Oh, Jesus Christ. Martin's eyes go wide, staring hard at the wall above the cot for a few healthy ticks, any coherent thought briefly overtaken by static. Of all he might've found time to anticipate, John simply telling him to get on with it was not even close. It could just be a delaying tactic, he thinks, but then he hears John typing, his fingers flying across the laptop keyboard with soft but decisive attention, and then John urges him to hurry, and Christ.
Martin just barely suppresses a whimper, which comes out more like an uneven, faintly melodic exhalation. Too deeply invested in playing the part of sheepish and caught to really let loose yet, even as his balance wobbles and he reaches with trembling hands to do as he's been told. He can't even keep upright for more than a moment, sucking in another sharp breath as his knees buckle and he lets himself down onto the floor, and then — Christ, here he is kneeling on the floor and pulling himself off while John just sits at his desk, not even watching him, and he feels — he feels pathetic, except that isn't the right word at all because it's incredible. John's found so many ways to treat him the way he wants to be treated, variously restraining him or forcing him to wait or any number of playful exercises of control. But Martin's never felt quite so powerless or — or filthy, and he never quite realized how good that would be. And that's it, he thinks. It's not just the fantasy of helplessness; it's taking his shame, a thing that has always held him back and weighed him down, and letting it become artifice, a tool that he's using just like the rest of it. To let himself feel shameful, like it's a mask to be worn for the purposes of his own entertainment, and not the core of him.
He does whimper, in the end, a plaintive, truncated sound as he squeezes himself a little tighter; then his voice gives out, his muscles tensing sharply as he comes into his hand, curling over himself for a few shuddering moments before his body slackens and he slumps down a little more heavily on the floor.
Well. God, he didn't think he was actually going to come this fast. He cannot possibly bring himself to regret it, not when it was so good and came with such a momentous fresh understanding of himself; but it does feel, distantly, like a shame when John put so much work in only to have it over like this.
Maybe it'll simply be a relief to have it done and done successfully, though, and Martin finally looks up, seeking his eyes, an adoring smile starting to touch his lips.
no subject
Martin just barely suppresses a whimper, which comes out more like an uneven, faintly melodic exhalation. Too deeply invested in playing the part of sheepish and caught to really let loose yet, even as his balance wobbles and he reaches with trembling hands to do as he's been told. He can't even keep upright for more than a moment, sucking in another sharp breath as his knees buckle and he lets himself down onto the floor, and then — Christ, here he is kneeling on the floor and pulling himself off while John just sits at his desk, not even watching him, and he feels — he feels pathetic, except that isn't the right word at all because it's incredible. John's found so many ways to treat him the way he wants to be treated, variously restraining him or forcing him to wait or any number of playful exercises of control. But Martin's never felt quite so powerless or — or filthy, and he never quite realized how good that would be. And that's it, he thinks. It's not just the fantasy of helplessness; it's taking his shame, a thing that has always held him back and weighed him down, and letting it become artifice, a tool that he's using just like the rest of it. To let himself feel shameful, like it's a mask to be worn for the purposes of his own entertainment, and not the core of him.
He does whimper, in the end, a plaintive, truncated sound as he squeezes himself a little tighter; then his voice gives out, his muscles tensing sharply as he comes into his hand, curling over himself for a few shuddering moments before his body slackens and he slumps down a little more heavily on the floor.
Well. God, he didn't think he was actually going to come this fast. He cannot possibly bring himself to regret it, not when it was so good and came with such a momentous fresh understanding of himself; but it does feel, distantly, like a shame when John put so much work in only to have it over like this.
Maybe it'll simply be a relief to have it done and done successfully, though, and Martin finally looks up, seeking his eyes, an adoring smile starting to touch his lips.