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No Satisfaction
by mars
(it's all a lie. this did not happen.
STRONG NON-CONSENSUAL SITUATION WARNING.)
J.J. wore his old highschool uniform to the host club for several reasons. For one, a large number of the clientele had a thing for highschool boys, and if he was a little old, so what? He looked illegal, and they both liked it that way. For another, he was secretly thrilled that the uniform fit better than it ever had when he was actually in school, clinging just enough in just the right places to tease as much as it concealed. Not that he didn't love his typical glitter and shine in barely-there shirts and shorts, but somehow by wearing more, he made the men harder.
There was nothing he loved better than to tease, to skirt that dangerous edge where men lost control. The scent of innocence seemed to bring that out in the men he had an eye for. A shy smile, a nervous glance, the sticky-sweet hint of candy on his lips… they picked up on it like sharks on a trace of blood. He loved them to come to him ravenous, wanting, full of barely controlled desire and lust.
To tell the truth, he was otherwise sick of his job at the host club, which he'd taken on more as a game than anything else, an idle way to pass the time. But he was as addicted to the attention he got at the club as he was to sugar and ecstasy; he loved the way the men cooed over him when he sidled up to them and snuggled in their laps like a spoiled cat. He loved the things they bought him and the drugs they slipped him and the money that slid out of their hands as easily as water.
It was dangerous, he knew, to see them outside the club, to let them think that any of his affection could be genuine. And yet he couldn't help himself, not when they bought him clothes and took him to exotic restaurants he couldn't afford even on his "rock star" (ha, rock-some-day-maybe-a-star was perhaps more like it) pay. He rode in their fancy cars and he let them put their hands on his leg and sometimes up his leg and down his pants, and under his shirt and between his thighs. He liked the look in their eyes when they did it, the hint of wildness and the bare control. He liked the way their hands shook when they unbuttoned his neatly pressed dress-shirt or pulled down the zipper of his navy pinstriped pants.
As if they could barely contain themselves. As if they were that close to losing control.
Sometimes he teased and laughed and twisted away, pulling his clothes together, blushing and feigning embarrassment. Sometimes he let them have their way, let them strip him and fuck him, watched their eyes roll back and their thoughts forget their wives and other lovers for one brief, pure moment.
He let the foreign gentleman that called himself Kuro-san (black, how funny) take him home "to take some pictures of him" for all those reasons; he never let himself visit any of the clients' houses before, some deep-rooted fear he couldn't shake for all his addiction to their attentions. He couldn't leave if he wanted, not easily, he couldn't call for help and attract the attention of a dozen other people. But he was high on a double dose of candy, and on Kuro-san's sweet manner and the raw lust that he managed to mostly hide so well, that he forgot himself for a moment.
Stepping out of the limo, he thought that he could ask to go home and that he should, before it was too late. But somehow the words never made it out of his mouth. He followed Kuro-san blindly into the most gorgeously-appointed house he had ever seen, sprawling and traditional and yet somehow still full of glass and steel and modern. His parents were well off in Tokyo, but their spacious apartment seemed like a tiny cubicle compared to Kuro-san's luxury.
Kuro never touched J.J. out of turn. Perhaps that was also why he came-- not because he was foolish enough to think that this meant he would be safe, but rather, he wanted to see what would finally break Kuro's carefully controlled façade. But even inside, he was a perfect gentleman, offering J.J. a drink, taking his coat. J.J. accepted a bit of sake gratefully, and was surprised when his hands shook taking the cup. He even thought, after a couple of cups, that Kuro-san was rather handsome: dark-haired with salt-and-pepper sideburns, a rich mustache, deeply tanned skin, and strange, depthless blue eyes.
Kuro-san maintained his excuse of wanting to take photos of J.J.; he emerged from a small side room with an old-fashioned camera, heavy and expensive looking, which he laid on the coffee table in the living room. "I'm glad you came," Kuro-san told him, sitting next to him with a scotch on the rocks, thigh barely touching J.J.'s. "I've wanted to do this for some time now."
J.J. giggled and laid his hand on Kuro-san's knee; but he found his advance turned away, his fingers gently returned to his own lap. The color that rushed into his cheeks was entirely unexpected.
"Please, that's not why I brought you here." Kuro's face was strange and unreadable. J.J. couldn't be certain if he was teasing or if he meant it. But he liked to push, so he pushed: he moved again, took up Kuro's tie in his fingers, climbing them up towards the man's throat, loosening it.
"I came all this way so I could finally see what's under that nice suit of yours, and now you won't show me?" He gave a little pout, dared a little to climb into Kuro's lap.
Kuro wrapped his hands around J.J.'s waist, and he suddenly realized how large they were, fingertips nearly touching each other. His grip was harsh and unkind, pushing J.J. away from him. "Stop that. This isn't the club-- you don't have to do that."
"You're hurting me, you know," J.J. said, at first because it hurt and then to pout, because he had never met anyone who could resist his pout. But the hands around his waist didn't release. Kuro's jaw worked and his fingers momentarily tightened. J.J. dropped his play-- the cry that escaped him was real and not engineered to tease. "You're-- it really hurts."
Kuro-san blinked, releasing J.J. abruptly, his lips thinning. "I'm sorry. But I told you to stop."
Behind his eyes, then, J.J. saw it, the fleeting loss of control, the heat of Kuro's blood. A tiny sense of triumph overtook the momentary fear in him, and he gave Kuro-san a brilliant smile. "I'm so bad, I know," he said, boyish, "I just can't help myself around you." He reached out a hand, hesitating, then stroked his fingers up Kuro-san's forearm. "Please don't be angry?"
Kuro's frown softened, and he stroked J.J.'s face. "You don't even know how to be anything else, do you?"
J.J. smiled indulgently and played dumb over the protest that surged inside him. "What do you mean?"
Kuro shook his head, standing and placing his glass on the table. He took up the camera and waved it a bit at J.J. "Ready?"
J.J. shrugged and nodded. When he'd come, he hadn't thought there'd be actual photography involved. At least, non-nude photography. "Um, what do you want me to do?"
"Just smile," Kuro said, lifting the camera. J.J. smiled and Kuro snapped off several shots until he thought he'd go blind from the flash.
"I'm kind of warm," J.J. tugged at his tie, shrugged out of his blazer as Kuro fiddled with his camera. "And you're so far away."
Kuro laughed as he raised the camera again, watched J.J. through it. "You really can't help yourself, can you?"
J.J. pouted, but his fingers were already at his own tie, stripping it off. His shirt was next, one button at a time, never taking his eyes of Kuro staring at him through the camera lens. "Please come over here?" he said, softly, bringing both his knees under him on the couch. "I don't want any more pictures. I want you to touch me. You hardly ever do. Don't you like me?" He left his shirt half-undone, tugged at the fastenings of his slacks next.
The camera snapped off three more pictures. J.J. could see Kuro's chest rising and falling harder, watched him lower the camera and fuss with it to cover the slight tremble in his hands. He dropped his eyes lower, letting Kuro see him look, licking his lips.
"Alright, Kiyoshi," Kuro said abruptly, "That was lovely but... Please get dressed again." His blue eyes were hard before he lifted the camera again.
"I don't want to," J.J. replied, voice just above a whisper. "Don't you want to see me...?" He hooked his thumbs in the waist of his slacks, shucked them off in one harsh motion. He stood in just his socks and briefs and kicked his pants away from him.
Kuro's answering frown was angry. J.J. saw that flicker of raw something flash over his face before the old man got his control back. "Kiyoshi..." Kuro said, and there was a hint of warning in his voice. "Don't waste my time."
J.J. was stubborn, wanting that wild loss of control from Kuro. He stalked over, laced his hands in the small of Kuro's back, eyes daring. "Don't waste mine, Kuro-san. We both know why I came here."
Kuro's jaw worked, and he didn't look at J.J. for a long moment. "I had thought--" When he set the camera down it was sharply, with such a noise that J.J. flinched. "Alright, Kiyoshi. If that's what you want." And then his hand was rough and fisted in J.J.'s hair, jerking his head back, his mouth coming down to crush J.J.'s.
As soon as he broke the kiss for air, J.J. cried out, his hands flying up to pry at the fist in his hair. "You're hurting me," he gasped, but Kuro made no reaction other than to shove him back onto the couch, hard enough to knock the wind out of him. "Don't-- I didn't--"
"You want me to fuck you, that's right, isn't it?" Kuro's hands were on J.J.'s knees, wrenching them apart, and J.J. regretted stripping off his pants so eagerly. "Then I'll fuck you, you slut."
"Stop," J.J. whimpered, pushing Kuro back, "I want it but don't hurt me... I don't like pain--"
But Kuro wasn't listening; his mouth was hard on J.J.'s neck, sucking roughly, his fingers pinching J.J.'s arms as they held him down. "I thought you were so sweet, that I could save you from that place -- but you're just a slut like all the rest of them." J.J. heard the waistband of his underwear tear, and then Kuro's hands were on his sex. He couldn't help himself, arching into the touch of those callused fingers, an involuntary moan drawn out him. "I thought so," Kuro whispered hot into his ear. "I thought that's how you'd be."
He pressed J.J. into the couch with one palm, and stroked the boy's cock roughly with the other, watching J.J. writhe and cry and beg. J.J. tried to twist away, digging his nails into Kuro's forearm, but his cheeks were hot with pleasure as much as shame. "Come on you little slut," Kuro hissed against his neck. "Let's see you come."
"Don't call me that," he whimpered, but then he was moaning, unable to talk, as his unwanted pleasure curled and spiraled and peaked, and he was coming as Kuro demanded, out of control himself, shuddering.
"Wasn't that pretty?" Kuro pushed J.J.'s knees apart, positioned himself between them. "Now it's my turn."
J.J. was too groggy to react at first; then he was screaming as Kuro pressed into him, ripping through his resistance, barely slicking his way with a bit of spit and pre-cum. From there he only knew pain, and the cruel madness in Kuro's eyes, and the sound of his own voice overriding everything else. Kuro lasted long, too long, but finally he was spilling inside of J.J., collapsing on top, lost to his own pleasure.
He recovered quickly, standing and pulling up his pants, tugging J.J. up off the couch by his arm. J.J. hastily pulled his own clothes on, unable to meet Kuro's eyes, afraid of what he'd see there. Kuro grabbed him, kissed his ear, muttered, "Don't tell me that's not what you wanted."
J.J. looked up, into blue eyes fierce with posessiveness, with barely-satisfied want, naked hunger for J.J. He found he couldn't answer, though he'd thought he was going to say no; wasn't this, though, what he'd wanted, dancing on the edge of it for so long? For someone to finally lose it and fuck him with complete abandon? To be so desirable that a man couldn't help himself?
He didn't know.
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