You Get To Choose

MLM Erotica: TOM muses internally on the difficulties of getting laid as a trans man, while at the pub with friends. Conveniently, he is introduced to ERIK, who seems pretty up to satisfy his need.

Tom preferred brawny, hairy men to twinks. It wasn't the feminity that put him off, as he liked women. It wasn't even the bitchy insecurity which seemed to come with being underweight, young and pretty. He actually quite liked the idea of crushing a twink with his thighs, or obliterating them from behind while they squealed "daddy, daddy" at him.

Realistically, it was down to the way they all claimed to be size queens, and weren't.

Tom wrote it up to the fact that, when you are physically small, four inches is big. An inch wide is, what, five percent of your body's width? Your anus can't dialate to larger than your actual pelvis, or whatever.

Yet, twinks were younger, and younger people tended to be more interested in having sex with a trans man. Older men who were interested in Tom were often chasers, and they wanted to top. They didn't enjoy labels like "queer" to describe their sex, and used old school terms like "top", "bottom" and "vers", which were all things Tom saw as a rehashing of binary models of sexual relationships.

Not that Tom was against bottoming. He quite enjoyed it, in fact, in the right environment. But he did not submit. And so much of sex was about power, and being penetrated was the relinquishing of power, and penetrating someone was the assuming of power. As though mimicking stabbing someone again and again with a silicone cock was going to be this all-consuming power struggle, as though Tom were an unhinged serial killer having his filthy way with the poor soul who dared have accepted his invitation back to his flat, to get railed under his poster of Michael Myers.

He found it difficult to show up to a bar and claim to be a top, when his experience was limited, and his physicality was, also, limited. He tended to split men into one of two categories: "likely to sleep with him" and "unlikely". He then made choices about who he, himself, would like to sleep with. This was easier. Easier than the other option: setting his sights on the potential disappointment of a senior bear with a streak of 'socially acceptable' transphobia, or a muscled twunk who was so 'straight acting' the thought of a vagina made him cringe.

Plus, Tom's sexuality came in flurries. He knew it was returning when his wardrobe started gravitating away from baggy jeans, hoodies and jackets. It was part of why the spring usually held so much promise, with tighter shirts and bare arms, a little more room for accessories. Not that a sexual surge was not possible in the winter - it was just felt less natural.

It was one such spring day, where Tom had shed his practical wool coat and scarf. He had a beanie on, flannel shirt, a Morbid Angel t-shirt that was soft and emphasised his shoulders in a humble, but flattering way. He had made a plan to visit a pub with his old work friend, Chris.

Chris, a good soul. Prematurely bald, bisexual, heavily pierced. He wore too many clothes from the eighties, and dressed like he thought Oasis were a football team: vintage sportswear, ties with guitars on, that kind of thing. He was big and friendly, and knew people.

Because this was the other way that Tom met fuck buddies: through mutual friends. Chris seemed to know endless bisexuals. Bisexuals were the perfect flavour. Typically, a bisexual person genuinely did not care whether Tom's dick was permanently attached, or temporarily strapped on. Bisexuals were not about to have a post-nut clarity identity crisis on him.

The pub was one of those old English pubs that was not an old English pub anymore. The pub had been a pub for as long as it had been a building: foggy glass windows, a patio garden front and back, the cellardoors in the street conveniently next to a parking bay. Tom had found pub cellar doors fascinating, when he moved out of the sticks and into the city. He went looking for them, and then tried to find out the history of certain pubs, looking for the blue plaques and evidence of older, stranger tales of London.

Chris waved him down. It was warm enough to sit outside.

Well, it was warm enough for a smoker and a man from Northern England to sit outside. The sun had a permeating warmth, that was pleasant, but whenever a breeze struck the garden, a few more people would peer up at the clouds, as though it could break into rain at any moment.

Chris was not alone, which was usual. He had his friend, Ben, with him. Ben was a beautiful specimen. He was chiselled, but very clean. He lacked the rugged manliness that Tom found appealing, and he was also a 'gold star' gay. 'Gold star', despite the fact that women fell at his feet.

Tom had, subsequently, never tried. Even if Ben was up for it, he suspected he would be bad at reciprocating whatever it was Tom wanted him to do.

See, Tom's preferred way to fuck a man was hard, fast, long and dirty. On his dick, with them on all fours. From there, he would fuck them until they came, and then some, until they reached that brain melting stupor where sexual desire melted away into pure submission. Then, Tom would instruct them to stick out their tongue, and he would rub himself against it until he came. Easy.

He had tried to imagine doing this with Ben, of course (he was only human), lying with his head off the bed and his tongue outstretched. And, honestly, it was impossible to get the image right. He had a dick sucking face, for sure, but to get him to the point of total brain-melting submission? It didn't seem like Ben's bag.

The other person was someone that Tom had not met before. He was thin, rail thin, and very short. They were sat on a picnic table, though, so he may have had longer legs than Tom could tell. He had a tight shirt on, which emphasised the points of his elbows and shoulders, and his hair was long and tied back. He was smoking a cigarette - not a roll-up, like Tom normally smoked - but a thick, white straight cigarette.

Tom held up his hand in an awkward wave.

"I'm just going to go to the bar," he said, "Can I get anyone anything?"

Chris waved him that they were okay, and Tom slunk away. He practiced ordering a beer in his head, suddenly full of social awkwardness.

The man behind the bar was completely unappealing on account of his blatant heterosexuality, despite being perfectly civil. Tom stood, awkward, as he watched it his drink get poured. He cringed at the price, and tapped his card, tucking it neatly into his wallet before stepping back out into the early April sunshine.

As he stood on the lintel of the door, he took a sip and debated how he was feeling today.

When he had woken up that morning, he had tried to masturbate. He was trying this new thing where he did not watch porn to make himself cum. It was something that, like nearly every single person he knew, was ingrained in habit. It had taken longer, and he had eventually given up. He also had it in his head that he shouldn't use a vibrator.

Which meant, of course, that he was sexually frustrated.

He returned to his table and sat diagonally over from the stranger.

"Tom, meet Erik. He's fresh over the channel. From Sweden." Chris then looked at Erik, slightly panicked, "Right? You said Sweden."

Tom would have hated to point out that Sweden was on the other side of the North Sea, not the English Channel.

The man named Erik had a thin face, and was clean shaven except for a thick moustache on his upper lip. He was older than Tom, but only by a few years. Tom felt his eyes move across his neck, spotting the spike of his Adam's apple beneath his chin.

It was always his first check. There was something undeniably queer about Erik. Not just gay, or bisexual, but queer. Normally this manifested somewhere in a person's mannerisms. Straight, cisgender people loved to say that being gay wasn't a personality trait, but it fucking was. Queers wore queerness, because it was a beacon to others, like them, whether they liked it or not.

"Great to meet you," said Tom.

Eriklooked up, giving a silent nod.

Tom's mind flashed to Erik, upside down, drool streaming down his face.

He blinked the image away. He reached into his bag and pulled out his tobacco, papers and filters, and started rolling himself a cigarette.

Ben and Chris were holding court. They were debating, so it happened, whether or not straight people should be allowed into gay clubs.

"But Chris, you can't possibly police this," Ben was saying. "I mean, bisexual people exist. You're bisexual! If you went to, like G-A-Y and hooked up with a bisexual girl, you would be part of the problem, and kicked out. Now, you're a queer person getting kicked out of a gay bar. It's just not right."

"But I wouldn't take a girl to a gay bar on a date," Chris said. "I mean, your hypothetical scenario of me even going to G-A-Y is unlikely, let alone me pulling in there. Everyone there is like… a third of my age."

"You're thirty two," Tom said.

"Chris, you don't even go to the clubs to have an opinion on it," Ben said, smiling, patronisingly.

"I know, because they're full of straight people gawking at faggots. And it's gross."

Tom laughed. He knew Chris did not actually care what people did - it simply wasn't his nature - but he would take these stances to fill in the silence and rile up Ben.

"Okay, so what about like… gender non-conforming people," Ben said, sounding a bit smug.

"Hey man, don't use trans people as your trump card," said Chris, laughing. "That's more problematic than kicking out the heteros."

"Trump card?" asked Erik. "The politician?"

"Like Top Trumps," explained Chris.

"Weird expression," said Erik. "Why are you playing Top Trumps with trans person?"

This somewhat derailed the debate of 'what to do about straight people in gay spaces'. Every so often, Erik would catch Tom's eye as Ben and Chris tried to explain what the phrase 'trump card' meant in everyday conversation.

It transpired that Erik had only lived in England for about three months, and had gotten a job at the kitschy tourist-trap store that Chris managed. There had been some confusion with his visa, and he was technically not meant to work until his second month, but Chris' hatred of the current Conservative government, and happiness to pay Erik cash in hand and let him sleep in the tat shop at night while he was waiting to find a proper flat was too convenient an opportunity to let up.

Tom wondered why Chris had not mentioned the attractive, bisexual Swedish man to him before. Then he cast his mind back to the last few times he had seen Chris, and they had all been peppered with considerable amounts of weed. Tom made a mental note to visit the fucking shop in the next few days, to catch a glimpsed of pony-tailed, moustached bisexual.

"So what you are saying is," Chris had jumped back into the debate, "Is that by policing who is queer and who is not queer, in a queer space, we will end up homogenising queerness into a stereotype of itself, and thus exclude large swathes off the community?"

"Yes," said Ben.

"But you have to admit, a straight person is easy to spot in a gay club."

Tom snort laughed.

"Yeah, of course. I mean it's always fucking obvious. They're hen-dos, or they look shellshocked everytime a bear in a harness struts past. I'm not talking allies or whatever, I'm talking breeders."

"So just police the straight people," said Chris.

"You're annoying as fuck, you know that."

"Ben. Darling. We are agreeing."

Tom and Erik caught each other's eyes across the table. Erik smiled, a coy smile. Maybe less a of smile, more of a smirk. He looked positively thrilled, in fact, to be looking at Tom. Tom felt something twist in his stomach.

"I mean, Tom, what do you think. You go to trans only spaces, right?" Chris said, as though it was the most natural thing in the world.

Tom did, in fact, go to trans nights occasionally. They were rare, and complicated. They were rarely 'trans only', in any actual fact. Of course they were heavily populated by transgender, non-binary, genderqueer and questioning folks of all varieties. But Tom found that there was also a fair amount of people who were not those things, and he, being a passing trans man of nearly a decade, seemed to blend in with the cisgender people in a way he did not feel comfortable with. To the point where a young, feisty trans masc had attempted to disparage him.

Of course, Tom had not been disparaged, and the young fiesty trans masc had been incredibly apologetic to learn that Tom was, in fact, one of those rare trans elders who had done their fair share of hard work for the community. They had attempted to latch onto him after that, but he merely ducked out the night early. The music had been shit anyway. Which was more off-putting than sub-twenty-year-olds thinking they had invented gender radicalism.

"Yeah, I've been. But I think there needs to be diversity of thought with these things. I'm not exclusively t-four-t, so I'm not in a rush to take someone home at these things. I mean I would. I do. But… yeah, I don't know. They're a different space."

"Less sexual?" offered Ben. Tom shrugged. It was, definitely, less sexual, than a sex club. But most things were.

Three pints later, and the seating arrangement had changed. Mostly because Ben was circulating them around for an arm wrestling contest. He had beaten both Erik and Tom and was now showing down Chris. The two of them were bickering as they did it.

"So," said Erik, drawing out the vowel a little too long to be comfortable, "You want to become a woman?"

"Oh god no," said Tom. "Very much a man."

"But you are trans person?" asked Erik, quiet so that Chris and Ben did not hear. "Sorry, I mean no offense. I wanted to say that I know some people who became women. Very lovely, good friends."

"No, I became a man."

Erik nodded. Then offered Tom a cigarette.

"Very cool," he said, almost hamming his accent up, as though he could pass off his mild ignorance as a language barrier. It was, oddly, endearing. Tom took the cigarette. He was feeling tipsy, now, and had become super attune to the way his fingers felt. They were tingly, pleasantly so, and they brushed Erik's as he leant in to light the cigarette on the offered lighter.

Erik offered nothing else on the matter, which was a relief for Tom. He was used to the dreaded backhanded compliment of 'you can't tell', or the 'whatever makes you happy' spiel, both of which had so many flavours that he really, really did not care to digest tonight. The other thing cisgender people did was explain that their cousin's friend's dog's babysitter had transitioned, meaning they were a huge ally.

Erik had alluded to knowing some trans femmes, and Tom realised, looking how he did, that Erik may have been trying to hook him up with a few new friends who could have helped this hypothetical egg-case with transition. Which was sweet. Brazen, but sweet.

Tom smiled at the thought of this five-foot noodle of a man uniting a sisterhood of trans women across the world.

"T-four-t," Erik said, "What is that?"

"Trans for trans," murmured Tom. They had naturally lowered their volume against Ben and Chris, who were now dramatically jibing at each other. "Some trans people only date other trans people."

"But not you?"

"Nope."

"That's good."

They turned their gazes back to Chris and Ben. Ben was flicking at the head of Chris' beer to annoy him. Tom felt Erik's hand briefly touch his leg, and he leant in close to say something in Tom's ear.

"I'm going to piss," he slurred. "But I'll think of you, when I'm holding my cock."

Tom felt himself involuntarily shudder, and felt annoyed with himself. He could feel the ghost of Erik's breath on his ear, and the rush of cold air on his side after he left.

Later, they were kissing sloppily in an alleyway on the way back to Tom's flat.

Erik's mouth had the peppery taste of cigarettes and chewing gum, and he pressed all of the points of his angular body into Tom. Tom felt sure he was prepared to suck Erik off there, in this alleyway, but he wanted this cocky little fuck to get on his knees and deliver. Those little asides had continued, long after he had returned from the bathroom.

"You'll have to punish my ignorance," he had slurred into Tom's ear, his tongue foreign to their friends who, by now, had accumulated about two more of Chris' buddies, "But do you prefer to give or receive?"

"I top," Tom had said back, trying to disguise his smile. It occurred to him that Erik may have done some research on his phone while he had been pissing.

Erik had returned from a trip to the bar, with drinks, and had evidently opted for more Googling.

"Have you had surgery?" he had whispered, so low, so quiet, that there was no chance that Chris and Ben would even notice. "I am asking not out of curiousity, but so I can prepare myself."

"No surgery. I wear a strap."

"Oh, that is fun," Erik had purred into Tom's neck. He sounded so different with each pint, more lilting and cheeky. He had started the night jilting and unsure. "I love getting stretched. Is it big?"

"You actually get to choose. I have a collection."

"Fuck me on each one. First in my mouth, then bend me over and fuck me up-"

Tom was jolted from memory by Erik biting his neck, and the heat and hardness of his cock pressed up against his leg through his jeans.

He grabbed Erik's hair, dragging him back.

"My place. Now. Non-negotiable."

He half-dragged Erik out of the alley, towards his flat block. He punched in the numbers as Erik pressed against his back, whispering filth into his ear, in a flurried mix of poorly computed English, and words that Tom could only guess were Swedish.

Tom's flat was a strangely shaped studio flat, tucked round the back of a terrace building. It seemed like part of a bad extension, that had then been reabsorbed into the house. The windows were pitifully thin, letting in both sound and drafts, and his bed was pressed up against the kitchen counter. It was meagre, in terms of space, and he rarely had people round because he had one armchair, which he sat on to eat, read, zone out, fart, whatever.

Because of the size, he kept it clean. He had to, because the minute Tom did anything at all, even make toast or a cup of coffee, the flat felt like a pigsty.

Erik seemed like he wouldn't have cared though. He had a scruffy kind of appeal to him, though his clothes were actually well kept and smart. It might have been his thinness, or his tired looking eyes. Tom imagined this man opening his fridge in the morning and pulling out a pack of cigarettes. That seemed to be his energy.

Tom's things consisted of an overflowing bookshelf, a dresser of clothes, and an under-the-bed pull-out box of his strap-ons and sex toys.

He pinned Erik down onto the bed, sprawling him across the duvet. Erik's black shirt got lost in it for a moment, before Tom ripped it off and exposed his pale body, his skin swirling with tattoos. Tom held him steady with a hand in the centre of his chest, admiring the enormous devil inked from his belly button to his collarbones.

"Baphomet," Tom acknowledged. He smirked. "Interesting."

"He has tits and a dick," Erik grinned. "So, all of my favourite things.."

Tom pressed his lips to goats head, tatted onto the skin between Erik's ribs. He was surprisingly waif, and Tom felt huge, clumsy, bulbous next to him. Tom was not ashamed of his body, but Erik had the kind of nineties heroin chic that had been fashionable in Tom's formative years, and seemed to ignite a thirst in him that caused an unsettling amount of shame.

Erik was fair, and there was little hair on his body. However, Tom could breath against the skin of his stomach and feel tiny, blonde hairs prickle up against his lips.

When he glanced up, Erik was propped up on his elbows looking down at him. His face was unreadable, but Tom was drunk. He was so beautiful, that Tom felt a default setting in his head to serve him in some way - to suck his cock and make him cum, relaxed and laid back on the bed, like some kind of pillow princess.

He started kissing back up. He dug his thumbs into the grooves of Erik's hips, hard, and he folded his knees onto his chest. Tom kissed his lips, pinning him down in half, and grinding against his now exposed ass.

Unsurprisingly, he was boney, and Tom could wrap his hands around the backs of his legs and keep him folded and twisted like a pretzel. He was able to hook his hand under both his knees and drag him upwards, aligning his hips so that his cock, if he had one, would have been lined up to penetrate him.

Erik like out a pathetic whimper.

"You like being pulled around?"

"Yes," Erik said, and Tom hitched his legs up higher, pulling away slightly, and slapping the backs of his legs with his free hand.

He was still wearing jeans, so there was so no satisfying sting of smacked flesh. Erik moaned all the same, his mouth falling open in a pant. Tom had a flash in his mind of wrapping his hand around his neck and watching his face turn redder and redder, Tom counting the seconds passing. He pulled back.

"Take your jeans off."

Erik scrabbled at the command, shedding the rest of his clothes and dropping them in a pile on the floor. Tom looked down at them, and tutted.

"Pick those up and fold them."

Erik immediately dropped to the floor, on his knees, hurriedly folding the jeans in half and rolling them into a wedge. He looked up at Tom, hopeful. Tom let out an exaggerated sigh.

"That'll do."

Tom was still fully dressed, down to his shoes, which were clunky black boots. He was now glad he had worn them, though they were filthy. He pointed down at his shoe and Erik leant forwards with his tongue out as though prepared to lick them.

Tom grabbed his hair.

"Undo the laces, you disgusting slut."

Erik let out a laugh.

"You don't want them cleaned first?"

There was a splash of mud on the side and Tom let out a hitched moan. This guy was the perfect mixture of debauched, and lacking self respect. It was an amusing thing in submissive men: a toxic eagerness to prove that they would literally do anything, anything at all, to prove that they were… the sluttiest? The horniest? Since taking testosterone, Tom had understood it more. Something took over. All thoughts were shut away, like looking at the ocean through the window of a kind of sex submarine. All thinking, all rational thought, all possible consideration of consequences, became obscured by the logic of the sex submarine.

He didn't fancy making Erik sick though.

"Undo the laces," he said, again. Erik's delicate fingers began tugging at the knots, desperately, as though he were trying to free Tom from a trap or binding. His eyes were narrowed in concentration.

Tom was able to pull off his shoes. He turned his back on Erik, placing them neatly next to the door as a pair. Erik's shoes were abandoned, and Tom looked pointedly at them, which made Erik scuttle across the floor and rearrange them.

Tom had a flash of Erik, naked, scrubbing out his oven as Tom stood behind him with a flogger, threatening another lash if he stopped scouring away the muck that had accumulated in the bottom.

"You're catching on," said Tom. He placed his foot on Erik's hip, and pushed him down on the floor. He ws careful not to kick him hard, but it felt good to push him around. Erikseemed to like it, and collapsed as though he had been beaten.

"Yes, sir," he gasped.

Tom hummed in amusement.

"Get back on the bed. I want you on your knees, facing me. You have some important decisions to make."

Erik, obedient, flung himself across the room and assumed the position that Tom had asked. Tom wondered if he had received some kind of formal submissive training, or whether he was just really into the kink scene, because he sat back on his heels with his hands on his knees, like some kind of Gorian slave position.

Tom leaned down and slid his storage box out from underneath the bed. It was one of those ugly Ikea ones, with a pop-lid that accumulated dust.

"Keep your eyes up," Tom said. Mostly because he did not want Erik to see said dust. And because he wanted to order him to do something while he faffed around.

"Yes, sir," Erik said.

Inside the box were a myriad of toys. There were mostly strap-ons, in an array of sizes. They ranged from a petite four inch narrow toy, to the monstrous were-wolf cock that Tom had purchased from a specialist seller. It rivalled a fist in size, and was better suited as a coffee table ornament than it was an insertable toy.

Tom had his favourites though. There was a realistic one that he quite enjoyed fucking people with, loved the thrill of looking down and seeing the carved silicone veins bulging, glistening with lube.

"Close your eyes," he demanded. He had no doubt that Erik would.

"What happens if I peak?" Erik asked. Tom raised an eyebrow, redirecting his watery, tipsy gaze at him. He did have his eyes closed, but Tom had clocked that any punishment would be something Erik would enjoy.

This was the problem with submissives who were painsluts. He had a feeling that Erik probably was big into pain and sadism, and would enjoy Tom hitting him, edging him and using his body like a glorified fleshlight.

"I lock the door, then I lock you in a chastity belt and we go to sleep."

Denial was usually the best medicine for topping from the bottom. Erik's jaw clenched slightly, clearly believing that Tom would do it.

"Yes, sir."

Tom did not actually own a chastity device. Cock cages always seemed a little too ugly, even if he did enjoy the medieval nature of such tortures.

"Am I going to have to endure more cocky questions from you?" he asked

"No, sir."

Tom placed three dildos on the bed in front of him. He was aiming for variety. The first was petite, the little one that Tom had bought with the hope of never having to use it. Yet it was often the one that got selected the most. The second was knobbly, the shape undulating in a way that Tom knew felt pleasant, but only if use slow. The last was Tom's favourite: a weighty, realistic dick. The girth was good, just on the side of unmanageable. It took a reasonable amount of work to build up to, but it delivered a delightful sense of fullness. It was also bottomed off with a set of balls.

Tom had a flash of getting it so deep into Erik that he could press those balls into his taint. He wondered how big something would have to be to see it bulging in Erik's guts.

"Open your eyes. I want you to choose."

Erik looked down, looking at each of the toys in turn. Almost immediately he reached out his hand to touch the largest one, Tom's favourite one.

Tom took a risk, and slapped him around the face.

It was an open palm slap, the kind done for shock effect more than pain. Erik's face was bony and his head tilted with the momentum. He let out a gasp, and Tom saw, satisfyingly, his chest expand with the inhalation. The ridges of his breastbone seemed to press against the skin, as though he were going to burst.

"Don't touch unless I tell you to."

"Yes, sir," but Erik's voice had changed now. He sounded surprised, hesitant, almost unsure.

Tom lifted his hand again, but this time to place a hand gently on this cheek. He leaned in and kissed Erik's mouth. He kept it tender, comforting, they way they would have kissed if they had known each other years, not hours.

"If I do something you don't like, you'll tell me."

"Yes," Tom felt a smile against his lips, "Sir."

"And you'll tell me, now, if there is anything you don't like."

He felt the smile falter.

"I er…"

"Go on."

"I've never done something I didn't enjoy."

"That's a risky thing to tell someone you just met," said Tom. There was no smirk in his voice, but it did feel chastising. Who went for a fuck with a virtual stranger and said they had no hard limits? Tom might have wanted to do really fucked up stuff to Erik, like keep him locked in this room and…

"I know. But also, I figure you're going to fuck my arse and call me daddy's little slut and then we'll both cum."

Tom couldn't help himself. He slapped Erik again.

"You're a cheeky shit," he said to him. "For assuming I would be so predictable."

Erik did not respond. Tom hoped it was because he thought he knew the limit of what Tom would put up with. It did not entirely surprise Tom that Erik had a bratty streak, but he was also not in the mood. It had been months, and he was quite determined to get his fill without the need for extreme punishments.

He was pleased that Erik did not answer back.

"You're going to close your eyes again. In fact, you're going to close your eyes and face the other way. You've shown you can't be trusted."

Erik did as he asked, and made a big show of sticking his bum up in the air and wiggling it at Tom. Because he was so thin, there was not a whole lot of flesh to wobble around. Tom let him show-off though, watching him shimmy with excitement.

Tom pulled his strap up his thighs, the thick cock fastened into place.

"You having fun there?" he said, running his hand up the shaft and letting the silicone slap against his thigh.

"Yes, sir," Erik said, stopping the squirming the second that Tom laid his fingers over the small of his back. He tapped on him, lightly, then slid his finger down between his cheeks.

Tom smacked him, hard, and Erik let out a whimper. His skin smarted with the impact, the skin reddening with the outline of Tom's hand before fading back to pale, hairless. He did it again, getting that whimper once more, the handprint bouncing back.

"Fuck," Erik grunted, and Tom reached down to grab that slicked back ponytail in his hand. He pulled back, forcing Erik to arch his back uncomfortably, as he smacked him, over and over, in exactly the same place, across his left cheek.

"This is just one side," he said, punctuating the monosyllabic words with spanks.

"Fuck," yelped Erik, as Tom delivered a particularly hard one.

Then he stopped.

"How many?"

"Wh-what?"

"How many times did I hit you?"

"I don't know," gasped Erik, and Tom yanked on his hair again, throwing him across the bed.

"Fifteen," said Tom. He was not actually sure if it was fifteen, but it didn't matter. He was in control now, and he controlled everything, including the truth.

"Fifteen," gasped Erik. "Fifteen, sir."

"Count this time," Tom said, and he began to hit the other cheek. He tried to go as hard as he had before, but his hand was stinging. Erik yelped out a number each time, and even managed to squeeze in a "Thank you, sir" between some of the counting.

Tom was enamoured by Erik's ability to switch into total submission. He was definitely experienced, definitely had done this before. Tom had a flash of Erik, kneeling in a dark room, as enormous muscled leather daddies lined up to fuck his mouth. He pictured the splatter of white jizz on his face, and Erik's little pointed tongue stretching out of the corner of his mouth to taste it.

He had paused his spanking for too long, and he could hear Erik panting, uttering the "thr" of "thirteen". He did not like things to be unfinished, though, so he smacked Erik's ass three more times. Erik basically breathed a sigh of relief at "fifteen" and seemed to melt across the duvet.

"Keep your back straight," Tom said. He was gentler now, but firm. He used his do-not-fuck-with-me tone. He had learned that this voice undercut masochism. It had a twisted kindness to it: as though he were a teacher, a guide for Erik, not a bellowing daddy threatening to hit him every five minutes.

Erik obeyed, rigid on all fours.

"Now push your arse back onto your heels."

Erik did so, as though he were squatting. Tom knew that this position was better for entering, as it straightened out the rectum and he wanted to fill Erik up to the brim before twisting him around his cock.

Tom normally liked to make a big deal about fingering someone. He had a packet of black latex gloves that he occasionally used, when he was really going for it. They would glisten with lube and avoided any potential nail catching deep inside. Plus, they looked fucking sexy.

He didn't fancy them right now, though. He leaned over and, working up a thick globule of saliva, spat between Erik's cheeks.

It landed at the top, frothy and white, and began to slide down, across the pink skin between Erik's ass.

"That's just about all you deserve. Say thank you."

"Thank you, sir," said Erik.

Tom wasn't actually evil though, and he leaned over, subtly, to squirt lube onto his right hand. His left gripped Erik's reddened cheek and stroked the saliva down onto his hole.

"Are you a lucky boy?" he purred.

"Yes, sir," said Erik. Tom could see him struggling to maintain the rigidity of his pose. His legs were shaking slightly, and he felt sure that Erik thought he was going to fuck him with just a bit of spit to help.

He pressed his lubed fingers against Erik's hole and was met with a hiss of relief. Before Tom could demand it, Erik had thanked him again.

"Pathetic," said Tom, and he landed another mouthful of spit, this time taking no care with his aim and hitting it across Erik's back. It splattered artfully across one of his tattoos, and started pooling at the dip of his spine.

"Thank you, sir," Erik said again.

Tom pushed his fingers inside. It felt good, hot and tight, and Erik arched and moaned as Tom split him in two. Tom was pleased when he saw that Erik's cock had stayed as hard as it had been when they were kissing in the alleyway.

He fucked Erik's arse lazily, his fingers sliding shallowly in and out. He ran his hand up and down Erik's back, praising him softly, encouraging him to arch slightly, to give Tom that view of his hole, pink and swallowing his hand inside.

"Do you want a third finger?" Tom murmured, working Erik open.

"Yes, sir."

Tom was interested to see what names he could call Erik to make him tick. He had seemed so confident when he was getting called a slut and a bitch, but the minute he was a 'good boy', he seemed more unsure. Tom wondered if it was the false sense of security, more than it was the praise. He had openly said he would call Tom 'Daddy' earlier, so it wasn't likely the element of age play that put him off. Perhaps Erik was just used to the kind of leather daddies who were plain and simple with their language: I am in charge, and you are a hole.

But Tom wanted to fuck Erik's head, as well as his wretched, gaping orifices.

"Oh dear, you're very tight. I'm not sure you can take it," he murmured, keeping that gentle tone, that soft, kind guidance. Erik reacted like it was a fucking taunt.

"I can! I can!"

Tom growled and pushed the third finger into him. There was those delicious moments of elastic resistance, and Erik yelping in strangled pleasure, ecstatic pain.

"Terrible manners," Tom crooned again, and was met with a barrage of thank yous, said with the tone of 'fuck yous'. He twisted the fingers deeper. "Whatever will I do with you?"

"Fuck me," whimpered Erik, but his demeanour had crumbled now, crumbled under Tom's careful, calculated kindness. "Please fuck me, sir."

"Don't use such foul language," Tom said, but Erik was shaking with desperation.

"Please, sir, please, I want your cock. So much. So fucking much."

Tom sighed, sliding his fingers out.

"You won't get it, if you talk like that," he growled. Some of the kindness was leaving his voice. The singsong tone was being replaced with cold, monosyllabics. Erik's begging was reached a crescendo. He was trying to twist his head around, all pleading eyes and prostrating himself.

Tom snapped. He grabbed Erik's hair and forced it down onto the pillows, hard. Swiftly, he lined up his cock and began to push the tip inside. He could hear Erik grunting into the mattress and he wanted to keep him down so badly, to ignore any pleading to stop and let his cock just keep impaling into him, slow and slick.

He yanked Erik's head to the side, not moving anymore forwards.

"More?" he asked.

"Ye-"

Tom pushed his face back down and rammed the rest of the way, hard. If Erik could take the first four inches, it meant he was good for the rest.

He twisted Erik's head again, but Erik had stopped forming words and was garbling at him. It was a mixture of English and Swedish (though, to be honest, understood by no one who spoke either language). Tom hooked a finger into the corner of Erik's mouth and anchored himself that way, beginning to thrust into him.

Erik's skinny legs were beginning to buckle, and Tom just folded him up, tighter, underneath him. He kept one hand at the base of his cock, trialing some differences on the angle, until he hit a spot where Erik seemed to lose the ability to speak, and was just making noises, gutteral.

"Touch your cock," Tom demanded. "Cum for me. Squeeze my cock, clench down as you cum."

Erik scrambled to get his hand between his legs. Tom was pleased, in a way, that he hadn't had to touch him at all. He could feel Erik trembling, again, and he realised he was about to cum. Tom couldn't help himself. He loved to hear men call him daddy. He loved it when they turned into cumsluts and took the abuse.

"Cum on daddy's cock," Tom said, low, quiet so that if Erik wanted to pretend he hadn't heard, Tom could pretend he had never said it.

"Y-yes," said Erik, his voice somehow finding itself amongst the gurgling he had been doing. "Yes, Daddy."

Tom fucked him harder, quickening his pace. He could feel sweat beading on his skin. The sticky feeling of drunk sex rose up his legs and flooded his senses. He could taste iron in his mouth and when he closed his eyes he saw pulsing yellow. Tom realised he was closer than Erik, and the hand holding the dildo in place slipped down underneath himself, rubbing himself until he was grunting, hard. He bent forwards, digging his teeth into the thin layer of flesh on Erik shoulder, the sounds he made muffled.

Erik had cum too. There was the smell of semen filling Tom's one room flat, and Tom could feel the tightness around the strap. He would be hurting Erik now, his body having involuntarily clenched up, in a way that felt so good and satisfying, but also grew unbearable and painful, particularly around a toy with less give than a bio-dick.

Tom removed himself swiftly, letting Erik collapse onto his front onto he bed. He was impressed there was no mess at all, save the lube and the cum, given that Erik was tiny, and the toy had been considerably large, and deep inside him.

He slipped the strap off, going to place it in the bathroom to properly clean later. He padded back into the main room, where Erik was still sprawled across the bed. Tom stood at the edge of the bed, watching him for a second. He realised how drunk he was, and went to the kitchen tap to fill up two glasses of water.

This stirred Erik from his post-coital reverie, and he sat up. He made a grabby hand for the water, and slurped it loudly, deliberately. He gave Tom a cheeky smile.

"I should clean myself up," he said, suddenly sounding embarrassed.

"You were fine. Just lubey."

"Oh, good."

But Erik did get up and go to the bathroom. Tom could hear the sounds of him pissing and washing his hands and splashing water onto his face. Tom did a hasty tidy up of the toys and slipped under the duvet.

Now that the scene was over, he felt a bit self-conscious. He also felt exhausted, and like he would regret the tenth cigarette, and the fifth pint, tomorrow morning. He would also regret not wiping up the cum stain, which was seeping into his duvet.

He might even regret sleeping with Erik. Though the thought banished from his mind when Erik opened the bathroom door. His face was damp, but his eyes were red and tired. He had taken down his hair, and it hung, limp and sweaty to his shoulders.

Tom's mind flashed to Erik, kneeling in the shower as water sprayed on him, soaking him, as Tom pissed hot and fresh on his face. Tom was not generally bothered by piss-kinks, but he felt like he would do just about anything if it meant he got to admire Erik some more.

"Get into bed," Tom said. He kept his voice neutral.

Erik did as he was told and nestled himself right into Tom's armpit.

"Is there any aftercare you need?" Tom asked, even though he was hoping the answer was no. He had had subs be quite demanding after scenes, before, including one who made him take them to MacDonalds.

"I'm okay," said Erik. "Maybe tomorrow, I say thank you properly."

Tom raised an eyebrow, but he liked the idea of that.

"I have nowhere to be tomorrow," Tom said. He felt a little smug.

"Neither do I," Erik said. He was back to his jilting English. "Perhaps we can fuck all day. Order a pizza? I can't order pizza to the shop after it is closed."

Tom had an image in his mind of fucking Erik with his head in a used pizza box. It was amusing, more than sexy. Or the image of Erik riding his cock, eating a slice of pizza with one hand, the long stringy cheese pull, the way his throat bulged around it as it slid into his stomach.

Tom thought that anything could be sexy, if Erik was doing it.

"Sounds like a plan."

"And you can show me the rest of your collection?" asked Erik. He looked up at Tom through his eyelashes, hopeful. "You must have more than three."

"I have many," admitted Tom. "But you have to earn them. One by one."