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It started as a game. (it was still a game / it was never a game.)
Sam had always admired Ben's ability to be funny. Not just as a writer, a skill they'd all developed, but extemporaneously, in person, in the moment. Ben could make Sam genuinely laugh, and very few people could do that.
Sam didn't have Ben's quick wit, but he did have stubborn competitiveness and the drive for dares. When they were out walking one day and Ben made a passing joke about making Sam ask a passing woman if he could buy her hat, Sam did it immediately, social awkwardness be damned. It was worth it to see the look on Ben's face: the moment of surprise, followed by the calculating sparkle. After that, the game was on.
It wasn't a competition, not really. There was nothing concrete to win, just the thrill of pushing each other and themselves, coming up with challenges to make the other one carry out, whether inside of Jet Lag or not. They started innocently: eat this, touch that, say this phrase. Ben gargled vinegar. Sam ate a leaf. Ben drank hot sauce. Sam put his hand on the floor of a public bathroom. Ben climbed a tree. Sam painted his face. Ben posted about his underwear online. Sam went without wearing any. They pushed further, leaving an exasperated Adam asking what either of them had been thinking by filming shower scenes and foot photos during their runs. They took it to private video calls, and the limits grew more distant, the challenges more explicit. Show me. I dare you.
It wasn't really a game, but when neither of them would back down, the stakes kept growing higher. And that was how Sam Denby found himself here, naked, on his knees, in an anonymous motel room.
He didn't even know what the room looked like. He'd followed directions. Once he'd reached the location and exchanged messages with Ben to ensure they were both at the same place, he'd pulled out a Virgin Atlantic eye mask and strapped it to his face, then wound a length of black silk around his head and tied it in place to block any stray light. They'd done blindfolds before - in public, even, guiding each other to dodge hazards and questions - but the context of the motel made it clear what level this game would be played on. Sam had felt his pulse jump the moment he'd removed his vision and put himself into another's control.
He didn't have long to wait. Ben's familiar voice was soon murmuring commands in Sam's ear, bringing him into the room and closing the door behind them. Once inside, he'd been ordered to strip without disrupting his blindfold.
So here he was, sitting on his heels on the end of a bed, every inch of his skin exposed for anyone watching (it was Ben, it was only Ben, Sam would hear if anyone else were in the room). He was too excited to feel cold. Anything could happen.
"Don't you look pretty," Ben said. It was a gentle tease, but there was an undercurrent of honest appreciation, and Sam felt his cheeks warm. He knew his body was in good shape. He'd seen his own muscled legs and smooth chest countless times in the mirror, but he didn't feel attractive except when he heard it from someone else. His back straightened and his head lifted, just a little.
"Uh-uh," said Ben, and nudged Sam's head forward again. "Head down. Hands behind your back."
That was new. Sam rested his hands on the small of his own back, right hand clasping left wrist. He felt the mattress shifting as Ben moved closer, heard the sound of velcro ripping open, smelled the leather approaching before Ben pulled his arms into position and wrapped the material around them, binding them in place. It wasn't a hardcore restraint. No rope, nothing fastening his wrists directly, no locks. If he fought hard enough, he could probably get out of it, and of course if Sam called a stop Ben would free him in an instant.
But he wouldn't. That was the game. And he trusted Ben, that was why the game. There was no one else in the world that Sam would make himself this vulnerable for.
Sam knelt, breathing slowly, trying to take in the moment. Blind and restrained, he needed to be more cautious of his balance. If he tipped, he wouldn't be able to catch himself. It wasn't likely, but he needed to be aware. He heard Ben moving again, stepping away from the bed. Something clattered. Not metal, not dice. Sam couldn't guess what Ben was doing, but he could hear him coming back again.
"Hold still," said Ben, and Sam sucked in his breath, freezing in place, until -
"Gyah!" Freezing was right. A shock of cold against his back made him cry out. Cold, wet - ice cube, partially melted. It slipped and slid around his shoulder blade and down his back until it lodged itself against his bound arms. Sam's muscles twitched as he tried not to shiver. He breathed harshly, feeling his nipples tighten up in reaction. The trapped ice was like a tiny spike of cold piercing his skin, but it was melting rapidly, frigid rivulets trickling down between his buttocks. That amount of ice couldn't do any serious harm.
Ben's fingers followed the wet trail down Sam's back, which made him want to shiver all over again. "Aren't you supposed to love winter sports?" he teased.
Sam licked his lips, keeping his voice steady. "Normally when I'm skiing, I have a lot more clothing between me and the snow."
"'Normally'?" Sam could hear the twisted grin in Ben's words. "Sounds like next time I come to Colorado, we'll have to take in some fresh winter air."
"Careful, Benjamin Doyle," said Sam. "Next time is my turn."
"This is true." The pressing cold against Sam's back suddenly eased - Ben must have plucked up the ice cube. "Sit up straight. Tilt your head back."
Sam took a deep breath and rose up into a tall kneel, back arching to throw his chest forward and his head back. The room lights, if there were any, must have been shining directly into his eyes, but with the double-layer blindfold he couldn't sense even a change in brightness. Balance was a little trickier with his weight shifted like this, and the muscles in his thighs had to make small corrections to maintain the pose. Sam was exquisitely aware of how very much 'on display' he was in this position, the whole naked length of him, and the cock which had lain docile until this point made its first indications of interest. He hoped Ben liked what he saw.
"That's beautiful," Ben said, as if he'd heard Sam's thoughts. Maybe he could. Ben was funny that way sometimes.
Back arched, arms bound, trembling at attention, Sam thoroughly expected Ben to repeat the trick with the ice cube, but on his chest this time. He was only half right. The wet, cold texture that enveloped his left nipple was not an ice cube.
"Ben..." Sam groaned. Ben did not reply. He couldn't, since his lips and tongue were thoroughly occupied. He must have been sucking on ice in preparation for this moment - the cold wasn't nearly as shocking as the cube down the back had been, but it was still sharp and distinct, like needles through his nerves. No, needles was wrong, it wasn't pain, it was... He didn't know how to describe it. Like the tap of a reflex hammer, it made him want to move, even though he didn't dare. And Ben was good with his mouth. Lips that teased and sucked and pinched, a chin whose faint stubble pressed and scratched against Sam's skin, a tongue that pushed and rolled the hard tip of Sam's nipple like it was operating some kind of air traffic switchboard...
Distantly, through the pulse pounding in his ears, Sam was aware that his body's reactions had gone from interested to eager.
Ben's hands were on Sam's arms, holding him steady as he worked one side of his chest, then the other. It was necessary, because Sam's head was spinning, colors opening up like petals behind his covered eyes. Ben was so close, but he existed only as a presence of cold and hot and touch and pressure. Pleasure. Pleasure he could fall into and be lost and...
When Ben pulled away, leaving his wet, aching nipples exposed to the room's air, Sam whined with frustration. "Ben, please..."
"Please what?"
Sam shut his mouth.
No direct genital contact. That was the boundary, the one rule they'd laid in place. Ben would not touch his cock, not unless Sam explicitly asked him to. Up until that point, they were just playing a game, two friends fooling around together. What they were doing was still inappropriate, but it wasn't sex. They had deniability. (They'd come to a motel room together, fuck deniability.) It didn't matter that he wanted it, it didn't matter that his cock was throbbing with desire, Sam was not going to be the one to cross that line. (But if Ben asked, if Ben pushed, Sam would...)
"Sit for a minute," Ben suggested, his voice moving away and around the room. "I've got to get something ready."
Sam sat back on his heels, breathing hard. He wasn't sure if he should be trying to relax or not. Ben was evil when he wanted to be. He wouldn't leave Sam alone in the room, not while he was helpless and restrained, but he was capable of ignoring him and playing some stupid videogame just to drive Sam insane. Or he might have something more interesting in mind.
The room was a mystery to Sam. He'd never seen it. But it was a motel, and there were standards, and there was an image in his mind pasted together from all of those experiences. One bed, king-size. Table in the corner. Air conditioner under the window. Mirror on the wall hanging over a dresser, that was where Ben's footsteps had gone. Rustling. Picking something up.
Squish.
A wet noise, and a splat of air. A familiar type of sound: a fluid being pushed out of a tube or a bottle. Glue? Oil? What was Ben doing?
Footsteps returned. "Let me move you a little."
Sam swallowed. Hands on his shoulders guided him as he shuffled back along the bed, away from the edge, or at least where he thought the edge was.
Something on the bed moved, soft fabric noises. "Bend forward. Bring your head down."
The muscles in Sam's legs tightened, anticipating losing his balance and falling onto his face, but the hands steadied him and brought his head gently into contact with - pillows? Had to be more than one, to support him in this position. He was bent over, blind, his erection brushing against the bedsheets, his ass completely exposed....
Something cold touched his skin, moved against it, slippery and wet and leaving a trail. Lube, that was what Ben had been squirting on earlier. "Fuck," Sam whispered.
"Is that a request?"
Sam breathed harder.
The unseen object slapped against his butt cheek. It was definitely an object, firm and solid but not too hard. Silicone toy, probably. Size and shape, though, he couldn't guess at, not yet, but he'd know more soon. This had clearly been just a warning.
The object moved away. More wet noises. And then - and then! - there was a wet tip sliding along his taint, pushing gently against his hole, not enough to slip inside, just enough to know exactly what was -
"What's your color?" a voice asked, and it took Sam a moment to understand. Ben sounded deeper, raspier, or else Sam's ears weren't working right, and... right, he was asking for consent, of course he was.
"Green," Sam said, trying not to let his voice squeak. "Go."
And then the toy was pressing inside.
It wasn't a totally unfamiliar feeling. He'd touched himself there before, sometimes under direction, sometimes not, but it had never been like this. He'd never been so open, so exposed, so vulnerable, but the fear was too far away to touch and fading...
"Relax," Ben murmured, and pulled the toy back towards him.
There was a moment of pain as Sam's body instinctively clenched, trying to hold that feeling inside himself, but he obediently forced himself to relax, and then the lube took hold, coating him and allowing that firm length to slide in and out freely.
"Yes, just like that..." And slide it did, deeper, stirring up a warmth that made Sam's whole body melt. He was floating, he was underwater, he was pressed cheek-flat against a stack of pillows and moaning, he couldn't have moved even if his arms had been free, he could lie here forever just feeling this motion, slow and deliberate like the ocean, rolling, building...
And then it stopped.
Still inside, but not moving.
"Stay there," Ben panted, and Sam began to realise that the gasping breaths he was hearing weren't entirely his own.
Rattling sounds. A belt hastily unfastened, pants unzipped. Wet sounds, a hand repeatedly sliding up and down against...
Sam was bent over, ass in the air, and Ben was looking at him and jerking off and he couldn't see and he couldn't touch himself and... fuck!
"Sam," Ben groaned, his throat hoarse with desire.
Ben wanted him. Wanted him, not just release - the thought rushed through Sam's body, hairs standing on end, need inside him tightening... Sam squirmed, grinding his face down into the pillows as he tried to get one heel over the other, tried to find a way to reach the toy and shift it in place, make it move again, to be a part of...
"Fucking hell, Sam, you.... ngggh..."
... it moved, it moved inside him, and Ben was moaning and his free hand was clawing at the bed and Sam couldn't even think he was humping the mattress he was hot and slippery he was throbbing he was feeling it deep inside gathering growing and it was almost it was like it was Ben Ben Ben...
"Sam...!" Ben's voice was desperate now. "Sam, I'm gonna... I can't... God... oh, fuck, I... SAM!"
... and something pulsed hard inside him and everything was colors and he didn't even know which of them was screaming...
They collapsed, both of them, shaky breaths in near-sync. Sam was lying in the damp remains of his own orgasm and he didn't even care, not that he could have figured out how to move anyway.
Predictably, Ben recovered first. "Sam! Hold on, I'm coming." The bed shifted as Ben crawled closer. "You were amazing. You did so good." A hand rubbed down Sam's back. "Try to stay relaxed, just a little longer." Carefully, he withdrew the mysterious device. He left the bed to set it aside, but only for a moment, immediately returning to Sam's side. "Hold on." He tugged at the restraints, the sound of the Velcro even louder this time as the wrap came undone. "Can you move your arms for me? Roll over on your side?"
Sam hummed faintly, not feeling capable of words. His arms fell limp at his sides, but he wiggled his fingers to show that everything was still working.
"Come on. You need to get off your knees."
Sam let Ben roll him over, away from the damp spot. He couldn't stop smiling.
"Let me help you with this," Ben said, his fingers brushing the edge of the scarf.
Sam caught Ben's hand in his, pulling it away from the blindfold.
"You want to stay like this a while," Ben concluded. "Okay." He curled up next to Sam, sharing the space without making any demands.
They'd have to talk eventually. But for now, Sam didn't want to open his eyes.
It was safer here, together, in the dark.