Kinktober Day 6: Masturbation (kbn, implied kbnz)

(It’s up to your interpretation whether this is really “unrequited” or whether Raihan is just bad at expressing his feelings and therefore just ends up frustrating himself)

Raihan is a man who enjoys a little self-indulgence from time to time. He’s disciplined, sure, and never lets his enjoyments overrun the things he needs to do to accomplish his goals, but life would be boring without some luxury here and there. Perhaps others think him spoiled, but what does he care? Letting yourself have fun from time to time is good for the soul.

Even still, he feels his heart thudding in his chest as he opens a new browser window on his laptop and types in the familiar name of the video he’s searching for. The link is purple, already clicked through—how many times? A dozen? More? And yet it still makes his ears burn as he clicks play, and the tinny sound of the crowd cheering starts to filter through his speakers.

First, he reaches for some headphones. Not that his speakers aren’t quality, but he wants to hear this up close and personal, and that’s where the first indulgence comes in. When he slides the plush, padded earpieces on, the entire rest of the world is muted to nothingness, and he swears he can pick out all the little details of the audio he’s halfway to knowing by heart. The sound of boots clicking on stage, the faint whine of the amp catching a momentary feedback before being corrected.

The moment when the crowd dies down, and a pair of lips press in close to the microphone and take a breath before beginning their song.

Perhaps the way that half-gasp makes him hard in his sweatpants qualifies as overindulgence, but it’s too late to stop now.

This number starts with a steady build, Piers’ bare voice being slowly joined by thrumming electric guitar and a rolling drumbeat behind it, climbing in intensity as that rough, sultry voice reaches out to enchant every ear that hears. Piers so rarely films his concerts, and this one is technically a bootleg, but he let it stand without complaint and Raihan is so, so grateful for it. The image onscreen is a bit blurry and washed-out by the bright stage lights, but it still perfectly captures the moment Piers reaches up to push some of his hair back across his shoulder, then leans forward to grip the microphone with a visible flex of his wrist. Something about that tiny, minute detail has the air rushing out of Raihan’s lungs, and when he looks down his own body in the darkness, there’s a tent in the front of his sweatpants that makes them look like they’re about to tear open.

Dammit.

He knows he probably shouldn’t be doing this. Shouldn’t be taking his crush quite this far—but he can’t stop himself. Nothing else even works anymore; he’s tried all varieties of porn, and even his imagination doesn’t do it for him the way this simple video does. Piers is just the only thing that really turns him on anymore, and he’s beyond helpless to resist.

The least he can do is make it as comfortable and pleasurable an experience as possible. Dragging his eyes from the screen, he moves to rummage around in his bedside table and pulls out his latest purchase, trying to ignore the tremor of excitement in his stomach as he looks at the thing. His hand is good, but slick, flexible silicone will be much better, and the thought of finally having something to plunge into sends a shiver up his spine. Hurried, he uncaps the lube that was sitting beside it in the drawer, and squirts a little down into the toy before tugging his sweatpants down and palming the excess over his length.

When he’s returned to his comfortable spot and his eyes flicker across the screen, Piers has transitioned into one of his angrier, more rowdy songs about fighting back against one’s oppressors. He loves hearing Piers’ voice go raw from passionate screaming and supports his message about not being the world’s punching bag—but right now, in this moment, it’s not what he needs. So he scrubs the video forward, not even having to guess at the time stamps.

The audio pops out while the video buffers for a moment, then cuts back in as the crowd cheers between numbers. For just a moment, the camera focuses on Piers’ smile, a hitched thing that curls up one side of his mouth and flashes his teeth in the blinding stage lights. He’s panting, shoulders heaving after having danced and sung his heart out, but he’s still got so much left to give. Raihan watches, rapt, as the tiny on-screen rockstar pulls his sweaty hair free from his massive ponytail, so it curls in thick tendrils down around his shoulders and onto his chest.

“Thank you…thank you all so much fer coming out tonight…genuinely, it means th’ world to me,” he breathes into the mic, and the cheering grows louder before he continues. “I truly do this for all of you. All of me is for all of you…and that’s why this next song is for everyone to enjoy every last part of me. Until there’s nothing left.”

That’s the point when Raihan closes his eyes. The crowd goes silent, and Piers starts a heavy, thumping bass line. It all pares away, and if he imagines as hard as he can, Piers’ next words are purring into his ear as he sinks the toy down his aching cock.

All I want is for everyone to see

So bad

All the wonderful things I could be

And go mad

All I want is for you to want me

All I want for you is to want me

That’s the trouble; he does want Piers, far too much. And yet he can’t say it, can never find the words or the moment to speak them, and so he settles for this. The slide of silicone up and down his cock and the filthy noise it makes, one hand slipping underneath his shirt to pinch at his nipples as he works himself to the phantom sound of Piers’ voice in his ear. Mad? He’s already far past. If Piers asked him, he would crawl on his hands and knees, and yet it never comes to that between them.

So don’t you dare hold back

You know I love it when it’s rough

I want my brain to fade to black

I’ll show you what I’m made of

I’ll show you what I’m made of

In his fantasy, he has Piers by the hips and thrusts up into him mercilessly, or perhaps—the vision wavers, shifts—he would take him from behind, grabbing that tiny waist and pounding so hard Piers’ teeth rattle. He would leave his bites all along Piers’ pale neck and shoulder, would drink in every part of him and erase his brain just as hard as he’s asking for. The dream Piers writhes on the bed and pleads for him in sweet, musical cries, and he only flexes his hips and drives in deeper.

I’ll show you my boy parts

I’ll only love you if you’re mean enough

Make me beg, I like it rough

Why don’t you hold me down and play with my boy parts?

His body tingles, as though by sheer willpower he could manifest Piers in front of him. How he yearns to slide kisses up the inside of those pale thighs, to whisper praise in those ears, to hold Piers in his arms while he takes him. To give everything this song asks for, be shown all of it. Some nights he fantasises that Piers is soft and giving, laying back and spreading his legs in open invitation and sighing in delight when Raihan buries deep. Other nights, the Piers of his dreams is rough and wild, biting his shoulders and giving every inch as good as he gets. What Raihan wouldn’t give to feel those lacquered nails biting into his shoulders, scraping along his back.

Growling, he shoves the toy down harder onto his length, punishing it for not being the real thing. It isn’t wet enough, hot enough, tight enough. It doesn’t smell like cologne and cigarettes, it doesn’t have a pert little arse he actually dreams about, and it’s just not fucking Piers. It’s the best he can do, and it still isn’t enough.

I’m a self-made man, they say

Why don’t you take a bite

Get to know me better that way

See what I taste like tonight

Tear me open and make me scream

Tear me open and make me scream

But he already does know what Piers is like. He’s been watching him all this time, and that’s the damnable part of it. That he knows how good they could be together, what pleasures they could find in bed and out of it. If Piers wants an escape, Raihan would willingly provide it, and if he wanted to be held, Raihan would give him that too. Tenderness or pain, rough or gentle. There’s nothing he wouldn’t give to see all of Piers’ insides, which he so willingly cracks open on stage and yet hides away at all other times.

Breath rasps in and out of his throat, and Raihan’s eyes flash open and focus on the screen once more. Piers is still holding his mic stand, but now he undulates his hips sinfully against it, beckoning to the crowd he holds in his sway like a siren. And Raihan may as well be one of them, even though he was never there. Hell, he’s more in Piers’ thrall than any concert-goer; he can’t get him out of his head no matter what he tries. Frustrated, he flips over in bed and pins the toy beneath himself, pumping his hips down as that silky voice curls through him like smoke and velvet, soft and rough at once.

I’ll show you my boy parts

I’ll only love you if you’re mean enough

Make me beg, I like it rough

Why don’t you hold me down and play with my boy parts?

I’ll show you my boy parts

I’ll only love you if you’re mean enough

Make me beg, I like it rough

Why don’t you hold me down and play with my boy parts?

It probably says something unfavourable about him that he can get off just to this one short song, but he’s well past caring. His fantasy of Piers is begging him to be rougher, meaner, to give every last part of himself and he can’t resist that call. An irate pleasure builds at the base of his spine and he thrusts it out like a condemnation of himself and reality alike. That this is all only fantasy, only mimicry and mockery of what the real thing would be like, but dammit, it’s the best he has. His body still burns with it anyway, a snarl breaking out of his lips as he cums into the toy and undoubtedly makes a mess on his bedspread where it can’t contain him.

Falling back, he pauses the video as the crowd begins cheering again, not wanting to hear their entreaties for an encore Piers will never give.