Title: Some of Them Want: To Be Abused
Author: mao
Disclaimer: Velvet Goldmine characters, likenesses, plotlines, etc. belong to Todd Haynes, Michael Stipe, etc. The quote at the beginning and the title belong to Eurythmics, from their song, "Sweet Dreams." In other words, I am poor and am not trying to make any cash off this. Please don't sue me.
Author's Notes: I've quit my job and am not back at school yet, so I've got a little time to write [not much, but perhaps something good will come out of this?].
I hate to say it, but this is total smut. Low-key smut, not half of what I could write...but still total smut.
I'm such a wordwhore.
Warnings: Semi-graphic sex, some drug use. Bondage - not graphic, but definitely there. Totally worth an R rating, baby.
***
His head dives between her legs and her breath comes out in tiny, hitched gasps. Her head is buried in the valley of a feather pillow, her back arched, thrusting her pelvis into his face, and he's attacking her from all sides revelling in the new scents and tastes that flow from her body. He can feel her shuddering and he pulls back, chin damp. She looks up at him, smiling delicately as he licks his lips, and leans up on weak elbows.
"How would you feel about being tied up?" She's been with men who wanted to tie her up before - as a hooker in New York, she'd encountered all types. She'd never let them though - she'd never trusted her clients. There'd been balding men with potbellies and swarthy eurotrash with greasy bills and slick smiles and a few pimply teenagers, but she'd always been too smart to allow one of them to tie her up.
But now - Brian he's something else, isn't he? Reddish hair falling around his face, that delicate boyish body - and something in his face that makes her want to trust him.
Besides, not as if he's going to rob her blind, is it?
"Nevermind. It was a stupid question." She's taken too long to respond, and now he's blushing, looking away at the paisley of her bedspread. His cheeks are a pale pink like blush, and she smiles at him. Gently, she reaches out one pale hand and places it on his cheek, turning his face to look at her.
"There's some rope in the drawer below the cutlery drawer, in the kitchen," she tells him.
Oh, that grin.
His wrists are getting chafed by the handcuffs - two pairs, linking him to the posts at the head of her bed. His ankles are tied to the other posts with twine, and she hovers over him like a spector, dirty blonde curls just brushing his chest. Her mouth closes gently on one of his nipples, lips circling it, closing over it, and then back up. He moans softly, and she grins, extends her tongue, and licks it gently.
He rattles the bed, tugging at the twine and the freezing metal, and her teeth close on his nipple - softly at first, then so hard he cries out with sudden excitement. He can feel the heat of her breath, scorching from between her lips as her tongue flicks out again, teasing him. He's rising and he knows it.
Look at her, panting with anticipation.
In a back alley, arms held over her head, his teeth and lips and tongue attacking the side of her neck. He holds her wrists with his right hand while his other sneaks up her skirt, toying with the sensitive skin below. They're both clothed, but she can feel the chill of the building's bricks through her thin coat. She writhes and gasps, almost incapable of containing herself, but he holds her down and continues his attack on the underside of her neck.
She's getting bruises already - faint blushes of lavendar and yellow blooming under the pristine white of her skin - and his teethmarks glow a nuclear red against the painting he's creating with the pressure of his mouth.
The popping crack of the whip.
Every day there's a new bruise. Sometimes he comes back to the hotel room drunk and angry and hits her, hard across the cheek or the ass, slaps and punches. The next day she wears long sleeves and tights to hide his marks - and escapes to the bathroom often to lift her top and press on the bruise, to see the beautiful flower it makes in her skin.
Sometimes she gets a bag of coke or heroin, and they chop it fine and snort it off each other's bodies during foreplay. The feeling of a razor scraping against the skin - of the cells straining to support it, to not fall beneath the slow, careful motion - and the occasional scratch or deep cut, blood staining the now-useless white powder, the feel of a drug crumbling into a wound.
He gets off on the way she looks tied to the bed, the way she strains agains the twine, the way she smacks him hard with the whip and then licks where the welt rises, red on his skin.
Some people might call it abuse. Some call it dangerous. Some call it wrong.
Some call it natural. Some call it beautiful.
Some call it love.
***
In answer to a question from one reader: no, I don't have a "thing for Curt having a repressed BDSM fetish." He's been abused, and that's one response - one that I have chosen in the past to explore and exploit, as I find it the most clear in his character. If you don't like it, don't read it.
On the other hand, I have a BDSM fetish. So get over it.