A/N:
This almost did not get posted. I vacillated back and forth, not sure if anyone would like it. Or if it was something that others needed to read. Miyanoai and her poor eyes cinched the decision for me. Here you all go.
I would like to thank Miyanoai for beta-ing this. I was supposed to be working on outlines and HB. This is what happened instead. I like it, and she thought it was different. She has a disclaimer for you all. "I don't what the fuck I just read, but save yourselves while you still can."
Verbatim. That's what she said.
It's called Speechless because that's what you'll be when you finish it.
Happy reading!
***Speechless***
Akihito followed the line of Asami's leg, his dark pupils dilating. This was his favorite part: when his lover started to put it on. Asami was a man with an eclectic sexual repertoire, and he seemed to enjoy pushing Akihito's limits. There were safe words, bondage harnesses, and role plays. Akihito had always assumed that his lover was willing to try anything in the bedroom.
So it surprised the photographer that the man had recoiled violently when he first suggested a fantasy that had been building in his mind.
The first time Akihito had convinced Asami to put on a pair of thigh highs, the fixer had held him by the throat against the wall, applying just enough pressure for him to remember the fact that Asami was the ruthless kingpin of Japan, and that he could snap Akihito's neck quickly and effortlessly and would never break a sweat.
"If you tell anyone," he had promised quite calmly, his languid breath ghosting over the photographer's ear, "I'll fucking kill you." He had believed him. Asami was not one to make idle threats, but this was a secret that Akihito would take to the grave if it meant seeing his lover in the delicate thigh highs.
Akihito sat on the bed now, leaning back on his hands, dressed only in Asami's white button-down shirt. Said man had one leg up on the duvet, large foot near Akihito's thigh, and he had his toes in the bottom of the stocking. He looked up from beneath his fringe, his mouth set in a tight line. The abyssal color of his hair framed the deep solemnity of his eyes, the inky arch of his brows laying low over his golden gaze.
The first time had been so much the same. Akihito remembered it, clearly—the way he had had to beg, literally on his hands and knees, grabbing at the wool of Asami's pants with his fingertips. Asami had laughed at him, and then wavered once he knew that the photographer was serious, and then had demanded payment for his generosity by fucking his lover in the secret room for a night.
The payment was worth the cost and more. Akihito had never felt the fire course through his veins in such an unbridled way, his heart thrumming and his mouth salivating with desire. Asami had been secretly abashed, though he tried to cover it with bravado, and he had tried to hide his arousal at first—
Whatever punishment Asami would dole out after this fantasy would be worth it, too.
Asami looked hard at Akihito, as if he were making sure that he was paying attention. "Are you?"
Had he read the boy's mind? Akihito frowned slightly, perturbed by his translucence. "I am," he replied. His skin itched, his breath hitching in anticipation as he fought to keep his eyes open. If he closed his eyes, Akihito could picture the upcoming show perfectly, the way Asami would shimmy into the lacy panties, how his tight ass would be cupped by the soft fabric. But if he closed his eyes, he would miss every nuanced movement of the event.
Asami leveled another look at him, part discerning and part chiding. That was the part that Akihito hated the most—that he could even deign to look down on him like that, chide him with those gold eyes. He resisted the urge to grimace, knowing that it would just incite the fixer.
Asami's calves were the best part. As he pulled the sheer black of the nylon over the lower part of his legs––the hardened white of his skin, the curve of his calf muscle––Akihito felt the urge to sink his teeth into the meat there, puncturing through the silky material, to the unmarred pale of dermis and the thickness underneath.
His hands were careful. Careful—one of the reasons why the photographer was so attracted to him in the first place. Asami was meticulous; meticulous in meting out strokes with the bullwhip—the instrument that took the most caution, the most skill—meticulous in bringing him to orgasm even when his hands were slicked with sweat or his own cum or even Akihito's blood.
It was a planned game of push-and-pull with them. A bystander wouldn't understand it. A bystander wouldn't understand that Akihito had the power, too. That he could say one thing, and Asami would drop everything, or that he could make the fixer come just by tracing one finger, covered in Akihito's cum, across his bottom lip.
Nobody knew the nuances.
But there were nuances in Asami's fingertips, the way he licked his forefingers and thumbs in order to be able to properly adjust the material of the stocking, the way he rolled the nylon so that he could put his foot in without causing a run. He did it all absentmindedly, not noticing the care he was taking, and it was this that reassured Akihito the most.
The photographer's legs were splayed awkwardly, his pose relaxed but aware. He looked up, and saw Asami's eyes track from his hardened nipples that poked through his soft shirt to between his legs, where his weeping cock stood tall and proud, wordless proof of his guttural attraction to the scene. Asami pulled the nylon up to his knee, and met his eyes. With an ease that always startled Akihito, he maneuvered the material over the knee and up his thigh.
Akihito sighed softly. He didn't know where his penchant for seeing the fixer in women's clothes came from. He hadn't even realized it had been such a big part of him until Takato had mentioned something about his wife making him wear her panties one day. Asami dressed in a pair of lacy black underwear grew unbidden in his mind, and Akihito had become so turned on that he ran to Takato's fridge, diving in head first to breathe in the freezing air, cooling himself from the outside in.
Fuck, it had been work getting Asami into those panties. The man had been so angry as he pulled them up his hips, snapping his teeth at Akihito like an animal, then forcefully bending him over his knee and smacking his bouncing ass repeatedly as the photographer cried out, mostly in arousal, his weeping erection pressing into the lace of the underwear that Asami was wearing. It had been his way of asserting dominance after being slightly humiliated. Akihito could afford him that. The photographer would do anything to see Asami in that soft lace.
His hips were narrow enough that he could wear one of the thongs that he bought Akihito, which had surprised both of them. He didn't have one on now. Akihito had bought him his own pair of saucy cheekinis, and made the man put on the stockings first, enjoying the lines of his body when he was nude, with only the sheerest black of the nylon material accenting his outline, his being.
He straightened up and Akihito's breath was caught in his throat. Asami looked like some Michelangelo painting, the night light hitting his cheekbones, the length of his penis, the one bare thigh; the light being absorbed into the thigh that was covered.
"What?" the words were sharp, sudden and Akihito physically reeled back from it. Asami's voice was low and tense, and Akihito realized that it was the closest that he would ever be to seeing any insecurity from the man.
"You look—" he couldn't finish his sentence because his throat was suddenly dry and his tongue swollen, but Asami must have sensed his pleasure, because the slick confidence returned to his eyes. It was subtle, but it was there. He pulled the other stocking up slowly, diligently adjusting the wide band that went around the top of his thigh, making sure that the material was even and snug.
"Now these," Akihito said, holding out one arm, the pair of black lace panties hanging from his pointer finger.
Asami was still for a moment, his back straight, his eyes trained on him. Then he moved forward quickly, taking them from the photographer in such a swift motion that Akihito didn't even feel the material lift or move.
He turned from him, looking back once over his shoulder, and Akihito watched the broad white span of Asami's back narrow down into the compact globes of his ass, the narrowest waist, the jagged hips. When the fixer bent over to step into the underwear, Akihito actually hissed out loud as he was granted a soft peek at the smooth scrotum between his legs as he shifted.
When Asami brought the knickers up, he shimmied as a woman might, sinuously arching his way into the fit.
The shoes had taken some time to find. Akihito had to go into Ni-chome, searching the shops that catered to drag queens, as well as the glorious and confident gay men that he eyed surreptitiously as he walked back. The sales attendant had balked when the photographer had bought the pair—those size twelve, gorgeous, glistening things—and he had to explain that they were for his lover. When Akihito had brought them home, Asami had sighed, almost resigned at first, and then had grabbed them from the photographer, snarling.
They were shining patent leather: black, dangerously high, with a gleaming spike for a heel. Sometimes Asami made Akihito lick down the leather sole, right where it curved from the toe-pad up to the heel, with the wet flat of his tongue. Sometimes the blond wanted to trace his tongue down the smoothness of the six-inch heel. Sometimes the fixer let him.
Asami bent over, stepping into the heels. The tautness of his ass was amplified when he did so, the tendons creaking in his broad shoulders when he strained down to hook his fingers in the back of the cups of he heels. Akihito exhaled quietly. When he straightened, Asami put one foot back up on the bed.
"Fasten them."
It was an order. Akihito smiled gently and then bent over, lacing the little strap through the buckle. He did his task in silence as Asami watched him. When he was done, Asami placed the other foot in front of him, and his nimble fingers quickly repeated the process.
As Asami stepped back down, Akihito breathed out slowly, trying to calm his racing heart.
This was the best part. The height of the heels forced his legs into a rigid tension, when defined lines of his thighs, and the compact curves of his calves stood out because of the flexion of his legs, and the strain of his feet in the unfamiliar shoes. He stood imperiously, with his hands planted firmly on his hips, staring back at the boy defiantly. Hazel eyes tracked over the broad, black tops of the stay-up stockings, the dark lace underwear, and (his favorite part) the unbelievable, unrealistic, unparalleled long lines of Asami's legs––hard and lean and lithe.
Akihito wanted to kneel at his feet and trace reverent palms up the silkiness of those lengths.
"On your knees."
Again he wondered if Asami could read thoughts. When he looked up at Asami, the fixer had an eyebrow raised, his arms having moved to cross across his chest.
He was hard.
Akihito bit back a smile and moved off of the bed.
"Take the fucking shirt off."
And when Asami swore, Akihito knew that he was reaching the end of his controlled tether. There was more to the whole costume—they both knew it—the sometimes dress, the eyeliner that Akihito often begged him to wear, the occasional smear of lipstick that had proven to be so messy and often ended up all over the two of them by the end of the night. There was more to the costume but the photographer could see how hard Asami was through the black of the underwear—that his gloriously massive cock was cinched in uncomfortably, that the lace was chafing in the best way, and so he slipped the shirt off and slid to his knees at Asami's feet.
Looking up at him from the angle Akihito was in was like looking up at a kouros, or some Olympian god. His face slanted down to the boy, the hard edge of his nose defined sharper by the light of the night.
Akihito did raise his hands, flattened his palms to the man's legs, wrapping his fingers around his ankles. He could feel the tendons jump under the taught, pallid skin as Asami tensed at his touch. Looking up at him, the boy ran his hands up the silken length of his legs, lingering at his knees and along the sides of his thighs where the stretched fabric was the most velvety. When Akihito reached the hardness of his arousal, cupped in lace, he inhaled deeply, smelling the deep and saline scent of him. When he reached Asami's hips, he cradled them tenderly, kissing along the skin of his stomach and down his Adonis' belt, along the waistband of the panties where the lace tickling his upper lip.
Then he continued upward, dragging his nose lightly up the centre of Asami's stomach pressing kisses wherever he went, along Asami's chest and down the lines of his neck.
Akihito struggled to see his face, having to stand on his toes just to be able to reach Asami's chin. As he tried to tilt his head back to meet the crime lord's harrowing eyes, Asami moved silently and suddenly, picking Akihito up from underneath. His massive hands cupped his butt as Akihito's legs locking around his waist. As they looked at each other, face to face, they breathed quietly, cataloguing each other's expressions.
Then Akihito grabbed his face and kissed him, hard. The photographer could feel Asami's lips open under his, his tongue slipping into his mouth. One of Asami's hands came up to grab at the back of his blond head, ruffling through his sunlight hair as he sought purchase on the skin of his scalp. When they broke away from each other, Asami was panting.
He dropped Akihito onto the bed, all pretenses gone.
"Leave them on," the blonde barely gasped, as Asami made to shuck off the shoes.
"Fine," Asami murmured, and shoved him to the headboard, crawling after him. The man's chimerical form––the female legs and the hard, male torso––was so arousing that Akihito could hardly breathe. When the fixer reached him, he pushed Akihito up against the wood of the headboard, kissing him roughly, trailing bite marks down his neck, across the length of his shoulders.
They turned, winding over and over each other, their bodies crashing like waves on the shore, until Asami was sitting up against the headboard, and Akihito was pulling the underwear off, briefly getting them caught in the spike of the high heels.
"Ride me," Asami breathed as his lover slid back up his body, and instead of climbing into his lap, Akihito turned so that his lissome back was to the man's front, and lifted a leg over him, facing his feet—facing his legs, the stockings, the whole mess.
When he fumbled with Asami's thick, glistening cock, Asami wrapped a hand around Akihito's throat and one around his own length, shoving it inside of the boy brutally, smearing his face against the side of Akihito's neck as he began a hard rhythm. His lips drug against the boy's pliable skin, his teeth bared in an animalistic grimace.
Akihito braced his hands on the sides of the thick, silky thighs, but Asami wrenched them off of his legs, clasped the boy's calloused fingers in his own hands as he fucked him, forcing the boy's chest to arch up. Akihito planted his feet on either side of the mile long legs, tipped his head back, let his reactions do the speaking for him. The lion's mane of his hair swayed with each rippling thrust that quaked his spine
Akihito could feel the firmness of Asami's scrotum hitting against his ass. The sharp breathing from behind him echoed as he focused on the black spikes of Asami's high heels digging into the bed, scrabbling for purchase on the linens. Akihito came—he came and he came and he came, with Asami hooking his chin over his shoulder to monitor him, to make sure that he was enjoying himself, behaving himself. Long fingers splayed across Akihito's stomach and jerked at his penis, pulling him through the orgiastic hedonism, extending it until the boy was afraid it would never end. Until it was almost painful and terrifying, until he could think of nothing but the stars and the heavens, and how his lover played his body like a harp.
Akihito let out hoarse cries; his head tilted back, his face up to ceiling as Asami thrust violently up into him. The strength of Asami's legs was defined through the material of the stockings, and he used it to power into the boy, to perpetuate his pleasuring pain. Snarls ripped out of his throat, and then he came jerkily, his semen hot and deep inside of him. He swiped a tongue across Akihito's shoulder as he did. He drug his mouth across the silky skin, jagged teeth catching on his shoulder blades.
Akihito fell back against him. Asami was still rigid even after coming inside of him, stroking loving palms down his legs. The fixer sighed contentedly behind the photographer as Akihito bent from the waist, presenting his aching hole for a round of brutal sex since the fixer had endured humiliation for him. He unfastened the straps of his shoes, pressed a kiss to the leather soles, ready to take whatever Asami would dish out. It was worth it. Akihito knew that the man would be back in the outfit by the end of the week.
***Speechless***
Fuck it, I like it. The more I think about it, the more I like it. Brig on the gasps of horror and the protests that Asami would never go for it, but I disagree. I think that Akihito had a kinky side that we haven't gotten to explore yet, unless it is submitting to Asami's fantasies. I feel like he's got some more fetishes that still need to be awaken.
Plus, Asami in heels just does it for me on a visceral level. Welcome to my kinky life.