First Monday Fic: Manus Dare
May. 17th, 2006 05:13 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
trinityofoneAhh, procrastination porn. Filthy, filthy procrastination porn. The best kind?
Title: Manus Dare
Fandom: First Monday
Rating: NC-17
Length: ~1650 words
Summary: Julian rewards himself.
A/N: Thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
siriaeve, sarren, and fatuorum for their helpful suggestions and for convincing me that this was the good baddirtywrong.
Manus Dare
Most of the time he couldn’t even bear to look at the drawer. If he caught a glimpse of it out of the corner of his eye, he would flush, his chest constricting with guilt and shame. So he didn’t look. It was like a white spot in his vision, the elephant in the room.
But he knew it was there. He always knew it was there. Waiting.
He would make himself wait. On some subconscious level (the same one that was always aware of the drawer, visible from the corner of his eye) he realized that he liked the waiting, that that was part of it. Holding off and holding off, going weeks and sometimes months at a time without ever touching the handle. Without ever touching himself, if he was really good. Letting the pressure build until he felt close to choking, his tie a tight band around his neck; until he felt like his clothes were going to burst at the seams, like he was going to start tearing at his own skin. It had been painful at first, denying himself, and it still was. But he could turn it to his advantage. He was very good at that. Manipulation.
At some point, he started using the drawer as a reward. This was wrong: it should be a punishment, a reminder of how sick and rotten he was underneath the tidy front. But even if he felt vile afterwards, during (and before—oh God, the anticipation!) it never felt like a punishment. During his body felt like liquid, when the rest of the time it was solid stone. During, every nerve ending in his body felt vibrant and alive, while through the daily grind he perfected the art of empty smiles and nerve-numbness.
But not quite perfection; more and more, he found his mind wandering at odd times: sitting at his desk, reviewing cert; in the library, checking Alejandrino v. Quezon (271 U.S. 528) for a possible precedent; standing sentry at Justice Brankin’s door. And suddenly his mind would be elsewhere, deep in that white space. A rush of heat that could only with effort be calmed by a deep breath, by a splash of water to the face. And he’d have to start thinking of deeds worthy of reward.
On some level he knew that his excuses were getting flimsier and flimsier. Recently, he’d caught himself going above and beyond at work just so he could grant himself a little time with the drawer. He shouldn’t. He shouldn’t. But wasn’t that what politics was all about? Trading favors, checks and balances. And in the end, wasn’t the drawer a check too? A compromise: something he could let himself have, as long as it was all he had.
He had: a Clover Blush anal vibrator with a ridged tip. He had a Silk silicone dildo and a jelly rubber Anal Tongue Vibe, which had made him bite his free arm to muffle his shout the first time he’d used it. He had a foam wedge with a blue velvet cover to lift his pelvis and make accessible his ass as he fucked himself with his $350 glass dildo that was pretty enough to be a work of art. Sometimes as he worked the bulbous head into his body, stifling his moans as he was finally filled, finally breached, he would imagine leaving it out, on the coffee table, so his friends (acquaintances) could come by and remark on the unusual and unique sculpture. Wherever did you find it, Julian? they’d ask. Oh, he’d answer, just a little place downtown. Maybe they’d touch it, trail a finger along the shaft, and later, when he raised his hips and pushed it inside, he’d still feel the warm press of their fingers.
He was due. He was definitely due. He’d been so good, waited such a long time. He was still at work when this realization, this conviction crossed his mind: the rest of the day was torture, waiting, but it was good, too. Anticipation. He could already feel the coolness of the slick as he coated his fingers, and the relieved stretch of muscles as he spread his legs. Sometimes if he wasn’t too overcome, he would strain up, try to watch himself press in...
He was desperate by the time he got home. D.C. was so muggy in the summer, and the Metro had been late, and crowded. He was stripping off his suit jacket before he was halfway in the door. Normally he was meticulous about keeping his clothes wrinkle-free, but now he didn’t care: the jacket fell over a chair, his tie was undone and yanked off with a jerk. Shoes, socks, pants, shirt: they all tumbled down to the floor, and he threw himself on the bed. Rolling over, opening the drawer with at least some sense of the reverence it deserved. His toys, his tools, were all laid out before him. After some deliberation, he selected the stainless steel New Wave wand. It was nicely curved, with three bulbs of increasing size at one end. Best of all, it was heavy, weighty in his hand. He laid it gently at his side, then removed the wedge and scooted it under his hips. He pulled his boxers down and off, slowly now, sweeping a hand over his chest, enjoying the sensation. He was there, in the white space. He wanted to make it last as long as he could.
Lubing his fingers felt exactly as he’d imagined, and his head rocked back against the pillow as he circled his hand down past cock and balls and around his asshole. He sucked in a breath—waiting, waiting—then let the air out of his lungs, let it all out, and pushed in, breaching himself with one finger and then with two. He was tight, but he was eager. He wanted the toy: cold and smooth, which was good, which was right. Not like human flesh at all.
He was ready, it was ready. He canted his hips and pressed the tip of the dildo against his opening. He felt the stretch, the wonderful feeling of his body opening up. The first time he’d done this (eyes closed, something like tears squeezing at their edges, and it had only been a finger, guiltily inserted) he’d been so tense, so nervous. But now this was the closest he ever got to relaxation. His shoulders loose, his neck a gentle curve against the pillow. He moved the dildo around, not deep enough yet for anything but the incredible sensation of being filled. Naked and bare; exposed, vulnerable—all the things he never let himself be, rasping half-heard gasps as his heels rucked against the sheets. His muscles clenched and unclenched, loosened, moving around and with the invading force, taking it in, taking it. He could only imagine what it would be like with another—
But no. Those were the kinds of thoughts that, in strictest adherence to the rules, meant that he had to stop. But he hadn’t finished it, the thought, and he couldn’t let this be finished now. Not when he’d waited so long. Not when he was just getting started.
He rotated the wand, working it in deeper, moving the second bulb past the tight ring of muscle. With the angle just right he could feel the toy scrape against his prostate, making him shiver, making him want to cry out. But he didn’t cry out. He bit his lip. Hips moving of their own volition, cock full and heavy against his chest, he pushed the dildo in further. Burn and glide. His pelvis rolled. He’d been using his left hand as a steadying weight against his thigh, but he moved it now, up, circling a nipple. It was, he was, the ultimate exercise in control. He could make himself come without ever touching his cock.
More. He needed more. Biting his lip, he started working the third, largest bulb into his ass, simultaneously scraping the nails of his other hand over a nipple. His fingers teased and plucked: like teeth, he thought—but no. Not teeth, not someone’s mouth, sucking each bud to firmness, comfortable weight on and over his body as they stroked in and out, as they pleasured themselves with his body. Nothing like that. Like, like...nipple clamps. He’d buy nipple clamps. His drawer was getting full, but there was still enough room. Room enough.
He was close, he was so very very close. He squeezed the muscles in his ass, bearing down; the wand felt huge and wonderful, warmed by the heat of his body, his own blood pulsing enough to make it feel almost alive. He felt alive, every nerve ending awake. And it was sick and wrong and perverted, but it was like nothing— Nothing else could make him feel—
He’d seen some of the other dildos that they had, the ones made to look realistic, like a real, like an actual... He didn’t have any of those. But he could see them: flesh-colored, softskin texture with ridged veins, sculpted head. Just like. Just like.
Like a real cock, pounding into him, taking him, fucking him—a man fucking him—
Julian came with a swallowed scream, convulsing around the dildo, splattering come onto his chest. White: he saw pure white everywhere, washing across the room. It still lingered at the edges of his vision as he came down, shakily removing the dildo from his ass, rolling off the wedge and pushing it away. Already he felt the first flush of shame—and already he was counting down the months and weeks (days) until he would let himself do this again.
If he was good, if he was really, really good, he might even let himself get a new toy.
He knew exactly what he wanted.
Title: Manus Dare
Fandom: First Monday
Rating: NC-17
Length: ~1650 words
Summary: Julian rewards himself.
A/N: Thanks to
siriaeve, sarren, and fatuorum for their helpful suggestions and for convincing me that this was the good baddirtywrong.Manus Dare
Most of the time he couldn’t even bear to look at the drawer. If he caught a glimpse of it out of the corner of his eye, he would flush, his chest constricting with guilt and shame. So he didn’t look. It was like a white spot in his vision, the elephant in the room.
But he knew it was there. He always knew it was there. Waiting.
He would make himself wait. On some subconscious level (the same one that was always aware of the drawer, visible from the corner of his eye) he realized that he liked the waiting, that that was part of it. Holding off and holding off, going weeks and sometimes months at a time without ever touching the handle. Without ever touching himself, if he was really good. Letting the pressure build until he felt close to choking, his tie a tight band around his neck; until he felt like his clothes were going to burst at the seams, like he was going to start tearing at his own skin. It had been painful at first, denying himself, and it still was. But he could turn it to his advantage. He was very good at that. Manipulation.
At some point, he started using the drawer as a reward. This was wrong: it should be a punishment, a reminder of how sick and rotten he was underneath the tidy front. But even if he felt vile afterwards, during (and before—oh God, the anticipation!) it never felt like a punishment. During his body felt like liquid, when the rest of the time it was solid stone. During, every nerve ending in his body felt vibrant and alive, while through the daily grind he perfected the art of empty smiles and nerve-numbness.
But not quite perfection; more and more, he found his mind wandering at odd times: sitting at his desk, reviewing cert; in the library, checking Alejandrino v. Quezon (271 U.S. 528) for a possible precedent; standing sentry at Justice Brankin’s door. And suddenly his mind would be elsewhere, deep in that white space. A rush of heat that could only with effort be calmed by a deep breath, by a splash of water to the face. And he’d have to start thinking of deeds worthy of reward.
On some level he knew that his excuses were getting flimsier and flimsier. Recently, he’d caught himself going above and beyond at work just so he could grant himself a little time with the drawer. He shouldn’t. He shouldn’t. But wasn’t that what politics was all about? Trading favors, checks and balances. And in the end, wasn’t the drawer a check too? A compromise: something he could let himself have, as long as it was all he had.
He had: a Clover Blush anal vibrator with a ridged tip. He had a Silk silicone dildo and a jelly rubber Anal Tongue Vibe, which had made him bite his free arm to muffle his shout the first time he’d used it. He had a foam wedge with a blue velvet cover to lift his pelvis and make accessible his ass as he fucked himself with his $350 glass dildo that was pretty enough to be a work of art. Sometimes as he worked the bulbous head into his body, stifling his moans as he was finally filled, finally breached, he would imagine leaving it out, on the coffee table, so his friends (acquaintances) could come by and remark on the unusual and unique sculpture. Wherever did you find it, Julian? they’d ask. Oh, he’d answer, just a little place downtown. Maybe they’d touch it, trail a finger along the shaft, and later, when he raised his hips and pushed it inside, he’d still feel the warm press of their fingers.
He was due. He was definitely due. He’d been so good, waited such a long time. He was still at work when this realization, this conviction crossed his mind: the rest of the day was torture, waiting, but it was good, too. Anticipation. He could already feel the coolness of the slick as he coated his fingers, and the relieved stretch of muscles as he spread his legs. Sometimes if he wasn’t too overcome, he would strain up, try to watch himself press in...
He was desperate by the time he got home. D.C. was so muggy in the summer, and the Metro had been late, and crowded. He was stripping off his suit jacket before he was halfway in the door. Normally he was meticulous about keeping his clothes wrinkle-free, but now he didn’t care: the jacket fell over a chair, his tie was undone and yanked off with a jerk. Shoes, socks, pants, shirt: they all tumbled down to the floor, and he threw himself on the bed. Rolling over, opening the drawer with at least some sense of the reverence it deserved. His toys, his tools, were all laid out before him. After some deliberation, he selected the stainless steel New Wave wand. It was nicely curved, with three bulbs of increasing size at one end. Best of all, it was heavy, weighty in his hand. He laid it gently at his side, then removed the wedge and scooted it under his hips. He pulled his boxers down and off, slowly now, sweeping a hand over his chest, enjoying the sensation. He was there, in the white space. He wanted to make it last as long as he could.
Lubing his fingers felt exactly as he’d imagined, and his head rocked back against the pillow as he circled his hand down past cock and balls and around his asshole. He sucked in a breath—waiting, waiting—then let the air out of his lungs, let it all out, and pushed in, breaching himself with one finger and then with two. He was tight, but he was eager. He wanted the toy: cold and smooth, which was good, which was right. Not like human flesh at all.
He was ready, it was ready. He canted his hips and pressed the tip of the dildo against his opening. He felt the stretch, the wonderful feeling of his body opening up. The first time he’d done this (eyes closed, something like tears squeezing at their edges, and it had only been a finger, guiltily inserted) he’d been so tense, so nervous. But now this was the closest he ever got to relaxation. His shoulders loose, his neck a gentle curve against the pillow. He moved the dildo around, not deep enough yet for anything but the incredible sensation of being filled. Naked and bare; exposed, vulnerable—all the things he never let himself be, rasping half-heard gasps as his heels rucked against the sheets. His muscles clenched and unclenched, loosened, moving around and with the invading force, taking it in, taking it. He could only imagine what it would be like with another—
But no. Those were the kinds of thoughts that, in strictest adherence to the rules, meant that he had to stop. But he hadn’t finished it, the thought, and he couldn’t let this be finished now. Not when he’d waited so long. Not when he was just getting started.
He rotated the wand, working it in deeper, moving the second bulb past the tight ring of muscle. With the angle just right he could feel the toy scrape against his prostate, making him shiver, making him want to cry out. But he didn’t cry out. He bit his lip. Hips moving of their own volition, cock full and heavy against his chest, he pushed the dildo in further. Burn and glide. His pelvis rolled. He’d been using his left hand as a steadying weight against his thigh, but he moved it now, up, circling a nipple. It was, he was, the ultimate exercise in control. He could make himself come without ever touching his cock.
More. He needed more. Biting his lip, he started working the third, largest bulb into his ass, simultaneously scraping the nails of his other hand over a nipple. His fingers teased and plucked: like teeth, he thought—but no. Not teeth, not someone’s mouth, sucking each bud to firmness, comfortable weight on and over his body as they stroked in and out, as they pleasured themselves with his body. Nothing like that. Like, like...nipple clamps. He’d buy nipple clamps. His drawer was getting full, but there was still enough room. Room enough.
He was close, he was so very very close. He squeezed the muscles in his ass, bearing down; the wand felt huge and wonderful, warmed by the heat of his body, his own blood pulsing enough to make it feel almost alive. He felt alive, every nerve ending awake. And it was sick and wrong and perverted, but it was like nothing— Nothing else could make him feel—
He’d seen some of the other dildos that they had, the ones made to look realistic, like a real, like an actual... He didn’t have any of those. But he could see them: flesh-colored, softskin texture with ridged veins, sculpted head. Just like. Just like.
Like a real cock, pounding into him, taking him, fucking him—a man fucking him—
Julian came with a swallowed scream, convulsing around the dildo, splattering come onto his chest. White: he saw pure white everywhere, washing across the room. It still lingered at the edges of his vision as he came down, shakily removing the dildo from his ass, rolling off the wedge and pushing it away. Already he felt the first flush of shame—and already he was counting down the months and weeks (days) until he would let himself do this again.
If he was good, if he was really, really good, he might even let himself get a new toy.
He knew exactly what he wanted.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2006-05-17 04:30 pm (UTC)Poor Julian! So conflicted!