Stockholm Syndrome [01] - Stockholm Syndrome (29 page)

Minutes pass. He doesn't get bored.

It's wet and weird, and he's starting to get cramp in his legs because Valentine's moved his hands away and he's having to hold them up by himself, and the disgusting sloppy noises are making him feel a bit insane. It
is
sort of nice, or at least okay, but every time he starts to relax a little bit he finds himself thinking about the mechanics of it and gets all twisted up in the stomach again.

"Okay?" Valentine asks, breathlessly. Lindsay just groans something non-committal into his arms, and Valentine sighs and pinches his arsecheek gently. "Turn over if you want. If it'll help. So you don't have to watch."

"I'm not watching anyway," he says, muffled. Valentine slides a finger 231

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inside, pulls back, slips his middle finger in along with the first, crooking and thrusting gently until Lindsay's making embarrassing desperate noises he can't hold back even though he tries. The room's still freezing, but he's sweating like it's midsummer from the kid's fingers, the tongue still lapping disgustingly round where they're disappearing inside him, and Valentine's own little whimpers and the tiny shifts of the bed because he's wanking as he's doing it. Lindsay can't see because he refuses to move his arms until it's over but he can tell anyway and
oh
fuck
, he thinks,
I'm going to come, oh hell
. He moves one arm quickly; he still keeps the other covering his face, but as long as he comes with his hand wrapped round his cock he can say it was because of that, right?

When it's all over, Valentine makes a big show of wiping his slobbery mouth on his forearm and flops down next to Lindsay, looking pleased with himself.

"Weren't that bad, was it?"

He's smirking and smug and Lindsay can't stand it when he's like this, so he cracks the kid one across the cheek with his open palm to wipe the smile off.

"Listen to me next time I tell you no."

"I

hate
you sometimes," Valentine spits back, and there's real venom in his voice but still he curls in against Lindsay's side, using his shoulder like a pillow and drawing invisible pictures on his chest with gentle wandering fingertips.

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They're drunk, a bit. Not so far gone that they're in any danger of throwing up and passing out, but just enough, just the right level of drunk. They go opposite ways when they're tipsy – Valentine gets giggly and hyper, but Lindsay slows down until he's hardly moving and hardly even thinking and the world's just a smudge of colours and sensations. He's slumped on the sofa like a lazy lion, watching the kid juggle empty beer bottles, placing bets in his head about how long before he drops one. He's pretty good, though.

"You ever run away," he says, "I'll just check the circus and drag you back by your hair."

"Oh,

you're

so
sweet. So romantic. My heart's gone all fluttery."

Valentine doesn't take his eyes off the three bottles, spinning them expertly through the air in front of him.

"Where'd you learn that?"

"Taught myself. I was stuck in Butlins with 'em this one time before they won the Lottery. Fucking hellish. I was bored, I just had a go. I could do tennis balls anyway, this just hurts more when they land on your head."

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"Stop it. I'm not cleaning your blood out the carpet when you crack your skull open."

"Ain't you impressed, though?"

"What, that I'm fucking a clown? No. Stop it."

He stops, catching the bottles clumsily and setting them down with the other empties on the coffee table. "Spoilsport."

"No, I'm not. Come here." The kid beams at that and goes to sling himself at the sofa and stretch out on top of Lindsay, winding their legs in a tangle and kissing him. He's not been drinking beer, he's been drinking something fruity and girly and his mouth tastes like chemical pineapple. He slips Lindsay's glasses off and kisses him like he kisses him
every
time, wet and enthusiastic like he's trying to prove something.

Lindsay desperately, desperately needs to get off.

It's the alcohol. He always wants sex, when he's drunk. Even more than that, he wants it rough and hard and fast so you can't even call it sex any more, he wants to
fuck
– but he'll hold himself back, just this once. It's Valentine's birthday, and the night's still young. It's no good having all the fun now. So they just kiss, with Valentine's hands cupping his face and his arms clutching the kid's skinny body tight and warm against his chest. It's like being fifteen again, when you kiss for hours at a time for the sake of kissing. He shifts his body under Valentine's, pressing up against him, and the kid makes a pleased little sound through his nose.

"You're being affectionate," he says against Lindsay's mouth. Lindsay doesn't say anything; one hand just goes up to twist through the kid's long hair, pulling him back in a way that's gentle and absolutely insistent at the same time, and Valentine melts against him and tumbles back into the kissing, all warm sliding tongues. He only begins to stutter when Lindsay's hands slide down his body and over the back of his jeans, squeezing him gently. He gasps then and loses the rhythm of the kissing, resting his face against Lindsay's with his wet lips pressed on his cheek. "Oh
fuck
," he says, and he's all hoarse and shaky and

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breathless. "Where'd that come from?"

"What?"

"You ain't kissed me like that before."

"You

complaining?"

"
No
, no way, fucking hell, no. Oh
god
," he adds in a tiny little whimper, when Lindsay squeezes his arse again.

"What?"

"You."

"Tell

me."

"You... your hands," Valentine says. He's kissing Lindsay's mouth again, wet and desperate, talking between. "You've got big hands, I... they're good, I like your hands on me, oh fuck I'm drunk, I can't do words. Lindsay, please..."

"What do you want?" He's struggling to get words out, Valentine won't stop kissing him.

"Anything,

anything."

The noise the kid makes when Lindsay smacks his bottom sharply is almost comical, and he smiles slowly. Valentine kisses him again, a bit uncertainly.

"What's that for?"

"Don't know." He does it again, and the kid pulls back to stare at him.

"Wanted to."

"But..." He starts to move, like he's trying to get to his knees and climb off, but he goes still again when Lindsay returns to the gentle kneading, cupping his arse in both hands and stroking gentle, lazy circles with his thumbs. "That's good," he says, and swallows hard. "That's... really good, fuck, don't stop..."

He doesn't stop, and he draws the kid into another long, slow kiss.

Valentine sags against him, whimpering into his mouth. There's something so 235

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trusting about him. Lindsay doesn't know why it's driving him wild, but it is. The kid's so quiet and trusting and utterly pliant in his arms, he's hardly ever like this.

He's so turned on he feels like he might lose his mind.

"Get up," he says, muffled, then breaks the kiss and tries again. "Get up."

"What?

Why?"

"I said get up." He manoeuvres them so he's sitting up and Valentine's standing in front of him, and unbuttons his jeans. They're so tight he doesn't pull them down so much as
peel
them down; they turn inside-out like a denim banana skin around his thighs. Lindsay leaves them like that, he doesn't bother taking them all the way off, they're down just enough to bare his bottom, and he goes back to caressing it, that same firm, rubbing pressure as before. Valentine seems to be getting harder by the second, and Lindsay pats his bottom very gently until he takes a tiny step closer; he wets his lips with his tongue and slips them in a hot circle around the kid's cock, and Valentine has to put his hands on Lindsay's shoulders to steady himself.

"I'm gonna fall over," he says, half-laughing and half-gasping.

Lindsay pulls his mouth back, satisfied the kid's as hard as he can get.

He doesn't know
why
he's doing this, he only knows he
has
to. It's the drink, probably, but he feels slightly crazy and like stopping this now is going to shatter his mind like a dropped mirror.

"You're not going to fall," he says. "You're going to lie down over my knee. Now."

"What?" The kid's gone wide-eyed. He does this sometimes when he's about to get a spanking, this calculated attempt at looking innocent, but this time there's nothing fake about the surprise. "But... I ain't done nothing wrong, not for
days
!"

"You're talking back to me. That counts as something wrong, I think."

"That ain't fair, though, you told me to lie over before I even argued!"

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"You're being very naughty. Lie over now and I'll leave it at twelve."

He feels Valentine's fingers creeping up the side of his neck and into the curls at the back of his head. "What if I don't?"

"Then I'm going to thrash you until I think you've had enough, and give you your twelve anyway."

"No," Valentine says, quickly. Lindsay's only had to take it so far that one time before, when Valentine was in a particularly difficult mood and went running off for hours on end; he shrieked and protested and squirmed like anything taking his punishment, once he'd given it up and come home, until he finally wore himself out and just cried, limp and beautifully obedient over Lindsay's lap with his sore bottom glowing like neon. Lindsay's not forgotten it, and doesn't think he ever will. Clearly Valentine feels the same.

"No indeed. I didn't think you'd want that. So are you going to do as you're told?"

He knows by now the right way to lie, with his head to Lindsay's left so he can use his right hand. He's trembling a bit as he gets into position.

"Be still," Lindsay says quietly. He's stroking his hand over the kid's bare bottom again, squeezing gently, caressing, warm and slow. "Good boy. It'll be over soon. If you're very good and brave for me, I'll reward you after. Okay?"

There's no reply, the kid's just breathing in tiny quick noisy gasps. "Answer me, Philip," he chides, softly, and Valentine takes a shuddering breath and whimpers yes.

It takes five full minutes to deliver the first three smacks. They're forceful, much harder than usual, but he takes the time between to rub the kid's smarting flesh tenderly, massaging with his fingertips and smoothing his big palm over his skin. Valentine twists back to look at him, his questioning eyes bright with lust, and Lindsay peppers his bottom with the next six in quick succession, fast and sharp. The kid lets out a sobbing sort of moan and drops his face back onto the sofa cushion.

"That's right," Lindsay murmurs, although he doesn't know how he's 237

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managing it; he barely has enough breath to
breathe
, never mind speak. "You're being so good, you're
such
a good boy when you try, aren't you?" He can feel the kid's cock pressing against him, it's making it very difficult to focus. He spanks him again, hard, while he thinks about what to do with the last two remaining smacks.

"Oh, please," Valentine says, in a shaky little whisper. "Please. Lindsay,
please
."

"Come on, you know it doesn't do you any good to beg."

"No, not... it's not... do it again?"

Lindsay takes a few deep, slow breaths to steady himself. He's still not sure exactly what he's doing, or exactly what prompted him to do it, or why he's never needed to come so badly in his life, but now he knows for sure the kid's on his wavelength he feels better about it, he feels amazing; he doesn't want to question why it's so easy to slip into this weird kind of roleplay, and he doesn't want to come yet and he doesn't want Valentine to come, he wants this to go on forever, this insanity perforating the atmosphere around them and making the air feel like fire in his lungs.

"Open your legs for me," he says quietly. Valentine scrambles to do as he's told, as well as he can with his knees trapped together, and Lindsay runs his fingertips down between his thighs to stroke the soft warm skin of his balls, back up to caress his pink bottom, back down again, stroking with a firm, sure pressure and then smacking him again.

"Lindsay," Valentine says, sounding desperate and breathless, "I'm gonna come, I am, I-"

He interrupts. "Stand up. Don't come, don't you dare, I'm not finished with you yet." He waits until the kid's standing, and he holds him by the hips and looks up, into his flushed face. "One more, sweetheart, okay? One more and I'll make you come, can you do that?"

Valentine squeezes his eyes shut. His fists are clenched very tightly, but there's a ghost of a smile on his lips. "You called me sweetheart."

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"Never mind that. One more, okay?"

"Okay."

Lindsay draws him closer, resting his cheek against the kid's hipbone, and gives his bottom a final sharp smack. Valentine lets his breath out, very slowly, and begins to play with Lindsay's hair again.

"Was I good?" he asks in a small voice, and Lindsay stands up to bundle him into a big hug, kissing his cheek and rubbing reassuring circles onto his back through his t-shirt. They're both trembling like autumn leaves.

"You were good," he says, forcing his voice as steady as he can and feeling so dizzy it's almost nausea, cradling the back of Valentine's head in one big hand and losing his words in his hair, a soft little murmur right in his ear.

"So how come I got smacked when I ain't even been naughty?"

"Think of it like... like a pre-emptive spanking." He can't think up a better excuse than that.
I just wanted to
doesn't sound good enough, somehow.

He pushes empty beer bottles aside on the coffee table until he finds their two sticky shot glasses from earlier, and shakily pours a pair of vodkas. They throw them back, and he pours another for himself when Valentine shakes his head no.