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Infrequently, he will get a text from Alex.
Most often, they will be mundane, thoroughly mundane. An invitation to dinner, sent by Rachel via her husband because she's lost his number, or a reminder of some inane piece of scheduling, like making sure he's present to let wardrobe measure his in-seam (like Greg doesn't get all that shit through his manager; he had pointed that out to Alex once, but Alex had been so squirmy, so embarrassed, that he'd let the fucker keep texting him diary updates. If that's what gets him off, more power to him.)
Less often, they will be of a more salacious nature.
For how fucking mental he is, Alex is weirdly dodgy, like in his own head he's interacting with everyone as though he's an extra on Downton Abbey, but all the time. As such, his texts will be bizarre, verging on the incomprehensible unless Greg's able to pick up on all the myriad tiny context clues; it's just that Greg knows they're worth chasing, knows there's something fun waiting for him at the end, if only he can work it out. It's like solving a riddle and getting sucked off at the end of it.
Good evening.
Did you know filming started at the house?
You're in next week for the link scenes.
Wear something dark.
I did know
bc u sent me the dates
and u told me last week
[img.attachment]
Greg stares at the photo he's sent, winking accusingly at him in the text chat. On it's own its innocent, just a snap of the tea he's drinking and a few slices of toast and crumbs on a plate. It's a fucking ugly plate, two fat robins giving each other a kiss, one of those novelty ones you get on holiday; he'd bought it intending to give it to Rhod, but it never made it out of the house. Last time Alex had set eyes on this plate, Greg'd made him lap milk off it underneath the table, and then had him thank him for the honour.
Oh joy.
Greg grins at his phone.
dunno what u mean by that
[img.attachment]
Curiosity piqued, he taps into Alex's photo.
Again, it's totally innocuous on its own; it's Alex's hand, held out in the white background of the lab at the filming house, holding a loop of hot pink electrician's tape, the sort you get in B&Q if you're the kind of man that paints his own edgings, or skirtings, or fixtures or whatever. Skinny, the plastic end slightly white where someone has pulled it with force. Greg can't help but see the marks on Alex's wrist, though, soft pink strips of skin, overlapping, newly freed from mysterious confines.
someone tie u up?
tape u up?
with that?
looks like it hurt
It hurt a little.
I'm in the Premier Inn tonight.
Couldn't be bothered driving in and out of town
its like that is it
right then
dont be a prick
come over
cars already cleared parking
or else ill text ur wife and tell her
tell her ur ignoring me
He gets no reply, but that doesn't bother him, not like it did at the beginning. Alex gets shirty over text, unable to flirt suggestively when there's a record of it; it's like he needs to pretend it's never happened before. They've not done this all that massively often, but Greg's known Alex a long time, the sort of long time that makes discomfort impossible over things as juvenile as not getting a text back. As he potters about, clearing up, his mind on the last time Alex was in this house, all he feels is a thickening in his stomach, a pleasant heat pooling in his gut. It doesn't happen often, but it's delightful when it does.
Infrequently, and yet his ears are tuned to the particular growl of Alex's engine when he pulls up and idles outside the house. Steeling himself?
He goes upstairs and, on a whim, empties a fresh basket of folded towels out onto the bed. Hands on hips. Yeah, whatever, that’ll do.
Greg thumbs on the radio and turns the kettle on. He's got one of those awful, wanky Brew & Co teapots someone got him for Christmas, but he's also got one of those awful, wanky cardboard sleeves of loose leaf Earl Grey that Alex likes, so he makes a cup of normal fucking Yorkshire for him, a pot of wank for Alex, and he's just casting about for something else to do when there's the first knock at the door. Shave and a haircut, five-bob, and when he looks through the peephole he sees Alex there, still in his shirt from filming but with a yellow puffer coat over it, a sports bag over his shoulder, his eyes down and his mouth moving. Rehearsing his hello, as Greg has discovered from years of observation. Oddball.
He opens the door when Alex has just begun his rehearsal again, just to be cruel, which results in a stammered, "Um – hello-"
"Come in, then," Greg says, and steps back from the door to let Alex squeeze past, and then steps forward again to annoy him, "You can tell me about the filming. And that."
"Uh-" Alex has his boot up on the step to unlace them, but freezes when Greg's fingers descend on his wrist, on the little strips of pink skin there. "How'd you figure it's something nefarious?"
"That's really something you want to ask me?"
Alex looks up at him, his lips slightly parted, his eyes shaded with the littlest mischief, "Oh, how tricksy of you."
"I made tea," Greg retreats for the moment, but doesn't let up entirely; he shoves his hand in his pocket, considers speeding up affairs, decides against it. "Come on."
"Bossy."
"Come on, then. And bring the fucking bag with you."
Alex grins. He's a fucking terrifying man, Greg thinks, and bloody hard to keep up with; it's mental, the way Alex makes him balance the two halves of himself, makes him sink into being a cruel, sadistic bastard (and he likes doing that well enough, don't get him wrong) while a little part of him is smiling like a fool, knowing he's found the improv partner to match his wildest dreams.
Inside, and another wry look is his reward when Alex catches sight of the wanky tea on the table; Greg’s forced to acknowledge the prettiness of him in the door frame, his sharp nose and chin, the tempting, singular gap in his teeth, the thick colour of his beard becoming the soft, fluffy grey of his hair. “Do you want to know how filming went?” He’s taking off his colourful coat, revealing the white shirt he wears when he’s being Little Alex Horne over a pair of ancient blue jeans.
“I’m sure you’re going to tell me,” Greg affects utter disdain when he sits down,, but that’s easy too when he thinks of Alex in disarray, of all the ways this might go. Alex babbling uselessly to his uncaring ear.
Alex must be thinking of something similar, because his cheeks are very pink when he starts to describe his day. He pours the tea for them both, serves them milk, even fusses in Greg’s drawers for the fucking sugar cube tongs he bought him for his last birthday, nattering all the time about complete inanity with a determination that’s fully purposeful. Greg takes his tea, but doesn’t say thank-you; when he raises the cup to his mouth the room is thrilling with tension, and Alex is swallowing around his words, swilling in so many useless pieces of small talk. Like Greg gives a fuck about how many ducks someone could pick up in fifteen minutes. He feels hot.
“Shut up,” he says after an appropriate length of time, and Alex does, his mouth snapping shut like he’s on remote control – and oh, what a delicious thought that makes. “Show me what you brought in your bag, you dirty boy.”
Alex shudders. “Um-”
“I’m not going to ask nicely again,” Greg warns. It’s a particular idiosyncrasy of Alex’s to be made to feel reluctant at the beginning, and Greg makes no complaint; he loves the powerful feeling of it, of knowing he is utterly controlling, that here, now, in this way, everything he says must occur. Alex delights in squirming, and Greg delights in making him squirm.
“It’s tape,” Alex confesses.
“Get it out, then.”
“Um-”
“Alex,” Greg says crossly, and Alex looks like all his Christmases have come at once, terrified, “Do as I ask, yeah? You’re not that thick, are you? Are you?”
“No,” Alex agrees, and pulls the tape out of his bag, setting it there in the middle of the kitchen table, right beside the salt and pepper.
Greg doesn’t watch anything but Alex’s wrists moving under his shirt cuffs. His red skin, patches missing those fine hairs.
“Right.”
Alex shifts minutely in his chair. He wants to pour himself another cup of tea, Greg can see by the twitching of his eyes, but he daren’t, not without permission. He nods, and his lips moue, the way they do when he wants Greg to say something, when he’s got a whole scene scripted in his head and he’s anxious for it to play out the way he’s pictured.
“And what do you expect me to do with this, then?” Greg leans back, then stands up, takes Alex’s Earl Grey teapot, and pours it down the sink. “Do you want me to guess?”
Alex’s ears are bright red. Greg has always found it atrociously endearing, how at-right-angles they are. “Thought you could tie me up?”
“Well, that’s not original.”
“Suppose not.”
“Apologise.”
“Sorry,” Alex says, and his eyes go wide and round at Greg, and Greg can practically hear him saying: move on, move on, move on, put me out of my misery, never stop me, keep me here as long as you like. Sometimes Greg thinks Alex enjoys the horrible discomfort more than anything they do with their clothes off.
“D’you fancy me telling you what I want to do with it?”
“I don’t mind,” says Alex obediently. He has both his hands laid flat on the table, and Greg can tell without looking that underneath, his legs are crossed, one ankle tucked neatly around a table leg.
“I want you to shut up,” he watches the long top teeth dig into the bottom lip, “And I fancy getting off, and I don’t want you in my house, fucking it up. Can’t trust you ‘cause you’re a filthy thing, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” Alex says, hurriedly, softly.
“So what I’ll do is put this shit over your mouth, so you cant say a word, yeah? And I’ll keep you here right in this chair. You’ve had this done already today, haven’t you? I see it. Fucking disgusting.”
Alex’s fingers twitch on the table, but he says nothing, just moves his elbows a little so his cuffs slide further up. His eyes widen larger. Greg can see a laugh bubbling up, valiantly suppressed.
“So I’ll keep you where I’ve got my eye on you,” he lifts his hand suddenly and lets it descend over Alex’s, completely engulfing it, “And I’ll let you get me off for as long as you’re useful.”
Serve, Alex’s lip barely-twitches with the word he doesn’t mouth. Then, he lets out a long and wobbling breath, and his eyes fall shut for a moment. “I…”
Greg grins at him, and under the table lifts his foot to prod at Alex’s knee, then further in, kicking his thighs apart, forcing them spread. He’s hard, straining at his belt. “Told you I didn’t want to hear you talk, didn’t I?”
“Sorry, sir,” Alex murmurs, looking deferentially down, acting as though he hasn’t got another man’s foot kicking at his upper thighs, “Please? Please? Thank you.”
Greg has to laugh at that. “You don’t even know what you’re asking for. Pathetic.”
“No,” Alex admits readily, “No, sorry-”
Greg pushes his chair back with a horrific screech and stands up, starting to move around the table, enjoying immensely the way Alex has to look up at him, frozen with his hand pinned and his legs spread, turning his head as Greg moves out of his field of vision, “I told you to give it a rest, didn’t I? I don’t keep you around ‘cause you’re fun to talk to.”
He peels the end of the tape off, pulling it taught with a deliciously sharp noise that rings right down his spine, makes him feel hot and tight with his own anticipation, and makes Alex sit up straight like he’s been slapped. When Greg rips a long strip off between his teeth, the mingled taste of the glue and the knowledge that he’s turning Alex on just by standing behind him combines to hit him full in the throat, and he’s burning with it – cruel delight, deep enjoyment. He’s behind Alex now, and Alex isn’t moving his head. He could do anything to him.
What he does is wrap his big hand around the bottom of Alex’s jaw, clamping his fingers and thumb tightly around Alex’s cheeks until Alex’s tongue and teeth make a loud smacking sound. “Could just do this,” he murmurs, dipping his face close to Alex’s ear, “All fucking day, yeah? Just fucking hold it. ‘Cause I do what I want, yeah?” He makes Alex nod, and Alex’s choked noise goes straight to his cock.
One hand still on Alex’s face, he takes the other – with the tape in – to Alex’s hand on the table, wrenching it roughly behind the other man’s back, using the straight back of the chair to fix Alex’s wrist. When he drops his fingers, Alex is breathing heavily, and the air has thickened somewhat, if it ever thinned in the first place. No laughter now.
Greg takes his time here.
He’s fat and hard in his jeans too, and enjoys leaning across Alex’s body for the loop of tape, pressing himself against Alex’s arm. He’s got no deep need to touch himself yet, enjoying the sensation of being viciously aroused, with a task to make it moreso. He fixes a strip over Alex’s mouth, cramming his flattened palm over his lips with considerable force until Alex moans (or groans, depending). He feels teeth.
“Is this too tight?” He asks when he comes to the other wrist, flattening the knuckles against the wood of the chair; Alex answers dutifully, mmf-mff, and Greg laughs. “Stupid fucker.”
“Mmng.”
He does the ankles too, just out of thoroughness, and when he’s finished he stands, hands on his hips, and observes the product of his work; he kicks at one of the chair legs, pushing Alex further away from the table, into the humiliation of the centre of the room, unprotected, completely observable. Alex’s head is bowed over his chest; his ears are pink; there’s a bulge in his jeans, which Greg isn’t going to touch, not even to give relief.
Just because he’s an utter bastard, he puts his hand in his pocket and strokes himself, and lets out a low, filthy sound that has Alex looking up abruptly, blue eyes wide, black pupils wider. Like he can hardly believe it.
“What time is it, huh?” he says, and then dives for Alex – Alex flinches – and digs about in his trouser pockets until he finds the phone. Checks the time. Says it aloud.
He holds It up to Alex’s face and listens for the click of the face ID. “Who were you texting?”
It’s a message from Alex’s wife, telling him to say hi to Greg, to be good; Greg takes a photograph for her, sends it, and then clicks into Alex’s music app. “Gonna give you something to think about, haven’t I?”
He’s been listening to John Stainer.
“Weird,” Greg says, and presses play, and the kitchen fills with the singing of the choir, and he takes himself upstairs to fold towels.
He’s always enjoyed endurance, even when he was younger and would be pretty much ready to go again given twenty minutes and a flash of skin. It’s a good feeling, to know he’s got a man tied to a chair in his kitchen, to know he can do whatever he wants without having to check in, without having to ask is it good for you, knowing the answer will be yes.
And what delights him is that he’s at his leisure. Alex doesn’t decide what goes on and why. Greg could keep him there all night, and he’d just have to do what he’s told, and he would.
Good boy.
He strings out the time; he does genuinely fold all the towels again, listening for the total absence of sound from Alex. Then, he slips onto the bed, spreads his legs, shuts his eyes.
He’d known he was into this shit for years. How could he not? Those frantic moments in the dark, your hand under the bedsheets; he’d known he was into this deep, selfish pleasure long before he’d met Alex Horne, long before he’d even quit the day job. Even got the day job, for that fucking matter. Problem is, he’s never met anyone he’s felt could coax that out of him – it’s fucking weird, that’s what it is, and he’s a big man, and he’s never been totally comfortable with the optics of that. Big man asks small lady (small man, rarely) if he can tie her (him?) to the bed and smack her (or him) around. He’d never indulged that. He’d never really known what he wasn’t indulging in, that these odd visions right before he comes might be possible.
He’s indulging now. He hopes the loud sound of his belt buckle sliding against the silver clip is audible over tinny John Stainer, but Alex has a wonderfully active imagination, and the things he must be plucking out of thin air will always be better than anything Greg can do.
Hand around himself, he groans, delayed satisfaction curling in the depths of his self.
Eyes swept shut, the pictures floating in the ether of his mind help more than anything else, and it’s selfish to the depths of it to give yourself over to them; and Greg has plenty. He imagines what Alex might look like in ten minutes, fifteen, an hour, mouth forced shut, face wet with tears of frustration, shirt unbuttoned a little further, looking up at Greg, up, up, up. He grunts, lying back against the head of the bed, his hand moving slowly, leisurely. Maintaining, not accelerating.
He imagines heinous things, things he’d never admit to anyone, even Alex. Imagines he’s really that man, bossy, domineering, the sort of man to arch an imperious eyebrow, the sort of man to fling himself down on chairs and demand service. He imagines coming home, unlocking the door to find his loyal – boy? Pet? Both? – waiting faithfully for his master. Clothed, bare… in Greg’s mind’s eye the image flickers back and forth according to whim. Sometimes Alex has a job he’s completed, some menial little object that he nevertheless preens at; sometimes Greg pictures the man in a predicament of his own creation., Something inside him, against him, on him.
How long should he give it? How long has it been? He should have made Alex take his trousers off before he left the kitchen, made him sit there unable to touch, to do anything to get himself off, surely knowing that Greg’s upstairs doing exactly that. It’s been half an hour.
He gives it another quarter, bringing himself close to the edge and then back down with thoughts of having Alex on stage, in front of a blank-faced, derisive audience. Then he’s standing up again, loudly walking, making sure his footsteps echo timbre throughout the house.
Down in the kitchen, Alex’s chin has dropped down to his chest, and he doesn’t lift his head when Greg walks in. The music is still playing; Greg turns it off, noting a reply to his photo from earlier as he does so.
“Up,” he says gruffly, knotting his fingers in Alex’s soft hair and wrenching his head up, shoving the phone in front of him again.
It’s almost miraculous that Alex’s face still unlocks the phone; his cheeks are stained a dark, ruddy red and are sticky-wet, his eyelashes clumped together, sweat beading on his forehead.
Greg wants to fuck him – kiss him – hit him. He lets none of this show on his impassive face.
Lovely photo
He makes a very pretty picture
If you have any more, you know what to do
Give him a smack from me
Greg grins down at Alex’s phone, and does so. Alex lets out a short, sharp bark of shocked pain.
Sorted
He is lovely, yeah
Still here
He’s gone very red
I’ll show u once I’m done
She reacts to that one with a series of thumbs-ups and he laughs aloud, feeling Alex squirm below him. His maddening curiosity at work, his desire to know what’s going on all the time, to be in control – and to have that control wrested from him.
“Right,” Greg says now, full force of his attention on Alex, “Enjoying yourself, are you?”
Delightfully, Alex nods, a quick, disjoined motion that involves the whole body and shifts the chair across the tiles. He nods and nods and nods until Greg grips his chin and stops him. “Yeah,” he says, “I can see that.”
He perches on the end of the table and slips the button on his jeans, pulling himself out, stroking his hand up his hard cock, looping his finger and thumb around the base to steady himself. He’s ready – been ready, actually, for quite some time now – but the fun part is watching Alex react.
His eyes swoop down to Greg’s hand and fix there, and his jaw moves under the pink tape.
“Go on,” Greg encourages, lazily stroking himself back close to the edge, “Go on, what were you saying? Give it a go.”
“Mmfg.”
“Yeah, yeah, sure,” Greg agrees. He wishes he had several more hands, some to pet Alex, others to slap him, yet others to pull his hair and pat his cheeks and yank his beard, “And what else to you think?”
Alex glowers at Greg’s cock. “Mmmf… nng-”
“Uh-huh. And what do you say?”
“Ffffnk-nn-”
“Good boy,” Greg breathes, and leans his body forward, enjoying how broadly he can stretch himself, how Alex’s whole self is cast in his shadow, “Yeah, good.”
He lets the length of his cock bounce against Alex’s face, guiding the head to slap the tape over Alex’s mouth, laughing when the salty pre-come mingles with the tears that have lapped themselves on his cheeks, and laughing when it touches and catches in his hair, utterly filthy, utterly disgusting. Alex is moaning under the gag, his spread legs doing nothing to hide his arousal, frustrated by the bindings of his trousers. If he could, he’d be bucking his hips, chasing friction; Greg can see the taut non-motion of him, a straight line of agony from his face to his feet.
“Shut your eyes,” he warns, manages to put a curl into it at the last second, derision, disgust, and then he presses up and close to Alex, using the odd, sharp-soft feeling of his cheek and the familiar movement of his hand to dance along that edge he’s been pushing all evening.
Alex makes another muffled noise of protest, faux-protest, real-protest, who knows – who cares? – and squeezes his eyes shut, his whole body poised. Greg doesn’t stop himself this time, doesn’t let his hand falter or the rhythm change, just keeps on, his mind flickering from the picture before him (the white skin where the glue of the tape has stuck, the tears, the wet eyelashes, the wet trousers where Alex has leaked through his boxers, just a patch, the come already on him) to the pictures in his head, Alex kneeling, Alex crying, Alex on his back, Alex on his front, Alex crying out in pain, Alex crying out in pleasure, Alex’s arse, Alex’s cock, Alex’s mouth -
“Fuck,” Greg groans long, hard, indulgent, coming against Alex’s cheek, his own hips jolting his body forward until he’s spread his own spend across Alex’s chin, his upper lip, across the binding against his mouth. “Fuck.”
As promised, he takes a picture on Alex’s phone.
Present
from me to u
Feel free to try at home
Think I broke him a bit
He forwards it to himself. Alex’s eyes are still shut and he’s shuddering, full-body trembling, overstimulated, understimulated, both at once.
“Right, then,” Greg leans over him, both hands gripping Alex now, “What can I do with you?”
He lifts one hand to finger the edge of the tape on Alex’s lip, brushing his thumb across Alex’s chin, then pinching it and tearing it off before Alex can get any warning. He screams, like all the sound that’s been kept within him the past hour has suddenly been released, and then sags against his chest, his head bowed, his shoulders heaving. Greg presses his palm against Alex’s mouth because he’s vaguely seen waxing ladies do that and also because he wants to, and then softly pushes Alex’s head back up. “What do you say?”
“Thank you,” Alex says fervently. His lip is a little bloody where he’s bitten it, and his eyes are wild, “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”
“You want to get off, yeah?”
“Yes – yes, yes, yes, yes-”
“Shh,” Greg pats his mouth again, his thumb on Alex’s jaw, keeping it shut, “Heard you the first time. Calm the fuck down. What do you want? Answer properly.”
He slips his palm away from Alex’s lips, but keeps his fingers dancing along the sharp corner of Alex’s jaw, ready to clamp down at a moment’s notice. Alex must know how short the rope he’s been given is; he inhales, exhales, licks the blood off his lips, and says, “Hands, please. Please-”
“Shh,” Greg pushes his mouth shut again, two fingers under his chin, “Got it. You good if I let you go?”
“Mm-hmm,” Alex nods, his movement frantic, his voice obediently off.
“Right. Good. Okay.”
One hand on Alex’s shoulder, perching himself on the edge of the kitchen table again, Greg unzips Alex’s jeans with his thumb, pulling Alex out to the sound of his choked yell.
“’S all right,” Greg murmurs, staring with fascination at how hard he is, “’S okay. You’ve been good.”
“Nng-” Alex’s trying his best to keep still, but when Greg glances down he can see the white strain of his skin against the tape keeping his wrists to the chair, “Christ-”
“You’re not gonna last, are you?” Greg can’t help but tease him, bringing himself down to kneel one-legged beside Alex, looking up into his red, wet face, “You’re gonna come all over yourself, aren’t you?” He’s running his fingers up and down Alex’s cock in a way he knows must be deeply dissatisfying, “Aren’t you?”
“Yeah,” Alex gasps. His lip is bleeding again, and his tongue is red with it, “Yeah, I am, I am, I am-”
“Go on then,” Greg takes his palm and wraps it around Alex, begins to stroke him off in earnest, “Come, if you’re going to. Good boy – good-”
With a choke, and a sound like tearing plastic, Alex comes, his legs jerking with such force that he tears himself off the chair and comes tumbling down onto the floor in a shout and a clatter of wood on tiling.
“Fuck’s sake,” Greg says, and from somewhere near his lap, Alex starts giggling, and then laughing, and then cackling.
“My arm hurts,” he says, and then Greg’s gone too, and they’re both lying under the kitchen table, curled up with the sort of laughter that gives you bellyache.
“Fuck’s sake,” Greg repeats, when he can breathe again, “I’m gonna ring in a chippy.”