Erotic short. Spencer can’t reach subspace every time.
Explicit NBLNB short. Contains lingerie, corsets, public sex, mirrors, handjobs, D/s, discussions of subspace.
Spur likes it when he can’t think, but it’s hard not to think on nights like this, when they’re in the middle of the club and everyone keeps looking over. They’re not looking at Spencer, of course — they’re looking at Spur, looking at them, at the way they held themselves.
Spur was sitting back in the middle of one of the red leather couches, and with the lights running overhead, glittering lights flashing over the walls, the ceilings. The music was pounding, loud enough that Spencer could feel the bass of it thrumming through his chest, thrumming through his whole body, but they didn’t even nod their head to the music, didn’t even tap their fingers.
They were sipping from their mocktail, the black of their lipstick staining the glass in the same place every time, as they talked with the other people around the booth, not even about sex, not even about kink, but about some videogame Spencer had never played before. With the hand not holding the glass, Spur was sliding their fingers through Spencer’s hair, scratching idly over his scalp, and Spencer kept his cheek against their thigh, his eyes closed.
He knew it was coming.
Spur liked to bring him out to clubs, always said what a beautiful thing he was to have on a leash in front of them, something lovely for other people to look at, and they always said, too, how well-behaved he was, how they liked that.
They didn’t even stop talking, just patted their knees as they kept speaking, saying, “… a ranged system, but it just depends on the game design, I don’t know. Some games I can handle it if there’s a decent autofocus, but I just don’t move fast enough for shooters, I’m dead before I’ve moved the cursor halfway across the screen. Good boy.”
Spencer is careful about straddling their lap, feeling the leather of their trousers underneath him as their hands slide over his hips, squeezing the flesh there, thumbs sliding into the crease of his thighs.
The corset is tight, forces him to keep his back straight as he spreads his legs over their lap, and they slide one hand between his legs, squeezing against the bulge of his cock under the lace they’re gathered in, making him hiss, his eyes closing tight.
“Other way,” says Spur, drawing a circle on the air with one finger, and Spencer hesitates but then obeys, getting to his feet and turning around. Spur grabs him around the middle, pulls him solidly back into their lap, and like this, Spencer can see the mirrored walls around their booth, can see himself.
His cheeks are a little pink, and the red silk of the corset catches the light, pushes up his non-existent chest, and he can see the way his panties are bulging out from how hard his cock is as Spur gently kisses the back of his neck, wraps their hand around it and squeezes it through the lace.
Spencer lets out a low hiss of noise, not able to stop himself, and he stares at himself in the mirror even as his back arches and his thighs spread apart, and Spur slides fingers into him with their other hand, hooks them into him, crooks slightly and says, “Be good.”
“I’m good,” Spencer whispers, and Spur slides their fingers deeper, giving him something to rock back onto as he grinds himself into their lap, onto their hand. He can barely breathe, not because the corset is too tight, not because he really can’t breathe, but because he’s hot and people are looking at him and people can see him, and he can see himself, too.
Spur cuts the panties away from him, drops the lace onto the floor so that he’s left grinding back onto their fingers with no barrier between their hand and his cock, and they squeeze tightly, liquid beading at his cockhead and shining in the lights, visible in the mirror.
It shines the same way the silk does.
People are looking at him, but they’re not really looking at him — they’re looking at Spur and Spur’s extension, Spur’s pet, Spur’s toy, and behind him Spur is still talking about combat systems as he tries to come on their fingers.
His head feels heavy and full, and it’s hard to stop thinking, hard to relax, but then Spur twists their hand and he makes eye contact with himself in the mirror, and he whimpers because it just feels good.
“I’m sorry,” he says after he comes, and Spur turns him toward them, wiping them off with a tissue and reaching up to stroke his cheek.
“Why?” they ask softly.
“I didn’t get there,” he says. “I know you like me to get into… I couldn’t get there.”
“Oh, no, you were very good,” they murmur, stroking his chin. “You don’t have to get there every time. Want to stay up here or be down on the floor again?”
They hold him in their arms, wrap him up very tightly, squeezed up against their chest.
“When the club is closed, I’ll fuck you properly,” they say, playing with his hair. “The way you like. If you want me to get you there, honey, I’ll get you there.”
He dozes in their lap until it’s time.
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