Rating: 18 - non-con sex
Story: Radial: Unravel
Challenge: Fudge Ripple #19 - Domination; Marmalade #12 - Camera
Topping: Whipped Cream - Milos is 17.
Word Count: 3,366
Summary: Sometimes Milos's customers want something he doesn't, and he doesn't always get the chance to decline, but the kindness of strangers can help when things get (more) unpleasant.
Notes: This was also done for yesterday's FOTD - Recusant, but kind of got away from me... Also, although the age of consent for sex in the UK is 16, the legal age for prostitution is 18.
He was used to nudity, it didn’t bother him. What did bother him was the way the businessman stared at him, standing only a short distance away with his hands on his hips. He knew what he was getting and he’d already made up his mind—or Milos wouldn’t now be standing stark naked in this hotel room.
He flinched as the man took two or three quick steps to bring them so close they were touching, and suddenly there were hands on him, grazing his shoulder blades, his hips, sliding over and cupping his buttocks; pressing him hard against his customer. He knew it should feel nice, but instead it felt... strangely unpleasant: he was familiarising himself with his commodity, nothing more.
His commodity would just prefer to get down to business.
Teeth joined the roving hands, scraping across his shoulder and neck and he let out a faint grunt as a finger pressed into him. He should be making more of an effort to sound turned on—customers with rooms sometimes let him stay overnight, as long as they were happy with him—but something felt off, nagging at him.
Strong hands gripped his shoulders and he just about managed to suppress the second flinch, when suddenly the sheets came up to meet him and his arms were twisted painfully behind his back. “What the hell are you doing?!”
“Hold still.” Fabric scraped across the insides of his wrists.
That was all the warning he needed; wrenching himself free, he scrambled across the bed and made a break for the door. “No fucking way!”
The man’s palm slapped with a bang against the woodwork as Milos grabbed the handle. “I’m paying, you do what I tell you.”
“No!” His knuckles turned a pale grey as he tightened his grip on the metal but the door, with the hand still pressed hard against it, wouldn’t budge.
The voice was soft; he didn’t dare look at its owner. “You didn’t stipulate what I could and couldn’t do when I picked you up.”
“I’m telling you now, I’m not doing it.” He stared fixedly at the door, willing it to open without any real expectation. “If you’re not fine with that, I’ll go. Keep your money.”
“You’ll do what I tell you.” The door came to meet him as fast as the bed had and hit twice as hard. “Understand?”
“No,” he gasped, trying to squirm away without success as the man’s hands wrapped around his wrists again, pinning them behind his back. “Not happening. Let me go!”
The door whirled away as he was half-marched, half-thrown towards the bed, yelling his protests every step of the way until the mattress slammed into his legs and his chest hit the quilt. “If you don’t shut up,” the man growled, wrapping the thin fabric around his wrists until they could barely move, “I’ll have to shut you up myself.”
“Fucking try it,” Milos spat.
Out of the corner of his eye he could see a smile spread across the man’s youthful features. “If you insist.”
“Wait, no!” He yelped, fighting to free his hands with renewed vigour as the man vanished from his limited frame of vision, struggling to push himself to his feet. “I didn’t mean—” The rest of the sentence was cut off as one hand pressed down on his back and part of his T-shirt was shoved unceremoniously in his mouth.
“That’s much better,” the man muttered, easily ignoring the flailing legs as the dokkalfa tried—and failed—to kick him, a plan which proved to be particularly fruitless when his thighs were grabbed and parted; he whimpered through the material as thumbs dug into his muscles. Any other resistance he tried to put up was pitiful and futile, and the fingers returned to roaming over and into his body, far less gentle this time. “Much, much better...”
He whimpered again, able to feel exactly how much better it was through the fabric of his customer’s tailored trousers.
And then suddenly the pressure between his thighs was gone, the only audible indication being muffled footsteps across the carpet and the click of the bathroom light. Panic made his legs turn to jelly; the pile sank between his toes but wouldn’t let him gain enough purchase to stand; the T-shirt refused to be spat from his mouth no matter how hard he pushed at it with his tongue. Dread crushed his chest.
He’d almost managed to push himself to his feet when he heard from behind, “where do you think you’re going?” He tried to twist around but the bed crashed into him again, the hand between his shoulderblades shoving with greater force than before. A complimentary bottle of conditioner hit the sheets beside him. “We’re only just getting to the good stuff.”
His stifled cries of no! were ignored; he expected nothing less. He supposed he should be glad that absolutely anything was being applied to make it easier, but it didn’t feel like a blessing as the bottle vanished from his line of sight again. He’d hoped for another finger or two, just to put off the inevitable, but the harsh grating of a zip told him his luck was well and truly out now.
Like he hadn’t already guessed.
He pressed his face against the quilt and tried to force himself to relax—which worked about as well as expected: not at all—and moaned as the head of a cock that felt bigger than it had any right to be was pushed into him with indecent haste, not stopping until he could feel the cloth of his customer’s pants pressed against his backside.
Above him the man let out a guttural sigh, flexing and shifting his fingers until he had a good grip on Milos’s bony hips. Using them as a prop, he withdrew slowly until he was halfway out, then slammed back into the alfa with enough force to elicit another sharp moan that trailed into a barely-audible plea of “stop...”
“Sorry,” he muttered, repeating the action to the sound of a muffled groan, “but you knew what you were getting into when I picked you up.”
It turned out it really was impossible to yell fuck you, you bastard when his mouth was full of fabric. He could only ball his hands into fists, strain his wrists against the binding and whimper expletives into the T-shirt as his customer hammered rhythmically into him.
The makeshift lube wore off quickly; the man didn’t appear inclined to apply any more, savouring instead the friction that had Milos digging his short nails into his palms and screwing his eyes closed, reminding himself that it was only pain, it’d be over soon and he could go, just hold on and don’t cry.
When the man came—sinking his fingers hard into Milos’s flesh as he ground into him, pumping the last few drops out and punctuating each thrust with a deep growl—Milos thought he would pass out with relief.
He withdrew, leaving Milos with a sickening hollow feeling, and the click of the light switch told the alfa that he was back in the bathroom, no doubt cleaning himself up. Now would be a prime time to make a run for it, if only his legs would agree to co-operate, something they steadfastly refused to do. He lay drained, his chest heaving against the sweat-soaked sheets, unable to muster the energy to even raise his head when he heard the door shut again. The voice, floating from the other side of the room, carried the same brisk tones he’d used when he’d picked him up outside a club, “I suppose you want paying.”
He just about managed a feeble nod.
From behind came a soft sound then, to his horror, he felt something wrap around his ankles and draw them sharply together; he tried to kick out, with no success. “Shame. I don’t pay people who don’t do what they’re told.”
Milos tried to let out a scream, but all he could manage was a muffled yelp. The world spun again as an arm looped around his chest and dragged him upright before another caught him behind the knees and suddenly he was in his customer’s arms like he weighed nothing—which was probably the case. He tried to thrash about, writhing against him, but with his arms behind his back and his legs restrained it was completely ineffectual.
To add insult to injury he even smacked his head on the doorframe as he carried the alfa out the room.
The hotel hallway was, unsurprisingly considering the time of night, deserted as the man carried the squirming Milos along it, ignoring every single struggle and smothered curse and only dropping his legs once, when he paused to shove the T-shirt more firmly into his mouth and whispered in his ear, “don’t make so much noise, you really don’t want anyone to see me with you.”
The look Milos levelled at him must have done a good job at expressing his thoughts on that subject; he got an insincere grin and a hand scrubbed through his hair in return before his legs were scooped up again and they continued around a corner and towards what looked like a dead end. Visions of being abandoned, gagged, in a corner swam into his mind; he resumed failing to kick the human with vigour.
Just before they reached the end of the hall, the man came to a stop and turned. Milos’s eyes widened at the sight of the service elevator doors, which opened with a sigh as the man applied his elbow to the button. Again every attempt to shout no! ended up a futile waste of breath, but at least he could say he tried, at least far as he could say anything.
If he hoped to be lowered carefully, that was another one dashed: he hit the floor with a crash that jolted the lift, his cry of pain held back by the shirt. “Someone’ll find you, eventually.” The human crouched and fluffed his hair again, laughing as Milos turned his head away and closed his eyes to escape the dented and distorted reflection facing him. “Sweet dreams, little disobedient whore.” The doors sighed shut again behind him, leaving him cold, naked and alone.
Not a situation he intended to let continue. He counted to sixty in his head—what he hoped was a good space of time—flopped over and began to drum his heels hard against the lift wall, screaming against the T-shirt, trying to trap the hanging material between the floor and his shoulder and jerk it from his mouth. No hope, none at all that anyone would hear him, but he had to try...
How long he’d been doing it he’d lost track. His heels had gone numb and he’d given up trying to remove the fabric, much like his hoarse throat had convinced him to give up screaming. When the door opened and a young man wearing a uniform and a startled expression stared down at him, he thought he’d finally fallen asleep or had started hallucinating. Even when his now thoroughly-chewed T-shirt was pulled from his mouth and he flexed his jaw, wincing, did it not feel real. The only time he started to believe he wasn’t dreaming was when a young woman in a similar uniform clattered to a halt in front of him and joined the boy in untying him. Shouts he’d only been dimly aware of started to clarify around him.
“Are you okay? What happened?!”
He shook his head dumbly, then nodded, then concluded he didn’t know what gesture he was supposed to be making and just shut his eyes instead. He only opened them when hands grabbed his own; he yanked them free again in shock, scrabbling away until his back was against the cold metal and only comprehending that his expression was mirrored in hers when sanity began to prevail.
“What happened?” She asked again, reaching out a tentative hand towards him and keeping her gaze firmly on his face.
“Nothing,” he muttered, fully aware how ridiculous he sounded. “Nothing happened. Can I have my T-shirt?”
She passed it to him, her lips set in a disapproving line. “You’re lying. You’re not a guest either. Do you want me to review the CCTV footage?”
For a moment, as he tugged the shirt over his head, the world was blessedly dark and free from awkward questions. Unfortunately the peace didn’t last and her face came back into focus far too soon for his comfort. “It wasn’t—” He paused, pulling the creased hem down to cover what little modesty he had remaining; nudity in a professional situation was one thing, but this was just ridiculous. Then he stared down at his bare legs. “Fuck! My clothes!”
“‘Fuck’ I think is the right word,” she said, smiling faintly. “Please don’t believe I’m naïve, sir—”
“‘Sir’,” he snorted, looking down again.
“—but I can guess at why you’re here. In the hotel, I mean, not—” She looked away herself, a faint blush rising and doing nothing for her assertion that she wasn’t naïve. “And—”
“Can we not do this in the lift?” He interrupted, climbing slowly to his feet. God, his ankles hurt... And the rest of him. “It’s kinda embarrassing.”
She led him to the office behind the front desk, exchanging glances with the uniformed man now and again until Milos finally—as much to save himself from the incessant questioning and get his clothes and bag back as anything else—gave up the businessman’s room number, where he turned and ducked into one of the lobby elevators.
A pervasive exhaustion began to settle over him as he balanced carefully in one of the scratchy office chairs, holding his T-shirt between his legs, and his eyes were dipping closed as a loud voice cut through the silence of the lobby and jolted him awake again with a burst of unreasoning terror. “What the hell is this about?”
“I believe these belong to you, sir.” Her voice was pleasant, professional and utterly artificial. “We found them in the service elevator.”
“How odd.” His voice matched hers for sheer unbelievability. “I wonder how they got there.”
“Yes. I wonder.” Milos slid from the chair with a wince and padded up to the half-open door, peering through it and trying not to be seen. The receptionist was smiling prettily up at the now dressing gown-clad businessman. “You are aware, sir, that the police are cracking down on prostitution in this area?”
“What’s that got to do with me?” He snapped, glaring down at her and folding his arms. “I’d like my ties, please.”
“I just thought I should let you know, sir, as they are more interested in the people paying for prostitutes than they are in the prostitutes or, dare I say, rent boys themselves. It is illegal to purchase their services, you know.”
“My ties. Now.” The flush didn’t suit him: his cheeks turned an unpleasant crimson.
“Perhaps you would like to return the items of clothing from your room that don’t belong to you, first.” Her smile never wavered in the face of his increasing fury.
“I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about, you mad bitch.”
She raised a perfectly shaped eyebrow. “Really? So if I review the hotel videos from earlier this evening, I won’t see you arriving with a clearly underage elf boy? And the hall cameras won’t show you both going into your room? And,” she paused as his face turned from red to a vivid purple, “I’m sure, sir, that they won’t show you leaving again with this same boy, minus his clothes?”
He didn’t say a word, but Milos could detect a very faint shaking that he suspected had everything to do with rage.
“I’m sure the police would be very interested to review that footage, of course. It clearly can’t be misconstrued that you’re doing anything of the sort, can it?”
He turned on his heel and stalked back towards the lift, shoving past the male receptionist who let out an angry “hey!” and made a surreptitiously offensive gesture at his retreating back. The blonde receptionist tapped her foot on the marble, checking her watch now and again, but made no move to come back into the office. She obviously had more faith in her words than he did, because she was clearly wasting her time.
The gentle ping of the lift door made him realise he’d almost fallen asleep standing up. It also made him realise she was right all along. The businessman took two steps out the doors and dropped Milos’s stuff on the floor, an impassive expression plastered across his face. “My ties. Please.”
She pursed her lips, but handed them over. He positively snatched them from her grip. “Have a pleasant night, sir.”
“Yeah. Right.” He growled at her, eyes narrowed, and opened his mouth to add to it; he closed it again as he saw her expression. Without another word, the two strips of silk hanging from one fist, he stormed back into the lift.
“I know you’re there,” she said after the doors had closed again. “You can come out now.”
He complied, crouching carefully to retrieve his tattered underwear and jeans. “Thank you...”
She reached down to touch his shoulder, her hand halting inches above it as he shifted nervously away. “How much was he supposed to pay you?”
“Fifty quid,” Milos murmured, suddenly aware how stupid it sounded in the luxurious surroundings of the hotel lobby.
Her expression of disbelief didn’t help. While he began to pull his clothes back on she moved back behind the desk and started to tap at the keyboard. He just had to hope that no one walked through the front doors while he dressed himself, he didn’t feel the equal of trying to explain himself just now. Once clothed and jacketed and with his sneakers pulled on, he checked through his satchel. All present and correct, not that there was much to account for in the first place. He wouldn’t have put it past him to take what little money he had left in the back pouch. Secret was only secret so long as your bag didn’t jangle when you moved.
He stood again, wincing, and turned to come face to face with the receptionist proffering notes at him. “What the—”
“This is what you’re owed.” She held the money out towards him; he stared down at it blankly. “With a little extra for inconvenience, of course.”
“It’s all accounted for.” She smiled. “It’s down as ‘adult entertainment charges’ on his bill. I don’t think he’ll be disputing it.”
“But—” He took the notes with nerveless fingers. “I wasn’t expecting—”
She ignored his halting words and gave him an earnest look. “If you want me to call the police, I’m more than happy to, you know.”
He shook his head again, sliding the notes into the hidden pouch and trying to compose himself. “No, too many questions... Not really a good idea.” He smiled half-heartedly at her and hoped she’d understand.
“If you’re sure...” Her words trailed off at his vigorous nodding. “If you need anything else, please ask and I’ll see what I can do.”
For a minute he was tempted to push his already shaky luck and ask for a room, a bed, just something he could sleep in, but the last thing he wanted was to embarrass her with stupid requests. “I’m fine. I can take care of myself.” Except when you can’t, his brain added. He ignored it.
She nodded, then looked down at the desk, the air suddenly awkward between them. She was probably thinking exactly the same thing, he realised sadly.
It wasn’t a bad night out: it was summer and unusually warm and there were worse nights to be out in. He raised his hand in a weak wave, gave her an even weaker smile and walked through the front doors. This, he suspected, was going to be somewhere to avoid from now on.