//SURRENDER// Long arms wrapped around your waist. Breath lapped at your ear. “Last night of the tour,” he whispered, nuzzling his nose affectionately against your ear. “Last night,” you sighed back to him, tugging at his wrists. “Tomorrow we’re on a plane. Just us.” “And tonight,” he rumbled. “Tonight we play.” That was what shook you--the words that made you hard in an instant with anticipation. The mere thoughts of ‘playing’ with him. Because you understood each other on this totally fucked up level that no one else would ever get. A quick kiss to your cheek and he was gone. A flutter of hands fell over you as your ‘in-ear monitor’ was pressed into your hand--and the wardrobe assistant was fussing over your pants. The scratchy ones that you could not wait to get rid of. The summer had been a harsh one. The rashes from those goddamned pants even worse. “Lance!” Your head spun around and JC stood there with a playful grin. “What?” “I know images of Justin’s naked body give you that faraway look, and I would hate to be the one to make that look go away. But.” His hands clamped over your shoulders and his lips pressed against your neck. “Show time lover boy.” Damn JC because he could always make you blush. You shrugged him off and tried to be non-chalant. Because it was only a few more hours. Then you were free. *************** The first punch is always the best. That first slap of knuckles against flesh. A release that Justin accepts gratefully. You wonder if perhaps therapy is in your future. That maybe, eventually, this fucked up version of fight club will destroy the love you hold for each other--that true grain you rely on each day. All wondering cracks out of your head when Justin spears you in the gut, taking with him your breath. An ‘oof’ whooshes from your lungs and soon you are flat on your back with him straddling you. His shirt is off and you can see the soft splatter of blood across his chest. Even as your body cries for air--even as your ribs tingle from the stab of his shoulder--you are hard wanting him. “Jesus,” you gasp, blinking up. Blood trickles from his lip where your fist managed to slice his flesh and he grins down before cuffing you in the eye. It’s an instant dizzying feeling and your eyes roll back. But you manage to catch your breath and thrust him off in a moment of power. His eyes widen as he loses his balance and falls to the side, cracking his wrist against the coffee table. “Fuck,” he howls and it’s your turn to smile. Because he’s bigger anyway. And stronger. He always jumps on top of you. It’s his trademark. “You fucking asshole!” he hisses, rubbing his wrist with his palm. “It’s fucking broken!” For a moment you buy it. The pain wailing in his blue eyes. The way his crimson lips twitch. For a moment you felt like a shit--and want to call it off. So you crawl to him, prepared to give in. Ready to take all the pent up sexual energy inside of you and not fuck. You’re ready to surrender and make love. Or bring him to the hospital because, while you’re fucked in the head, you don’t want him to have broken bones. “Justin, are you...” He sneers and jumps on your back aggressively, tearing at your hair with a thunder of triumph. His calves flank your sides and he rips at the strands of your scalp, yanking your head back. “Sucka!” he roars, bending down to bite your neck. “Shit!” Justin could always turn like that--drag you into his sympathies with such ease it scared you. Then turn like a wild animal and pin you. Your body falls to the carpet with a dull thud and you try to roll over, to gain some kind of angle on him. But he’s holding you down, smashing your face into the floor again and again until you feel blood ooze from your nose. Not quiet broken--but badly damaged. Pain swells through your head and you growl, pushing onto your knees to dislodge him. He topples beside you and spins on to his back. You scurry to your knees, anxious to get in the next punch. Justin is smiling. Lying there with ragged breaths. Waiting. He wants another hit--another punch or bite. Another ounce of pain to make his cock harder and his blood hotter. You rock back on your heels and study him--drink in the fiery gaze of his eyes and the way his tongue laps at the blood on his lip. In an instant you inch over to him, leaning down close enough to smell the pain, and grab his balls. His eyes flinch but his body remains steady. One of your eyes is beginning to swell and your temples ache but you aren’t done--not yet. The palm of your hand holds him snugly and you use your other hand to rip his pants open. His hand reaches up and grabs a fist full of your hair--and you brace to be thrown back. His other arm swings up and catches you in the chest, knocking you down. He pins you, fumbling to get his pants off. “Want this?” he snarls and you narrow your eye. Justin traps your body beneath his and strips. When he’s naked, he kneels on your arms, capturing them at your side, and sits on your chest. “So now what?” he laughs. “Looks like I take this one, Bass.” You’re spent, and tempted to let him have this one. But he won last time and you trained really hard to get him--just once. So you nod, dragging him in. “Looks like it, Timberlake,” you pant, refusing to struggle. “Since I win, I pick. And I pick...” In one fluid movement, you lift your head up and nip the tip of his dick with your teeth. He howls in shock and you arch up, ousting him to the side effortlessly. You clamber to your feet and dive for him. “Jesus Christ,” he cries as your knee connects with his stomach. He bends in half and you elbow him in the center of his back. In seconds, he’s sprawled on the floor, face down, and you position yourself on his back. “Not Jesus Christ. Lance Bass. And I win!” “Ugh,” Justin groans and you turn him over with your hand, tugging his shoulder until he’s face up. Blood from your nose drips onto his chest and you look down at him with the one eye that hasn’t swollen. You rip your shirt off and compress it against your nose, wondering how you’re suppose to handle oral sex if you can’t breath--then it dawns on you. You won. You can lie back and receive. “Get up,” you sniffle. Justin’s eyes close temporarily and when they open, fire spears you causing your stomach to reel with unadulterated lust. You know that you’ve endured another round and he shoves you away with a grunt. He hates to lose, this you know, but he’s on his feet grinning. You stare at him and wonder why you want him so much--why this act of violence creates the best sex you’ve ever had. And why the feeling is mutual. His hand finds the back of your neck and his eyes are dark. “Well?” he asks. “Well?” you mumble, pressing your palm against his chest. “On your knees.” It’s a command, not a request, because rules say he’s yours for the night. Anything goes--you can call the shots. He snorts and for a moment, you think he’s going to hit you again. But his hand drops from your neck and he falls to the floor. His hands fumble with your pants and he gets them off hurriedly. He squashs his nose against your stomach and reaches around to grab your ass. “Blind luck,” he hisses into your skin. “Stupid blind luck.” You squint down at the top of his head, admittedly pleased his curls are starting to grow back because you miss tearing at them when you fuck--and miss running your fingers through them tenderly when you make love. “Luck ain’t got nothing to do with it,” you garble as your cock rocks against his chin. “I fought fair. I won. So get to sucking.” Every word turns you both on, and Justin tips his head up--you can see the want in his eyes. His mouth opens and soon your erection is gone, swallowed by warm heat, tickled by a tongue swirling around the length. You moan and fling your head back, digging into his scalp for balance. Your shirt dangles over your shoulder, stained with blood, and your nose throbs, but it only makes it hotter for you--more intense. Justin can use his mouth, this you know, but after brawling he’s especially talented, driving you to the brink before dragging you back. “Get on the bed,” you rumble, wrenching out of his mouth. “Bed.” He licks his lips and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, standing up. His legs carry him to the bed with two easy strides and he lays down. One hand strays between his legs and he strokes himself leisurely--because he knows you like to watch. But tonight you’re supposed to get that opportunity to order him around--and he’s fucking with you. “Stop!” you demand, pouncing on the bed. You restrain his hands over his head and gape down at him with tempestuous eyes. “You do what I say,” you remind him, bending to nip his chin. “What I say!” “What you say,” he murmurs gruffly. “So say fuck you because, Christ, I want to.” This amuses you a little so you sit up on his chest and dab at your inflamed nose. “You want to eh?” “I do,” he says lowly, running his hands along your inner thigh. “I want to fuck you until you can’t see.” The idea swims around inside of you until you realize Justin is calling the shots again. He’s not playing fair, at all, so you move off his chest and lie down, guiding his head between your legs. “If you’re good,” you tell him. “If you’re *really* good.” He laughs and snuggles between your legs with a deep sigh. You shiver with anticipation, ready for what he’s got. And he’s got it all, it seems, as his hands wander over your stomach and sides. His tongue traces over your hip, gliding unhurriedly over your sweaty skin to dip into your belly button. He nips at the flesh directly below, then continues on to your other hip. You bite your lip to keep from moaning--you don’t want anything to spoil it. Not a sound or an erratic breath. It’s control for you--a wonderful and delicious feeling of control. Justin’s head pulls up and you feel his eyes on you. Propping yourself up on elbows, you peer down at him. “Who said you were done?”  “Oh I ain’t even started,” he smirks, plunging his head back down. Everything inside of you quivers and you pitch your head to the pillow, closing your eyes to savor each little sensation. His tongue is like silk, drawing long, damp licks up the skin between your leg and groin, careful not to touch your cock which is jumping with each touch. You toss the pillow over your head to muffle your cries--cries that are nearly sobs because you want him. And even though you’re calling the shots, he’s got you. You can feel his hands urge your legs apart further and his wet fingers press against you. You bite the pillowcase when he slips inside you and your hips jerk involuntarily. On your stomach, you can feel your cock begging--oozing because it wants to play harder. Only Justin isn’t going there--yet. His fingers shift and press, twist and plunge. His mouth finds a nice smooth piece of your inner thigh to suck on and you feel your toes curl. Muffling into the pillow hurts your nose, so you pitch it to the side and grasp the headboard. Because you have to grab something. The pads of your fingers dig into the wood and you squirm under him. Hot breath assaults the tip of your erection, warm puffs of air that warn you he is near. You force your eyes shut firmly and arch up, craving some contact. “Justin,” you moan, and you’re sorry you did because his fingers are gone--and the warm breath is gone. He’s gone. You open your eyes and he’s sitting beside you with one hand on his dick, the other on a pink bottle. He’s not smiling, or blinking, just staring at you like he wants you--like you’re the only person in his world. You watch as he smears strawberry scented liquid all over himself--and then he turns to touch you. His hands are slick and you gasp when he makes contact. The palms of his hand press against your cock and his fingers interlock--the he strokes. Up and down in a methodical rhythm and your eyes roll back in your head. The pressure builds inside your gut and you claw at the sheets desperately. He shifts on the bed and lifts your legs. And you want to tell him to stop because you’re not getting the benefits of winning. He is. It doesn’t matter when he slides inside of you because everything blacks out. The room spins around and around and your eye doesn’t matter--the fact you can’t breath out of your nose is inconsequential. Justin has these hips that can thrust almost unnaturally and he’s moving at a curious pace, pushing all the way in with deliberate slowness--then drawing almost all the way out. Your eyes tear and you don’t know if it’s from being hit or from his talents. He hovers over you and when you force yourself to look at him, you know it’s his talents. His mouth is on yours and suddenly you can’t breath. He’s taking everything from you, and you’re giving it willingly. His tongue swipes against your teeth and he bites your bottom lip. It’s close, you can feel it, so close but he withdraws completely and you’re lying there with wonder in your expression, frustration in your soul. “Justin, what the fuck?” you squawk breathlessly, but when you reach for him, he disappears between your legs. “Easy there,” he whispers, reaching for the pink bottle again. More strawberry scented liquid dribbles over your cock and he’s there again, rubbing and stroking, pulling the thin flesh of your erection taut--and then he sucks, just the tip. You scream, literally, because he’s never done *that* before. His other hand tugs your balls down, holding you in check. Justin licks around the head twice then he lets go. Your pulse zips around inside of you, and your heart slams against your ribs. You gaze down at him and he smiles sinfully--then repeats it. Only this time he doesn't hold your balls and this time you feel a little more friction--and this time he sends his fingers in to rub you. To freak you from the inside out, you muse. But you’re not musing anymore because he’s doing a thousand things at once and you can’t hold anything back. You pant and writhe and moan--and claw, and use the Lord’s name in an endless chant--and Justin keeps moving. It’s a hurricane inside your body--and out--and he finally touches you right where you need to be touched, presses right where you need to be pressed, sucks right where you need to be sucked--and you come with a muted cry that jams below your Adam’s Apple. You think you blacked out because when you open your eyes, Justin is moving inside you, his arms braced on each side of your head. And you don’t remember him hauling your legs over his shoulders but there they are. And really, you don’t much care because you’re spent and satisfied and well, you won so you don’t have to do anything in return. So you close your eyes and feel your body rock under his. From the haze he’s managed to lull you to, you can hear his grunts and his mouth spewing ‘fucks’ and ‘jesus’-- all the words he likes to hiss when he’s going to come. But you triumphed, so you fall asleep. ********************** You wake first and everything hurts. Rolling to your side, you see Justin asleep and he looks like a fallen angel. The blood is dark brown now and you can finally assess the damage. Red marks adorn his muscled skin. Marks you put there. Stumbling to the bathroom, you look intently into the mirror and are mildly horrified at your face. One eye is black and blue, half swollen and your nose is a bloodied mess. Carefully, you dampen a washcloth and begin to clean it away. He’s behind you moments later and presses a bottle of Advil into your hand. “Morning,” he whispers, kissing the back of your neck. You grin in the mirror and turn in his arms. “Morning,” you say, pressing the washcloth to his lip. “How are you?” you ask, because you care. He holds up his wrist and you wince. It’s swollen around the bone but appears to be alright. “Sprained,” he laughs as your fingers brush against it. “How’s the nose?” You shrug. “Not broken.” Justin pulls you to him in a crushing hug. “I love you,” he says. “So fucking much.” “I love you too,” you reply, nuzzling into his neck. “And I won.” He laughs, you feel his chest rumble next to yours, then he backs away. “You did,” he admits, starting the shower. “But I think we both win because we have each other.” It’s odd, you think when you turn back to the mirror--odd that you found each other--odd that you share the same kink--odd that you find sexual pleasure in beating each other up--just odd. But he’s your life, and you’re his life. And maybe someday you’ll grow tired of this. Or decide it’s gone too far. For now, however, it’s what you have. And how you chose to live. “Coming?” Justin calls out from behind the shower curtain. You toss the dirty washcloth down and smile. “Of course!” you reply, disappearing into the cloud of steam. | back | | feedback |