Crescendo, Decrescendo

Emet-Selch stretches over Pfeil's bed like a pretty mink stole, imperious and elegant even while totally naked and lying prone on his back. Pfeil's hands tremble a little just to look at him like this, although he's sure that this is entirely the point, and that Emet-Selch is very aware of what Pfeil is thinking and feeling.

The rules of the game are very simple: Pfeil is to do only what he is told and speak only when spoken to, on pain of punishment. He thinks it is almost too easy; by day he is a weapon, to be a toy at night is hardly a transformation. But to be Emet-Selch's stupid little clockwork toy is more thrilling by far than to be a gore-spattered blade, so he devotes himself to the project with his whole heart. The rules of the game, he thinks, are very simple. He thinks it again and again, and sits on his feet with his hands made into fists on his knees, soot-black tail lashing back and forth against clean white sheets, because all Emet-Selch has told him to do so far is wear the harness and the leather strap-on, and to lubricate it with olive oil, and has ordered nothing else.

Their eyes meet for a little while, and Emet-Selch sizes him up with a lazy sort of look. "Ah, that's right," he says, playacting as if the long interlude with no orders was not a deliberate sort of punishment, "I'd nearly forgotten. Get to it, then."

Pfeil gets to it. He tries not to lunge, tries to be gentle — he has been waiting what feels like an age, but he doesn't want to hurt him. Pfeil's hands, still trembly and unsure, close around Emet-Selch's hips; he feels a little dizzy at the skin-to-skin contact already after such a long period of deprivation, like he could drown in the warmth underneath his palms. His movements are clumsy and confused as he presses the length of the strap-on into Emet-Selch; he's never done this before, and he's not sure how fast is —

"By your Twelve!" Emet-Selch's voice is loud; he shouts like he's stepped on something sharp. "Are you trying to kill me, you ridiculous boy?! Slow down!"

That answers that question. "I'm sorry, sir."

"You had better be sorry."

"Yes, sir."

He wants to tell Emet-Selch that he isn't sure what he's doing, but he isn't allowed to speak out of turn, and the words are balled up in his throat anyway. Instead, he pulls it out (slowly) and tries again (very slowly) — molto adagio, he thinks; maybe it is like playing an instrument. Emet-Selch's response is a little better, in any case: he gives Pfeil a low, satisfied chest-sigh, something a little rumbly, and Pfeil is pleased because Emet-Selch is pleased. This must mean he is doing it right. He wants to do it right. He hopes Emet-Selch thinks he is doing it right.

The pace he sets at first is hardly any pace at all; his hips move at an unbearably cautious crawl. Emet-Selch doesn't seem to react much, and Pfeil wants to speed up. Not without being told explicitly to do so, he reminds himself; after all, this is about what Emet-Selch wants, not what Pfeil wants, and Emet-Selch has told him to be slow. He is very, very slow. Pfeil is good at nothing if he is not good at following orders, he thinks.

Pfeil wants to touch him, too — to run his hands against the pretty auburn-chestnut hair that dusts the span of Emet-Selch's chest and leaves a line down his soft stomach, to lean over and press a kiss against his cheek or neck or whatever he can reach, but he has not been told to do this either, and he holds himself in check. If he is good, maybe that will be his reward, but he has to be good first. He settles for the warmth beneath his palms where he is holding Emet-Selch's hips for purchase and reminds himself that they are already touching. He has to be good before he can earn anything else. He has to be good.

"Pick it up a little, would you," Emet-Selch says, emphasizing the words with a bored flick of his wrist. "I don't have all century."

He doesn't bother saying anything because he knows Emet-Selch is unhappy with him. He is caught between two conflicting feelings that make his stomach do thrilling, uncomfortable flips — he is upset that Emet-Selch is unhappy with him, and he is, to his moderate shame, aroused at being berated and dismissed like this, with a sort of levinbolt feeling crawling up his spine. So instead of speaking he just follows the order, accelerando, presses his cock harder into Emet-Selch's hole and tries to be bolder, better, more pleasing.

Emet-Selch whines and kicks a little, pulling the sheets beneath his heels; Pfeil thinks he is probably doing a good job. Emet-Selch arches his back, too; Pfeil is not sure if it means Emet-Selch wants more, so he merely continues the new pace he's set, staccato rhythm, dumb clockwork musician, and digs his nails a little into Emet-Selch's sides. He is rewarded with more whining and with gasping; he watches sweat begin to bead on Emet-Selch's chest, glittering against dark hair, the frantic rise and fall of his ribcage, his cock growing hard. Pfeil is sure now that he is doing a good job, that he is doing it correctly, that Emet-Selch is happy with him; it feels good to be doing things right, and he lets out a few little keens of his own, because he can't help it.

"Harder," Emet-Selch demands, voice husky and hoarse. Fortississimo, Pfeil thinks — he can do that.

One hand ( mano destra ) falls away from Emet-Selch's hips and grips the sheets at his side, supporting Pfeil while he leans in a little closer. He uses the other hand ( mano sinistra ) to keep things steady; pulls his cock almost all the way out of Emet-Selch and then rams into him again with all the force he can muster. Then he does it again, and again, and again, and works himself into a vigorous sweat, and cannot stop himself from moaning fervently.

Emet-Selch lets out a long, low groan, and he manages to gasp, "Fuck," and that is about the extent of any intelligible reply — the rest is nothing but heavy exhalation and formless noise, vocal chords working involuntarily and to no particular end. He grasps at Pfeil without any clear goal, kicks at the sheets a little more, tosses his pretty head back and forth. Strands of dark silky hair splay over the white pillow and stick to the sweat of his brow. Pfeil loves him so much that he cannot think straight; mindlessly, he reaches up and smooths the hair back behind Emet-Selch's ear.

Emet-Selch snaps upright and slaps Pfeil sharply across the face. The reprisal is so quick and so intense that Pfeil feels the room spin a little; his cheek tingles and burns, and tears prick hotly at his eyes. He realizes the mistake as soon as it happens, and his heart sinks to the bottom of his chest, to the bottom of the sea. He only wanted to be good, after all, and he's failed.

"Stupid, insolent little boy! What did I tell you?" Emet-Selch is very, very unhappy with him.

Pfeil's ears flatten to the top of his head in shame. "You — you said not to do anything you didn't tell me to do, sir," he hiccups.

"To follow my orders precisely to the letter," Emet-Selch repeats. "You understand why I had to punish you."

"Yes, sir."

"So you won't let it happen again."

"I won't, sir."

When Emet-Selch directs a stern look down his nose at Pfeil it hurts as much as the strike did, and Pfeil cannot help but begin to cry in earnest. He doesn't wipe away his tears — Emet-Selch has not told him he is allowed — and tries to hold them in and be as silent as possible. He can feel his body shaking from the effort, and he bites his lip, but he does not relent. He is going to be good this time.

Emet-Selch sighs. "All right, I'm calling it now," he says, put-upon, as if Pfeil has begged for the game to stop. "Come here."

He opens his arms. Pfeil pulls out and clumsily removes the harness before sinking into the proffered embrace, crying stupidly all the while. "I'm sorry," he sobs, because it is all he can manage. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry…"

"Hush, now," says Emet-Selch, voice gentle but firm nonetheless. "Of course you're not good at this just yet, poor little thing."

"I thought it would be easy," Pfeil cries. "I'm sorry! I tried to be good!"

"I know," says Emet-Selch, in the sympathetic tone one uses for a crying child. He rubs Pfeil's back tenderly, and it is a tremendous relief. "I won't punish you so harshly next time, dear boy."

"I'm sorry I did it wrong," Pfeil repeats.

Emet-Selch's broad hand comes away from Pfeil's back and strokes at his cheek this time. Pfeil thinks it should sting, because he can still feel the hot welt Emet-Selch's palm left, but the touch is so soft and feather-light it only feels good. "Hush, now," he repeats. "Hush."

Pfeil rests his unhurt cheek on Emet-Selch's bare shoulder and closes his eyes, and slowly, as he is petted and stroked and instructed to hush, he comes back into himself.

"It was actually kind of hot," says Pfeil eventually. "You sure you don't want to do it again?"

Emet-Selch laughs at him, and Pfeil smiles.