It wasn't a suggestion. It wasn't a request. Obedient before he even thought to think about it, JC pushed back his chair, waved vaguely at the guys, and headed upstairs.
Where he found himself waiting, shifting his weight, trying to look casual. Waiting for five minutes.
He strolled along the corridor, his perfect limbs casual and self-possessed; looked at JC with those incredible, unreadable eyes; unlocked the hotel room and went in. Didn't look over his shoulder to check that JC had followed him in. Just said "Clothes on the chair," and went into the bathroom.
JC's fingers shook as he stripped.
He stood naked, hopeful, fearful, alertness prickling his skin, until Lance came briskly out of the bathroom, and paused to look at him with something like approval. "Very good," he said, and JC smiled eagerly. Lance had something clasped in his strong shapely fingers, not a scarf, maybe—
"Come here, 'C."
JC did as he was told. Thought maybe he should kneel, but Lance put a hand to his jaw and held him, stroked his cheek thoughtfully, and allowed a tiny smile to flick across his face. "So pretty," Lance murmured in what JC thought of as his molasses voice, "my... flower. Hands behind you." JC complied, willing himself to calm as a padded cuff settled over his right wrist, there was a rattling sound like strung beads, then his left wrist was enclosed. Lance had tied him to the bathroom door handle. He tested the cuffs cautiously—not rigid, there was a little play in the bond and his shoulders, though straight, weren't ratcheted backwards.
Probably be there for a while, then.
"Will, um, will you—" The hard green stare silenced him.
"Who decides, JC? Who decides what happens next?"
"You do, Lance."
"And who is the one tied up and helpless?"
"That's right." Humming to himself, Lance moved to the chest of drawers on the far side of the room. Something dangled from his hand as he returned. "So you're just going to have to wait and see, aren't you, JC?"
"Or... possibly not." There was an evil little smile on Lance's lips, and a hot, intense look in his eyes. And then there was only blackness, as Lance eased a thick cloth over JC's eyes and fastened it carefully behind his head, taking care to hook the material behind his ears. JC could see nothing, but he felt the brush of Lance's sleeve along his shoulder, and heard Lance's sigh of satisfaction as he finished his work.
JC stood, tethered and blind, certain he could feel the heat of Lance's gaze over him; his body tingled with excitement, every inch of skin yearning to be touched, tasted, tormented.
"Have a good night, JC." There was almost a chuckle in that deep voice, and JC heard the faint rustle of Lance's khakis, heard the bedroom door click open, sweep open across the carpet, and close.
JC waited, ears straining for any sound. Breath. Anything.
"Lance?" he said uncertainly. "Uh—Lance?" He expected—he anticipated—chastisement for that. A flick of pain somewhere, a zing of birch or the nick of a leather thong. But nothing happened.
He couldn't move, not in any way that mattered. An inch or so in either direction sideways, or forward. He could stand on one foot or the other, or both, couldn't manage to kneel though, with his hands cuffed to the handle of the firmly closed door. Couldn't see anything. He was helpless. He was so turned on it was almost painful.
And Lance wasn't even watching him squirm. Bastard. Fucker. Bastard.
JC tried to angle himself sideways, tried to find something to rub against, his cock was straining against air and he wanted pressure, he wanted contact, something. Was Lance really going to leave him here all night? Tied up, blindfolded, helpless to do anything except want? The thought of it made him harder still, made him want to weep with frustration. Lance couldn't just... leave him tied here all night? Could he? Lance wouldn't leave him alone, tied like this, surely Lance would come back to him tonight? Surely?
And if he did—what then?
JC tried to imagine what Lance would do to him when—if—when he came back. Tried to imagine being teased, being whipped, being sucked or fucked as he stood helpless; but he couldn't. He couldn't even begin to imagine what Lance would do to him, because the reality, the blind black bound reality was too overwhelming. He thrust his hips helplessly forward, his cock straining upward, but it only tightened the feeling and made him harder and more desperate.
Sobbing with frustration, he leant back awkwardly on the unyielding door, and waited.
Was that a sound?
A click? Key in door?
He'd imagined it a hundred times already, but this was real, and suddenly the desperate excitement of his helplessness was magnified a thousandfold, because now something was about to happen, and he could do nothing but accept—whatever came next.
There was a gasp from the doorway.
"Inside." Lance's voice, low and amused. "Don't want to put on a show for the whole floor, do we."
Door closed. Muffled sounds of feet on carpet.
Oh, God. Someone else. Lance had brought someone else to see him, naked and hard and tied.
"Beautiful, isn't he. And look how much he wants this. Look how much he loves it. He can't escape, can't even see what we're going to do, and he wants it. Whatever happens next."
"Do you know what he'd like? Do you?" Lance's voice took on that dark, dangerous quality that made JC's knees go weak. "I think he'd like to hear you scream, Chris."
There was an incoherent, needy sound from... from Chris.
"Shall we give him that, Chris? Shall we let him hear you scream? Because I think you can do that for me, Chris. I think you want to. Don't you?"
"I—please!" That was Chris's voice, but JC knew that pleading, urgent tone because he'd heard it before, heard it in his own voice as he begged Lance to do whatever he wanted, and he knew it was going to happen, because Lance always did. Make him scream.
"JC?" Lance was close to him, JC's hips edged forwards beseechingly. "JC. Be quiet." He wimpered, but nodded his obedience. And listened.
Listened as Chris undressed. Listened as Chris was permitted to remove Lance's shirt and shoes. Listened as Chris was told to open the closet and fetch the leather briefcase from the shelf. Shivered at the thought of the briefcase, and at the sound of it being unlocked.
"Which one shall I start with, Chris? Choose."
There was a long pause. JC could see it so clearly in his head, the collection in the briefcase. Switches, whips, paddles. Leather straps. The flogger with steel tips. Choose, Chris. Choose.
"This one. Please."
"Are you sure, Chris? Because it's going to hurt."
"Yes. Yes." Oh, please, thought JC, please hurt me please please.
"That's my jewel. Stand against the wall."
JC's ears, his whole self, strained to catch every sound, to absorb every detail. Was Chris spreading himself against the far wall, the bare wall opposite the bathroom door where he was tethered? Which of the instruments had he chosen? When, where, would it strike?
"Such pretty pale skin. So smooth. Poor 'C, he can't see how beautiful you look, spread for me like this. We'll just have to tell him how good it feels, won't we, Chris, let him hear how good it feels." There was a moan, almost a sob. What was Lance doing to him now, to make such a sound?
Silence. JC couldn't breathe.
And the swift slash and splat of impact on flesh. JC felt the echo of it on his own skin, and his avid gasp mingled with Chris's stifled exclamation.
"It's a good whip, Chris. Feel it kissing your skin. This is what you want. You want more."
"Yes, yes!" Almost a shout.
And he got it. JC shuddered as each stroke fell, the whistle of air, the flat percussion of every strike, the forced counterpoint of muffled sounds torn from Chris. He jerked and tautened against the cuffs, clenched his teeth on sounds he was not permitted to make, and listened for the whip lashing down again and again . There was a break in the relentless rhythm, at last, then one potent stroke which drew an exquisite moan from Chris, and the sound of the whip being set down on the briefcase.
Loud, loud breathing. His own pulse thundering.
A creak of bedsprings. A bottle unscrewed. A tiny gasp, and the sounds of liquid hands sliding over skin. Helpless, grateful noises. Something whispered in that deep bass murmur, too low for him to make out the words. Shuffling sounds as bodies rearranged. What now, what now?
Mouth music. Eager sibilant noises of lips on skin. A greedy, appreciative descant of murmurs from Chris, deep tiger purring that was Lance. JC's cock twitched, nudging his belly. His head tipped back to rest against the bathroom door, his hips thrust forward by the handle and his cuffed hands. He ached with want.
"Good, baby, good. Fuck, you have a wicked mouth. Yeah, like that. Don't be greedy, now, take your time. We got all night. Mmmm." Lance's voice, caressing like black silk. Groaning encouragement, fathoms-deep, the sounds wrapping themselves round JC's erection so that he arched and urged his hips up, up, into the frictionless air. "Yes, yes, like that, more, take more," and that knowing almost-laugh as Lance came, hungry slurping as he spilled himself into Chris's mouth. Tiny tickling sounds, like a cat lapping.
"Do you want to be fucked now?" Yes yes yes please, thought JC, but Chris was allowed to say it and he did.
"That's good. I want to fuck you. I want to fill you up. I'm going to fill you and fuck you hard and make you scream. With this."
What? What? JC writhed, wanting to know, to see. To feel.
"I... I can't. It—I—no..." What was it? What was Lance promising? What brought that note of terrified yearning into Chris's voice?
"No?" I'll do it, please, do it to me, I can take it, anything, do it to me do it to me...
"You are allowed to say no, Chris." Lance paused. "You just have to accept the consequences. You understand that."
"You understand that, don't you, Chris?"
"On your knees. Over there. Put your forehead on the floor." The picture in JC's mind almost made him explode. Chris, so exposed, so vulnerable, so ready. "Is there anything you want to say, Chris?"
A metallic click, sharp in the breath-filled room. What would it be, for this? What would he choose?
A splatter of sound, leather strands against flesh, and a desperate moan. Ten seconds, empty of everything but tiny wimpers from Chris, the subtle chink of metal tips, and JC's frantic heartbeat.
Another stroke, and a carpet-stifled cry.
"What do you want, Chris?"
"I—I, oh, God, please!"
Another stroke, another cry.
"What do you want, Chris?"
Sayitsayitsayit, thought JC furiously, say it you lucky fucker you can have it you get it all you can do it.
"Fuck me!" gasped Chris. "Fuck me, fill me up, make me scream, please, I want it, I want you to."
"That's right, that's good, that's what I'm going to do. You just stay still. You can do it. You can take it. So good, so good."
JC strained again, trying to catch every sound, avid, and there were soft gasped breaths and there were little sobs and there were murmurs of praise but he couldn't tell what, what was happening, and not knowing, not being able to see what brought that quivering plea, and that deep indrawn shuddering breath, and then that slow crescendo of inarticulate ecstasy and that incredible scream of pleasure, he thought he was going to come just from the sound, and his cock was sticky and so full it hurt, could he stand this much longer, could he stand here fettered and helpless and just listen or would he break and plead and beg for something, someone to touch him and take it all away?
Lance's voice, smooth as black coffee, murmuring praise. Chris, sobbing thankfulness. Had they forgotten he was here, that he was still tighter than piano wire, and silent?
Until the bedsprings creaked again, and he felt a swish of air and then breath hot on his shoulder, and he shivered and arched and there was a hand on his cock and a voice in his ear that said "Yes" and he came at once, like a lightning strike through his whole body, ripping a soundless howl from his throat as semen fountained from his cock; and his tears soaked into the black cloth over his eyes as he fell boneless into Lance's arms.
They didn't take the blindfold off until they had worked him, every inch of him, back into frenzy and down again. And at last, he and Chris lay bracketing Lance in the wide bed, and he kissed their hair and promised them they were beautiful and perfect. Then Lance told them to sleep, and as JC's mind fuzzed into unconsciousness, he caught a last murmur, deep and private... "so lucky, so lucky."
For another point of view (which may clarify a few things) see Choice.