Chameleon Knights

Chapter 7- Yaoi S&M

“Strip and come to me on your knees.” Dark relentless eyes belied the casual posturing.
Treize pitted his personal devil with a disdainful glare before thankfully steady fingers plucked at the tuck hem of his t-shirt, teasing it from the grip of the wide leather belt snugged against his hips. I can do this for them. He ignored the rising tension in his abdomen as his fingers chanced upon the ridge of his abs to flow more heavily onto the contours of his chest as he drug the aged, soft cotton upward. Intense, cool eyes followed the path his own hands took as he caressed his body in the removal of his shirt. The Shivers brought by the rake of nails over stress-rocked nipples was not overlooked as the shifting glance indicated. The pants were removed with more aggression, the belt yanked tight and slid free in a single concentrated motion. The button was popped with a flick of his thumb; the zipper fell much the same way.
Stepping free of the stonewashed puddle unself conscious despite the hostile audience, he took a moment to allow the other a thorough perusal of his body. The lingering sensation around his abs and pecs slid lower gradually, nudging at his groin and licking over his thighs. The gaze was almost a tangible weight in its intense scrutiny, making it difficult to function. Infinitely patient, the auburn haired man seemed as he trekked over Treize’s body and camped on his stilled features. A cocked brow and that sensually cruel jilting of the man’s lips were a challenge in and of themselves.
A surge of irrational anger foisted the blonde’s hesitance onto a nearby table and prized his jaws loose. “Rot [Red] is the safe word.”
Whetstone nodded his agreement, lips solicitous.
Far from assured, Treize sank to his knees aqua eyes trained unforgivingly on cold gems hidden behind the glinting frames of the other man’s wire-rimmed glasses. Slow, slinking strides orchestrated by the dipping of hips and well- toned shoulders moved him forward over the thick, dark carpeting toward the chaise’s occupant.
Whetstone observed the contraction of muscles under lightly scarred skin. Razor thin threads of scar tissue criss-crossed the bisque skin while pale golden strands fluttered over the aged hurts. No need for kid gloves with this one, he would slake the edge of his rabid curiosity in this first encounter. Easing himself more comfortably into the cushions, he waited for his new plaything to approach. Watching closely, he could tell the drug fed into the ventilation system was circulating through the young bassist’s system.
Gooseflesh rose along his spine when he brushed the slick fabric of Whetstone’s pants, he could feel the flesh between his legs twitching, incensed at the sensation and agitated that it was not the soft, heated glide of skin instead. Strangling a growl before it could form; he lowered his rump to his heels and looked at his … the bastard indifferently awaiting his next task.
Satisfied with the blasé countenance and the roiling tension throughout his slave’s strong, willowy figure, Whetstone issued his instructions slowly enjoying the etching of minuscule stress lines around the mouth and eyes. “Undress me with your teeth, don’t try anything regrettable.”
Stormily expressive eyes thundered from the crinkling mask as the ash blonde with the long sweeping bangs rose over him; face hovering close to his, enough to reveal the glittering pale stubble lining his cheeks and chin. Meeting the German’s eyes unperturbed by the withering distrust, he darted in to nip savagely at salmon mouth breaking the skin to taste the life within. Warm, metallic liquid dribbled between his teeth as a low keening whimper glossed his lips. Like that, sinking in deeper crushing the barriers of gossamer skin brought him more of those sounds. Tapered fingers pawed his clothes, scrabbling at buttons and sweetening the flavor.
A hand fastening onto his throat and choking off his air startled Treize from the inferno he had tumbled into. The loss of contact with his bruised, abraded lips triggered a protesting throb in his cock that in turn dug relentless nails of lust into his belly. Been so long…feel kinda drunk. Glinting lens held him enrapt as his world swam before his eyes in a dull monotone wash.
“Teeth only,” that commanding voice demanded quietly. The hand holding him, edging him toward unconsciousness loosened and shifted to drag him against a powerful, linen clad chest. “Now.”
Befuddled but not wholly unwitting now that he was rasping in jagged breaths of detergent and exotic spices, Treize fought the pressure on his spine to glare up at his capturer. The lust did not subside meeting those seething depths.
“I will not repeat myself,” he warned the hand at Treize’s neck lifting at its own pace.
Feeling marginally back in control, if light headed, the blonde lowered his bloody lips to the expensive fabric taking satisfaction at the darkening threads he brushed in gripping the buttons. The flat, black disks refused to slip their nooses as he struggled tonguing the fabric, worrying it with his teeth and lips.
“I wonder if your drummer is more talented with his mouth?” Kort mused aloud, watching as the hazy, strange eyes snapped to his face a flash of panic hardly squashed in the rising.
Hearing mention of Jaz he was hard pressed to misinterpret the implications. Planting his calloused hands on muscled hips, he leaned back long enough to favor those maliciously devastating features with a tainted smugness of his own. An auburn brow quirked dubiously in response as the other man’s lean, tone form slunk deeper into the recesses of the chaise waiting. A purring chortle after and Treize bit the first three buttons off the fabric, spitting them against inked skin. Nuzzling with chin and lips against cool smooth flesh he licked a trail down the veiled sternum parting the fabric with lighting tugs of incisors and snuffling thrusts of his jaw.
Satisfied at the swift turn around, Whetstone deplored inept lovers more than a mark that wouldn’t admit it was dead, the man snaked his hand through the loose strands of pale gold that brushed the discarded buttons riding his pecs as he breathed. “You’re lingering. Lower,” he commanded, voice unperturbed by the slick, hot muscle or the feathered puffs of air drenching his skin.
A twisting, slithering coil reared its head in his gut and Treize knew, provided the man refrained mentioning his band mates, the experience would mark him. He wasn’t sure he shouldn’t mind the fact, but molded against the hard body, lapping at salted firm skin…did he care? Taking the cool circular disk in his mouth he snipped the threads easily shoving the button inside his cheek and moving to the next and down. The material parted on its own as the man shifted his shoulders, shrugging the thin shirt down his arms. It was then that the intricacies of the tattoo embellishing a defined physique struck Treize. Tribal. Feral. A form of armor on their own that shielded chest and arms with sharp, angular curves. Reaching a hand to brush the strokes, he started when his wrist was manacled in biting fingers.
“Teeth. Lower.” His hand was repelled forcibly.
Chastened and ill tempered, he spat the remaining fastenings onto the floor losing track of them against the dark pallor perfect for hiding blood stains. Attacking the closure of the slacks was vicious, strident and misdirected at times. The first tactfully petulant nip pinched abs and sparse hairs with indiscrimination. The hand that twisted into his hair warningly guided his lips to the fabric and ground his chin into the closure as if disciplining and incontinent puppy. His second attempt to get his own back grazed the peeking naked head of Whetstone’s cock. The hand tightened as a guttural rumble from flexing abs disappointed him. Pain wasn’t unwelcome with the older man then.
The instantaneous pain had caught him off guard, not displeasing. It was time to move on before he got ahead of himself however. Dragging the boy’s face from his crotch, he took a moment to appreciate the faint flush to the cheeks, the way angel hair tufts clung to damp skin and bruised lips swelled broken and inviting. “Kneel on the couch, ass to me, face in the corner.” Releasing that fair head was difficult, his cock protested the loss of pricking teeth and wet warmth. Soon, he would have that soon.
Hesitance would do nothing for him now, they had an agreement and as long as the rules were adhered to it should be at least marginally pleasurable for the both of them. Not in the least assured by his own train of thought, Treize obeyed slowly. His knees protested the deliberately slow stretch onto the raised platform after kneeling, his shoulders were tense and the fucking room was freezing all of a sudden. He could feel his own dick seemingly shiver and shrink away from the thought of hostile eyes possibly fixating upon it. It was a ridiculous idea, but not completely unfounded.
“Spread your knees, tilt your hips down,” hands bearing different calluses than his own orchestrated the motions the voice directed. His balls were left tight and under scrutiny of the cruelest sort. His position opened him, parting his buttocks to expose the puckered flesh to Jaz had toyed with not a handful of hours past. The soreness hadn’t been so blatant until Whetstone’s probing dry fingers circled the orifice, delving in unexpectedly stealing a groan from his lips.
The feeling of flexible muscle restricting his movements and the arching spine under his other hand quickened Kort’s pulse. Responsive and receptive. The dry digit withdrew, crooked to prolong the sensation of being turned inside out. He smirked at the audible swallow and release of contractions. Adjusting his position behind the body posed for his enjoyment, he took the beads and bottle of self heating oil in hand, smearing the graded latex beads with a glistening of moisture. Satisfied, he capped the bottle dropping it to the cushions and placed a hand at the base of his conquest’s tailbone.
“Breath out,” that maddeningly self-possessed voice ordered. Listening would be the best course, Treize knew. No sooner had he taken a deep breath and started a slow exhale than the initial thrust of penetration stretched him.
The pressure was steady sinking in by inches, each bead stretching and then a momentary release before the girth of the next larger orb forced him wider. The strand had been long, half an arm length. Some of the beads had been bigger than golf balls, the smallest the size of a regular marble. His insides were filling, he could tell, dull heat was piling in his bowels, the rings of muscle protecting him were straining around the newest intruder. The burning stretch was too much, he was panting, choking on air that he badly needed. The thrust became more forceful, he bit through his lip as the pressure released suddenly. Blood flooded his palate, dribbling down his chin and the pressure was back. He could feel tears pricking at his eyes as the bead lodged, held snuggly by his spasming muscles.
Kort’s hand stroked down the slick spine, praising the trembling body. He was surprised the kid could take as much as he had. They hadn’t quite reached two-thirds up the strand, but the clenched bead was at the larger end of the spectrum, the width of three bundled fingers. Satisfied, he searched his discarded shirt pocket for the ring he had acquired for the occasion. Binding securely in hand, he reached beneath the boy, fondling the lightly haired sac, rolling his balls with deferent fingers before gripping the semi-erect member and squeezing harshly. A breathless yelp protested the treatment followed by a whimper as the boy felt the ring slide onto his cock. The vise turned to firm strokes coaxing the thing to full hardness and suspending it in its current state.
“How long before you beg, hmmm?” He would beg before he found release, or he would find none.The auburn haired sadist circled slowly, retrieving the drilled paddle on his circuit to the head of the chaise to appreciate the effect of tousled ashen locks and teary ducts. The color high on the young Adonis’ cheeks and the pouty, crimson smeared lips were stirring accents.
Treize wrest his trembling muscles to sporadic ticks and concentrated on meeting his top’s scrutinizing inspection with what dignity remained. The heavy sweetness of blood lingered on his palate, doing little to distract him from the cool metal nubs that thrust against his shaft with every beat of his pulse. A studded ring was so much more constricting and secure.
“Have you ever seen one of these before?”
The paddle wavered in his view, the smooth polished wood teasing the air before his nose seductively.
“Ja,” he struggled to keep his voice even, soft not panting. What school child hasn’t seen one of those before?
“Were you ever bitten by one?”
The voice that answered him was not so steady, “Nein.”
A staid smile crossed the dark-haired man’s lips. See and feeling were polar opposites. His diction had been purposeful; the deceptively thin plank did indeed ‘bite’ with a hundred perforated incisors.
Evaporating tears left visible tightness below the glaring aqua orbs, eyes that stalked their tormentor as he trailed the cool, slick wood along an arm and down a lean flank. The boy was artistically formed, made for pleasure if any being was such. Easing into a genuinely wicked grin once those heating eyes dropped to the cushion beneath him, Kort secured the bottle of oil, popped the stopper and poured a generous sheen onto the exposed buttocks. He was going to enjoy resurrecting those tears.
“Brace your forearms against the cushions. Do not move unless you wish the stroke to be repeated.” Simplistic instructions.
Waiting patiently for the body to secure itself to the cushions, Kort spread the slightly greasy liquid with the flat of the paddle. The skin of the boy’s buttocks was already flushing with the catalyst in the oil. Muscles were tensing along the blonde’s back and thighs. The puckered entrance revealed by his spread knees quivered, its protruding tail nestled over the prostate gland and bumping lightly against tender, swollen balls. Growing tired of waiting for the shifting to cease, he drew his arm back, aiming his first stroke to warm the seat and center on the strand of beads.
The world exploded and his arms gave out in the aftermath of that first brutal blow. No warning, the bite, and it did bite, nearly thrust him face first onto the floor. The perforations sucked his flesh down, pinching and abusing. The impact of the paddle against the shooter sized bead over his prostate drove his teeth into his tongue bringing a fresh draught of scarlet sweetness to his lips.
“Count aloud, each stroke.”
Dazed for a moment, Treize failed to comply. Another stroke more vicious than the first startled a yelp from him. The welt already rising stung horribly, intensified by the liquid coating his flesh.
“O..One.”
A third blow landed left and above the first track. “You don’t count very well. Perhaps, next time, I should see if your Bell’s math is a bit more reliable, neh?”
The bassist gritted his teeth against the resounding crack of the next stroke, climbing turgidly to his elbows. “Four.”
“So, you can count. Shall we test your calculation skills?” An arched tone punctuated the retort of slick wood on burning flesh. The flush rose higher, blushing ridges tracing the path of his attentions.
“Five.” Hard to breath, the pressure in his cock was building, aching blindly inside. Each shift of his hips slid the beads against his sphincter, pinching the raw pucker.
“How many before you beg?” Amusement clearly lilted the seductive tenor.
“Nein.”
“Nine strokes, you said? Or did you mean to deny me?” An inquisitively cruel smirk tilted unseen lips. The kid had spirit, more than his credentials led Kort to believe. Not so much the spoiled, prodigal son as one would think. This would indeed be pleasurable.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

I think this one is finally finished. Yeah!