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Saint Andrew and his cross. Mezzanine. Mature.
Saint Andrew and his cross
by Anchises
Mezzanine universe. Mature themes and content. Also contains notable kink. A transformative work.
JD Nielson is flying.
He's tied to a St Andrew's cross in a dungeon, and the flogger that Andrew -- the blessed Saint Andrew -- is wielding is falling on him rhythmically, steadily, incessantly, inexorably, and it's that beautiful iine between pain, pleasure and release that has him on the knife-edge of ecstasy.
Andrew, Saint Andrew, he knows. As a top, he's JD's one and only solo success -- the only one he's found without Mitchell's help who's been even half good enough to consider keeping around after the first hot sweaty endorphin-crazed release of lust, the only one who knows what the fuck he's doing, because the Internet is great, the Internet is good, praise be unto it, but it has fucked the leather scene all night without lube into a mangled hemorrhoidal mass of goatsean proportions. It's not the scene he -- he -- remembers, and perhaps it hasn't been since Tom stopped drawing and everybody just died all at once in a sarcoma-tinged blaze of pale, thin, emaciated glory, and that's a really interesting sociological question, about the lack of oral histories and cultural norms in a community where a large part of it died out in a decade, followed by a shifted paradigm of information exchange, leading to an exponential increase in the number of fuckwits who have no fucking idea what they're doing with a collar and a whip.
Andrew shifts to a different flogger; this one's a harder leather, more biting, and it snaps JD back into the present, the synapses and neurons firing pain-pleasure-pain-pleasure-pain-pleasure, and it's fucking beautiful, and he shifts his brain sideways into mindfulness, which isn't exactly neutral, but it's an easy gear for the speed he's traveling. Breathe in -- and the scent of the wood and the leather and the sweat and the lube and the man permeates his being. Breathe out -- and the air blowing out of his mouth is hot and dry and eddies past the end of his nose, and it still feels cool against his skin, compared with normal and especially compared with the fiery warmth that Andrew is beating into his shoulders.
Smoothly, Andrew changes his angle of attack and starts to flog JD's ass, and his primal hindbrain feels the animal urge to buck backwards, to snap the rings that attach his wrist and ankle restraints to the cross, although he's more likely to break himself. Andrew's a pro -- not a pro dom, but an absolute pro with his equipment, because it has to be fifteen minutes that Andrew's been flogging him, and he hasn't missed a stroke yet, and JD's entire ass is on fire, warming to the impacts of the flogger, and Mitchell always says that she could make tea by boiling water on his ass after he's been beaten, and ave Mitchell, gratia plena, domina tecum, benedicta tu, because the bitch is always fucking right, and he'd needed this.
"Nielson, you goatraping little bastard," she'd said, "if you don't sit the fuck down and stop pacing I swear to god I'm gonna call Andrew over to give you a reason not to."
And he'd flinched, and looked at her, and she'd leant back, put her laptop down carefully on the table, and said, "Oh, baby, God and all th'angelic host damn it and the Navy all to hell, I'm sorry, I've been so damned distracted that I didn't look up and notice. C'mere, baby, and I'll call him and see what his dance card looks like. Shh, babychild, come here, come here."
He had, because Mitchell knows best, which would be the most maddening thing in the entire galaxy if it wasn't so damned useful at times, and he'd knelt in front of her, and she'd placed her hands on his head like a blessing from Guanyin herself, and she'd picked up the phone.
"Andrew, honeybaby, it's Cammie Mitchell speakin'. Why, fine, thank you for askin', and yourself? Oh, keepin' goin', you know how it is," she'd drawled, in her most laconic southern belle voice. "I was jus' wonderin' whether you happened to be free later on this evenin' to take care of a little somethin' for me, well, a little someone, to tell you the truth. Mm-hmm. Mmm. Yeah. Well, then, honeybaby, why don't I bring himself and some cookies over around six? Yeah. Mm-hmm. Thank you, honeybaby, and I'll see you later. You take care. Buh-bye now."
Cammie had looked down at JD, kneeling at her feet, and given him a boxed ear. "You get your ass upstairs, Nielson, and you eat one of my nut and seed bars, because I ain't havin' you flogged on an empty stomach."
Which was how he'd ended up here, in the low light of the cool basement of Andrew's townhouse, a metal ring around his cock, a collar around his neck, and cuffs around his ankles and wrists, feeling the strokes of the flogger increase in frequency and intensity over his ass, which was on fire.
Andrew tapers off the strokes, alternating now between shoulders and ass, and JD can't help letting a little moan escape as his tenderized shoulders spark with further stimulation. Andrew's barely touching him with the flogger now, using it more as a fan than as a scourge, and then he stops, and it's like a gulf stretching out into time between JD and reality. And then there are fingertips brushing lightly, oh-so-feather-lightly across his ass and his shoulders, and he's shuddering with the sensation of it, shuddering backwards into it, yearning for more than just a gossamer-light touch, wanting to be shoved and yanked and torn and taken.
His wish, apparently, is Andrew's command, a few minutes later, because Andrew places his palms at the small of JD's back, and slides them up the sweat-sheen-slicked skin over his spine, then digs his thumbs into JD's shoulders and just squeezes his trapezius muscles, and JD doesn't know whether it's the expert flogging or, hey, the ridiculous amount of stress that he's been carrying up there, apparently, which is kind of a newsflash to him, and story at eleven, because the feeling is dislodging him from his hold on the situation, and he thinks he's probably moaning like a little bitch, but it feels good, really fucking good, and he lets go.
He doesn't know how long Andrew keeps working his shoulder muscles, until he hears another voice off to his right, saying "here, honeybaby, allow me," and hears the faint squeaking of the condom, and his mind tells him that Cammie must be unrolling it onto Andrew's dick, because Andrew's fingers are still digging into what must be fucking dents by now in JD's shoulders. And there's a snick of the cap of Andrew's favorite lube coming open. And holy fucking shit, Mitchell, that's cold, and he hears a tinkling laugh behind him, so he guesses that he must have said that out loud, and Andrew lets go of his shoulders and slaps his ass, hard, and says, sternly, "language, in front of the lady," and JD throws his head back and laughs, because that's not a lady, that's Mitchell, and there are two throats laughing behind him now, because he probably said that out loud too, and as Andrew leans in, bends at the knees and slides his cock into JD's ass, JD feels the long tail of the chuckles rumbling, and he really doesn't know whether it's him or Andrew or both who's laughing.
His focus shifts, then, to the long slow strokes in and out of his ass that Andrew's cock is making, and he's kind of decided that Andrew's cock is his new favorite cock in the whole fucking world, and then the fucking bastard must be doing thigh crunches as he's fucking JD, because that was his cock slamming into JD's prostate like a fucking freight train, and there's only so much of that that a man can take, and he's scrabbling for a hold on something, anything, which of course he can't fucking get because he's tied to this goddamned thing, and Andrew's a fucking bastard, and then JD realises that he should really try to hold himself back, because part of the agreement they have -- well, that Cammie and Andrew have -- is that Andrew won't stop fucking JD just because JD comes, because Andrew may be a pro and a gentleman but he's a top and a dom and a man. JD kind of rues that the second before he can't stop himself coming like he hasn't come in weeks, because it's irritating to be jackhammer fucked when you're coming down off an orgasm, but St Elizabeth of Hungary must be smiling down on him today, because his apron is full of roses, on account of Andrew shuddering once, twice, bucking into JD's ass almost as hard as a stroke of the flogger, and then leaning heavily forward onto him.
Cammie's light chuckle from behind them fades as she shuffle-thumps out of the room, and Andrew slides slowly out of JD's ass, and he feels a strange mixture of whole and empty. And then Cammie's returning with a pair of warm, wet washcloths, and she wipes JD's neck, back and shoulders down before getting rid of the lube, and love is...wiping the lube off of your gay boyfriend's ass after you've hooked him up with a top to give him what he needs for the evening.
He floats down as Andrew unclips his restraints from the cross, and Andrew walks him out into the hallway that leads to the stairs going back upstairs, where the usual firm cushion awaits him facing the wall. He hears rather than sees Andrew guiding Cammie up the stairs, and knows that it's time for cookies over coffee on the sofa in the den, because she always makes sure that after a submissive session he's sitting in shikantaza, and he can feel the nowness, the present, the quiddity, haecceity of it all, hic haec hoc, and he's breathing in, and out, and in, and out, and gradually his thoughts are slowing down to the point where he can just sit and observe them.
Upstairs, Cammie and Andrew will be talking the session through. If the dom's a random, Cammie will talk through the aftercare with JD afterwards, because God knows that there aren't enough guys around who even know what the word means, let alone are good at it. Andrew, though, does, and is, and there's always a JD-shaped space on the sofa between them.
He levers himself up out of the pose and stands, stretching, feeling a couple of vertebrae pop, and he gets that feeling of being just the right size for his skin again, with everything in bright focus. Everything, including the lube that Mitchell missed. He pads naked upstairs and pokes his head around the door.
"Hey. Can I grab a shower, big man? Herself didn't get all that lube off that you fucked into me."
Andrew grins, and Cammie snorts. "Sure," he says. "You know where everything is."
He does, so he throws himself in the shower and soaps up, and it's only a few minutes later that he's back downstairs with his boxer-briefs on.
"Hey, Mitchell," he says, walking into the den and giving his hair a final squeeze with the towel, "I figured out how to solve that lag problem with the satellites."
"You see, babydoll?" Mitchell says to Andrew. "I told you."
JD throws the towel at her and folds himself carefully into the spot between them.
"Thanks," he says, and he means it.
by Anchises
Mezzanine universe. Mature themes and content. Also contains notable kink. A transformative work.
JD Nielson is flying.
He's tied to a St Andrew's cross in a dungeon, and the flogger that Andrew -- the blessed Saint Andrew -- is wielding is falling on him rhythmically, steadily, incessantly, inexorably, and it's that beautiful iine between pain, pleasure and release that has him on the knife-edge of ecstasy.
Andrew, Saint Andrew, he knows. As a top, he's JD's one and only solo success -- the only one he's found without Mitchell's help who's been even half good enough to consider keeping around after the first hot sweaty endorphin-crazed release of lust, the only one who knows what the fuck he's doing, because the Internet is great, the Internet is good, praise be unto it, but it has fucked the leather scene all night without lube into a mangled hemorrhoidal mass of goatsean proportions. It's not the scene he -- he -- remembers, and perhaps it hasn't been since Tom stopped drawing and everybody just died all at once in a sarcoma-tinged blaze of pale, thin, emaciated glory, and that's a really interesting sociological question, about the lack of oral histories and cultural norms in a community where a large part of it died out in a decade, followed by a shifted paradigm of information exchange, leading to an exponential increase in the number of fuckwits who have no fucking idea what they're doing with a collar and a whip.
Andrew shifts to a different flogger; this one's a harder leather, more biting, and it snaps JD back into the present, the synapses and neurons firing pain-pleasure-pain-pleasure-pain-pleasure, and it's fucking beautiful, and he shifts his brain sideways into mindfulness, which isn't exactly neutral, but it's an easy gear for the speed he's traveling. Breathe in -- and the scent of the wood and the leather and the sweat and the lube and the man permeates his being. Breathe out -- and the air blowing out of his mouth is hot and dry and eddies past the end of his nose, and it still feels cool against his skin, compared with normal and especially compared with the fiery warmth that Andrew is beating into his shoulders.
Smoothly, Andrew changes his angle of attack and starts to flog JD's ass, and his primal hindbrain feels the animal urge to buck backwards, to snap the rings that attach his wrist and ankle restraints to the cross, although he's more likely to break himself. Andrew's a pro -- not a pro dom, but an absolute pro with his equipment, because it has to be fifteen minutes that Andrew's been flogging him, and he hasn't missed a stroke yet, and JD's entire ass is on fire, warming to the impacts of the flogger, and Mitchell always says that she could make tea by boiling water on his ass after he's been beaten, and ave Mitchell, gratia plena, domina tecum, benedicta tu, because the bitch is always fucking right, and he'd needed this.
"Nielson, you goatraping little bastard," she'd said, "if you don't sit the fuck down and stop pacing I swear to god I'm gonna call Andrew over to give you a reason not to."
And he'd flinched, and looked at her, and she'd leant back, put her laptop down carefully on the table, and said, "Oh, baby, God and all th'angelic host damn it and the Navy all to hell, I'm sorry, I've been so damned distracted that I didn't look up and notice. C'mere, baby, and I'll call him and see what his dance card looks like. Shh, babychild, come here, come here."
He had, because Mitchell knows best, which would be the most maddening thing in the entire galaxy if it wasn't so damned useful at times, and he'd knelt in front of her, and she'd placed her hands on his head like a blessing from Guanyin herself, and she'd picked up the phone.
"Andrew, honeybaby, it's Cammie Mitchell speakin'. Why, fine, thank you for askin', and yourself? Oh, keepin' goin', you know how it is," she'd drawled, in her most laconic southern belle voice. "I was jus' wonderin' whether you happened to be free later on this evenin' to take care of a little somethin' for me, well, a little someone, to tell you the truth. Mm-hmm. Mmm. Yeah. Well, then, honeybaby, why don't I bring himself and some cookies over around six? Yeah. Mm-hmm. Thank you, honeybaby, and I'll see you later. You take care. Buh-bye now."
Cammie had looked down at JD, kneeling at her feet, and given him a boxed ear. "You get your ass upstairs, Nielson, and you eat one of my nut and seed bars, because I ain't havin' you flogged on an empty stomach."
Which was how he'd ended up here, in the low light of the cool basement of Andrew's townhouse, a metal ring around his cock, a collar around his neck, and cuffs around his ankles and wrists, feeling the strokes of the flogger increase in frequency and intensity over his ass, which was on fire.
Andrew tapers off the strokes, alternating now between shoulders and ass, and JD can't help letting a little moan escape as his tenderized shoulders spark with further stimulation. Andrew's barely touching him with the flogger now, using it more as a fan than as a scourge, and then he stops, and it's like a gulf stretching out into time between JD and reality. And then there are fingertips brushing lightly, oh-so-feather-lightly across his ass and his shoulders, and he's shuddering with the sensation of it, shuddering backwards into it, yearning for more than just a gossamer-light touch, wanting to be shoved and yanked and torn and taken.
His wish, apparently, is Andrew's command, a few minutes later, because Andrew places his palms at the small of JD's back, and slides them up the sweat-sheen-slicked skin over his spine, then digs his thumbs into JD's shoulders and just squeezes his trapezius muscles, and JD doesn't know whether it's the expert flogging or, hey, the ridiculous amount of stress that he's been carrying up there, apparently, which is kind of a newsflash to him, and story at eleven, because the feeling is dislodging him from his hold on the situation, and he thinks he's probably moaning like a little bitch, but it feels good, really fucking good, and he lets go.
He doesn't know how long Andrew keeps working his shoulder muscles, until he hears another voice off to his right, saying "here, honeybaby, allow me," and hears the faint squeaking of the condom, and his mind tells him that Cammie must be unrolling it onto Andrew's dick, because Andrew's fingers are still digging into what must be fucking dents by now in JD's shoulders. And there's a snick of the cap of Andrew's favorite lube coming open. And holy fucking shit, Mitchell, that's cold, and he hears a tinkling laugh behind him, so he guesses that he must have said that out loud, and Andrew lets go of his shoulders and slaps his ass, hard, and says, sternly, "language, in front of the lady," and JD throws his head back and laughs, because that's not a lady, that's Mitchell, and there are two throats laughing behind him now, because he probably said that out loud too, and as Andrew leans in, bends at the knees and slides his cock into JD's ass, JD feels the long tail of the chuckles rumbling, and he really doesn't know whether it's him or Andrew or both who's laughing.
His focus shifts, then, to the long slow strokes in and out of his ass that Andrew's cock is making, and he's kind of decided that Andrew's cock is his new favorite cock in the whole fucking world, and then the fucking bastard must be doing thigh crunches as he's fucking JD, because that was his cock slamming into JD's prostate like a fucking freight train, and there's only so much of that that a man can take, and he's scrabbling for a hold on something, anything, which of course he can't fucking get because he's tied to this goddamned thing, and Andrew's a fucking bastard, and then JD realises that he should really try to hold himself back, because part of the agreement they have -- well, that Cammie and Andrew have -- is that Andrew won't stop fucking JD just because JD comes, because Andrew may be a pro and a gentleman but he's a top and a dom and a man. JD kind of rues that the second before he can't stop himself coming like he hasn't come in weeks, because it's irritating to be jackhammer fucked when you're coming down off an orgasm, but St Elizabeth of Hungary must be smiling down on him today, because his apron is full of roses, on account of Andrew shuddering once, twice, bucking into JD's ass almost as hard as a stroke of the flogger, and then leaning heavily forward onto him.
Cammie's light chuckle from behind them fades as she shuffle-thumps out of the room, and Andrew slides slowly out of JD's ass, and he feels a strange mixture of whole and empty. And then Cammie's returning with a pair of warm, wet washcloths, and she wipes JD's neck, back and shoulders down before getting rid of the lube, and love is...wiping the lube off of your gay boyfriend's ass after you've hooked him up with a top to give him what he needs for the evening.
He floats down as Andrew unclips his restraints from the cross, and Andrew walks him out into the hallway that leads to the stairs going back upstairs, where the usual firm cushion awaits him facing the wall. He hears rather than sees Andrew guiding Cammie up the stairs, and knows that it's time for cookies over coffee on the sofa in the den, because she always makes sure that after a submissive session he's sitting in shikantaza, and he can feel the nowness, the present, the quiddity, haecceity of it all, hic haec hoc, and he's breathing in, and out, and in, and out, and gradually his thoughts are slowing down to the point where he can just sit and observe them.
Upstairs, Cammie and Andrew will be talking the session through. If the dom's a random, Cammie will talk through the aftercare with JD afterwards, because God knows that there aren't enough guys around who even know what the word means, let alone are good at it. Andrew, though, does, and is, and there's always a JD-shaped space on the sofa between them.
He levers himself up out of the pose and stands, stretching, feeling a couple of vertebrae pop, and he gets that feeling of being just the right size for his skin again, with everything in bright focus. Everything, including the lube that Mitchell missed. He pads naked upstairs and pokes his head around the door.
"Hey. Can I grab a shower, big man? Herself didn't get all that lube off that you fucked into me."
Andrew grins, and Cammie snorts. "Sure," he says. "You know where everything is."
He does, so he throws himself in the shower and soaps up, and it's only a few minutes later that he's back downstairs with his boxer-briefs on.
"Hey, Mitchell," he says, walking into the den and giving his hair a final squeeze with the towel, "I figured out how to solve that lag problem with the satellites."
"You see, babydoll?" Mitchell says to Andrew. "I told you."
JD throws the towel at her and folds himself carefully into the spot between them.
"Thanks," he says, and he means it.