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The television casts a flickering glow over the intimately small room. Dazzling shades of colors from the screen paint every reachable surface with watercolor hues. A lighthouse beacon in all the muted chaos is Driver. The man sits at the folding table in the apartment’s single chair. The small table is crowded with his current project. He is curled thoughtfully over the carburetor he’s working on, peering through the magnifier of his lamp. While he thinks, he flips his socket tool between his fingers. The rhythmic motion is soothing to watch. It makes Ken think of something else that the other man’s hand could be doing instead.
Ken really is not sure what the other man is doing exactly despite it being explained to him earlier in the evening, but regardless, he can’t tear his eyes away from him. He scrutinizes every detail, every movement of his hands, every shift of the muscles under his blue shirt. The harsh, white gleam of the LED light illuminates the mechanic’s face in a way that has Ken shifting uncomfortably in his seat on the worn couch. The television has become a secondary thought, something that was supposed to keep him distracted. Driver had gestured to the couch some hours ago, while the sun was still setting, and Ken is finally tired of entertaining himself. He knows the quietly working man doesn’t have a job tonight. There have been no phone calls to be answered on a burner phone, no monologues given in that deceptively lazy voice. He’s wholly unoccupied by anything more important than a hobby that he has already spent ages on. Ken personally thinks that Driver is past due to divert his attention to something more… pressing.
He lets himself sigh loudly over the low murmur of the television, hoping to garner attention. Driver doesn’t so much as twitch at the intrusive sound. Ken seals and tosses the bag of pecans that he’s been steadily working through onto the couch cushion beside him. The nuts rattle aggressively in their pouch. He’s not hungry anymore, not when he’s been driven to distraction. He lets his head lull against the leather couch. His hands find their way to the front of his pants. His fingers deftly pop the button and unzip the fly. He drags them off his legs with little huffs and moans, fabric rustling noisily. He’s stripped down to his thong and his unbuttoned, collared shirt. The apartment’s air is cool on his newly bare legs and he shivers.
Driver’s jacket is folded haphazardly over the arm of the couch. The fabric shines like a star in the night sky, twinkling with the parade of lights from the television across the way. He brushes curious fingers over the scorpion embroidered on the back. It’s bumpy under his exploratory touch. He has half a mind to press his face into the silky material and find his release with his own hand. It would only be a pale substitute for the real thing, for the man seated mere feet away. The weight of the other man’s body, the calloused hands, the perpetual smell of oil and cheap soap clinging to his flesh; Ken wants it all. He probably wants too much. He always has. It’s his fatal flaw, the one that made him unsuited to Barbieland.
He must make a noise that cuts through the stunt driver’s focus because he shifts to look over his shoulder at him. Driver squints into the relative darkness outside the influence of his table light. He takes in the way that Ken’s hand is lingering on the golden arachnid, and he traces the lines of his exposed legs before pulling away to meet Ken’s pleading stare. There’s a questioning flicker in those blue depths before he turns back to fine-tuning the air and fuel ratio. Ken feels a twist in his stomach. He’s trying to be patient, he really is. Driver’s unwavering dedication is something that he both loves and hates. Loves it when he’s the object of all that attentiveness, hates it when he’s not.
The television drones on by the bed, Ken weakly tries making commentary about it. The other man doesn't so much as look at him again. There’s no hum of acknowledgement either. Ken decides that maybe he can start to entertain himself with the hopes that Driver will take over. He gropes at himself with an inexperienced hand. His touch doesn’t feel nearly as good as the other man’s would. Rocking up against his flattened palm does little but frustrate him enough to let out a whine that also gets no response. He’s utterly and thoroughly blocked out. The feeling it gives him is enough to finally urge him off the couch. He approaches the mechanic, hovers a hand over his shoulder. He wants to touch him, but this way won’t be enough. His tongue passes over his lips, tasting the fruity flavor of the product he’d glossed them with hours ago in the hopes that Driver would notice and be driven to distraction. It hadn’t worked, but he had an inkling of what might.
With a confidence he doesn’t feel, he gets to his knees on the carpet. He fits himself under the folding table, careful to not hit his head on the underside of it. The last thing he wants to do is make a mess and destroy the other man’s concentration with a clumsy mistake. No, he wants to break that concentration in a way that results in him getting those meticulously steady hands on his body. He puts his hands on Driver’s thighs, right above the hinge of his knees. A little applied pressure gets those long legs to spread wider, enough to make room for Ken to shuffle forward between them. There’s no resistance. Either Driver is too wrapped up in his work to notice, or he’s willing to accommodate Ken’s desires. He hopes it’s the latter. It makes him feel special. His heart is hammering in his ears as he leans in to start mouthing at the seam of Driver’s jeans, right over the zipper. The lipgloss he’s wearing leaves tacky, shimmery impressions of his wandering lips, smearing it right into the coarse fabric. Everything that the other man owns has slowly been marked and tainted by errant flecks of shine. The possessive streak in Ken always preens at the sight of his iridescent glitter adorning Driver’s clothing, his hair, his skin . Ken has staked his claim over and over in a way that’s not able to be easily erased. It’s a neon sign blinking “ownership” in garish letters like the ones on Hollywood Boulevard where Driver had taken him one night when he didn't have a job. It feels good .
Teasing the mechanic through the fabric of his pants is not enough. The faint twitches of the wheelman’s cock responding to his careful attention is too muted, too impersonal. Ken needs more. It’s an easy thing to undo the man’s belt, leaving it hanging from its loops, to slip the button free of the hole, to tug at the zipper until it glides down, to be granted with the sight of Driver’s sensitive skin. He appreciates that he doesn’t wear anything underneath his jeans, it makes these moments so much more satisfying. He slips his mouth over Driver’s cock, running his tongue along the soft flesh, savoring the moment. Driver jerks, hits his knee on the underside of the table with a clatter when he’s suddenly enveloped in the wet heat of Ken’s mouth. He doesn’t stop him, merely sinks lower in his seat to provide better access, and Ken grunts, pleased, around the gradually hardening dick he’s tending to. He hears a ragged breath, but also the noises of Driver resuming his work. Stung, he doubles his efforts; swirls his tongue over the slit, hollows his cheeks, and sucks like his life depends on it. In a way, it does. Who is he if he’s not wanted?
He’s midway through taking the now hard length down his throat, swallowing around the shaft when Driver weaves a hand into the blond strands of his hair and pulls him off. Strings of saliva and precome connect Ken’s puffy, pink lips to the flushed tip of Driver’s leaking cock before tension snaps the delicate threads. He sits back on his heels, panting. The grip the other man has on him is bordering on painful but it causes Ken to press his own hand against his crotch needily. The thong he’s wearing is doing little in the way of modesty. He’s already soaked through it. Arousal over this situation shoots through him like a succession of lightning strikes.
“You gotta learn to be patient.” Driver’s voice is low, predatory. There’s a hungry edge to it that serves to remind Ken that the man holding onto his hair isn't nearly as mild as he seems.
His pulse kicks up a notch and he feels a boldness that is unlike him. Tonight has been about experimental bravado and the desperation to be desired. "Teach me then."
Driver stands up and kicks the chair he was just sitting on out of the way. It collides with the storage tub against the wall in a manner that is sure to get a complaint relayed to them by the building’s superintendent. His cock is jutting obscenely from his body, framed by his open jeans. Ken is not sure where to look. Any option is too overwhelming. He's not given any time to agonize over it because Driver hauls him out from under the table by his hair, forceful enough to nearly send him face first against the standing man's hip. The fingers knotted against his scalp coax his head back, bearing his throat in a submissive arc. His lips are parted, wet and inviting. He can't quite catch his breath. His knees feel raw from the friction against the carpet. He shudders at the sparks of pain. They're igniting something new in him. Something dark and unexplored.
He gets to his feet, prompted by a sharp tug upwards. The attempt to steady himself by placing stabilizing hands on the man holding him is thwarted when the man he’s trying to brace himself against takes a step back. The message is clear. No touching.
The grip Driver has on him leaves him with no other desirable choice than to allow himself to be steered the few, meager feet to the apartment’s only bed. The air is knocked out of him when he gets unceremoniously bent over it, face to the burgundy bedspread, arms awkwardly out to catch himself. Driver lets go of his hair and Ken thinks the rough handling is over, but a thrill races through him when he realizes that it’s not. There’s the warning sound of the other man’s belt sliding through his belt loops before Ken’s arms are grabbed one after the other and firmly manipulated to be crossed over the small of his back. The leather that pins them into place and bites into the skin of his forearms is warm, heated from being nestled against Driver’s body all day, where Ken should have been if he’d had his way hours ago.
“Wait.” Driver says it as though Ken is a spoiled pet.
Ken sneaks a glance at him. He’s tucked himself back in his jeans, erection be damned, and is moving away from him to draw the cast aside chair back to the table and take a seat. Ken is stunned. A petulant whine builds in his throat until he’s nearly wailing. Driver gives him a flat look that promptly cuts it off. He’s left draped over the broken down, old bed that came with the place. It doesn’t help matters that the blanket and sheets were some untasteful castoffs that Driver had brought back from the thrift store. They were something that Ken would have never chosen because he likes to surround himself with pretty things, but Driver? Driver doesn’t care about the bedding. As he’d told him weeks prior, he wasn’t going to be seeing it or sleeping on it that much anyway; not when there was work and Ken himself to attend to.
All the same, Ken has an admiration for things that he believes are beautiful, and nothing has captivated him the way that Driver does. Even now, the other man is all that he can focus on. He’s lit by bright light that matches the intensity of the heat pooling inside of Ken. Unconsciously, he grinds his hips into the edge of the bed. He falls into a rhythm, seeking relief while he watches the minute shifts in Driver’s expression as he works, the flex of his muscles when he flips the part he’s working on over, the way his fingers delicately make adjustments or pick up a tool. It’s too much and Ken has to close his eyes against the vision imprinting itself into his memories. The bed is creaking a noisy protest against his snapping hips, his mouth is open and he’s pushing out heaving breaths like he’s running a marathon. He’s so close, so, so, so close. If only he wasn’t bound and had a free hand to slip down past his waistband.
His impending orgasm is ruined. Calloused hands are on him in a vicious motion. One is on the back of his neck, the other digging into the meat of his bicep. He’s forced to the floor, too stunned to protest. His face is pushed against the carpet, rubbed in like a dog being unfairly punished for messing on the floor.
“Told you to wait.”
“ I couldn’t. It was too much.” Ken’s breathless and petulant. He’s so hard that he thinks any motion will be enough to send him over the edge.
He gets rolled over onto his back, removing the chance of grinding his pelvis against the floor. His shoulders scream in protest at the treatment. His head is by the foot of the bed. He’s got a good view of the underside of the box spring, the ceiling, the patterned wallpaper, and most importantly; Driver’s face. His eyes look nearly black in the lighting, stark against the planes of his face. He looks one thread away from snapping and devouring Ken whole. Good. He wants to be on the receiving end of that all-consuming desire. He wants to be treated like one of those women in the old black and white dramas that play on the television sometimes; a pretty little thing, teased and manhandled until there’s only smears of mascara and delicate, pleading sobs.
Driver lowers himself to the floor alongside Ken and straddles him, his knees digging into his hips. Ken watches with hooded eyes as he inadvertently shifts against his crotch while reaching behind himself to tug the gloves free from his back pocket. He observes while Driver works those broad hands into the tight confines of the leather. The gloves are such a snug fit that they’re practically a second skin. He must be anticipating needing to have a firm grip on him. He drops back into a fully seated position, heavy against his dick. Ken’s sure that he’s on the verge of soaking through the fabric of Driver’s jeans. The front row visual of seeing the other man’s cock straining hard against his pants zipper has Ken groaning. His fingers clench into fists behind his back. If only he was allowed to touch.
He’s pulled away by thoughts of touching the other man when smooth leather covers and boldly caresses his chest. He arches into the touch, chasing the warm pressure when Driver threatens to remove his hand. He whines brokenly when his nipple gets rolled between the mechanic’s glove-clad fingers. He works him over even after both nipples are swollen and painfully hard. It’s enough stimulation to get tears trickling from the corners of his eyes. Each brush against his sensitive skin sends a stabbing need to his groin.
Every time he attempts to relieve the pressure in the lower half of his body, to rut up against the man astride him, Driver rises onto his knees to take away the maddening contact of his body. He doesn’t even leave his hands on Ken’s chest. It’s exquisite torture and Ken can’t stop the flood of incoherent pleas falling from his mouth.
Finally, Driver has enough of his begging. He grabs Ken’s chin, clamping down hard enough that his jaw aches. It’s a suffocatingly tight grip, but Ken is so desperate for something that he sighs right into it. He nearly goes cross-eyed when Driver points at him warningly.
“You're gonna be quiet. Gonna wait until I say so.”
Ken pushes his luck by defiantly rolling his hips against Driver’s and to his utter shock, receives a stinging slap across the face. The skin over his cheekbone feels hot and tight, faintly throbbing from delayed pain. He can’t help himself and sobs against the ironclad hold still on his jaw. His dick twitches and spurts. He’s sure the man on top of him notices.
“Understand now?” Driver looks vaguely flushed in the low light. He’s unable to sit still, shifting uncomfortably in Ken’s lap with short, jerky movements of his pelvis. Despite telling Ken that he needs to learn to be patient, the other man isn’t very composed himself.
Despite the hold Driver has on him, Ken manages a sincere nod. He’s eager for an overdue reward and the other man doesn’t disappoint. He releases his jaw, pausing to rub his fingers over the bruising skin to ease the ache. Ken’s eyes flutter closed at the pleasant touch and he gives a contented whine when Driver’s hands meet around Ken’s neck. Gloved thumbs overlap in the hollow of his throat. His pulse hammers against those steady palms. He’s dizzyingly breathless despite not being choked when the mechanic leans down to press a kiss against his pliant mouth. The brush of his tongue against Ken’s bottom lip is electrifying and he opens his mouth in a soft gasp. Driver chases the opportunity and Ken gets lost in the sensation of a warm tongue against his, teeth hungrily nipping and worrying his lips into swollen, used things. He mourns the loss of the man’s mouth against his when Driver pulls away as though it’s him that needs to be reminded of his place, taught the lesson of punishment and reward. Ken instinctively leans up to chase after the contact, but the gloved hands around his neck hold him steadily in place. He’ll only receive what Driver gives him.
While he and the other man catch their breath, locked in a holding pattern. Ken is reminded of a less pleasurable sensation plaguing his body. His arms are filled with static and flashes of discomfort. The carpet is failing to provide significant padding and with the additional weight of another body astride him; it hurts. He can’t help but roll his shoulders in the effort to seek relief. His movements do not escape Driver’s attention, and for the first time tonight, an uneasy expression paints his face. His jaw is tense and he looks on the cusp of calling this whole game of theirs off. This evening has been nothing but uncharted territory. Just as Ken has been learning, so has Driver. Despite the quiet confidence he exudes, Ken knows that the wheelman is inexperienced. He’d been wanted by other people in the past, but he’d been too distant to engage with anyone beyond observation and mild (but not insignificant) touches.
“I’ll stop if you tell me to stop,” he says, concern lacing his words despite his clear arousal. The pressure on Ken’s throat is a whisper.
Ken doesn’t want him to stop. He wants to push and push and push until the man snaps. He’s dripping glittery precum and soaking through his thong at the anticipation. It’s exhilarating in a brand new way.
"I can't learn if you stop,” Ken tells him.
Driver nods and takes a deep breath. He shifts slightly, getting comfortable and pulls his intent stare away from Ken. His blue eyes latch onto the television, feigning interest. Ken can’t see it from his position on the floor, but regardless of whatever might be on it, he burns with frustration that Driver is back to ignoring him. If he lays still and doesn’t get impatient, Driver grinds down against him in a way that is too intentional to be absent minded. If he doesn’t remain relaxed, Driver trails a hand, almost tantalizingly, down his neck, over his collarbone, and down to the yielding tissue of his pectoral. The first time it happens, Ken thinks he’s getting a reward but instead, Driver takes his already overstimulated nipple between his fingers and twists hard enough to make him yelp before letting go to roll his toothpick idly between his lips.
Ken can only take so much of this before he whines. “I’ve been good.”
Much to his frustration. Driver doesn’t respond. He’s been edged for so long he’s almost sick with the need to find release.
“Haven’t I been good?” He tries again, a little more desperate. He’s almost hysterical. This earns him a glance and a thoughtful pause before the man speaks.
“Have you?”
Ken nods frantically, chin colliding with Driver’s right wrist where his hand still lays casually resting on his neck. Driver doesn’t respond. Ken’s mind is blown. He’s never been made to wait this long. Driver gives him what he needs when he wants it or shortly after when the moment is more opportune. The other man’s patience lasts for about five minutes before he’s spurred into action. It is how he operates both behind the wheel and in the other areas of his life. Ken can’t help but wonder if Driver feels as tortured as he does in this moment.
“Wanna finish what you started?” The question comes out of nowhere, said casually like the answer is of no real importance.
“Yes. Yes. ” Ken does. He really does.
Driver pops the button of his jeans and lowers the zipper. Ken already feels his mouth watering. They’re right back where they started in what feels like a lifetime ago. Driver’s cock is engorged and ruddy even in the scant light. There’s a drop of precum beading on the tip, threatening to fall onto Ken’s bare abdomen. It trembles precariously as the other blond all but crawls his way up Ken’s body until his thighs are spread wide to bracket his shoulders. Ken swallows thickly. The hands Driver places on either side of his face are almost tender. He presses his thumbs against the corners of his mouth and slips them inside. Ken opens his mouth to welcome the intrusion. The rich, earthy flavor of tanned leather bursts across his tongue when the other man slides his digits in deeper, spreading his jaws wide. He swallows again, his throat clicking.
Driver rocks up slightly. The space between his eyebrows is furrowed slightly in concentration as he aligns the tip of his leaking cock with Ken’s waiting mouth. They share a moment of eye contact. Driver silently checks to make sure he has consent before he presses steadily into the wet heat. The musky taste of the other man consumes all his senses to the point that he hardly notices when Driver removes his hands from his face and puts his forearms on the bed to steady himself and relieve some of the weight on Ken’s body. The bound man closes his eyes and hums encouragingly around the cock resting in his mouth. He relaxes his throat. He wants him to move, to use him. He did use to be a doll, he still wants to be played with.
He gets his desire when Driver plunges deeper and begins fucking into his mouth with steady thrusts of his hips. The sounds they make together are wet and obscene. Driver is breathing hard, teeth gritted. Ken, for his part, is moaning as loudly as he can despite his throat being otherwise occupied. The length brushing over his tongue and diving into his throat makes him wish he could wrap a hand around his own pressing need. He feels pressure building in his gut that only needs a little more encouragement.
A pat against his cheek informs him that the man using him is close. Driver comes with a shudder of his body. He lets out a loud growl as he does. The force of his release nearly chokes Ken and he struggles to swallow. He manages to get the salty load down regardless, he doesn’t want to disappoint. He sucks the slowly softening cock in his mouth, making sure to wring out every last drop the man produces. Driver catches his jaw and eases himself out. Ken’s lungs burn as he greedily sucks in mouthfuls of air.
Driver dismounts, swinging his leg up and over Ken’s body. He’s tucked himself back in his pants, a much easier process now that he’s spent. Ken watches him with hazy eyes when he grabs hold of his waistband and pulls his thong down and off. Relief floods Ken’s body as his straining erection is finally freed from its tight, soaked confines. He forces himself to sit up and to wiggle backwards until he’s propped up against the foot of the bed. He watches Driver pass his tongue over his lips in anticipation of his next few actions. The other man lowers himself to the floor, stomach pressed against the carpet. Ken can’t hold back his whine when he feels Driver’s hot breath on his leaking dick. He nearly thrashes when he feels that leather clad grip encircle the base of his hard cock. The material is immediately coated in traces of glittery liquid.
He’s incapable of muffling the noise he lets out when Driver makes direct eye contact with him and licks his cockhead. He’s almost hyperventilating by the time the other man fully takes him into his mouth and starts working at him with easy flicks of his wrist. The leather catches on the dry swaths of his skin. It’s just on the edge of being painful. He finds that he doesn’t mind the sensation, not when it’s accompanied by Driver’s blue eyes looking up at him in a way that says he needs reassurance that he’s doing a good job.
“Thank you. Thank you. Thank you .” The praises fall from his lips with each breathless exhale. His thighs are trembling with the effort to not thrust up into the other man’s mouth. The forearm pressing into his hip is a reminder to stay still and let himself be taken care of. Ken doesn’t want to spoil the lesson now. He would probably die if Driver pulled away as a punishment for any perceived impatience.
He gives himself over to the rhythm of Driver’s actions. He gasps out a warning before he comes. The other man pulls away, locking eyes with him as he lets Ken cover his face with his cum. Thick, glittery ropes spray over him. It’s all over his cheekbones and his swollen lips. The fluid is like molten silver, picking up colors from the flickering light of the television.
“Come here. Please, come here.”
Driver obliges him, not pausing to wipe the shining mess from his skin. He guides Ken’s legs further apart to accommodate his mass as he heaves himself off the floor in order to kneel between his spread legs. The restrained man whimpers at the brush of Driver’s shirt covered abdomen against his spent cock as the other man presses in close. They’re nearly nose to nose, Driver’s breath is hot against his lips. Ken bypasses kissing him and swipes his tongue over the other man’s cheek instead. The salty taste of himself mingling with Driver’s sweat sparks a desperation to taste more. He licks Driver’s face clean, laps away every trace of his release but a few stray specks of glitter that will stay with the mechanic for days to come. Driver is still, carefully still, like a surprised predator. There’s a wet, uncertain look in his eyes. He looks as overwhelmed as Ken feels.
He reaches around Ken and undoes the belt holding his arms locked together behind his back. The flood of blood rushing back into his asleep limbs is painful. Static rolls under his skin as his arms come back to life. As soon as the belt is off and tossed to the side, Driver kisses Ken. Hard. He puts his right hand on the side of his face while he devours him, smearing Ken’s own cum on his face from where it still slicks down his gloved hand. Ken is panting and shaking. It’s all he can do to put his hands on Driver’s waist and hold on.