these, I expect you to count them out loud this time, and to thank me after each one." He sounds pleased again - this doesn't detract from his attempt at sternness, but somehow amplifies the heat and connection between them. "Are we clear, my pet?"
He doesn't wait for a verbal answer before the crop is flashing out again, a careful, skillful avoidance of Alecto's fingers where they are digging into the meat of his ass, but close enough for him to feel the rustle of displaced air. It's a testing blow, a careful calculation in terms of Alecto's tolerance for pain, and his practical, physical ability to follow all of Joshua's orders and unspoken expectations.
He yelps when the next hit comes, making his entire body jolt from the surprise of it, and Alecto nearly forgets to start the count. Thankfully, the heavy silence that follows is enough to jostle his memory and quickly he says, "One," just a little more shakily than he would have liked, before adding, "T-thank you, Master."
Nine additional strikes with the riding crop might not seem like an objectively large number, particularly since Joshua was being careful to avoid serious injury or even drawing blood, but he takes every single motion he makes seriously. He is careful and intent, letting time drag between each strike, each sob, each careful adherence to his orders, his eyes fixed on Alecto, alert for the slightest hint of a break or a shift - that Alecto was done with this role, this scene, this odd interweaving of Josh's guilty unformed imaginings and the mission they'd been tasked with - and unable to locate one.
The seventh strike hits between Alecto's legs, air wisping against the sensitive skin of his balls. It's incredible, seeing Alecto's fingers digging in, pink-hot skin paling under the increased pressure, a subconscious clench in place of a full-body flinch against the more intense pain, the implication, as his exposed hole contracts and expands beneath Josh's gaze. Alecto is completely and utterly bare everywhere - apparently that was part of his role, his persona for the night - and Josh's mouth almost waters with the desire to get his fingers and lips and mouth and tongue on this usually-hidden part of his body, to thoroughly and painstakingly explore every millimeter of smooth clean skin in appreciation of Alecto's preparations. He thinks, for a moment, of that period of time between the packages with the mission brief arriving and the next time he caught sight of Alecto, wearing the leather shorts and mesh shirt and offering - no, demanding - Josh the collar and leash, while underneath those carefully selected garments, he was...
Rather than moving immediately on to the next strike, he reaches out to the exact place he had just struck, and drags the tip of the riding crop lightly, teasingly, up and down between Alecto's spread-wided cheeks, never quite reaching his clenching entrance, so unaccustomed to being spread out like this for such an extended period of time, with the threat of the riding crop whistling close. His hand doesn't falter at all.
By the end of it, Alecto’s mouth has gone slack and he’s practically drooling. With each new strike he sinks deeper and deeper into the submissive mindset, falling into it slowly like he would sink into the thick waters of a drawn bath. And when Josh finally stops for just a moment, content to tease with the now warm leather of the crop, Alecto automatically, wantonly even, shifts his ass back, rubbing his clenching hole against the tip of the crop, feeling it penetrate him just that tiny bit and he moans, brokenly at the feeling. He can’t imagine what he looks like right now, absolutely debauched, a glorious mess completely spread open and vulnerable, subservient to the pleasures, whims, and demands of this one man standing behind him.
He’s thinking only of how much his skin will bruise tomorrow, how much he’ll have to work to hide under all his clothes, how much concealer he’ll have to use, what little lies he’ll have to tell if or when anyone notices him sitting just this side of uncomfortable -
The moan startles him, but he shifts with Alecto's actions, not a hint of the rush of intense arousal he feels translating into a tremble in his grip or approach. He traces a deliberate circle with the tip of the crop, the leather dragging against Alecto's hole, a sharp but painless friction, and then he pulls it away.
"I'm waiting, my pet," he says, his voice carrying, sharp, a little displeased. "Or will you not be able to take all the blows you begged me for?" The riding crop taps against his gloved palm. "I'm not done with you yet."
His body responds immediately and he groans out a soft apology: "Forgive me, Master," he says, but it doesn't come out nearly as remorseful as it does...a purr. He stills his hips however and the grip of his hands remains firm, even though now and again he seems to want to pull his legs wider, testing the tension at his ankles from the spreader bar.
He loops the end of the crop around his wrist and walks forward to rest his hand against Alecto's flank, leather sliding against marked skin, damp with sweat and exertion. He caresses his side, his ass, and his fingers slide past Alecto's to circle the hole he'd been teasing just now with the riding crop.
"For these last three, I think I want to really put you through your paces, my pet," he muses, inserting one gloved fingertip and testing the tension already gathered there, the increased friction from the leather only slightly eased by the dampness of sweat. "You want to be spread out for me, don't you?" he almost croons the words, in answer to Alecto's apologetic purr. "You want to feel me fucking into you, claiming you, making every part of your body mine to do just as I wish?"
He doesn't wait for an answer. He reaches for some items he'd kept in easy reach - a bottle of lubricant and a wide, thick buttplug. It is not very long, but it is wide and challenging, intended to provide strain for that first ring of muscle while not thoroughly acclimating the second. The click of the bottle is loud in the small room as he opens the container, squeezing the lube onto his still-gloved hand, and immediately sliding one finger into Alecto's body, able to move much more quickly and easily than normal while he's in this submissive position, holding himself open on Josh's command.
"You know I do," he says, his words far more airy and wanting than he would have liked them to be. He digs his own fingers into his skin, hissing when he feels the rough texture of the leather glove probing at his sensitive hole, but he's so restrained, so held apart that he body can do nothing but simply twitch with feeling as he's stretched and penetrated to Josh's liking.
But it's when he feels the pressure of something much wider, much harder, that sudden shock of metal - "Ah, fuck," he bites out, legs straining against the hold of the bar around his ankles.
"You can take it," he replies in answer; it's not encouragement as much as it is a declaration of fact. "You want this." Gone are his gentle questionings, the carefully phrased check-ins, at least for the moment; he is watching in fascination as Alecto's body strains and struggles, as he pushes and pulls on the restraints, against Josh's demands, clenching around the steady, inexorable intrusion of the metal plug into his body. Why shouldn't Josh take exactly what he wants, in the moment?
"You'll take your stripes right here, my pet," he says, voice hot with anticipation as he unspools the future in front of both of them, gloved fingers stroking around Alecto's quivering body right where it is bearing down on the metal stretching him open. "You have three left. And then we'll see what else the evening holds for us, if you're good for me."
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"You do so want to be good for me, don't you, my pet?" He asks, his palm resting between Alecto's shoulderblades, a deceptively gentle pressure through the thin mesh of the shirt. "You want my marks on you, showing everyone exactly how I've used you, that you belong to me?" He unhooks the buttons holding the shirt together, one by one. Objectively, Alecto looks far from dignified at the moment - his tight leather shorts pulled down to his knees, the shirt falling open around his torso, his hard, dripping cock pressed up against his stomach making it clear how worked up he is from the night and the treatment so far - and Josh cannot pull his eyes away.
"Take your pants off," he orders, airy and unconcerned, and lets the shirt drop to the ground next to the bench. He steps back, curious what Alecto will do. "I want to see you completely bare for me, my pet, except for my collar around your neck, reminding you exactly who you belong to."
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And that's exactly why he loved being put into his place like this, in the intimacy of a scene, under the calm and steady hand of a man he - no, he's not in love, don't be ludicrous - trusts. Everywhere else, Alecto has his carefully cultivated walls, masks, and metaphorical knives. He keeps his cool, his edge, and stays mission-driven. It keeps him and the people under his care alive.
It's only here, in this private moment, that Alecto ever obeys another.
Slowly, he strips himself out of his pants. It's only one piece of simple clothing but Alecto takes his time, inching his way out of it as if pushing the fabric down to the slow beat of a song only he can hear. He slides one long leg out, then the other, and kicks the offending thing under the bench, stretching just a bit before getting back down on all fours and peering up at Josh with nothing but focused attention and the will to please him. The leash at his neck, tethering him, swings lightly as if begging to be held, tightened.
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This was... something else entirely.
"Stay," he says, his tone forceful but even, as though he weren't affected by the sight of Alecto stripping down for him at his orders, by the way he gazes at Josh with his focus utterly fixed on him, by long limbs and a body utterly on display for his eyes alone.
He forces himself to turn around, to walk with steady steps and not a hint of impatience, to select the toys and implements that had caught his eye (or that seemed to have caught Alecto's own interest and attention, that he had managed to observe) and bring them back within easy reach. He takes his time, passing them before Alecto's gaze, ever attentive and attuned to his reactions. There is the spreader bar, of course, the obvious choice, given Alecto's earlier suggestions, but he notices a humbler - two carefully shaped halves with a hole between them for Alecto's scrotum, which would render him utterly unable to shift from a bent position without causing himself pain - and sets it within sight but out of reach, a silent threat (or promise). He removes the leather cuffs and the riding crop from the briefcase he'd been carrying about all night and tries not to think too much about their provenance. He selects a wooden paddle, considers his options for positioning, and keeps it close by.
He wants to hear Alecto, wants to hear the way his calm, measured words, each one carefully calculated, dissolve into incoherence, if Josh can manage it, so foregoes any gags or other restraints for the moment. Besides, in a pinch, he could definitely improvise.
"You barely have any of my marks on you, my pet," he points out, sounding thoughtful and vaguely displeased. "How are people supposed to know you belong to me like this?"
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He glances up at Josh, at the several tools and toys he's brought over (he stares at the riding crop with extreme interest), and unconsciously wets his lips, leaving them slightly parted afterwards, plush and damp.
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He reaches forward and grabs Alecto's trailing leash, tightening the strap by slow degrees until the hook is linked about halfway down the length, tugging Alecto down further, until he is being forced into an almost-bow, unable to raise his head higher than the level of his hips, a position that accentuates his slightly spread legs and his ass, making them readily accessible to whatever Josh might choose to do to him.
He gazes up into Alecto's eyes from his briefly kneeling position, still fully clothed, still utterly in control. "And what is it you think you can do to earn your stripes, my pet? Other than following my orders?" He knows exactly what he wants to do next, but he holds his breath all the same, waiting for Alecto's answer.
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"I want to be useful to you, master," he says, carefully, as if the words themselves taste so sweet. "I want to bring you pleasure. Please. Let me."
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"Oh, you will, my pet," he whispers, the slightest hint of teeth. "You will."
He suddenly pulls back, shrugs his clothes back into perfect array, and reaches for the spreader bar before walking around Alecto to put the restraint on him, cuffing his ankles and positioning his legs so they just match the width of the bench, spreading him out to Josh's view and whims without straining his balance. He seems utterly composed as he adjusts the tightness, the fit. "I'll keep your hands free, for now," he says, letting his own slide up along Alecto's thighs, palming one cheek of his ass possessively, as if testing how he might react to a slap. "But if you don't behave, that can easily be changed for you."
He straightens again, and walks back into Alecto's field of vision, reaching for the riding crop, and swishing it experimentally, making it whistle through the air. Apparently satisfied with his handling of the implement, he slides the leather tip up along Alecto's neck, using the slightest pressure on his chin to force him to look up, his own eyes intent on Alecto's face. "I have a feeling red is a lovely color on you, my pet," he observes, almost condescendingly. "Shall we test that out? Stay still."
The movement is barely visible, a small flick of the wrist, the edge of the crop leaving a gentle sting against Alecto's right cheek, then his left. There is the slightest hint of a test, a threat - a reminder for absolute obedience and stillness.
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But what really starts to crack his composure is seeing Josh with the crop. Seeing him fully dressed and how he grips the handle with his still gloved hands, uses it with such ease and purpose. Alecto feels his throat go dry when his face is tilted up before the crop meets his cheeks in two successive smacks, the sting and sound of it making his dick twitch. His skin starts to smart but only slightly. Not nearly enough, he thinks.
Now, he knows Josh is holding back, is waiting to build this up with some degree of controlled suspense but Alecto can’t help but shooting him a targeted glance that almost seems to say, playfully: I know you can do better than that. But that specific glance melts away almost as quickly as it flew onto Alecto’s face and in the blink of an eye, he’s back to being demure and wanting, mouth partly open on a gasp.
“That feels good, master,” he says, a little dreamily. “I like that a lot.”
no subject
As much as he'd been aware, this entire time, of Alecto's penchant towards submission - or, at least, of his incredible ability to act as such, this additional element almost breaks him.
In his role as Daniel, part of a pair of suburban newlyweds exploring their preferences and married life together, he was eager, goading; he liked sex and he liked it rough, and he loved demanding more from his doting (not a stretch for Josh by any means) husband, from Thomas. They flirted, teased, and thought themselves adventurous when they introduced a few improvised toys to their twice weekly sessions, a little hairpulling or biting as they fucked (Thomas usually topped) and sucked (Daniel - or was it Alecto? - was not a fan) and touched. And in the aftermath, Alecto would emerge again, calm, put-together, fastidious, would offer some comment (he got compliments more than critique, which was giving him really inappropriate reactions to Alecto's idea of feedback), would shower and dress again, then settle onto his side of the large bed and pretend to fall asleep immediately or scroll through news on his phone. And that was...fine. It was just what they needed for the cover (apparently), nothing more, nothing less.
This...was something else entirely.
He meets Alecto's gaze straight on, reads the challenge hidden beneath the demure, almost melodramatic facsimile of submission. He's not sure for whose benefit the role is being maintained, for himself or for Alecto, given the promised privacy of the room they were in.
He keeps himself calm, his expression almost bored, as he uses the tip of the crop to trace down the lines of Alecto's back, letting the leather drag along bare skin, just testing his reactions to the little hint of friction as he walks around Alecto again, until he is standing behind him. He pauses, just a moment, to really admire the aesthetics - the careful presentation of his ass in the slope of his body, his knees spread wide on the bench, his legs bent gracefully and straining against the cuffs of the spreader bar, his feet flexing against the restraint, his balls and cock both clearly visible and within easy reach for whatever Josh might choose to do, tense with arousal and anticipation.
He takes careful aim, and the crop flashes out, landing squarely against Alecto's right ass cheek. He pauses only a moment to gauge his reaction before he strikes again and again. For the moment, he focuses mainly on the fleshy part of his ass, watching red bloom over pale skin.
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He'd never admit it out loud though.
Instead, he lets himself fall into situations like this, where they communicate in code, behind personas and guises under the safety of a scene, a private room, a place where neither of them have any history, no past traumas, no hurts. No dead lovers haunting their every move. Alecto allows himself to whimper, to keen at each merciless hit of the crop. The sharp pain that blooms up his spine makes his chest feel tight with something he can't put into words. It makes him feel: controlled, useful, indulged.
"Thank you, Master," he gasps out, when Josh finally pauses for just a moment. "Can I have ten more?" Because of course, Alecto had been counting.
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"If you choose the number of strikes you want from me, my pet, I get to choose exactly where they all fall," he says, quiet and stern, as neutrally as he can manage, curious how Alecto will react.
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"Good," he pants back, feeling already a little dizzy with desire, with the hunger for more of this treatment: an utterly sweet combination of debasement and discipline. For a moment, he is so curious to see the expression on Josh's face and he tries to turn his head but the leash pulls taught, constricting the collar around his throat hard enough that Alecto moans at the feeling. Fuck, that's nice, he thinks, before he eases back into position, his fingers digging into the fabric of the bench instead, bracing.
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"Or do I need to tie you up more, so you understand exactly what I expect from my posessions?"
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"No, Master, I can be good for you. I'll balance myself," he replies, eyeing the way the crop smacks Josh's hand with a significant hunger before lowering his gaze as if out of respect for him.
"Have I...upset you, Master?" he asks softly, almost bashful, resisting the urge to smirk with delight, feeling it twitch at the corners of his mouth.
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"Well?" He asks; it's not quite impatience, but it is a pointed reminder, as though Alecto needed a little more support to meet Josh's expectations. "I'm waiting, my pet. Show me that needy, desperate hole of yours, so you can take the strikes you asked for."
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And oh, does Alecto show him.
Gingerly, he leans forward, motions a fluid dance, thighs tensing as he moves his hands back down his body to grip his ass cheeks and spread them, forcing that tight ring of muscle between them to open up, clenching around nothing. This new, punishing position forces Alecto to lean his weight mostly on his neck and shoulders, his cheek pressed to the bench. From here, he can no longer see Josh's face or his hands, merely the shine of his leather shoes and the peek of his ankle from beneath the hem of his pant leg. It's strangely arousing this way too, Alecto realizes suddenly, being able to see only parts of Josh, to have to guess his next moves and intentions through such an impersonal, sliver of a view of him.
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"Since you asked for these, I expect you to count them out loud this time, and to thank me after each one." He sounds pleased again - this doesn't detract from his attempt at sternness, but somehow amplifies the heat and connection between them. "Are we clear, my pet?"
He doesn't wait for a verbal answer before the crop is flashing out again, a careful, skillful avoidance of Alecto's fingers where they are digging into the meat of his ass, but close enough for him to feel the rustle of displaced air. It's a testing blow, a careful calculation in terms of Alecto's tolerance for pain, and his practical, physical ability to follow all of Joshua's orders and unspoken expectations.
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The seventh strike hits between Alecto's legs, air wisping against the sensitive skin of his balls. It's incredible, seeing Alecto's fingers digging in, pink-hot skin paling under the increased pressure, a subconscious clench in place of a full-body flinch against the more intense pain, the implication, as his exposed hole contracts and expands beneath Josh's gaze. Alecto is completely and utterly bare everywhere - apparently that was part of his role, his persona for the night - and Josh's mouth almost waters with the desire to get his fingers and lips and mouth and tongue on this usually-hidden part of his body, to thoroughly and painstakingly explore every millimeter of smooth clean skin in appreciation of Alecto's preparations. He thinks, for a moment, of that period of time between the packages with the mission brief arriving and the next time he caught sight of Alecto, wearing the leather shorts and mesh shirt and offering - no, demanding - Josh the collar and leash, while underneath those carefully selected garments, he was...
Rather than moving immediately on to the next strike, he reaches out to the exact place he had just struck, and drags the tip of the riding crop lightly, teasingly, up and down between Alecto's spread-wided cheeks, never quite reaching his clenching entrance, so unaccustomed to being spread out like this for such an extended period of time, with the threat of the riding crop whistling close. His hand doesn't falter at all.
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He’s thinking only of how much his skin will bruise tomorrow, how much he’ll have to work to hide under all his clothes, how much concealer he’ll have to use, what little lies he’ll have to tell if or when anyone notices him sitting just this side of uncomfortable -
It makes Alecto moan once more as his hips jerk.
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"I'm waiting, my pet," he says, his voice carrying, sharp, a little displeased. "Or will you not be able to take all the blows you begged me for?" The riding crop taps against his gloved palm. "I'm not done with you yet."
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"For these last three, I think I want to really put you through your paces, my pet," he muses, inserting one gloved fingertip and testing the tension already gathered there, the increased friction from the leather only slightly eased by the dampness of sweat. "You want to be spread out for me, don't you?" he almost croons the words, in answer to Alecto's apologetic purr. "You want to feel me fucking into you, claiming you, making every part of your body mine to do just as I wish?"
He doesn't wait for an answer. He reaches for some items he'd kept in easy reach - a bottle of lubricant and a wide, thick buttplug. It is not very long, but it is wide and challenging, intended to provide strain for that first ring of muscle while not thoroughly acclimating the second. The click of the bottle is loud in the small room as he opens the container, squeezing the lube onto his still-gloved hand, and immediately sliding one finger into Alecto's body, able to move much more quickly and easily than normal while he's in this submissive position, holding himself open on Josh's command.
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But it's when he feels the pressure of something much wider, much harder, that sudden shock of metal - "Ah, fuck," he bites out, legs straining against the hold of the bar around his ankles.
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"You'll take your stripes right here, my pet," he says, voice hot with anticipation as he unspools the future in front of both of them, gloved fingers stroking around Alecto's quivering body right where it is bearing down on the metal stretching him open. "You have three left. And then we'll see what else the evening holds for us, if you're good for me."
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