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White noise.
That and the occasional, muffled sound of John speaking is all you can audibly register with headphones securely over your ears. The familiar voice is more of a distant hum like this; melting away into the static while more intriguing factors steal your focus.
A leather belt, blunt against the creases of your wrists where John’s secured them to the bed frame— just above your head. Each time you flex and curl your hands you can feel blood rushing back to the tips of your fingers. It’s like electricity in your palms.
You’re stark naked on your back and while the ceiling fan above is set to low speed, the occasional waft of cool air against your bare torso makes you shiver. A small reaction in the absence of much else stimulating you in your own personal void.
The most intriguing sensation of all is the most subtle. You can feel a depression in the mattress, just a few inches to the left of your hip. It’s a quiet yet incessant reminder that nearly makes you squirm in place.
A reminder that John has been sitting motionless at your side for the better part of half an hour.
Your name is Dave Strider and you’re starting to feel delightfully lightheaded.
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You’re not sure if you’re making any noise at all, but you know your lips are moving and your chest vibrates when air escapes. It probably sounded closer to words ten minutes ago when you’d begun whispering John’s name— letting what you hope were distinguishable pleas roll off your tongue.
Occasionally, you swear you can feel heat radiating close to your lower belly, as if he’s hovering a hand there just to ghost the sparse hair under your navel. You twist and arch your body upward to no avail—- the sensation leaves and you’re left to suck air through your teeth and let it escape in a shameless whine. Not that you can hear it.
How loud are you are you being right now?
Every passing minute of being observed like a snared animal melts away prior hang-ups. You’ve stopped clenching your jaw and steeling your posture a while ago and you’re almost positive John is grinning like a maniac. The thought makes your insides turn and your hips buck upward like an invitation—- a debasing and desperate plea.
“John, c’mon, it’s been like- an hour— “
At least that’s what you hope you just said. For all you know, it’s nothing but a garbled string of slurred noises and breathy whimpers. You can’t take this much longer, you need him to touch you. A fingertip to your clavicle might be enough to make you cry with relief.
Shortly after your pathetic goading, you hear his voice again. You can’t make out a single word but, you hear the pitchy up and down of an undeniable giggle followed by a hum of syllables. John’s either teasing you, encouraging you sweetly or some combination of the two. It sounds like praise, sing-songy through white noise and you’re squirming again.
Digging your heels into the bedsheets, you momentarily consider flipping yourself over in an act of defiance. Wrists bound above you, your forearms would no doubt twist over one another painfully making it difficult do anything else. At least John would be forced to touch you. He would have no choice but to hold your middle steadily and flip you back over as to not dislocate your shoulder. It’s so stupid it just might work in your favor.
You’re so absorbed in your fruitless schemes you don’t register the hand that cups around the left side of your headphones, tugging them only an inch from your ear and—- oh, sweet mercy, you can feel his breath on your cheek.
“You’re shivering. Too cold?”
His words fan your face, so close to your skin and resonate through your empty skull. Shivers that cascade down your naked body start behind your jaw and coil into a sinking heat in the pit of your stomach. You’re so fucking hard it hurts. At what point should you go the hospital for a boner that just won’t quit again?
“Jjhnn-Johnhn—“
What on earth was that? You can hear your own voice now that the headphone is displaced and it’s hardly your own at all. Wet, pathetic and uncontrolled—- you can’t even say his name coherently. It might have been more humiliating if you weren’t so engulfed in this headspace, sunken and pliant. You squirm and tug weakly at your bound wrists again.
“Dave.”
The way John says it should be criminal. His tone rings ghostly and doting, but, undeniably chuffed. You can hear that grin in his voice and it’s driving you mad, making you buck your hips up with dwindling strength. There’s definitely pre-cum dribbling from the angry head of your neglected dick and it’s drooling unceremoniously onto your stomach with every throb. Every twitch.
You can’t take it anymore.
You’re on the cusp of begging out loud and praying it comes out clearly enough to be understood—- but, john reads your mind like he tends to do. He’s good at that when he wants to be.
His hand comes to rest on your mid-thigh, careful and slow enough for you to map every crease in his palm. You know your own flesh must be burning hot at this point, but somehow John’s touch mimics the heat of a thousand suns. Fuck.
You writhe, nod your head spastically, babbling a slurry of words(?) that you won’t hear the end of. He’s secured your headphones in place again and you’re left to focus solely on his touch.
He’d normally tease you much longer, make you wait even after the small gift of stimulation. You’ve mentally prepared yourself for this even before he’d touched you—- but, it seems he’s feeling uncharacteristically generous tonight.
His palm skates up your thigh, curling his digits inward to brush methodically against your sweat sheened flesh. Fingertips press firmly between the crease in your leg and groin, and you cant your hips upward again.
That little number prompts a pause from John in his ministrations, like a slap on the wrist for not allowing him to work you himself. You loathe his resolve and at the same time you keen from it.
“Holy shit— you’re so close, babe—Cmon—“
You’ve reached the point of being unable to tell what you’re saying outloud and shouting internally. Your head swims too much to focus; John’s groping your hip and you think you’re seeing stars behind your pitch blindfold. A jovial hum barely registered behind white noise tells you he’s giggling again. Fuck. Fuck.
And then he’s gone.
The touch leaves no sooner than it had begun to quell your aching need for contact. You make a sound that you can actually hear somewhat this time and it’s anything but composed.
You’re pathetic. You’re a writhing, whimpering mess of sweat and blazing nerve endings all tucked away in a deep dark void without John.
You want to scream for him and buck your hips— want him to see what he does to you by doing nothing at all. For a split second, you consider calling him “sir” to coax a cheap a reaction, lay it on thick and see if he can’t help himself. John’s resolve is rock solid, but it’s not bullet proof. If you spread your legs wider, arch up your back and whine, maybe—-
“Fuck it.”
It’s John’s voice.
When did the headphones displace again?
Fuck it? Fuck what??
Before you can mentally flounder any longer, the headphones are back in place and you feel the tightness of John’s palm around the wet head of your cock.
Oh fuck. Oh fuck fuck fuck fuck.
You must sound so horribly wrecked by now, positive your voice is shot and raw when your hips lurch upward off the mattress. To your absolute delight, John’s fist remains immovable above you, allowing a deep thrust into his grip that makes your cock drool down his knuckles.
Fuck it. So, you do.
Heels dug into the mattress, sliding against taunt bedsheets, you sob loud enough you hear it above droning static. None of it steals your focus like jerking your hips up and defiling John’s hand does. You can feel his thumb reposition so that it glides against your sensitive frenulum every time you bottom out around the meat of his palm. You think you love him.
It’s as if you’re fucking up into the void itself, suspended in darkness that so graciously wraps around you and squeezes rhythmically, matching your desperate pace. Your whole body is numb, you can’t feel anything but sweet relief firing off in waves from your crotch.
Under normal circumstance, pistoning your hips into what is ultimately a handjob wouldn’t warrant such reactions from yourself. You can jerk yourself deadpan and when John does it, you grunt and nod your head. It’s not what you’d normally describe as transcendent sex. Yet, somehow, in the darkness, you feel like a slave to your own bodies will.
“JohnJohnJohn— John-John John John-“
What you meant to say “I’m gonna come” instead comes out in something entirely lost on you. It seems the unending string of garble translated loosely enough to make a statement — maybe, it’s your pitch suddenly raising — because John’s begun to move.
Meeting one of your labored thrusts with a downstroke, he quickly adopts a ruthless pace that you ultimately cannot keep up with in your exhausted state. Your ass hits the mattress and he does it all for you, twisting his fist and thumbing the head of your cock wetly. Your stomach contracts, your thighs shake and then it’s hitting you hard and fast.
You feel your dick throbbing and the subsequent spatter against your stomach. All the while, John strokes you through it, now with his opposite hand so graciously pinning your hip; just the way he knows you keen from. It comes in waves that knocks the wind right out of you, makes your toes curl into the mattress and your head knock back against your tightly restrained arms.
—————————
Time becomes muddy after the come-down.
Dazed, you rag doll when you feel John stroke your belly with a flat palm and soon after, he’s undoing your wrists to let blood return to your fingertips. The headphones are next, and the silence is somehow louder than white noise still lingering in your ears.
When he massages your hands slow, you feel like crying and you aren’t sure as to why. You don’t, but, you do roll onto your side and try to find his thigh with your brow.
The knot of your blindfold is gently prodded, pinched between John’s fingers but, you shake your head— make a noise that prompts him to leave it be.
You’re sure he’s speaking to you as you begin to doze off and the doting syllables tickle the good parts of your hearing receptors—- but, you don’t know what he’s saying.
John hums and strokes your shoulder down to your hip, only welcoming the inevitable sleep that drags you downward.
He’ll guard your sleeping body right here in the safety of your bedroom for as long as it takes you to wake again.
That you’re sure of.