[Kurt almost holds his breath as the man takes hold of his chin, forcing their eyes to meet, his whole body going tense and shivery. It's long since been beaten into him that any touch from a man is reprehensible. Any touch from any man is either violent or perverse, and Kurt is monstrously sick for enjoying either. Suppose he'd have to be a total sick weirdo to get into this situation in the first place. Men aren't tricked or forced or intimidated into sex work. It's Kurt's fault, right?
The man is certainly intimidating. Towering, muscled, clearly wealthy. He barely looks like he wants to be there, even as he stands there, inspecting his purchase. His new property. Kurt finds himself hoping this guy didn't spend too much when he bought him. What a pathetic waste of money.]
... Kurt. Turned 22 b-back in June. [That high, trembling voice speaks God's honest truth. With the voice and build and hairless skin, he's been instructed to lie about being younger. Caesar told him to push it as far down as 14, if he thought he could get away with it. Men are sick.]
[There's a slight relief in the fact that the boy -- Kurt, apparently -- isn't nearly as young as Caesar had alluded. Corrigan might have compromised most of his standards by this point, but even he had limits.
The shivering is impossible to miss, but so is the way that Kurt seems to both recoil from the touch and lean into it. Like it feels good, and he hates that it feels good. Interesting. Corrigan keeps his grip firm, but his thumb slowly moves, tracing the shape of Kurt's lower lip, gently, almost affectionately.]
My name is Corrigan, but you'll call me "sir". If you need to call me anything. Understand?
[The man's fingers tighten on his chin so he can run his thumb over Kurt's lip, and the young man doesn't know if he wants to hurl or cry or both. It's gentle, as touches go, slow and intimate, showing trust in the shivering young man. He could bite him. He probably should.
Instead, he squeezes his eyes shut and tries not to pull away from the unwanted (wanted, very wanted, God, please, he wants this) touch. Kurt is a coward at his core. He's terrified of what this man—Corrigan, a deceptively soft and beautiful name—is going to put him through, but the thought of how badly he'll hurt him if he pulls away is infinitely worse.
He can muscle through the indignity of pretending he wants to have sex with him if it means not getting beat.] Y-Yes, sir. I understand...
Good. [Corrigan glances around the dingy motel room briefly, lip curling in disgust as he drops the hand from Kurt's face.] This place is disgusting.
[Then, in the same breath:] Undress. [The t-shirt and jeans are ill-fitting, adding to the sullen teen persona -- likely on purpose -- and while that's all well and good, Corrigan wants to see what he paid for.
He also wants to see how quickly Kurt obeys, if the mute compliance continues out of fear, if there's any potential to turn that into a complete and utter desire to please. Well, there's no "if" -- Corrigan is very good at getting what he wants, and what he wants is Kurt completely addicted to his touch.
In time, though. For now he stands, watches expectantly, waiting to be obeyed.]
[At least they agree about one thing. For making so much goddamn money off of his boys, Caesar sure hates spending any, keeping them fed with rice and spinach and cup noodles, giving them hand-me-downs to wear if he has to give them anything at all, and booking the cheapest, dingiest motel rooms in the state if the johns can't be assed to spring for a place themselves.
It's in this gross, cold, disgusting motel room Kurt is expected to undress and have sex with this man. He stiffens, even as Corrigan's touch falls away. He doesn't want to. He doesn't want this man to see him naked. He doesn't want any part of his body exposed for anyone to see—too pale, too pink, too freckled, too bony, too wide in places he doesn't want to be, too narrow in others—least of all the man who paid for it.
But the coward in him wins out again, as Kurt's cold hands start tugging at the t-shirt, wrenching it up and over his head, baring his torso. Flat and a little hollow-looking from the visible ribs, from how he hunches in on himself, clavicle hollowing out. He distracts himself from the horror of his situation by quietly folding the shirt and laying it on the bed, before undoing his belt and letting his ratty jeans drop past his bony hips, down legs that feel too long for his body. The jeans get folded too, slowly, so he won't get to the boxer briefs as fast. The very last layer keeping him covered.
His fingers hesitate on the elastic. Bitten fingernails fidget with the fraying edge. He can't do it.]
[Corrigan watches impassive, silently noting that a big part of Kurt's self-loathing clearly comes from being reminded that his body exists. He doesn't look down at himself, keeps hunched inwards to hide and minimize the amount of space he takes up.
Now, he's no intellectual, but Corrigan’s damn good at reading nonverbal cues. He wonders vaguely if Caesar taught Kurt to hate his body or if he just capitalized on it. Regardless, one more thing to overcome -- he can already see the potential, the beauty in the arrangement of slim waist and sharp collarbone and flat chest. Kurt doesn't have any idea of the power he could possess if he truly inhabited his own skin, instead of looking two seconds from crawling out of it.
Still, there's the hesitation at the frayed, dismal boxers, the fear and embarrassment taking control. Corrigan waits the space of one heartbeat, two, much more indulgent than he usually is. Then, sternly:] Everything, Kurt. I'm not disciplining you here, but I don't forget and I don't forgive disobedience.
[The man's voice breaks Kurt's frightened reverie, and he twitches to attention, his hands still frozen at his waist, unable to peel his underwear off. It's like there's a barrier in his head, a mental block stopping his hands from going through with it, desperate to keep that last layer of protection, that last little bit of armor, however threadbare and minuscule it may be.
But no armor will protect him from whatever Corrigan intends to do to him. He mentions discipline, and Kurt shudders, mind immediately racing with all manner of painful and humiliating punishments, each worse than the last. He doesn't want to be punished. Judging by Corrigan's stern words, he won't tolerate any slacking or disobedience. There's no getting out of this.]
Sorry, I'm— s-sorry... [Taking a deep breath, Kurt steels himself and slowly pushes his underwear down, flinching a little as he steps out of them, finally bare before the man. He feels like he's going to throw up. But he's past the point of no return, naked and blushing, hands knitting into fists at his side as his new owner gets to fully inspect his property.]
[There we go. Part of Corrigan is busily noting the completely bare expanse of Kurt’s body with interest, each jut of bone and patch of freckles, making a mental note for later. But another part sees the shivering, the cowering and dislikes it. He doesn't know if it's due to Caesar or something else, that flinching, fearful air, but it won't do at all.
Reaching out again, he cups Kurt's chin in his big hand, pushes it upwards sharply.] Look at me. Tell me what you're afraid of. Tell me what you think is going to happen.
[Verbalizing everything leaves zero room to hide, no mental safe place to retreat to. Kurt's thoughts aren't his own anymore.]
[What is he afraid of? What does he think is going to happen?
Meeting Corrigan's eyes and having to put words to what he's feeling makes Kurt realize that his fears are more amorphous than he thought. What is he supposed to say? That he's afraid he's a queer? That he's afraid he'll like having sex with Corrigan, and that he'll get found out? Just being naked in front of the man is completely mortifying. Is he afraid because his body is exposed, every ill-fitting and badly made inch of it? Is he afraid Corrigan will hurt him for not being good enough? Or that not being good enough will get him tossed aside? How does he even begin to verbalize that?
His lips quiver as he tries to do what he's told. As painful and humiliating as this is, the thought of being disciplined dwarfs everything else.] I... I don't like this. I d-don't like this, I— I'm no good at it, I don't wanna be like this. I'm n-not... [Kurt's jaw stiffens in Corrigan's grip. His throat starts closing up.]
[Interesting. Corrigan’s hand moves, sliding long warm fingers up into Kurt’s hair, cradling the back of his head. The fear certainly is less about the immediate and more about the overall. There's some reading between the lines required, but Corrigan’s always been good at that.
He steps closer, fully clothed and huge and warm, free hand reaching out to rest on Kurt’s hip and pull him closer.] You don't like it -- or you're afraid to like it? You don't want it or you're scared that you're meant for it?
[Corrigan ducks his head, almost close enough to kiss, eyes dark, voice darker.] Does my touching you terrify or delight you, Kurt? Tell me the truth. I don't like to be lied to.
[It's impossible to miss the way Kurt stiffens as soon as Corrigan starts speaking. Of course, he'd tensed up as soon as the man invaded his space, as those big hands pulled him closer and his breath grazed his lips, but that's to be expected. His words, however, are not. They're Kurt's exact fears spoken back to him, ones even he can't articulate, purred by that silky baritone like Corrigan had known all along. Kurt's eyes widen, breath escaping him in a wheeze.
How... could he possibly know that? Is Kurt really that easy to read? Or is this man just that good, just that experienced, that he can suss out someone's deepest fears within minutes of meeting them?
Without thinking, Kurt's hands find purchase against Corrigan's chest, fingers curling weakly into his expensive suit jacket. This frightening, gorgeous, forbidden man is right there, barely a breath away, close enough that he could seal his lips to Kurt's without even having to move. Devastating shivers rock his body, so small against Corrigan's.] S-Sir, I dunno, I... [He swallows around the lump in his throat. It feels like Corrigan will know that he's lying before even Kurt knows. So why even bother trying to?] ...I-I'm scared that I l-like it, sir. I like it, a-and I'm terrified. What's wrong with m-me?
[Corrigan would probably like to insist that his intuition is responsible for how thoroughly he's dissected Kurt's innermost thoughts, but the truth is much simpler -- he was a scared, trembling, lost kid once, terrified of his own desires, hating and craving them all at once, thrust cruelly into a world he couldn't possibly begin to navigate. And there had been no older, wiser, protective force to keep him safe. If there had been, Corrigan has no doubt he would've worshipped them without question, for the rest of his life.
So, even if there's some level of kindness in him selecting Kurt, taking him away from the seedy violence of Caesar's world, there's also inherent selfishness. No amount of money can buy that level of loyalty.
Besides, Kurt's beautiful, in a fragile, trembling, fearful way. The notches of his spine are sharp beneath Corrigan's fingertips as he drags them slowly down the boy's back, one by one, and each shiver speaks of how very much Kurt wants this. He doesn't have to say anything for Corrigan to see that.]
Would I have chosen you if there was something wrong with you? [This time it doesn't matter what Kurt truly believes, there's obviously a correct answer: no. Corrigan wouldn't have spent an obscene amount of money on something irrevocably damaged.]
[Chosen, he says. Like he wasn't purchased for sex. Like he isn't another man's property. Like he's special, taken in by this man for some special purpose.
Kurt is thinking too much about it, isn't he? Corrigan is obviously talking about buying a product. An acquisition, a business transaction. He's weighed the pros and cons, considered any sunk cost, and is satisfied that his purchase of another human being is worth the risk. Kurt isn't too broken to own, to play with, to fuck.
If Kurt is to weigh the pros and cons for himself, at least Corrigan's touch feels better than Caesar's, or any of his johns. His hands are huge but gentle, his touch firm but kind, his fingertips slowly chasing goosebumps down the length of his spine. He can't know what horrors Corrigan will subject him to, can't know what his life will look like from now on—is he violent? is he Kurt's new pimp? will he sell him on, like some perverted asset flipper?—but at least in the moment, he's gentle and kind despite his stern warnings. Kurt closes his eyes, trembling, bizarrely feeling the fear and repulsion starting to drain away. The man is right, isn't he? Kurt does want this. He must.]
That's right. [Whatever kindness there is in Corrigan keeping Kurt away from men like Caesar, not letting anyone else sink their claws into him, there's just as much shelfish cruelty. Good intentions or no, there's a bill of sale, there's a check and there's someone's life that now belongs to him, and that's inherently reprehensible.
But Corrigan doesn't think of that now. Not when his big warm hand is sliding down and squeezing possessively at Kurt's ass, tight enough to leave bruises with his fingerprints.] That's exactly right. You're a fast learner.
[Corrigan closes the gap, then, ducks down and presses his mouth to Kurt's, firm and deep and hot, tongue sliding past the parted lips, taking in his pet's taste, the way he shivers at the kiss.]
[Kurt gasps and flinches, both at the touch to his bare ass and at the sheer force of Corrigan’s grip. It feels like it’s going to bruise. So much for his touch being kinder than Caesar’s.
But somehow, even still, he doesn’t manhandle his frightened new pet. His touch feels good, a natural escalation from the slow, gentle touches down the length of Kurt’s trembling spine, his hand so big and warm as it grips his flesh. His words are soft and silky too, insidious like poison, creeping under Kurt’s freckled skin and twisting his senses.
All of it, his touch and words and enormous presence, makes the young man sink into the kiss, lips parting before he has the good sense to clamp his mouth shut. It’s wet and hot and hard, possessive in a way he’s never felt before. Like he’s deeply, badly wanted. Kurt shivers, clinging to Corrigan’s suit jacket and letting himself be kissed, claimed, timidly kissing him back.
He can’t be sure if it’s because of the bruising squeeze of his ass or the intensity of the kiss or Corrigan’s silky praise or if it’s that feeling, that urge to be wanted, to be important. Whatever the cause, Kurt can feel his body reacting, cock stirring between his trembling legs. That… never happens.]
There you go, sweetheart, that's it. [Afyer murmuring this against those soft lips, Corrigan squeezes once more st Kurt’s pert, plush ass, then lets his hand slide around, over his pet's hip, down between his legs. There's no awkwardness or discomfort in the smooth, practiced way he curls his fingers around that stirring cock, feeling it twitch, fill slowly.]
Feels good, doesn't it? [This is murmured as Corrigan’s free arm hooks around Kurt's waist to prevent any startled recoiling, to keep him from escaping. He strokes along Kurt’s half-hard cock slowly, just beginning to coax those dull pulses of pleasure, fan the flame of arousal higher and higher.] Just relax for me, let me make you feel good. It'll be so, so good if you let it.
[The answer he wants to give is immediate, reflexive: it doesn’t feel good, it feels wrong. It’s dirty and shameful and abhorrent. Men aren’t supposed to touch each other like this. This isn’t supposed to feel good.
But it does.
Corrigan’s hand is big and warm and gentle, slowly stroking him into full hardness. The rest of Kurt’s body is starting to feel it too, breathing getting heavier, heart pounding in his chest, skin flushing with heat and color, knees getting weaker, toes curling into the filthy carpet. He can feel his thoughts getting muddy and unfocused, unable to think of anything but how good Corrigan’s hand feels around his cock.
He struggles a little against Corrigan’s arm, but it’s a weak, token effort. Even the way he hides his blushing face against the man’s chest is more token than anything, as every labored breath and strangled moan can be felt through the fabric. Kurt isn’t fooling anyone but himself.]
[Corrigan keeps his atm around Kurt, almost protectively, fingers absently stroking at his shivering side, like he might for a skittish animal. The hand methodically jerking Kurt off never stops, never slows, just keeps stroking in long, rhythmic pulls, taking note of what movements have the young man’s knees buckling, his breath catching in wordless need.
After a few silent moments, Corrigan murmurs almost tenderly against Kurt's hair:] Are you going to come for me? It's all right, you can let go, just let it feel good, baby. Just let go.
[It’s never felt like this before. Neither Caesar nor his johns have ever cared much about Kurt’s pleasure, never stopping long enough to make sure he feels good too, let alone bring him to climax. They don’t care if the little boy they’re fucking is enjoying himself. All that matters is their own needs.
But Corrigan doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow, doesn’t even move to undress so he can join in. He’s seemingly completely focused on Kurt’s pleasure, gently but firmly jerking him off, telling him it’s all right to feel like this, encouraging him to let go, to let it feel good.
Kurt finally lets go. He comes with a choked keening whine all over Corrigan’s fingers, knees buckling with the force of his pleasure, his mind going completely blank for as long as his climax lasts. A few seconds of mindless bliss. The fear and shame and embarrassment only comes after.] F-Fuck… Sorry, sir, s-sorry, I didn’t…
[Corrigan isn't unaffected, of course -- his cock twitches hungrily in his sleek slacks at the tantalizing sound of Kurt's sweet little voice, choked and soft as it is. He can almost imagine how perfect the boy would sound if he truly let himself go, how pretty he'd be, moaning and begging to be touched, teased, fucked. Soon, he promises himself. He'll teach this angelic young thing to be a true shameless slut for him.
For now, though, he settles for slowing the intent, expert strokes, hand slick and sticky with Kurt's come, continuing at a slow, but unceasing caress. The boy's still shuddering through his climax and Corrigan’s already greedy, already wants to see more.]
It's all right, baby, darlin', you're fuckin' gorgeous when you come for Daddy like that. [Corrigan barely thinks, lost in the heat of the moment, the intoxicating feeling of Kurt's shivering body against his own.] You have no idea how bad I wanna bend you over and fuck you good and deep.
[The shiver that runs through Kurt’s whole body then is devastating, earth-shattering, completely knocking the air out of his lungs. The pet names are bad enough, making Kurt’s insides feel molten and hot, twisting up inside him. Somehow, when Corrigan calls him baby and darlin’, he doesn’t recoil in abject horror the way he does with other men.
But it’s what Corrigan calls himself that hits the hardest. Daddy. It should completely disgust him. Any allusion to his own father, to any position of parental authority—the very reason Kurt ran away from home to begin with—should be absolutely repulsive. But it isn’t. When Corrigan calls himself Daddy, praising him for coming so hard, telling him how badly he wants to fuck him deep, Kurt can barely hold himself up, overcome with a pleasure so primordial and senseless it makes him dizzy.
What is wrong with him?]
D— fuck! S-Sir— [He just barely stops himself short of calling the man Daddy, terrified of what hearing it in his own voice will do to him. The fingers slick with his own come never stop stroking him, prolonging the trembling bone-deep pleasure that makes his eyes burn with tears.] P-Please, sir, I— I can’t—!
[Almost. Almost, but not quite. Understandable and what Corrigan had expected -- he doesn't want to push too hard too fast, doesn't want to take that spark of slavish dedication and stifle it. So he lets it go, takes a slow, deep breath and finally moves his slick hand away from Kurt's spent cock.]
Good, baby, that's good. You did so good. I've got you, you're safe. [He moves to slide off his jacket, but surprisingly it's only to wrap it around Kurt's shivering shoulders, hiding his flushed, trembling body.] C'mon, we're leaving. Did you bring anything with you? [He can't imagine Caesar had allowed the boy much, but maybe some sentimental item or another had survived, tucked into a pocket or something.]
[The young man is left shuddering and breathless in the wake of Corrigan’s touch, completely reeling with sensation. This doesn’t happen. Usually the loss of touch is a good thing, a moment of relief, respite before the sore muscles and crushing shame sets in. Losing Corrigan’s touch feels like torture. He can’t understand why.
The jacket draped over his shoulders is another surprise—a shock, more like it, he’d halfway expected Corrigan to make good on his words and bend him over any minute now—but one he clings to with both hands. He wraps the jacket tightly around himself, hiding his nudity, stunned into complete silence for a moment.
Then he slowly moves to obey, clumsily gathering his clothes in his arms. It’s all Caesar let him keep. He had nothing from home worth bringing either, aside from his ID cards and birth certificate—kept in a manila envelope which Corrigan should now be in possession of.] Um… C-Can I get dressed first? [The thought of leaving the motel room dressed only in his owner’s jacket makes Kurt sick with nerves.]
No. [It's very matter-of-fact, almost distracted, as Corrigan is busy crossing to the small bathroom and washing his hands, grimacing at the stiff, grimy towels. The clothes get the same expression, and his tone remains blunt and detached, a far cry from the tender sweetness of minutes before.]
Leave those. Clothes are replaceable. [Corrigan reaches out, setting a hand on Kurt's back and propelling him towards the door, clearly heedless of how the suit jacket gapes open in the front. If Kurt wants to cover himself, he'll need to drop the clothes to hold the jacket closed.]
[Kurt goes stiff with confusion and fear, nearly tripping over his own feet as Corrigan pushes him towards the door. For a blindly terrified moment, he doesn’t know what to do. He’s all but naked, clutching clothes he’s not allowed to wear nor keep tightly to his chest, feeling the suit jacket parting around him as they walk. What if there are families out there? What if Corrigan has an entourage the way Caesar does, and they’re all waiting outside?
They’re all going to see, every inch of him naked and covered in sweat, flecks of his own drying spend spattered all down his legs. They’re all going to know his shame, every last one of them, they’ll all—
The door to the motel room opens, and Kurt stumbles out into the parking lot, Corrigan’s suit jacket wrapped tightly around his slight frame. A ratty pair of jeans and a plain white tee lies abandoned in a heap on the floor inside, inches away from the door. The young man doesn’t say anything, doesn’t look up, staring at his bare feet against the pavement as he walks where his owner leads him, the enormous suit jacket held securely shut by trembling hands.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
The man is certainly intimidating. Towering, muscled, clearly wealthy. He barely looks like he wants to be there, even as he stands there, inspecting his purchase. His new property. Kurt finds himself hoping this guy didn't spend too much when he bought him. What a pathetic waste of money.]
... Kurt. Turned 22 b-back in June. [That high, trembling voice speaks God's honest truth. With the voice and build and hairless skin, he's been instructed to lie about being younger. Caesar told him to push it as far down as 14, if he thought he could get away with it. Men are sick.]
no subject
The shivering is impossible to miss, but so is the way that Kurt seems to both recoil from the touch and lean into it. Like it feels good, and he hates that it feels good. Interesting. Corrigan keeps his grip firm, but his thumb slowly moves, tracing the shape of Kurt's lower lip, gently, almost affectionately.]
My name is Corrigan, but you'll call me "sir". If you need to call me anything. Understand?
no subject
Instead, he squeezes his eyes shut and tries not to pull away from the unwanted
(wanted, very wanted, God, please, he wants this)touch. Kurt is a coward at his core. He's terrified of what this man—Corrigan, a deceptively soft and beautiful name—is going to put him through, but the thought of how badly he'll hurt him if he pulls away is infinitely worse.He can muscle through the indignity of pretending he wants to have sex with him if it means not getting beat.] Y-Yes, sir. I understand...
no subject
[Then, in the same breath:] Undress. [The t-shirt and jeans are ill-fitting, adding to the sullen teen persona -- likely on purpose -- and while that's all well and good, Corrigan wants to see what he paid for.
He also wants to see how quickly Kurt obeys, if the mute compliance continues out of fear, if there's any potential to turn that into a complete and utter desire to please. Well, there's no "if" -- Corrigan is very good at getting what he wants, and what he wants is Kurt completely addicted to his touch.
In time, though. For now he stands, watches expectantly, waiting to be obeyed.]
no subject
It's in this gross, cold, disgusting motel room Kurt is expected to undress and have sex with this man. He stiffens, even as Corrigan's touch falls away. He doesn't want to. He doesn't want this man to see him naked. He doesn't want any part of his body exposed for anyone to see—too pale, too pink, too freckled, too bony, too wide in places he doesn't want to be, too narrow in others—least of all the man who paid for it.
But the coward in him wins out again, as Kurt's cold hands start tugging at the t-shirt, wrenching it up and over his head, baring his torso. Flat and a little hollow-looking from the visible ribs, from how he hunches in on himself, clavicle hollowing out. He distracts himself from the horror of his situation by quietly folding the shirt and laying it on the bed, before undoing his belt and letting his ratty jeans drop past his bony hips, down legs that feel too long for his body. The jeans get folded too, slowly, so he won't get to the boxer briefs as fast. The very last layer keeping him covered.
His fingers hesitate on the elastic. Bitten fingernails fidget with the fraying edge. He can't do it.]
no subject
Now, he's no intellectual, but Corrigan’s damn good at reading nonverbal cues. He wonders vaguely if Caesar taught Kurt to hate his body or if he just capitalized on it. Regardless, one more thing to overcome -- he can already see the potential, the beauty in the arrangement of slim waist and sharp collarbone and flat chest. Kurt doesn't have any idea of the power he could possess if he truly inhabited his own skin, instead of looking two seconds from crawling out of it.
Still, there's the hesitation at the frayed, dismal boxers, the fear and embarrassment taking control. Corrigan waits the space of one heartbeat, two, much more indulgent than he usually is. Then, sternly:] Everything, Kurt. I'm not disciplining you here, but I don't forget and I don't forgive disobedience.
no subject
But no armor will protect him from whatever Corrigan intends to do to him. He mentions discipline, and Kurt shudders, mind immediately racing with all manner of painful and humiliating punishments, each worse than the last. He doesn't want to be punished. Judging by Corrigan's stern words, he won't tolerate any slacking or disobedience. There's no getting out of this.]
Sorry, I'm— s-sorry... [Taking a deep breath, Kurt steels himself and slowly pushes his underwear down, flinching a little as he steps out of them, finally bare before the man. He feels like he's going to throw up. But he's past the point of no return, naked and blushing, hands knitting into fists at his side as his new owner gets to fully inspect his property.]
no subject
Reaching out again, he cups Kurt's chin in his big hand, pushes it upwards sharply.] Look at me. Tell me what you're afraid of. Tell me what you think is going to happen.
[Verbalizing everything leaves zero room to hide, no mental safe place to retreat to. Kurt's thoughts aren't his own anymore.]
no subject
Meeting Corrigan's eyes and having to put words to what he's feeling makes Kurt realize that his fears are more amorphous than he thought. What is he supposed to say? That he's afraid he's a queer? That he's afraid he'll like having sex with Corrigan, and that he'll get found out? Just being naked in front of the man is completely mortifying. Is he afraid because his body is exposed, every ill-fitting and badly made inch of it? Is he afraid Corrigan will hurt him for not being good enough? Or that not being good enough will get him tossed aside? How does he even begin to verbalize that?
His lips quiver as he tries to do what he's told. As painful and humiliating as this is, the thought of being disciplined dwarfs everything else.] I... I don't like this. I d-don't like this, I— I'm no good at it, I don't wanna be like this. I'm n-not... [Kurt's jaw stiffens in Corrigan's grip. His throat starts closing up.]
no subject
He steps closer, fully clothed and huge and warm, free hand reaching out to rest on Kurt’s hip and pull him closer.] You don't like it -- or you're afraid to like it? You don't want it or you're scared that you're meant for it?
[Corrigan ducks his head, almost close enough to kiss, eyes dark, voice darker.] Does my touching you terrify or delight you, Kurt? Tell me the truth. I don't like to be lied to.
no subject
How... could he possibly know that? Is Kurt really that easy to read? Or is this man just that good, just that experienced, that he can suss out someone's deepest fears within minutes of meeting them?
Without thinking, Kurt's hands find purchase against Corrigan's chest, fingers curling weakly into his expensive suit jacket. This frightening, gorgeous, forbidden man is right there, barely a breath away, close enough that he could seal his lips to Kurt's without even having to move. Devastating shivers rock his body, so small against Corrigan's.] S-Sir, I dunno, I... [He swallows around the lump in his throat. It feels like Corrigan will know that he's lying before even Kurt knows. So why even bother trying to?] ...I-I'm scared that I l-like it, sir. I like it, a-and I'm terrified. What's wrong with m-me?
no subject
So, even if there's some level of kindness in him selecting Kurt, taking him away from the seedy violence of Caesar's world, there's also inherent selfishness. No amount of money can buy that level of loyalty.
Besides, Kurt's beautiful, in a fragile, trembling, fearful way. The notches of his spine are sharp beneath Corrigan's fingertips as he drags them slowly down the boy's back, one by one, and each shiver speaks of how very much Kurt wants this. He doesn't have to say anything for Corrigan to see that.]
Would I have chosen you if there was something wrong with you? [This time it doesn't matter what Kurt truly believes, there's obviously a correct answer: no. Corrigan wouldn't have spent an obscene amount of money on something irrevocably damaged.]
no subject
Kurt is thinking too much about it, isn't he? Corrigan is obviously talking about buying a product. An acquisition, a business transaction. He's weighed the pros and cons, considered any sunk cost, and is satisfied that his purchase of another human being is worth the risk. Kurt isn't too broken to own, to play with, to fuck.
If Kurt is to weigh the pros and cons for himself, at least Corrigan's touch feels better than Caesar's, or any of his johns. His hands are huge but gentle, his touch firm but kind, his fingertips slowly chasing goosebumps down the length of his spine. He can't know what horrors Corrigan will subject him to, can't know what his life will look like from now on—is he violent? is he Kurt's new pimp? will he sell him on, like some perverted asset flipper?—but at least in the moment, he's gentle and kind despite his stern warnings. Kurt closes his eyes, trembling, bizarrely feeling the fear and repulsion starting to drain away. The man is right, isn't he? Kurt does want this. He must.]
N-No, sir...
no subject
But Corrigan doesn't think of that now. Not when his big warm hand is sliding down and squeezing possessively at Kurt's ass, tight enough to leave bruises with his fingerprints.] That's exactly right. You're a fast learner.
[Corrigan closes the gap, then, ducks down and presses his mouth to Kurt's, firm and deep and hot, tongue sliding past the parted lips, taking in his pet's taste, the way he shivers at the kiss.]
no subject
But somehow, even still, he doesn’t manhandle his frightened new pet. His touch feels good, a natural escalation from the slow, gentle touches down the length of Kurt’s trembling spine, his hand so big and warm as it grips his flesh. His words are soft and silky too, insidious like poison, creeping under Kurt’s freckled skin and twisting his senses.
All of it, his touch and words and enormous presence, makes the young man sink into the kiss, lips parting before he has the good sense to clamp his mouth shut. It’s wet and hot and hard, possessive in a way he’s never felt before. Like he’s deeply, badly wanted. Kurt shivers, clinging to Corrigan’s suit jacket and letting himself be kissed, claimed, timidly kissing him back.
He can’t be sure if it’s because of the bruising squeeze of his ass or the intensity of the kiss or Corrigan’s silky praise or if it’s that feeling, that urge to be wanted, to be important. Whatever the cause, Kurt can feel his body reacting, cock stirring between his trembling legs. That… never happens.]
no subject
Feels good, doesn't it? [This is murmured as Corrigan’s free arm hooks around Kurt's waist to prevent any startled recoiling, to keep him from escaping. He strokes along Kurt’s half-hard cock slowly, just beginning to coax those dull pulses of pleasure, fan the flame of arousal higher and higher.] Just relax for me, let me make you feel good. It'll be so, so good if you let it.
no subject
But it does.
Corrigan’s hand is big and warm and gentle, slowly stroking him into full hardness. The rest of Kurt’s body is starting to feel it too, breathing getting heavier, heart pounding in his chest, skin flushing with heat and color, knees getting weaker, toes curling into the filthy carpet. He can feel his thoughts getting muddy and unfocused, unable to think of anything but how good Corrigan’s hand feels around his cock.
He struggles a little against Corrigan’s arm, but it’s a weak, token effort. Even the way he hides his blushing face against the man’s chest is more token than anything, as every labored breath and strangled moan can be felt through the fabric. Kurt isn’t fooling anyone but himself.]
no subject
After a few silent moments, Corrigan murmurs almost tenderly against Kurt's hair:] Are you going to come for me? It's all right, you can let go, just let it feel good, baby. Just let go.
no subject
But Corrigan doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow, doesn’t even move to undress so he can join in. He’s seemingly completely focused on Kurt’s pleasure, gently but firmly jerking him off, telling him it’s all right to feel like this, encouraging him to let go, to let it feel good.
Kurt finally lets go. He comes with a choked keening whine all over Corrigan’s fingers, knees buckling with the force of his pleasure, his mind going completely blank for as long as his climax lasts. A few seconds of mindless bliss. The fear and shame and embarrassment only comes after.] F-Fuck… Sorry, sir, s-sorry, I didn’t…
no subject
For now, though, he settles for slowing the intent, expert strokes, hand slick and sticky with Kurt's come, continuing at a slow, but unceasing caress. The boy's still shuddering through his climax and Corrigan’s already greedy, already wants to see more.]
It's all right, baby, darlin', you're fuckin' gorgeous when you come for Daddy like that. [Corrigan barely thinks, lost in the heat of the moment, the intoxicating feeling of Kurt's shivering body against his own.] You have no idea how bad I wanna bend you over and fuck you good and deep.
no subject
But it’s what Corrigan calls himself that hits the hardest. Daddy. It should completely disgust him. Any allusion to his own father, to any position of parental authority—the very reason Kurt ran away from home to begin with—should be absolutely repulsive. But it isn’t. When Corrigan calls himself Daddy, praising him for coming so hard, telling him how badly he wants to fuck him deep, Kurt can barely hold himself up, overcome with a pleasure so primordial and senseless it makes him dizzy.
What is wrong with him?]
D— fuck! S-Sir— [He just barely stops himself short of calling the man Daddy, terrified of what hearing it in his own voice will do to him. The fingers slick with his own come never stop stroking him, prolonging the trembling bone-deep pleasure that makes his eyes burn with tears.] P-Please, sir, I— I can’t—!
no subject
Good, baby, that's good. You did so good. I've got you, you're safe. [He moves to slide off his jacket, but surprisingly it's only to wrap it around Kurt's shivering shoulders, hiding his flushed, trembling body.] C'mon, we're leaving. Did you bring anything with you? [He can't imagine Caesar had allowed the boy much, but maybe some sentimental item or another had survived, tucked into a pocket or something.]
no subject
The jacket draped over his shoulders is another surprise—a shock, more like it, he’d halfway expected Corrigan to make good on his words and bend him over any minute now—but one he clings to with both hands. He wraps the jacket tightly around himself, hiding his nudity, stunned into complete silence for a moment.
Then he slowly moves to obey, clumsily gathering his clothes in his arms. It’s all Caesar let him keep. He had nothing from home worth bringing either, aside from his ID cards and birth certificate—kept in a manila envelope which Corrigan should now be in possession of.] Um… C-Can I get dressed first? [The thought of leaving the motel room dressed only in his owner’s jacket makes Kurt sick with nerves.]
no subject
Leave those. Clothes are replaceable. [Corrigan reaches out, setting a hand on Kurt's back and propelling him towards the door, clearly heedless of how the suit jacket gapes open in the front. If Kurt wants to cover himself, he'll need to drop the clothes to hold the jacket closed.]
no subject
They’re all going to see, every inch of him naked and covered in sweat, flecks of his own drying spend spattered all down his legs. They’re all going to know his shame, every last one of them, they’ll all—
The door to the motel room opens, and Kurt stumbles out into the parking lot, Corrigan’s suit jacket wrapped tightly around his slight frame. A ratty pair of jeans and a plain white tee lies abandoned in a heap on the floor inside, inches away from the door. The young man doesn’t say anything, doesn’t look up, staring at his bare feet against the pavement as he walks where his owner leads him, the enormous suit jacket held securely shut by trembling hands.]
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)