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Sid’s life is made up of moments of inability to tell when someone is about to take something too far. It’s been a problem for as long as he can remember. As far back as a spat between two of his cousins over who got the last batteries resulting in an extended family wide brawl on his eighth Christmas. And it’s bad, having no radar for escalation. His friends are all mental drug addicts so there’s always shit to escalate, and he never sees it coming.
Tonight it’s a gambling themed party. Maybe ‘themed’ is a bit heavy of a word. There are drinks, and complimentary sunglasses that rumor has it ‘fell off a truck’, and maybe twenty decks of cards on various flat surfaces throughout the house. Sid’s best card game is Spoons, and there actually is a corner of a room set up for it, but there’s only so long he can concentrate on spades and diamonds before he’s just smoking spliff and wondering when his friends will be ready to go to an after party.
When Tony approaches Sid assumes it’s just that; an invitation about to be delivered. Tony’s been cleaning up at poker at the main kitchen table, winning not only actual pounds, but also ripped up notebook paper IOUs. It's not remotely a surprise to Sid that Tony’s a poker expert, considering his ability to bluff and manipulate. He figured his best mate might milk their acquaintances a bit more before being ready to leave, but he’s not going to complain. Sid needs a little more music and a little better class of drug to fully enjoy himself.
“Let’s go,” Tony says with a tilt of his head to the front door.
“Shouldn’t we wait up for the others?” Maybe not everyone in their group will follow, but a few will. Anwar can be easily swayed to anything if promised girls. Chris will follow the drug trail.
“No. You’re coming with me.”
“To... someone’s after party?”
“No. I won you in poker and we’re going home.”
Sid’s confused. Maybe Tony is drunker than he looks. “I wasn’t for sale. IOU. Auction. Collateral. Whatever.”
“Maxxie put you up.”
Well how fucking nice for Maxxie. “Oh, just tossed in the pot, like a nice watch or some spliff. Fuck off. I’m not his to decide.”
“Right,” Tony agrees. “Because you’re mine.”
“Tony you’re high on something sketch. This is weird.”
Tony rounds on him. In seconds Tony’s got his tongue curling expertly in Sid’s mouth and a hand massaging his cock from outside his jeans. Sid didn’t think he was bi, but Tony has this way about him that Sid is always helpless to defend against. He’s got him raring to go in seconds. When Tony pulls away it feels like a great loss, like coming down from an epic high.
“Don’t you want to be mine?”
Like every other time shit escalates Sid allows it. With a roll of his eyes he says, “yeah. Fuck it. Sure. You own me, Tony.”
“Let’s go. Now.”
Tony teases him the whole way back to his house. Even on the sidewalk in front of the Stonem house, feet away from privacy, Tony can’t hold himself back. He gropes Sid in front of a street’s worth of living room windows. It’s ridiculous, how hard Sid is. Tony doesn’t say hello to either of his parents, just drags Sid right up the stairs. He sticks him in his room, on top of his nude print duvet, and promises to be right back.
“You better be.” The longer Sid has to consider this the more time he has to back out, return to straight and pining for Michelle.
Tony comes back with something in hand. “Borrowed from Effy.” It’s a punk rock collar, gleaming square studs scattered across black leather. “Put it on.”
“What?”
“Put it on Sid. You’ll look so good in it. You’re mine and I want to see you in it.”
Sid’s already damned, might as well. He takes the collar from Tony and curls the thin leather around his throat. It’s weird, constricting your neck with something. Doesn’t feel natural. But it’s good when it’s locked on and Tony’s looking at him like that. Sid understands why the girls go spare when Tony Stonem looks at them like he wants to devour them. He’s always hungered for any kind of attention from his borderline clinical narcissist best friend, and this form of it is by far the best.
Tony grabs him by the throat and strokes his thumb where the leather meets skin. A gentle stroke, but totally out of Sid’s control. It’s the best thing about sex, Sid’s found, not knowing how your partner is going to touch you next. The touch of his thumb across his throat like that has Sid hard in his baggy jeans, hands balled into fists so he doesn’t cling to Tony.
“I’m going to fuck you.”
“What? No,” Sid protests weakly. Sid’s not that gay. Not yet. Maybe Tony will show him things he’s never known, but for now it’s too crazy. Isn’t it?
“Hey, if you don’t want me to have you, take the collar off. Otherwise you’re going to listen to me. And the first thing I say is I’m going to fuck you.”
Escalation, this is the exact definition of escalation and just like Uncle Conner punching Uncle Bobby over slights to their children, Sid can’t bring himself to intervene. He keeps the collar on and lets himself bask in Tony owning him. It won’t last long, Tony’s affections and attentions never do, so why bother fighting the attraction? He can feel shame about his weakness or his fucked up kinks later. For now Sid has Tony pressing him face down into the bed, and tugging his belted jeans halfway down his legs.
Being breached for the first time is a fuckin’ trip. It’s like Salvia, or shrooms, nasty beginnings made worth it by full body sensation and a connection to god and love and the universe. The nasty beginning this time is an uncomfortably stretched ass, rather than the crumpled paper taste of shrooms or the high butane burn of Salvia scorching his lungs, but Sid breathes through it with the skill of a drug veteran. And then there’s the payoff, Tony nailing his prostate and making his central nervous system collapse in lust. Tony being who he is, the moment he realises the perfection he’s attained, has to keep it up. He brushes it with each thrust, and in this moment Sid can’t imagine having sex any other way.
“Tell me you’re mine. Say it.” Tony’s hand hasn’t left his neck since they’ve gotten in this position. Sid’s on his hands and knees and Tony’s upright, but the fingers tucked into the back of his collar lightly tug with each thrust, like the bridle of a galloping horse.
“Yours. Yours. Yours.” Sid says it with each drill of his prostate, the syllable punched out of him by Tony’s very capable dick.
“Fucking right you are,” Tony answers.
Tony fucks his orgasm right out of him. Sid spills over, cock untouched. The torso of the fabric girl underneath him gets striped with jizz, Tony will have to do laundry in the morning. He probably would have done it anyway. He’s the kind of guy that washes his sheets more than once every three months. Sid’s clearly been fucked stupid, because he thinks about Tony’s laundry for a solid thirty seconds before it hits him that Tony hasn’t stopped fucking him. Tony’s still going, chasing his own orgasm. Sid’s getting sensitive, and Tony doesn’t care, because Sid’s something of his that he’s using. He could be an inflatable doll or a sexy pillow for all Tony cares right now.
“You own me, Tony.” It’s the second time he’s said it in the last hour, but this time it’s a hell of a lot more sincere. It’s the truth, isn’t it? Every time they’re together, Sid will do whatever it takes to keep his friend’s interest. It’s been like that for years already. If it’s evolved to include Tony buggering him on occasion, Sid’s not going to say no.
And it’s a kind of compliment, isn’t it, that saying the words makes Tony’s hips still as he comes deep inside him? If the idea of having him makes Tony that excited, if Tony wants him that badly, how can Sid feel anything but joy and relief? It’s more than anyone else has ever wanted him. His mom doesn’t give a shit, his dad doesn’t give a shit, his relatives and teachers and classmates don’t give a shit, but Tony wants him. Sid’s going to take that and run with it.