His hips swing as he puts on music and goes to the closet to get dressed. Skwisgaar doesn't dress up in the ways you might think, on him a skirt is a "fuck you" to the world. There's a sort of devil-may-care rakishness in the way he wears his fishnets.
On him a dress implies no helplessness, no sense of delicacy, there's no feminine passiveness, on him a dress is just one more symbol of his unrepentant joyous carnality, of the ecstatic joy he finds in sex. He's always active, top or bottom. Although he may be the object of lust, he is never an object, wanting them back, taking delight in taking part in the act.
His outfit, like all his outfits, reflects him. He wears a pale blue satin corset, trimmed in swaths black lace and dripping with jet beads, it nips in his already slim waist, making giving him almost an hour glass figure, with black satin underwear that can barely contain his cock, thong back with a pale blue silk bow at the top. He's got some old eighties glam metal on, and he shakes his hips in time to the sultry beat, flicking his hair, movements sinful, looking for all the world like a stripper as he gets dressed. He was a fluid grace about him, something almost feline, like a big cat stalking his prey. He rolls up back seam fishnet stockings, clipping them to the corset's garters, and slips his feet into six inch black patent leather heels.
Next of course, is makeup, rich crimson lip color, opaque, but shiny as wet look vinyl, dramatic black eye shadow, and black cream liner, adding to the feline effect, all he needs then is a hint of mascara and a brush of shimmering blush over his cheek bones and his face is done. He contemplates his hair for a moment, before twisting it up, the silver and jet comb holding his platinum mane in place glinting softly as if hinting to anyone who saw him to remove the comb and let the glossy white blonde waves tumble down around him in their unbound glory, much like the demure outfit that subtly hints at the delights beneath, or even a brightly wrapped holiday gift, his body begs to be unwrapped.
He looks as if he'd been made for for passion, satiny skin designed to be caressed, full red painted lips meant for kisses, long legs for wrapping around a waist or for the leverage to make a bottom scream, pert ass, slim hips, tiny waist, and that languid feline blue gaze, all of it contributing to an over all appearance that would make you forget how to speak, forget how to breathe, forget everything but the exquisite avatar of sensuality standing before you.
He walks on those sky high heels like he has every inch of ground under his personal employ, and they just love to be stepped on, his hips wiggle, posture perfect all lithe elegance. He examines himself in the mirror, watching the way he moves, smiling to himself. He knew perfectly well that no one who saw him had even a remote chance of escaping without falling prey to his many charms.
He smirks, and sashays from the room to find his first target. He considers, there's Charlie, or Nate, or Pickles or even Toki, though Toki will be the hardest, so he might save him for last on his sexual rampage. He does intend it to be a rampage. He knows that the other guys'd do him no questions asked dressed up like this. After all, he's a hot blonde with legs that don't end and an ass that won't quit, besides, he's Skwisgaar Skwigelf, on him lingerie is fucking brutal. He grins, figuring he'll just do whoever he runs into first, unless it's Murderface, not that Murderface would offer anyway.
He walks down the hall, the notes of the music echoing after him, strutting down the hall, waiting for someone to appear.
When movement catches his eye, he catches sight of his first quarry, but it can't be. The man looks to be in his early twenties, long bleach blonde hair layered on top and teased, glossy pink lips, and green glitter spread over eye lids, a hot pink heart painted on his cheek. He wears impossibly tight black leather pants, and a shredded hot pink zebra print tank top showing off flat toned stomach, high heeled boots, long legs, familiar swirling tattoos trailing down his arms, too much jewelry, rings on every finger all of it recalling... someone. That face though, that's what shocks him, those cheekbones, the angle of his jaw, even those deep green eyes, all of it so familiar.
"Charlies?" says the Swede, shocked.
"Yeah, I woke up like this... back in the eighties..." says the younger version of the CFO, raising an eyebrow and flipping back his hair to show off ears pierced all the way up the side. Skwisgaar doesn't question it. This is Mordhaus after all, and even if it weren't, it wasn't as if the troll incident had taught them anything about using ancient spells as lyrics.
"Yous was quites de slutties rockers groupies," purrs the blonde, eyeing the other man's lean frame.
"Yeah," says Charlie lighting up a cigarette and inhaling, "you planning to be in a rocky horror cast?" he adds, adolescent sarcasm apparently reappearing as well.
The guitarist glares, toying with a tendril of escaped hair.
"Dats reallies nots anys of yous busy-ness buts no, Is havings yous know I's dresseds ups for tos goings tos haves de sex withs... wells Is nots ams sures yets," he says, as Charlie considers him. He's never seen Skwisgaar like this before, and he likes it, the already desirable guitarist all primped and prettied until just looking at him already had him half hard. They look to be about the same age, and there's a gleam of something dangerous in the glam rocker's green eyes.
Charles smirks, pushing the Swede lightly back onto the desk.
"How bout me?" he suggests, nails sliding along the other man's pale thigh, drawing a soft moan from the guitarist.
"Ja, you'lls does."
A perfectly manicured hand reaches behind the blonde's head, pulling the comb from his hair, letting it tumble down around him in a wave of thick platinum silk, long fingers glimmering with rings fisting in the fair strands.
"What did you just say, bitch?" purrs Charlie, using his grip on his hair to force him to look him in the eye.
"Is saids you'lls does," repeats the guitarist, a defiant smirk forming on his lips. He'd been craving this, needing to be used like a whore, needing rough treatment and pain bringing the pleasure into sharp contrast.
"Lube," orders the glam rocker, his tone as chilly and clinical as a surgeon's, and for a moment it's obvious how this slutty little glam rocker could become the brutal CFO.
Skwisgaar fumbles but gets the lube from the desk, handing it to Charles, hips arching upwards.
"You need it bad, don't you, slut?" purrs Charles, long nailed finger tips pressing the other's chin lightly up, other hand wandering to squeeze the blatant bulge in the Swede's panties.
Skwisgaar whimpers, hips rocking up. "Ja, damns it Charlies,," he cries, "Is needs you."
Charlie shifts the back of the thong out of the way, spreading the other man's legs. He looks down at the Swede wickedly.
The guitarist gives him a cocky smirk back, as if to ask 'really think you can handle me?' and Charlie just smirks more, shaking his head condescendingly.
"You don't have a fucking clue, do you blondie?" he purrs, giving Skwisgaar's hair a yank, "you've got no idea just how hard I plan to use you, bitch, I'm going to make you scream, got it?"
Skwisgaar growls, twisting in the other man's grip, fighting to regain control, writhing against the other. Finally Charles forces the Swede's legs apart with a knee and slips a slicked finger into him, curving it to find his spot. The glam rocker moans, he likes it when they fought back, and the sight of the exquisite Swede, breathing shallow, whimpering with need even as he fought to get on top, red lacquered lips parting desperately, as blue eyes flutter open, widening at the sudden bolt of pleasure, is driving him mad. Charles wants to destroy him, wants him a sobbing wreck by the end of it.
The taller man groans, and Charles pulls him up for a desperate kiss, teeth and tongue, working over that sinfully full lower lip until the CFO knows he'll have a bruise.
"Charlies," he cries, and Charles adds another finger.
"That's right, bitch, scream for me," he murmurs; breath hot on the Swede's ear, looking down at him something primal burning in his eyes, as he adds a third finger less than gently, knowing the guitarist likes it rough.
Skwisgaar screams, obeying without thought as those wonderful fingers move violently in him, driving him to writhe desperately, almost crying he needs it so much now.
"Charlies, please, Is needings more," he sobs, the glam rocker has him at his breaking point, lithe body twisting, trying to get even a hint more of the other man inside him, craving his touch, "puts yous cock ins me, please."
Charles loves seeing the cocky guitarist like this, broken beneath him, begging to be fucked. Finally, he can't resist anymore, and he pulls his fingers out, cock sliding in, moaning at the velvety heat surrounding him. He doesn't savor the sensation for long though, slamming in to the hilt, so forceful he makes the desk shudder.
The Swede gasps, arches his back, claws at the manager. He's babbling in Swedish, incoherent, unable to do anything but take it.
The glam rocker arches, animal, feral with pleasure, smacking his ass, yanking on long blonde hair.
"Tell me what you are?" he demands, looking straight into lust hazed blue eyes.
"I's a sluts, a dirty whores, and Is belongings tos you, ams wantings justs to bes fuckeds alls de times," he cries breathlessly, "Is does whatevers yous wantings, justs gods please don'ts stops."
Charles wouldn't have stopped at that point if the Swede had been begging him too, he just felt too utterly perfect, tight ass clenching around him, slim body bucking up, returning his thrusts. Bleached hair tickled the guitarist as Charles moved, throwing his head back, wild almost animal as he pinned the other man's wrists, using him ruthlessly.
Skwisgaar moans, screams, tearing up now. "Fucks me," he howls, "is sos close, please," and Charles fucks him, one hand moving to stroke his cock, matching his thrusts, drawing more noises from the deliciously vocal Swede.
The world falls away, Skwisgaar's about to lose it, past any remaining self control, sobbing in ecstasy. Looking up at this young version of Charles, with his bleached mane and glitter makeup it's almost too good to be real, everything's slipping away into the rush of pleasure building in him, The room, the firm wood of the desk under him, the world, none of it exists, he and the glam rock god above him are the sole inhabitants of his reality at the moment, it's perfect, time is speeding up and slowing down, waiting for that single exquisite peak, like the peak of one of his guitar solos
And then it comes, and everything is white hot and perfect, and he's screaming without hearing himself scream, bucking off the desk, nails leaving scars on the varnished wood as he curses incoherently in his native tongue.
Charles can't hold back, not with that tight, perfect ass clenching around him, so he comes too, grabbing the guitarist's hips and fucking him through his own climax, crying out his name, using him until he can't anymore, collapsing atop him, panting and content. The Swede falls back too, looking up, lips parted, gloriously dazed.
"Das was increibles, you's incredsible," he purrs when he finally catches his breath. Charles smirks, running his fingers through the other man's silky mane.
"Damn right I am."
"Yous pretties likes dis," adds Skwisgaar, running his fingers over the other's cheek.
Charles chuckles. "You're not so bad yourself, blondie," he responds, pulling out, and enjoying the view for a moment, mussed hair, smeared makeup, cum spattered on pale skin.