josephine_marrs: Merlin reading a book. (pic#6497413)
[personal profile] josephine_marrs


      The party was well underway by the time that Arthur and Merlin arrived. It was clear that there were several more hours of fun to be had before people would start to lose steam. The First Saturday parties were always a welcome time to meet new people, chat it up with old acquaintances, and show off – a toy, a slave, an outfit, a technique. This was Lance’s first time hosting, and he was very keen on his guests enjoying the setup that he had painstakingly installed in his basement. A trip down there showed that his efforts had been thorough, indeed; an adjustable spanking bench and a homemade St. Andrew’s cross both gleamed with fresh, black paint, as did the racks installed in the walls to hold visitors’ equipment. A leather sling – that had been made by Lance, too – hung from sturdy bolts set into the ceiling. The furnishings were being well-used, too; Gwen was currently having a wonderful time with Freya in the sling, while Gwaine was just starting something salacious with Percy, whom he had strapped to the cross.
      An equally-enjoyable time could be had on the main level of the house. One could sit in the living room and have perfectly-normal conversation while enjoying a superb view of the goings on in the den beyond; the furniture there had been moved to the sides, so people could do scenes in a wide, empty expanse. Morgana had acquired a new cane, and was offering people tastings of it, and her skill.
      For Merlin, such sights were bittersweet. He had been advised before they had even left the house that they would not be engaging in any public scenes. He tried to contain his disappointment. Over the past three months, he and Arthur had attended the local munches, meeting loads of people, and learning about their various skills. Part of Merlin had yearned to finally get to not only see those skills put into use at this, his first party, but also to enjoy them first-hand. It wasn’t that he didn’t get to enjoy Arthur’s attentions every few nights or so, and there were their little rituals of discipline that got carried out in some fashion every day – he wasn’t neglected. But…perhaps he wanted to show off, too. What a great and wonderful and responsible sub he was, perhaps. The shame that he felt at such childish thoughts pulsed as virulently in him as did his vanity.
      He was allowed to sit on the floor, and rest his head on Arthur’s knee. And, every now and then, Arthur’s hand would come drifting down to ruffle through his hair, the way one pets a dog; or his fingertips would run along the rim of his ear, reminding him that yes, Arthur knew he was there, and Merlin was still his boy.
      And yet, as he watched Morgana lull yet another lucky person into heights of ecstasy with the sensuous use of her cane, Merlin felt tears rising to his eyes.
      “Merlin.” Arthur’s voice was sharp, getting his attention. He blinked back the tears, a flush rising into his cheeks. Had he been caught feeling sorry for himself?
      Arthur’s eyes burned down at him; Merlin wondered if he was silently being chastised for his bad form, but was too mortified to ask. “Go to the closet and get my cup from the inside pocket of my coat. Get yourself a drink.”
      Merlin stared up at him in disbelief, then roused himself before he had to be told twice. The conversation resumed quietly as he departed.

      The cup was a little silver-plated thing that had ‘Made In India’ stamped on the bottom of it. Merlin had seen it at a thrift shop and been taken with it, for some reason; it was pretty, in its own small, simple way. One day, Arthur had decided to come up with a use just for it, in their scheme of things. It normally sat on the dresser. Merlin hadn’t even seen him pick it up, let alone suspected that he’d tucked it into his coat.
      But there it was, just where Arthur had said it would be. Now, he had to figure out how to put it into practice.
      Because, at home, when Arthur said ‘Get yourself a drink,’ he meant that Merlin was to get the cup and cum in it, and then he was supposed to drink it. The location didn’t matter. It could be in the bedroom, in the living room, in the bathroom – well, anywhere but the kitchen, because Arthur somehow couldn’t stand the thought of cum and food occupying the same space – ironic, that. Anywhere else was fair game, though. Sometimes Arthur would watch, but often, he would continue to do whatever he was doing, not even deigning to lift his attention to Merlin even if he were jerking himself off right next to him. More often than not, the knowledge that he could tell Merlin to do something, and know that he was doing it, seemed to be good enough for him.
      Maybe…Arthur was saying that he could show off, anyway? He should be pleased. But somehow, suddenly, whipping himself out and stroking himself off in front of these various people didn’t seem so appealing. Not even down in the relative privacy of the basement. He actually felt himself freezing up at the mere thought of it.
      Across the room, Arthur glanced over, a brow raised. He almost looked sly.
      After a long moment of dithering, Merlin headed for the nearest bathroom.

      Once there, Merlin unzipped his jeans, and stared down at himself. Unlike all the other times, he found himself lacking the singular focus that normally had him rampant and seconds away from filling the cup. Instead, a myriad of emotions swirled inside of him.
Guilt, at having been so vain, and shame, for being such a terrible sub. And complete, utter, horrified embarrassment at the thought that Arthur had known he would be frustrated to the point of tears, and had brought his little cup so he could do his little routine and feel like a part of things after all. He was supposed to be the one who was considerate and thoughtful, not Arth…oh, wait, there he went again. Shame and hubris formed a maelstrom in his mind.
      A trio of persons moved down the hallway, and took up residence in the bedroom across the hall. They weren’t trying to be loud, but he could hear them now and then, nonetheless; bumps and clunks, mostly, as they moved about, the rise and fall of voices, bursts of laughter, and then the steady percussion of a beating. The sounds made him tremble. Even locked away in the bathroom, he could hear every stray footfall in the hallway, and he had to fight the irrational fear that someone would burst in and see him with his dick in his hand and his cup on the counter. The logical part of him knew that it would not be the weirdest thing that anyone there had ever seen…but they still wouldn’t completely understand. This cup thing was like an in-joke, between Arthur and him.
      He braced himself against the counter, closed his eyes, and thought of Arthur.
      Arthur’s eyes, sharp and piercing, able to pin him down and bore through him. Arthur’s mouth, so often set in a thin, judgmental line, but breaking out into a brilliant smile when he felt genuine pleasure. Arthur’s hair, soft and smelling like his expensive herbal shampoo; Arthur’s body, broad and firm and warm, wrapped in his arms and pressed against him first thing in the morning…
     He felt himself relaxing a little...or rather, exchanging the confused tension that had gripped him a moment before, with the familiar, expectant excitement that he always felt, at the thought of pleasing Arthur. His hand, which had been slowly and fitfully working back and forth, found the rhythm it had been struggling so hard to find.
      Arthur’s voice, sharp and brittle when it issued commands, warm and deep when it whispered obscenities into his ear. Arthur’s hands, firm and full of purpose, always; supple and crushing around his throat, iron-hard and crashing against his ass.
      The muffled sounds next door now made him tremble with ecstasy, for they were a part of his thoughts, now. In this mixture of memory and reality, Arthur stood over him, the whip crashing down, watching his body rock and squirm with each impact…
      He remembered the cup on the counter, fumbled frantically for it, and brought it beneath him just in time. His cry as he came echoed hollowly off of the walls. He hissed softly as he milked every last drop into the cup, and shuddered as he scraped the rim against his tip to ensure that nothing went to waste.
      His cum felt hot and cloying on his tongue, tinged with a slight metallic taste from the cup itself. He caught sight of himself in the mirror as his cheeks hollowed and his throat worked to suck and swallow it down; he blushed deep crimson, and hung his head. Good Lord, he didn’t even know how he felt about himself looking at him.
      After a moment, he rinsed the cup out and dried it off, and ventured back out, and down the hall.

      “Feel refreshed?” Arthur asked, as he returned.
      “Yes.” Merlin stooped to kiss him, the taste of his spunk still on his lips. Arthur’s tongue flicked briefly to mine a taste of it.
      “Thank you,” Merlin murmured, as they leaned away from each other again.
      Arthur grinned.
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October 2015

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