oh, take me back to the start | for makingculture

[manincharge]

Corrigan Molloy isn't usually the type to go out cruising. He doesn't need to, not in his line of work. No, not the official, above-the-table work he puts on resumes and business cards and LinkedIn and all that -- real estate, especially on the East Coast, is not a very reliable way to meet people. It's been lucrative, especially in the wake of several economic collapses, especially with his uncanny ability to predict the fluctuations in trends and capitalize on them. The long and short of it is that Corrigan doesn't have to worry about money, and hasn't had to for a long time.

Generally, due to the under-the-table side of his work, he doesn't have to worry about companionship either. It's been almost ten years since an acquaintance of his (Solstice, who would indignantly declare herself his "best friend", which is ludicrous) had partnered with him on the Hotel. An amorphous, vague name for what was now one of the most reputable sex work locations in the city. She'd handled the marketing, the licenses and the testing and the recruiting, he'd handled the location -- a newly-purchased six-story hotel, modest and unassuming on the outside, redone in lush aristocracy on the inside -- and the funding. It had paid off tenfold in the past decade, himself and Solly taking cuts of the earnings and insuring that the workers were protected, regularly tested and able to pick and choose clients. The world's oldest profession, in the digital era.

As the manager and owner of the Hotel, Corrigan wasn't necessarily needed to work -- he easily could've cloistered himself in his penthouse suite, maintaining his properties in Massachusetts or Vermont or overseas and never even acknowledged what was going on in the floors below. But every so often there was a potential client who reached out, via the discreet, hard-to-find website, or through word of mouth, who wanted something a little more...intense than the straightforward, vanilla experience. And, once Solstice had screened them vigorously to insure that no, they weren't wanting something akin to that godawful 50 shades of whatever book, Corrigan was occasionally inclined to step up, to shift into the Dom persona he'd lived almost full-time in when he was much younger, when kink in general -- much less between men -- was a rarity, hidden in secret clubs and private parties. Back in those days, he'd even had a series of fulltime submissives -- one of whom he was still Facebook friends with, actually -- though none had lasted more than a couple months.

You're so intense, Corry, had always been their ultimate, apologetic explanation for wanting to end the relationship. Not in a bad way, just...it's not what I'm looking for permanently. And of course, he'd always understood, knowing that his personality -- bossy, domineering, able to fill a room with his presence, but intensely focused, doting and attentive on whoever he was with -- could be a lot. Too much, maybe, for any one person. Maybe it was better to keep things sex-only.

And so: there he was, lingering outside a nightclub, pulsing with energy and neon and music, hands in his pockets, debating whether to go inside. None of his doubts showed on his face, though, long accustomed to hiding his emotions under a brooding, impassive mask. It was a gay club, which was technically not exactly what he was -- "pansexual, but male-leaning", Solstice had helpfully deemed him, which had gotten a baffled look as Corrigan thought immediately of cookware -- but it definitely fit what he was looking for. His last four customers, over the past six or so months, had all been women. That damn 50 Shades book was an insidious piece of shit.

Corrigan huffs out a thoughtful, grumbling sound, stepping around to the corner by the club and pulling out his cigarettes. He'd smoke a little, debate if he actually wanted to go inside and go through the song and dance (literally) of finding someone to go home with. Maybe he'd just give it up, pour himself inside a taxi and go home. Catch up on 90-Day Fiance or something.

Comments

[makingculture]

Kurt blushes bright red - or scarlet, he supposes - when Corrigan teases him over his choice of safe word. He does like the finer things in life, of course, anyone with eyes in their heads can surmise as much. But this man thumbing his lip, leaning in to ghost his breath over his waiting mouth, has an almost preternatural way of getting under his skin.

He lets out a shuddering breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding when the car comes to a stop, and Corrigan eases him off his lap, denying him the surely intense kiss he so badly wanted. Yet more anticipation to rub his nerves raw.

The building isn't what he'd expected - although what he'd been expecting, he's not totally sure. Maybe something like the Ritz, luxurious exterior, gilded accents, carved decor, something distinguished and quintessentially wealthy New York. It certainly looks better than Kurt's Bushwick apartment building. But only slightly.

"This is where you live?" he asks softly, tone carefully neutral as he tucks his scarf back into his dress shirt, wanting to cover up as much as possible when potentially in view of anyone else but Corrigan.

[manincharge]

As far as reactions go, that's a very neutrally tactful one, but Corrigan can easily assume that the outward view of the building doesn't inspire much confidence. That's on purpose, of course -- avoiding too much unsolicited attention is more or less his goal. Still, it serves the purpose of getting a bemused half-smile from Corrigan as he steps closer, arm going back around Kurt's waist to guide him to the door. "It is, yes. I own the building."

There's a note of obvious pride in Corrigan's voice, which makes much more sense once he's punched a code into the keypad and the door has unlocked. There's a rush of warmth and the soft sound of music that immediately issues forth from the open door, as Corrigan escorts Kurt inside. The foyer is understated, but beautifully tasteful and spotless, a gleaming reception desk to one side, a waiting area with fireplace and seating, and a glimpse of what looks like a bar to the other side. There are a few people milling about, mostly couples, sitting close together in a loveseat or walking arm-in-arm to the two shining elevators just past the desk. Corrigan spares a quick glance around and silently exhales in relief when there's no sign of neon pink dreadlocks. He'd texted Solstice and asked her to run some mundane errand during the ride over, simply because if anyone could spook Kurt into turning and running, it was her. Better to save that introduction for the morning after.

There's a noticeable shift in the atmosphere when Corrigan steps inside -- everyone there seems to sit up and take notice, glancing over with either furtive smiles or subtle nods. A few of the more lavishly dressed individuals, all of them draped over their business-suit-clad companions, wave or blow kisses, even. Corrigan nods politely in return, then glances over at Kurt to take in his reaction. "I could mention something about books and covers now, but that would be somewhat redundant, hm?"

[makingculture]

Something about books and covers indeed.

Kurt's eyes are wide with wonder when they step into the warmth of the lobby, trying to take everything in without looking so much like the most lost virgin on planet Earth. It only takes one look at a breathtakingly attractive twenty-something draped over the arm of what looks like a local politician for Kurt to connect the dots that he currently finds himself in a brothel. It may look like the clean, tasteful lobby of a hotel, complete with the warm comfort of a seating area and a bar perfect for mingling off to the side, but every way to Sunday, this is a brothel.

"Y-Yeah, wow, no kiddin', huh?" Kurt doesn't sound upset, really, more stunned and surprised than anything else. Anything that could make Kurt sound that midwestern can't be all that bad, right? His jaw has gone a little slack as he looks around, returning the playfully flirty wave of a young woman with bright red curls sprawled out on the chaise longue by the fireplace, grinning at the sight of the two men who just came in the door. She looks like she would eat Kurt for breakfast if given the chance.

Leaning in a little closer to Corrigan, the absurdity of his situation completely wiping away the desperate submission of moments before, Kurt asks through the side of his mouth: "I don't mean to be a stick in the mud, but i-is this legal?"

[manincharge]

It's that comment, mumbled and quintessentially midwestern that actually catches Corrigan off-guard for the first time all evening. He actually stares at Kurt for a long moment, eyebrows arched at this unexpected show of genuine, casseroles-and-corn-fields midwest good-ol'-boy lingo. Iowa or Ohio, maybe Illinois, but nowhere near Chicago. Fascinating. He'd known Kurt wasn't from New York, but he hadn't expected such a small-town backstory.

Fortunately Ginger is distracting Kurt enough that Corrigan's slip goes unnoticed, and he recovers in time to give her a scowl over the top of the younger man's head. True to form, she just grins, toothy and bemused and returns her attention to her phone. Probably texting Solly, the traitor. Nobody respects him in this house.

Clearing his throat, Corrigan tucks his arm a little firmer around Kurt's waist, bypassing a few more patrons -- an older man with a truly stupendous mustache gazing at his younger, magazine-pretty male companion, a woman in a long evening gown escorted by a beauty with short-cropped silvery hair -- on his way to the elevators. "You mean, am I leading you into a situation that's going to end with the police raiding us at 3am? I certainly hope not, I just got those chairs reupholstered, and a police raid would definitely ruin the ambiance."

Smirking, he pushes the up button, fishing his room card out of his back pocket. "But yes, on paper this is simply a very expensive hotel with...extremely friendly staff." Corrigan huffs out a weary sigh, tapping his foot with mild impatience. "Ironically, if everything that went on here was filmed and edited to ambient jazz, then put online, it'd all be legal, but because it's private, it becomes illicit." A pause, then he glances down at Kurt, eyebrows arched. "Does it make you uncomfortable?"

[makingculture]

Corrigan pulls him closer, holds him against his muscled side more firmly, with intention, reminding him with sudden clarity why they're here. It's enough for Kurt to snap back into reality, a delighted shiver running through him on the short walk to the elevator past even more attractive people and their clients. Not only is he going to sleep with an insanely attractive and intensely dominating man, he's going to sleep with the boss of an exclusive, seemingly expensive brothel. He owns the building, right? So it stands to reason he owns at least part of the business too.

Kurt wouldn't dare assert that Corrigan sleeps with his employees. That's inappropriate of him, he's not educated enough on sex work to comprehend the ethics of that. But there's a possibility that he could have any single one of these stunningly gorgeous people in his bed at any given time. And still, he wanted to bring Kurt home with him.

"Oh, n-no. No, I..." Kurt trails off, scanning his eyes over the room again as they wait for the elevator, nervous fingers playing with the hem of his scarf. "I mean, everyone looks really healthy and happy to be here." Some maybe a little too happy - that redhead keeps shooting piercing glances at the two of them before going back to texting someone really intensely, nails clacking against the phone screen, making Kurt feel like there's a joke here he's not in on. But while it does make him blush a little, he doesn't take offense.

When he looks back up at the man, he offers a little shrug. Kurt is definitely cool and not a lame narc. "I have no problem with friendly staff."

[manincharge]

Goddammit, Ginger. Corrigan can feel his phone vibrating in his pocket -- Solstice, likely, demanding an explanation. He slips his free hand down to turn the device off. Let her wonder, for one night, and grill him in the morning. Right now, Corriganhas other things to occupy his attention.

He allows himself an affectionate nuzzle against Kurt's temple, intimate but not too demonstrative, not with an audience. Corrigan is many things, but he's not super into voyeurism. He doesn't want to share Kurt with anyone. A touch of this possessive line of thought creeps into his voice as he murmurs: "Good, because I'd find it very difficult to let you go now."

The elevator doors slide open, finally, letting out a few more of the hotel's employees, on their way to meet customers in the bar -- or to catch a glimpse of the boss's new toy. Corrigan ignores them, guiding Kurt into the elevator and hooking his fingers into the younger man's belt loops to drag him close, chest-to-chest. "We can discuss business practices later. I believe we were having a much more interesting conversation, in the car?" His gaze flickers down, lingering on Kurt's mouth. "Did you have...any other questions?"

[makingculture]

That little nuzzle, barely there, along with the innocuous words murmured in a low tone, has such a profound effect on Kurt it's impossible to deny. He feels Corrigan's voice all the way down his spine, a tickle almost, his cheeks flushing hot and red at the confirmation that this gorgeous man wants him. That it would be hard to let him go.

He'll have to pick some other time to unpack just how badly he needed to hear that, and how distressing a realization that is. For now he's pulled into an elevator and against Corrigan's chest with a gasp, his hands catching himself on the man's tight muscled stomach, fingers unconsciously spreading out and feeling his body now that it's right in front of him. This is a much more pressing matter.

"Um..." Kurt tries to think past the fog of wanting in his brain, but he's just not well versed enough in the field to really know what to ask for. Most of his concerns are answered by the established safe word - will you hurt me, will I have to do something I don't want to - so he can only really think of the one thought he had back in the car, before the start of their much more interesting conversation:

"What do I call you?" he asks, eyes wide when he looks up at him, the elevator doors slowly sliding shut behind them. His fingertips curl into Corrigan's shirt. "I'm assuming I'm not on a first name basis."

[manincharge]

The blush looks even better now, on the relative privacy of the elevator, than it had in the dimly lit back of the car. Corrigan keeps one hand at Kurt's waist, lifts the other to ghost over the heat coming from his red cheek, then tucks a loose strand of hair back in place.

Truthfully, he wouldn't have minded too much if Kurt had called him by name, though it definitely helps with setting the scene for that to be off-limits. So Corrigan nods, reaches to press the button for the penthouse.

"You assume correctly. But I'll let you pick. Usually it's some variation on Sir, Master, Daddy, the like." A dismissive hand; it's about the tone and context, rather than the word itself. Though he's fairly sure hearing any of those words in that soft, high, breathy voice would be pleasant.

[makingculture]

Kurt closes his eyes and leans into that whisper of a touch to his cheek, gently rubbing against his fingers, making shivers run up and down his back. He really badly needs to be out of these clothes and have Corrigan touch him for real.

The elevator starts moving, and Kurt mulls over his choice while his fingers caress Corrigan's stomach, his chest, not daring to touch anywhere else for now. Master sounds a little final and intense for a one night stand. Daddy is hot, he supposes, but kinda just makes him sad for some reason.

"I like sir." Respectful, deferential, appropriate for a working professional as well as a Dom. Kurt licks his lips, looking for signs of approval on Corrigan's face. "If that's alright with you."

Almost as soon as the word solidifies in his mind, Kurt is surprised by how much smaller it makes him feel immediately. Calling someone sir, like he's beneath them. It makes his breath come out hotter, pulse picking up, body leaning in closer to Corrigan's. "I really want to kiss you, sir. Really badly."

[manincharge]

"Mmm, it'll do." Corrigan says it vaguely, focused instead in the flutter of Kurt's pulse in his throat, the curl of those long fingers against crisply ironed fabric, the unbridled want in those eyes. The older man strokes his thumb back over the sharp edge of Kurt's cheekbone -- young, yes, but far past the youthful roundness that had likely been there in earlier years. Now Kurt's all angles, lean and tensely coiled, holding himself together with perfect control.

Corrigan wants to take that apart, take him apart, release the pent-up heat he can sense burning just under the surface. He cups Kurt's chin, tilts his face up, leans in -- and stops.

There's a low, darkly predatory note in his voice when he replies: "I know you do. But we're not doing what you want. Not unless you get much, much better at asking for permission."

[makingculture]

Kurt isn't sure how to feel about Corrigan's vague, not-really-a-response to his question, but ultimately decides not to pay too much attention to it because the dark wanting in his eyes more than makes up for it. The brush of his thumb over his cheek, right under his eye, makes Kurt feel like he's coming apart with anticipation, tripping over himself to feel him, to please him, to earn more than vague, not-really-responses.

There's no hiding the little whimper in his throat when Corrigan stops just shy of kissing him, the way his brows bunch up, the confused and hurt look in those big, stormy eyes when he's told they're not doing what he wants, that he needs to do much better than that.

Oh. Oh, that doesn't feel good at all. His belly goes all tight, shoulders tensing up, flushing hot all over with... what is that, disappointment? Shame? Why is he feeling that? And god, why does it make him all the more aware of just how aroused he is, how tight his pants are at the front? He doesn't know. What he does know is that he doesn't want to give the other man a reason to chastise him again.

"I-- I'm sorry, sir. I don't..." Corrigan won't like excuses like I don't know how, he guesses. Kurt swallows, trying to work through the shame and do better. How do you ask for permission again? Kurt feels completely clueless. "P-Please, sir?" Wow, what an effort, truly. "Please, I want to kiss you so badly. There's nothing I want more, sir. I-- I'll do anything, sir, please."

[manincharge]

The truly unfortunate thing (for Kurt, at least) is that he's desperately pretty when he's been chastised -- those big sad eyes, the visible trembling, the earnest, stammering pleas of someone who's so unused to begging for anything. Corrigan feels the curl of warm, smug triumph low in his gut, wondering how easy it would be to make Kurt beg for anything, everything, how far he'd go to prove that he was worthy of a kiss, a touch.

But he reins it in, reminds himself that as far as he knows, this is the first step outside of the safe, predictable realm of vanilla sex that Kurt's ever taken. If he comes on too strong, it'll be the last. So, as the elevator comes to a stop on the top floor, Corrigan lets both hands come to rest on either side of Kurt's face, ducking to give him what he's asked so nicely for, kissing him slow and sweet. It's an end-of-the-movie kind of kiss, the kind where the violins soar and the closing credits roll right after, long and lingering. The elevator door very nearly closes again while he's in the midst of it.

Corrigan pulls away, though he pauses long enough to tug Kurt's lower lip into his mouth and bite, suddenly sharp, enough that he tastes the coppery tang of blood. Then he pulls away, looking very satisfied with himself. "Like that?" he says, casually, like he has no idea of the effect he has.

[makingculture]

Kurt will soon come to find that begging is an acquired skill, one he will get much better at much faster than he thinks, one he will work to perfect for months and years to come under the watchful guidance of one Corrigan Molloy. But for now, his innocent first attempt at asking so nicely is rewarded by the man leaning in and finally, after all that excruciating teasing, kissing him breathless.

It feels like a fairytale kiss - a naughty one, sure, one that promises sex beyond what Kurt can begin to imagine, but it's so slow and deep and hot, those big hands cradling his face as they stand there for what feels like forever, bodies pressed so close together as they kiss. Kurt thinks this could last forever and he'd be perfectly fine with it. Corrigan's lips are so soft.

He feels dazed when the older man pulls away, eyes heavy and hooded, his whole body so nice and warm and eager for more, that the last thing he expects is being bitten. Kurt cries out, flinches away, a hand coming up to delicately touch the offended lip. Popped right open, a shallow straight line of exposed flesh, the taste of blood acrid and harsh and hot as it seeps into his mouth, like sucking on pennies. It hurts.

It doesn't make sense, then, that he feels good all over. His pupils are blown wide open when he looks up at Corrigan, cheeks flushed, breath coming out in short, hot bursts. He feels it rippling through his body, little waves of shivery pleasure, every unconscious touch of his tongue to the wound making him feel hot and dizzy. "Y-Yes, sir," is the soft reply from a boy who doesn't know what's happening to him, but who knows he wants more. "Th-Thank you."

me, clenching my fist: THE LIP BITE

[manincharge]

Kurt is too hard on himself-- there's potential there, unformed and raw with emotion, but unmistakable. The way he shivers all over, gaze hot and needy, the near-reverent way he traces the new wound on his lip, the clear desperation for more are all things that can't be taught. Damn, Corrigan's instincts are good.

He smirks, obnoxiously pleased with himself, cradling Kurt's chin in one big hand, thumbing his lip down and watching blood bead up where he'd been bitten. "Yeah, you like that. Feels good, huh." It's a statement, not a question.

Still tasting the bright tang of blood, Corrigan's patience is wearing thin. He wants Kurt naked and begging in his bed ten minutes ago. The arm he tucks around the young man's waist is much more possessive and directing than it had been downstairs, steering him to the door marked "penthouse".

Once there, though, he stops long enough to pin Kurt against the polished wood, back to Corrigan's front. The older man's voice is low, growling as he grinds forward, against Kurt ass, letting him feel how hard he is. "See what you're doing to me?" He breathes into Kurt's hair. "I almost took you right there in the foyer, right in front of everyone." A lie; he doesn't like sharing. But the thought is hot, in it's way, of being so inflamed with lust that he doesn't care who sees them.

Another of those nuzzling, almost sweet kisses to Kurt's temple and one last rolling movement of his hips and Corrigan reins it in. Almost there. He exhales, opens the door and nudges Kurt inside. "Undress. I'm tired of waiting."

ITS PERFECT i weep openly

[makingculture]

God, that's so hot. The man pressing down on his lip, inspecting his work, making Kurt gasp and whine and nod pitifully in agreement as blood swells from the wound is devastatingly hot in a way he hadn't been prepared for. He does like that, it does feel good, and being told that so plainly makes him feel shivery and weak. He can feel his knees buckling, his pants so tight it's unbearable, the taste of blood making him feel dizzy and faint yet somehow more awake and rearing to go than ever.

Like when he's lead down the hallway and pressed against the door and Corrigan starts grinding against him, letting him feel just how big and hard he is against his ass, making Kurt cry out with pleasure, feeling like he's going to pass out with need. It feels so good to be wanted so badly that Corrigan, who surely could have anyone in the world, would have fucked him in the foyer for the whole world to see, just because he couldn't stand waiting.

The Kurt in the foyer would have balked at the idea. The Kurt being nudged through the door of the penthouse suite, knees wobbly and lip still sluggishly bleeding, wouldn't object to the idea for long.

"Y-Yes, sir, of course," he whines softly, taking a few more stumbling steps into the penthouse without really looking, too focused on undoing the buttons of his loudly patterned shirt. It and the scarf are shed almost immediately and dropped to the floor, not paying a single mind to the sorry state the garments will be in come morning. He just barrels ahead, toeing out of his shoes while unbuckling his belt, shoving pants and underwear off his body in one sweeping motion, socks coming off last, leaving him completely bare.

He's pale all over, skin soft and hairless, the flush of pink over his cheeks and nose extending down his neck, over his shoulders and chest, rising and falling with every hot labored breath. His body is attractive and strong, muscles lightly toned, filling out his chest and his thighs without bulk. He's so hard, trembling with need, eyes big and needy as they seek out Corrigan's, wordlessly pleading for touch, for guidance, for approval, for more.

[manincharge]

Corrigan's fairly certain that there will be some indignation on Kurt's part when the heat and urgency passes and he's left realizing how irrevocably wrinkled all his clothes are. But there's time for that later -- time for showing off the luxurious penthouse and all it's amenities. For now, all Corrigan cares about is shrugging off his jacket and shoes, unbuttoning the first few buttons of his shirt, showing just a hint of golden, toned skin. He pulls off his belt, pausing enough to press the heel of his hand against where he's achingly hard at the sight of Kurt naked and pale and shivering.

The belt gets dropped into the tangle of clothes on the floor and Corrigan crosses the space between them in mere steps, reaching out to slide his hands over Kurt's sides, up and down his bare back, pulling him close and satisfying his need to see if the younger man is that toned and lean everywhere. The answer is: yes, mostly, except for that ass that's been tormenting Corrigan since the alley, which he grabs at possessively, gripping hard enough to bruise.

"Fuckin' gorgeous," he growls appreciatively against Kurt's neck, following the words with his mouth, tongue and teeth digging into the tender junction of neck and shoulder, leaving the marks he's wanted to all night. "C'mere," he adds, backing towards the massive bed that takes up the majority of the suite, heavy intricately carved headboard and silken sheets and everything. He sits on the edge, pulls Kurt back into his lap, leans up to kiss at his bloodied mouth again, harder this time, much more possessive and hungry.

His thumbs rub over the sharp jut of Kurt's hipbones, reaching easily, and he's struck again by how much smaller the young man is. "Could break you apart," Corrigan murmurs, mostly to himself, then glances up and runs his tongue over his teeth. "Would you want that? Promise it'd feel good. I'd make you scream so pretty for me."

[makingculture]

There will be some indignation in the morning, sure. About his clothes for one, but Kurt is the kind of man to ask for steamers and ironing presses for birthdays, so creases and wrinkles won't bug him as much as the myriad marks Corrigan is seeing fit to leave all over his unmarred skin will. He's so pale and bruises so easily, it's always annoyed him, so he'll find when the morning comes just how much of his body is covered in marks - nails, teeth, handprints, clenched fists, Kurt will find them all over himself for days. Days and days of high collars and turtlenecks and unrolled pant legs.

They won't annoy him in the morning, however. He'll finds himself chasing the marks all over his body, cataloguing every bite, every scratch, every bruise, inspect his naked body in the mirror and marvel at the colors and shapes. He'll find himself disappointed when they start to fade.

But that's all for later. For now, Kurt eagerly follows Corrigan's lead, shuddering all over from the big hands grabbing him possessively, the hot tongue painting his neck with future bruises, the appraising growl from the most attractive man he's ever met. He follows him onto the enormous bed, into his lap, kisses him back with loud, hungry whimpers, so needy when he presses his whole body against the bigger man. The sense of vulnerability that shoots through him when he realizes Corrigan is still mostly clothed is far more intoxicating than anything he's had to drink tonight. It leaves him trembling, white-knuckling the man's half open shirt, thighs clenching over his lap, hips bucking against him out of sheer instinct.

The man's dangerous words, his hungrily murmured promise to break him, to make him scream, makes that heady feeling all the more potent. Being vulnerable, being breakable... Kurt hadn't thought he would relish in that feeling. "Yes, p-please, sir. Please, I-- I want that so bad, want to scream for you, sir, please, split m-me apart."

[manincharge]

"Shhh, shh," Corrigan soothes, mouth against where he can feel Kurt's pulse racing in his throat. One big hand is smoothing up and down the young man's back, following the shivering line of his spine, coaxing him into relaxing closer, warm and eager and pliant in Corrigan's lap. There's something about being almost fully clothed while his partner for the night is bare and pleading under or on top of him that Corrigan loves, loves that little added twist in how the power dynamics shake out. To be naked is to be inherently vulnerable, unable to hide how a touch or a kiss effects you. And he wants to see everything.

It'd be easy to stay like this, Kurt in his lap, perfect and eager and all his, for hours. But Corrigan has other plans, moving to shift the younger man off him and onto the bed, on his back. Another of those long, lingering kisses, a flick of his tongue over the still-raw bite mark, and Corrigan is taking one of Kurt's arms, stretching it above his head to where a leather padded cuff is fastened to the headboard. It's well-made, no expense having been spared, and it buckles snug and unyielding around Kurt's wrist.

Corrigan pauses, kneeling over Kurt and tightening the strap from the cuff to the bed, then giving him an arched eyebrow. "You know what to say if you don't want something, right?" he prompts, with that same nearly-condescending patience. This is only pleasant if the idea of being tied up hits those same buttons in Kurt that Corrigan's been pushing all night, makes him mindless with wanting and excitement.

[makingculture]

Corrigan is so strong, maneuvering Kurt out of his lap to lay on the bed like he weighs nothing, dipping right back in to kiss him breathless once again. It doesn't feel like he's consciously had to move a single muscle since they stepped out of the elevator, like he's been completely on automatic. Like that bite to his lip made something in his brain turn on, something primal and innate and latent, dormant inside him until Corrigan came along. The pain is barely even noticeable anymore, the touch of Corrigan's tongue to the wound just making Kurt whimper for more, fluidly arching his body up to meet the other's.

It's everything he had no idea he'd always wanted.

His wrist is secured to a padded cuff Kurt hadn't even noticed, luxurious and sturdy, tight around his wrist but somehow still comfortable. He gently tests it, finding there's no forgiving yield - he's properly tied to the bed, well and truly stuck. Being tied up was always something he'd thought he'd hate, something he'd cringe at, a tame and fumbling and embarrassing affair of fuzzy handcuffs and eye masks that would end pretty much as soon as it began. But so far, all Corrigan has done to him has left him wanting more. He wants to see this to the end. The almost-condescension is met with a soft whine this time, Kurt nodding eagerly, impatiently, catching his cut lip between his teeth.

"Yes, sir, I-- I do. I remember, I promise. P-Please, I want this."

[manincharge]

No fuzzy handcuffs here -- far too kitschy and stereotypical for Corrigan and his activities. He prefers the well-made, snugly fitting leather cuffs, strong enough to withstand even the most strenuous, emphatic struggles, but well-padded to avoid any unsightly bruises. Corrigan will leave his mark on the beautiful young stranger -- again and again, as much as he can -- but not anywhere visible.

...still. It's the winter time, after all. Long sleeves and high collars are expected this time of year, right? With that in mind, Corrigan leans down, presses his lips over one of the dully reddened marks he's left on Kurt's neck, gently at first, before the sharp nip of his teeth comes, worrying it to flare up into vivid, purplish glory. "I know you do," he murmurs against the mark, cuffing Kurt's other wrist to the bed, then sitting back on his heels to examine his handiwork. "You're desperate for it."

One hand slides down over the patchwork of bite marks and bruises he's left scattered along Kurt's throat and collarbone, over where he can feel the young man's heart racing in his chest. He keeps it there for a moment, eyebrow arched. "I think you'll need to prove to me that you're good enough before I give you any more, though," he says, placidly, with a meaningful glance to where Kurt's hard and leaking, inches from his hand. "I don't bring just anyone home with me. I had a...premonition, let's call it, that you'd be able to prove yourself."

His hand moves down, the slightest bit more. But not enough. "Was I right?"

[makingculture]

God, every touch of teeth to his skin makes him feel like he's on fire, making his breath catch in his throat and more of those high, needy sounds escape him. Kurt doesn't like pain, right? Not like that anyway. His ex and all his subsequent bedwarmers never got away with leaving so much as a scratch on him, hickeys only barely tolerable, handprints and teethmarks absolutely out of the question. Ever since his first time, Kurt has been as vanilla as they come. Convinced he'd never be interested in anything but the basics, not even letting himself consider going outside his comfortable little box.

But there's something about Corrigan. His energy, the air about him, the way he touches him, the way he talks to him, the sum of everything he's done to him tonight to bring him to this state of eager submission has Kurt whining for more of that sharp sting of pain right at his throat. He can't see himself, the pink and red and purple marks spreading on his skin like watercolors, but it feels divine.

"O-Oh," he says uselessly, eyes wide and pleading, watching Corrigan kneeling above him, hand resting teasingly on his chest. What does that even mean? Kurt doesn't know how to prove he's good enough, doesn't know what that means, what the other man could possibly be expecting of him. His mind races, hands unconsciously pulling against the chains, legs spreading on instinct.

He may not know what Corrigan means, but he's right: he's desperate for it. "Yes. Yes sir, y-you were right," he says, arching into that hand, willing it further down. "I-- I can prove myself, I will, please sir, I'll prove I'm good enough for you. I'll do anything. Anything you want, sir, t-to show I deserve it."

wow sorry my computer is LOSING IT posting stuff early??? rude??

[manincharge]

Corrigan nods, approvingly, moving his hand to rest along Kurt's side, warm thumb rubbing over the jut of his hipbone, over and over, a mindlessly soothing gesture. He sees the confusion, the eagerness that fights with it, loves the wide-eyed innocent look on Kurt's face as he agrees with anything that's said, too eager to be touched to really question it. Experience is all well and good, but even if it isn't present, as long as there's willingness and enthusiasm, it's more than enough.

"I thought so," Corrigan murmurs, moving his hand, squeezing the back of Kurt's thigh, bending his knee towards his chest, spreading him open. His gaze is calmly appraising, unflinching, looking over the young man with idle interest. He doesn't seem the least bit hurried, like he has all the time in the world. "I wonder -- if I, perhaps, told you to prove yourself by...not coming until I said you could..." Corrigan sets Kurt's foot on the bed, moves his other leg to the side, then moves closer, between his spread knees, a predatory look glinting in his eyes.. "...no matter what I did to you. Could you do that?"

i cannot believe ur computer is tryna cockblock us this badly !!!!!!!!!!

[makingculture]

Kurt has no choice but to accept the man's languid pace without protest. He can beg and buck and whine all he wants, but no matter what he does, he's the one naked and shackled to the bed while Corrigan remains fully dressed above him, slowly spreading him open, completely in control of both his body and his mind tonight. All he can do at this point is just to let him, to agree to have his limits tested, to do his best to live up to expectations - even though he doesn't know what they are. He just knows he wants it so badly, he wants Corrigan's approving gaze, his big hands on him, his body pressed so close, he wants all of it and he'll do anything to prove it.

"A-Ah, I-- Yes. Yes, sir, I-I think so," he agrees, letting Corrigan spread his legs apart. He's completely bared now, vulnerable, exposed, so hard and aching for touch, and knowing Corrigan can see every inch of him like this makes Kurt blush bright red all over. The man looks unbelievably hot like this. Powerful, playful, predatory as he inches closer between his legs. Kurt finds he'd do absolutely anything the man told him to do like this.

Even if he's promising way too much. "No matter wh-what you do to me, sir," he sighs, biting his bloodied lip. "I'll prove myself."

[manincharge]

Corrigan can tell he means it, that Kurt is near-mad with desire to prove himself, to show he can keep up with this strange, quick-paced world he's somehow stumbled into. He isn't, of course, he's much too inexperienced and untried and painfully eager. But that's what makes it so delicious that he still makes those promises, stammers them out with those big, soft eyes and the pretty way his pale skin looks, tied up and spread out for Corrigan.

So the older man nods, obligingly, reaching out to tap where he's placed Kurt's feet on the bed, keeping his knees wide. "Good. First test -- don't move these. Or I'll cuff them in place too." It's unclear if this is a threat or a promise. Then, without any further warning, while keeping his dark eyes fixed upwards, Corrigan shifts forward, curls his hand around Kurt's hard cock, angles it towards his mouth and slides his lips around the head, swallowing him down like a clearly-practiced professional.

[makingculture]

"O-Oh. Yes, I-- Yes, sir, of course," he mumbles at the command, bracing his feet against the mattress, both bewildered and relieved at how easy this first test seems. Just keeping his legs in place, even with a couple of drinks in him, even with his near-delirious need for pleasure or approval or both, should be simple enough. Kurt is a dancer, after all, he has control of his body. This shouldn't be a problem.

His confidence quickly goes watery and weak once Corrigan's hand closes around his cock, once he slips the head right past those attractive flushed lips, once his mouth completely envelops his erection in one smooth, practiced motion. Kurt gasps, the noise melting into a loud moan, arching his back off the mattress while trying to keep the rest of his body still, to little avail. The chains rattle as his arms involuntarily yank on them, like his first instinct is to reach down and caress the man's face as he swallows him down, but he's not allowed it. He gets to lay there and drown in sensation, trying not to buck into Corrigan's hot, wet, perfect mouth.

He almost forgets to keep his feet in place. In lieu of touching him with his hands, Kurt almost wants to wrap his legs around the man's shoulders, wanting to feel him so close. But he catches himself, whimpering, bracing his feet harder, toes curling into the sheets - both out of pleasure and necessity. This is going to be harder than he thought.