ABNEGATE

(to surrender)

§

 

You were already well beyond tired and way past drunk when you heard him call your name as you were trying to crawl into your bunk. You turned a little too quickly and noticed the blue glow that could only be his laptop emanating from the back lounge. That's when you remembered that the bus he normally rode had broken down at the last stop. Perhaps you actually had a chance of getting him alone tonight. If you could tear him away from that damn computer long enough to make him notice you. And if he didn't already have plans.

"Porno again?" you ask him lightly, only half joking. You know what he likes. The words slur slightly and you whisper "fuck" under your breath. The vow of sobriety you have made has clearly been broken. He will be disappointed. You don't want to disappoint him.

Entering the lounge you are a bit put back when he doesn't look up. He doesn't even turn your way. Just points at the seat next to him and says something about the importance of you seeing what he is looking at. You sit down next to him obediently. Only words appear on the screen.

"What's this?" Your voice is deep. You're only half certain that you want him to notice.

"Just. Read it." The sentence that passes over his lips sounds on edge. It is hard to miss the almost desperation there, the way his breath catches in his throat. He is never desperate. Ever. His appeal is in his calm and indifferent demeanor. Whatever this is it must be good if it's made him act this way.

Only mildly interested in anything that requires any amount of thinking, you turn back towards the screen. Your dark eyebrows furrow as you try to concentrate through the drunken haze that is your reality. The writing in front of you seems to be some sort of story. Why Rikki is so enraptured by it you can't tell. Especially when you realize it's about him. Who the fuck reads a story about themselves? A story about...wait...holy fucking shit. This is a story about Rikki and Bret. Rikki and Bret fucking. Jesus, even in fiction he gets to have him more than you. You think it isn't fair. You hate that it's turning you on.

"Who wrote this?" you manage past parched lips.

Rikki only shrugs, not seeming to care at all about authorship. You realize suddenly that neither do you. Because that last line about Bret pushing Rikki onto the floor so he could get better access was good. Really fucking good. Good enough to make Rikki visibly aroused. Your eyes can't decide if they want to stay fixed to the screen or focused on the growing bulge straining against the thin layer of denim that covers the man next to you.

"This shit is really good." You nod your assent and force yourself to look at his face. You think his tone is slightly leading but are afraid you might be imagining it. You aren't. "Too bad it's always about me and Bret."

His voice is uncommonly soft. You barely hear it. Almost talk yourself into believing that you imagined it. But you want him to have said it. You want him to know that he's all that you need. You want to be all that he needs in return.

"Why do you think that is?" It's not so soft now. He seems more insistent. You would answer if you had any idea of what he wanted you to say. But you don't. The line you are walking is fine, slipping off could prove disastrous. His hand slips onto your thigh and his eyes search out your own. You swallow hard.

"It must be because Bret is so pretty." You try to laugh but the sound dies somewhere in your throat. Bret is pretty. But the idea of Rikki thinking so doesn't sit well. And the darkening of his eyes isn't helping any.

His fingers dig into your inner thigh and your muscles twitch involuntarily. "Pretty isn't everything."

In the back of your mind you know you should be at least slightly offended. He's insinuating you aren't pretty. But why should you be? You're a man. A man who likes motorcycles and hard liquor and big tits. A man who doesn't want to be pretty, doesn't need to be pretty. And fuck, with his long fingers boring into you, you hope you never are pretty if that will keep him around even twenty minutes more so he can finish what he's started.

"Close the door," he tells you plainly. You are torn between doing what he says and seeing what will happen if you don't. The pain he sometimes inflicts can easily blur into pleasure. There's that fine line again. It seems to define what the two of you have together. His hand pulls away and you relent, standing up and walking to the door. You silently shut and lock it.

"I didn't tell you to lock it."

You freeze where you are, hand still on the doorknob. CC and Bret are less than twenty feet away and probably not sleeping. He must know how uncomfortable this makes you. You're sure he does. But this is part of the game. How badly do you want him? How far will you go? You learned the answer to that long ago. As far as you need to. You've never once told him no.

Slowly you unlock the door and turn back towards him. His laptop is still open but it has been pushed aside onto the couch. He looks ready. His green eyes dark with desire and mischief. You say nothing as you kneel between his legs in the small space the sofa and coffee table allow you. Your hands run up the insides of his thighs and, while anyone else would have closed their eyes and prepared themselves for ecstasy, he doesn't even blink. He stares you down. Almost daring you to make a mistake.

As you unzip his jeans and pull out his already hard cock, you have a moment of hesitation. When did it come to this? How did you get here? Based on physicality alone, you should be the dominating one. You certainly look the part. And your personality is stronger than his as well. There is no logical reason why you should be on your knees catering to his every desire. No reason except for love. But then his fingers are fisting in your hair and he's pulling your mouth over him and you forget to remember anything you had been thinking about.

His hands hold your head in place, his hips rising from the couch erratically. Even when you're supposed to be the one giving pleasure he takes charge. Your mouth is just a vessel to him. And as much as you know that should hurt you, you can't stop the hardness straining against your jeans at the mere thought of it. You will let him use you. Being used is better than nothing. Especially being used by Rikki.

You feel his thighs tighten beneath your fingers and you know he is about to come. That is the only warning you get. He groans something undistinguishable and empties himself into your mouth and throat. You try to swallow it all but aren't surprised when you feel a few random drops slide down your chin. That seems to be all that makes Rikki smile. He likes to see his come on your face.

His eyes finally drift shut and his head falls back against the couch as you pop him out of your mouth with a slight slurping sound.  You smile up at him but he doesn't see you.  You rest your cheek on his leg but his hands don't brush against your skin.  They don't wipe the sweat from your forehead.  It's like you're not even there.  You contemplate getting up to leave.  Part of you even wants to.  Maybe he had drugs or alcohol or girls stashed away for the night.  Or, your mind wanders as your heart tightens in your chest, maybe he'd rather be with Bret.

It's always something.  Some object of his desire is always pulling Rikki away from you.  No matter how hard you try or how much you please him it seems he always has somewhere better to be.  And people wonder why you're so standoffish.  Half the time you're in your own little world trying to figure out how to make him feel for you even a quarter of what you feel for him.

When you venture a glance in his direction again he has returned to staring at you.  His gaze isn't quite empty but it's not exactly warm and inviting, either.  He isn't smiling.  Smirking, maybe.  But never a smile.  Not at a time like this.  The look he gives you makes it clear that he has no other plans tonight.  You are the only one on his menu.

Without a word he puts his hands on your shoulders and applies slight pressure.  You rock backwards onto your heels and stand up slowly until his hands are resting not so gently on your hips.  He hooks his fingers into the belt loops on your jeans and pulls himself to his feet.  You're forced to lean back at an awkward angle so the both of you can stand in such a cramped area.  The muscles in your forearms tighten as his firm thigh brushes against the zipper on your jeans.  With wide eyes you take a small step to the side but Rikki grabs your flimsy blue t-shirt with both hands and pulls you back to him almost toppling both of you over.

"Don't."  One word before his mouth is on yours.  You're not sure that you can call this a kiss.  Kisses aren't supposed to hurt.  They aren't supposed to encompass clinking teeth and bitten lips and a thin stream of blood slipping from the corner of your mouth.  But this does.

His hands flatten against your chest and then he pushes.  You feel your footing slip and make a vain attempt at catching yourself before realizing it's futile.  You briefly wonder what you've done to put him in this kind of mood.  Your mind goes blank when the back of your head and your spine hit the hard table below with a crack.  You think you hear him laugh.

The mixture of alcohol and slight head trauma leave your world spinning.  When your senses finally refocus he is on top of you.  His now bare chest and torso pressing against your body and even with your head pounding you wish your own clothing was no longer between you.  You groan in pain as he grabs your hair and pulls your face just inches from his.

"You fucking taste like whiskey," he growls.

Unable to hold his gaze your shame takes over and you look away.  "I'm sorry."

He takes your face roughly in one hand and unless you close your eyes you have no choice but to look at him.  Closing your eyes will only make it worse.  His fingers tighten and you wonder if you'll have bruises in the morning.  Probably.

"You're damn right you're fucking sorry.  You're always fucking sorry.  And why the fuck don't you look at me when I'm talking to you?"  He should be shouting but he isn't.  His voice is a hiss.  Barely a whisper.  He retreats from your body and stands up, arms crossed over his chest.  "Take your fucking clothes off."

Seconds ago you were wishing to be rid of your clothing.  Now you're almost mortified by the thought of it.  You're not sure how much more exposed you can get.  And all of this would be so much easier if you weren't visibly aroused.  Your eyes fall to the open zipper of his jeans as your force yourself back to your feet.  You try to swallow but your mouth is overwhelmingly dry.

He stands unimpressed as you peel your t-shirt off and toss it to the floor.  You fix your eyes on where it lands.  "Look at me," he commands.  And you do.  Your hands shake and you find yourself fumbling with unbuttoning your jeans, a task you do with ease on an every day basis.  You finally get it undone and slide the zipper down.  You choke back a sigh as you push your jeans over your hips and your erection feels the release it has needed.  With some difficulty you manage to get your jeans completely off without breaking his gaze.  The heat and redness spread through your body as you get down on all fours on the coffee table.

"No," he tells you, his voice even.  "I don't want you like that."

Your breath catches in your throat as you turn over so you are lying on your back.  He must see your nervousness.  He wouldn't have that gleam in his eyes if he didn't.  His jeans are low on his hips as he strokes himself slowly, walking towards you.  You see the pre-come glisten as he spreads it over himself and you realize suddenly that he won't be using lube tonight.  You try to remember to relax.

"Do you want this?" he questions, his tone leading.  There's no need to answer.  He knows that you do.

He continues to stroke himself as he kneels on the low table, pulling you to him roughly and making short time of placing your long legs over his shoulders.  He gives no warning before entering you fully and you can't help but cry out as you grip the edges of the table in intense pain.

He's fucking you now and as degraded as he's made you feel your cock is so hard it hurts.  Every muscle in your body is in rebellion.  Every limb has been erotically burned.  You would scream if your other band mates weren't so close.  If they didn't have the luxury of walking in through the door he forced you to leave unlocked.

The pain begins to melt away as he pulls out almost completely before entering you again.  You bite the inside of your cheek as your sweaty back slides across the table.  His hands tighten around your legs, attempting to hold you in place.  You know you are pleasing this man.  Your one desire.  The only person you want that you can never wholly have.  His pleasure is enough for you.  He hasn't even touched you yet but you feel sticky liquid dribble onto your stomach.  You clench your jaw and hold back.  If you finish before him there will be hell to pay.

His pace speeds up and you fight to keep your eyes open.  His dark green gaze feels like fire on your skin.  Breathing is nearly impossible.  His soft but insistent moans push you closer to the edge of oblivion.  You want to reach up and touch him but are afraid of what his reaction will be.  You don't want to risk doing something that will make him stop.

Your world spirals out of control when he reaches between your bodies and grips you firmly with one hand.  He strokes you in time with his already mind-blowing actions.  You don't think you can take much more.  Clenching down around him you try to push, pull, or shove him over the edge with you.  His grasp on your cock tightens.

"Come with me."  They are the three most beautiful words you think you've ever heard.  And then he follows them up with, "let me hear you."

Your hips raise and your neck arches.  The chords in your arms are prominent as you stop caring about anything and reach up to grab his shoulders, forcing him closer to you.  You want to kiss him, to scream that you want him, need him, love him.  But all you manage is a deep, "fuck, yes," before spilling onto your own stomach.  You feel his release almost simultaneously.  As the two of you slip over the edge he lets go and collapses on top of you, biting at your shoulder and drawing blood.  Still in control, you think.  Still causing pain where there should be only pleasure.

Before you can fully recover from your orgasm he is pulling away and zipping up his jeans.  He retrieves his laptop from the couch and then fishes a cigarette from his pocket.  You want one as well but he doesn't seem to be offering.  You feel obligated to get dressed but you can't find the strength to move from the table.

"Where are you going?" you manage when you notice his hand on the doorknob.  The pain on your face is apparent.

He smirks.  "To see Bret."  The door closes behind him with a soft click.  Yet again he has left you alone.