Clipper had once heard a beta say that it must be nice to be getting so hot and bothered. Intense was the word he used.
It certainly was intense.
He pulled the sheet over his head with a groan and rubbed himself against the blanket he’d bunched up under his hips, thrusting into the fabric. He felt empty, like there was a huge gaping hole in the core of his body or his soul. He was writhing with want. There were a few moments of release whenever he spent himself, fingers deeply buried in himself, but that wasn’t rest, just exhaustion. It certainly did nothing at all to fill him up. When lust came rushing back, it alsways burned worse than before.
Clipper locked the door to his little third story room with an iron chain on the days of heat and put the key on the top of the wardrobe, the only other piece of furniture next to his creaking bed and and old rickety table with two chairs. It would have been too great a temptation right next to the bed. Not that it always stopped him. Often enough he’d been standing with the key in hand to go out and just find the first best alpha to mate him. They could smell it. It drove them wild. Besides, Clipper thought he wasn’t a complete eyesore. Nothing special for sure. No pox marks, though, nothing more than a few scars from hunting. It should be enough to keep an alpha’s attention for a few minutes. It didn’t take longer. No longer than that to go at least once...
No longer than that to get bound, either. Clipper bit the pillow. He wouldn’t go there again. So far, reason had always persevered, though it was a hard-won victory.
He only heard the knocking and call of his name when it became insistent. Before Clipper had worked himself out of the stained, sweaty, sticky sheets, the person outside was trying to push the door open. It stopped abruptly with a noisy rattle of chains pulling tight after it opened an inch or two.
Christ in heaven. He did not have any space left in his head to deal with this. His landlord didn’t give a fig what anyone was doing in their rooms, which was why Clipper had chosen it (even if he was fenced in between the rooms of two – actually quite friendly – whores). Anyone else should think he was out of town on a contract... Who was this?
“Clipper? What is going on?”
Connor’s voice. And that smell. Clipper’s mouth went dry.
“I’m sick,” he managed, with a voice that was pathetically small and shaking, too.
“Why is the door chained shut?!” Connor gave the door another experimental shake, as if his disbelief would make the chain disappear. “What’s going on?”
“Please.” There was no explanation in his head, nothing at all he could make up. Just this word. Please stay. Please leave. Desperately, Clipper pulled his sheet back up to his chin trying to hide himself, his whole being, the waves of need that he felt travelling through the room like the concentric circles a stone left dropped in still water. At the same time, he wanted Connor to come in and take him and take him until he blacked out.
He clutched the cloth to himself like a shield, protecting himself from himself.
Connor had gone quiet. “We wanted to go hunting today.”
“Oh.” Did they? It was difficult enough to hold on to his own basic rules of conduct when he was this way. He couldn’t have said what weekday it was. He must have messed up setting the date. Should have paid more attention. “’m sorry,” he mumbled. “I woke up with fever.”
Another pause.
“I will leave you alone, then. I trust you will get better.”
“Yeah.” Stay. Stay, I’m going to get the key. Stay with me, I don’t care if you leave me like yesterday’s clothes afterwards, sir, please stay. “Sorry about that, sir. Goodbye.”
Connor closed the door and Clipper almost sobbed in frustration as he grinded into the bunched up sheets. He knew he would thank himself later. It was just so damn hard to remember right now.
Connor/Clipper: Freedom (2/?)
It certainly was intense.
He pulled the sheet over his head with a groan and rubbed himself against the blanket he’d bunched up under his hips, thrusting into the fabric. He felt empty, like there was a huge gaping hole in the core of his body or his soul. He was writhing with want. There were a few moments of release whenever he spent himself, fingers deeply buried in himself, but that wasn’t rest, just exhaustion. It certainly did nothing at all to fill him up. When lust came rushing back, it alsways burned worse than before.
Clipper locked the door to his little third story room with an iron chain on the days of heat and put the key on the top of the wardrobe, the only other piece of furniture next to his creaking bed and and old rickety table with two chairs. It would have been too great a temptation right next to the bed. Not that it always stopped him. Often enough he’d been standing with the key in hand to go out and just find the first best alpha to mate him. They could smell it. It drove them wild. Besides, Clipper thought he wasn’t a complete eyesore. Nothing special for sure. No pox marks, though, nothing more than a few scars from hunting. It should be enough to keep an alpha’s attention for a few minutes. It didn’t take longer. No longer than that to go at least once...
No longer than that to get bound, either. Clipper bit the pillow. He wouldn’t go there again. So far, reason had always persevered, though it was a hard-won victory.
He only heard the knocking and call of his name when it became insistent. Before Clipper had worked himself out of the stained, sweaty, sticky sheets, the person outside was trying to push the door open. It stopped abruptly with a noisy rattle of chains pulling tight after it opened an inch or two.
Christ in heaven. He did not have any space left in his head to deal with this. His landlord didn’t give a fig what anyone was doing in their rooms, which was why Clipper had chosen it (even if he was fenced in between the rooms of two – actually quite friendly – whores). Anyone else should think he was out of town on a contract... Who was this?
“Clipper? What is going on?”
Connor’s voice. And that smell. Clipper’s mouth went dry.
“I’m sick,” he managed, with a voice that was pathetically small and shaking, too.
“Why is the door chained shut?!” Connor gave the door another experimental shake, as if his disbelief would make the chain disappear. “What’s going on?”
“Please.” There was no explanation in his head, nothing at all he could make up. Just this word. Please stay. Please leave. Desperately, Clipper pulled his sheet back up to his chin trying to hide himself, his whole being, the waves of need that he felt travelling through the room like the concentric circles a stone left dropped in still water. At the same time, he wanted Connor to come in and take him and take him until he blacked out.
He clutched the cloth to himself like a shield, protecting himself from himself.
Connor had gone quiet. “We wanted to go hunting today.”
“Oh.” Did they? It was difficult enough to hold on to his own basic rules of conduct when he was this way. He couldn’t have said what weekday it was. He must have messed up setting the date. Should have paid more attention. “’m sorry,” he mumbled. “I woke up with fever.”
Another pause.
“I will leave you alone, then. I trust you will get better.”
“Yeah.” Stay. Stay, I’m going to get the key. Stay with me, I don’t care if you leave me like yesterday’s clothes afterwards, sir, please stay. “Sorry about that, sir. Goodbye.”
Connor closed the door and Clipper almost sobbed in frustration as he grinded into the bunched up sheets. He knew he would thank himself later. It was just so damn hard to remember right now.
-
(Next part coming soon.)