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The thief was more handsome than he'd expected.
The age was right, for one thing. Normally, they were too young ‑‑ desperate kids trying to cover the cost of the Adderall habit that kept them from flunking out of university. This thief, on the other hand, was a grown man wearing black cashmere, leather gloves, and a watch that cost more than everything inside Martín's apartment combined. What did he need to go stealing in this part of town for, or at all?
As Martín watched, the man stirred and opened his eyes. Consciousness seemed to come back to him slowly; it took him a while to realize he was duct-taped to a chair, and that no amount of thrashing could get him free. His only move would be to talk himself out of the situation ‑‑ and Martín wasn't planning on being persuaded.
"Well, this was a rather unexpected turn to the evening," the thief said. He had a nice voice too, and the smile he gave Martín was 100 percent pure charm. "It's not often anyone gets the upper hand on me."
When Martín didn't respond, the thief decided to keep talking. "Apologies for the home invasion ‑‑ however, I expect you don't see much excitement in your life, much less get to play out your action hero movies in real time, so how about you cut this tape off and let me go, and we'll call it even?"
"Stop talking."
"Or what?" the thief said, still smiling.
In reply, Martín brandished the gun. It was a 1911, no suppressor ‑‑ stupid choice for a robbery in the city, far too loud ‑‑ but the thief must have wanted to be sure he left absolutely no witnesses.
"Or I'll shut you up for good," Martín said menacingly, satisfied when the thief's smile faded and fear crept into his eyes. That's right, Martín thought. Can dish it out but can't take it.
Still, the thief apparently had the audacity to talk back. "Do you even know how to use that? I wouldn't want you to hurt yourself, my friend."
In response, Martín effortlessly racked the slide, ejected the round in the chamber, and held it up for the thief to see. Martín watched his eyes slowly fill with horror as he realized that he'd picked the worst possible person to rob ‑‑ someone who knew what he was doing and wasn't afraid to get his hands dirty. When Martín was sure the thief had gotten the picture, he re‑racked it with a harsh clang; the thief flinched, Martín didn't.
"Now tell me," he said. "What's your name?"
"Tell me yours first."
Fine. "Martín."
"Pleased to make your acquaintance, Martín," the thief said. He was rallying fast, nearly as confident as he'd been at the start. "You might have heard of me ‑‑ the greatest jewel thief in Europe. Andrés de Fonollosa, at your mercy."
Martín snorted. "Not really the greatest if a civilian managed to get the drop on you, huh?"
"Luck and circumstance," Andrés said dismissively. "If you hadn't arrived home ahead of schedule, I would have been long gone by now ‑‑ and you're clearly by no means a civilian. I see that now. Military or police? Something about you says the former."
"Engineer," Martín said.
"You'd never have guessed," Andrés said. "That gun looks better in your hand than in mine."
Was the thief flattering Martín? Did he think this was going to get him out of the situation he was in? Sure, it made the most sense just to keep his gun, let him go, and call a report in to the police, but Martín didn't feel like letting him off that easily. The man had broken into his apartment intending to steal all his valuables, and had brought enough firepower to make sure he wouldn't be stopped. That kind of intent wasn't something that deserved leniency.
Plus, Martín had a better idea.
"You know where it would really look good?" he asked, tapping the gun against his knee.
"Where?"
"In your mouth," said Martín, and Andrés' eyes went wide. He hadn't been expecting things to turn sexual, clearly. But Martín was angry, and the best way to stop being that way, he'd found, was to fuck the anger out into somebody else. If things sometimes kept going long after Martín had calmed down, well, that was just finishing the job.
He took a step towards Andrés, gun in hand. "Open up."
"Really?" Andrés had the nerve to quirk an eyebrow. "Quite symbolic, wouldn't you say? Your gun, my mouth? The load waiting to be fired? Martín, be honest with me, please. Are you a queer?"
Martín didn't flinch. He'd heard much worse from other kids growing up, everything from cocksucker to faggot and everything in between. Queer was, relatively speaking, nothing to get worked up about.
"In fact, yeah," said Martín. "What, surprised?"
Andrés just smirked. "So this does turn you on. Why don't you just take your cock out and save yourself a step, then?"
He was bluffing, obviously, but the suggestion was more appealing than Martín wanted to admit. To shut this man up with his dick and choke him on it until he was gagging and crying ‑‑ Martín was sorely tempted. But he had a particular image in mind, one he was going to see through.
"Open." When Andrés still didn't comply, Martín barked, "Do it, or this is going up your ass instead."
That had the intended effect. Andrés looked genuinely afraid for a moment, then managed to get himself under control enough to open his mouth. Just a little, but it was a start.
Martín came closer, grip slipping a bit on the steel despite knowing he'd already pocketed the single round during the demonstration ‑‑ no way was he putting a loaded gun into Andrés' mouth. He'd even insisted on the magazine being empty, despite Andrés wanting to feel the full weight of the gun, because the man never did anything by halves that he could do by hundreds.
He was, very possibly, clinically insane. Instead of making Martín afraid, it only made him hornier ‑‑ which is what had brought them here, Andrés taped to a chair in his own living room and Martín about to fuck his mouth with an illicit black market gun.
God, his life felt so fucking unreal sometimes.
Andrés' eyes were tracking the gun as he moved closer. When it reached his face, he looked up at Martín like he expected him to chicken out. What he didn't know about Martín was that, throughout his entire life, there was only one thing he'd ever been afraid to do, and even that he'd managed eventually after a little push. He was no coward ‑‑ he was simply prudent. Rational, even.
"Don't move," Martín said, "or my finger might slip. Understand?"
Andrés nodded, and Martín shoved the gun past those pretty lips.
It couldn't have tasted good. Martín had cleaned it before he'd put it away last, but the final step in the process was a good wipedown with synthetic oil. Then again, taste was probably the least of Andrés' worries ‑‑ the gun clacked against his teeth, forcing his mouth open wide, and it didn't seem comfortable to swallow around either.
Martín had been right, though. It was obscene, the picture the thief made like this, all trussed up and at Martín's mercy, his own gun stretching his lips and spit leaking down his chin. Martín would be jerking off to this for months to come. The trigger guard was bruising Andrés' lips, and the sight was undoubtedly cutting into the soft inside of his mouth, but Martín didn't care. The man had given up all right to civility once he set foot in Martín's home with killing intent. That Martín hadn't immediately shot him and thrown him into the street was downright merciful.
He was thinking about what Andrés had said earlier, about fucking his mouth. Thing was, Andrés kept choking on the gun, and while that was hot it didn't exactly inspire confidence in his ability to get Martín off. He'd clearly never taken a cock before, and Martín didn't trust him at all not to bite, even on accident. Putting his dick in a position to be bitten clear off would have been downright stupid. No, he had a better idea in mind for what came next.
"You talked about 'even' earlier," Martín said, finally pulling the gun from Andrés' mouth and wiping it on his expensive turtleneck. "I've figured out how to make that happen."
Andrés took a second to cough and regain his smooth composure, though the effect was undermined by the spit smeared all over his lips and chin. "And how is that?"
Martín grinned. "It's like this. You're a decently good-looking guy. Not exactly the vision of Apollo, but you'll do." He sat back in the chair and spread his knees. "You let me fuck you, I let you walk out of here without a mag full of bullets in you and the cops hot on your trail. How does that sound?"
Andrés did nothing but stare at him for a moment in silence. "Well," he said at last, "when you put it like that, my friend, only a fool would dare refuse."
"Smart choice," said Martín. It was quick work to cut the tape; Martín didn't give him time to stretch, just hauled him out of the chair and threw him onto the floor like he weighed nothing.
"Face down, ass up. Hands where I can see them."
Andrés did as he said, face pressed against the rug and gloved hands curled limply on either side. Martín dropped behind him and gave his ass a firm squeeze ‑‑ not terribly round, but decent enough ‑‑ then dragged his pants down over the curve of his ass and spread it wide with both hands. Andrés let out a humiliated noise at that, but Martín took his time looking, inspecting it like a blueprint. It was a hole, all right ‑‑ furled, pink, tense as hell. It looked factory new, not like some of the others Martín had fucked over the years, hell, probably not even Martín's own.
He leaned over and spit directly onto Andrés' hole. He didn't go in right away ‑‑ just pressed his fingertip over that tight knot and felt it tense even more in reflex. Martín had already suspected Andrés had never taken a cock before, and this confirmed it. That, and the shivery noise Andrés made at the touch, pitiful and scared.
"Relax," Martín ordered. When he pressed his finger inside, the fit was almost impossible, like trying to force a key into the wrong lock. It must have hurt like hell, if the way Andrés started breathing shallowly was any indication. The thought thrilled Martín to no end, something dark and vicious blooming inside him. Oh, he wanted to hurt this man, he wanted to make him pay, and he'd chosen the perfect way to do it.
"You know, I'm not really supposed to be helping you here, seeing as you're the one who broke into my place to steal my shit," said Martín. "But my recommendation, as an experienced queer, is to relax, because we're only getting started and you're so tight you're gonna tear before I've even got my cock inside." He twisted his finger for emphasis, eliciting a sharp breath. "Take it from me, that hurts a lot more than a bullet."
Andrés made another noise, this one tinged with fear and pain. It really was impossible to do much like this ‑‑ Martín wanted to open him up, knew it would feel better for himself if Andrés wasn't tighter than a Catholic schoolgirl on her wedding night. It was in both of their best interests, but Andrés just wouldn't cooperate. Maybe if he'd thought to use the gun ‑‑ but that might have just made things worse instead of better. Probably hard to relax at gunpoint, he figured.
After another fruitless minute, Martín hit upon a better idea. He pulled out against the friction then brought his hand, three fingers extended, to Andrés' lips. "Suck."
Andrés drew back, his mouth shut tight. Martín could tell he wanted to say something sharp but knew better than to open it.
"I'm not putting these in my mouth. Who knows what you've got? And even if you've got nothing, they're still not going in my mouth. You're filthy. Suck." When Andrés still didn't comply, Martín pressed his fingers against Andrés' lips. "Get them wet or I'm fucking you dry. And trust me ‑‑ you really don't want that to happen."
It took another moment, but eventually Andrés shuddered and parted his lips. Martín wasted no time pushing his fingers inside, getting them nice and wet, invading Andrés' mouth the way he'd be invading his body in just a few minutes. Andrés was clearly repulsed by the idea of tasting himself, but he didn't try to bite or pull away, just lay there and took it.
"Good boy," said Martín, just to twist the knife. "See, I'm just looking out for you. I don't want to hurt you any more than I have to ‑‑ and I don't mean to brag, but I'm pretty big. Big enough I'm wondering if I can even fit inside this virgin hole of yours, or if it's just going to be a complete waste of my time even trying."
Andrés' shame was so strong Martín could feel it without even having to see his face. It made him want to turn Andrés over and look into his eyes, but that was a surefire way of making him think about safewording out. Instead, Martín kept fucking his mouth with his fingers until they were positively dripping, then brought them back to Andrés' hole.
The slide went easier this time ‑‑ he got two in with only a little bit of effort, then the third a few minutes later. Martín didn't go for his prostate to torture him, just focused on stretching his rim out enough to accommodate the width of them. It didn't mean he couldn't have any fun, though.
"How do you like it?" he said. "Now that I've turned you into one of us?"
That wasn't how it worked, not at all, but Martín pretended it was ‑‑ and Andrés acted like he believed it. He made a noise that was pure humiliation and flinched away as if the words had physically hurt him. Martín pulled him back and gave him a few merciless thrusts for his trouble.
"You're not going anywhere, cariño," he said. "But since you're in such a hurry, I'll just skip the rest of it and get right to the action." He felt like he'd been hard and aching for hours ‑‑ even if Andrés had behaved, he wasn't sure he could have waited a single minute longer.
"For fuck's sake, can you at least try to relax," Martín ordered, bringing his cock to Andrés' barely loosened hole. "I'm not taking you to the hospital if you break something."
Andrés, to his credit, made an honest effort, enough that the head of Martín's cock could pop inside. If he'd thought the fit was tight before, it was nothing compared to how it felt around his cock ‑‑ soft and gripping and warm, so fucking warm. And the way it looked was even better, seeing that shiny pink stretched around his cock, and it was only just the tip.
Slowly, Martín pressed into that searing heat bit by bit, Andrés' pained moans growing louder the further he got. "Now how does this feel?" Martín asked, once he was as far inside as he could get.
"It hurts," Andrés said, and it was clear how much it did by the fact that he'd said anything at all.
"Good." Martín had fucked plenty of men before. Some virgins, some experienced, but nothing compared to the feeling of going in raw. It was monumentally stupid of him ‑‑ who knew what this man was carrying ‑‑ but it felt so good he couldn't have cared less. He'd worry about that part later.
It wasn't easy to work up a rhythm. Andrés was so tight that Martín could only move in little shifts back and forth against the friction. But eventually Andrés' body gave up resisting ‑‑ like something had simply broken inside of him. It meant Martín could finally thrust in hard and deep the way he wanted, sinking himself into that irresistible heat over and over as Andrés writhed and made miserable sounds beneath him.
Fuck, this was just what he'd been needing. No wonder he'd been so stressed out at work these days ‑‑ it had been so long since he had something hot and tight around his dick that wasn't his own hand. It felt like heaven.
The noise was getting distracting, though. Andrés sounded like he was weeping, and while Martín enjoyed hearing his humiliation that was too pathetic for even him. If he'd wanted to fuck a woman, he would have fucked a woman. Not to mention how humiliating it was for Andrés to be crying over something as little as this. Martín could have done so much worse to him ‑‑ this was Andrés getting lucky.
"You have family?" Martín asked, more on a whim than out of genuine curiosity. "A wife, kids? Not a husband, that's for sure ‑‑ you'd be good and loose for me if that were the case."
"Ex-wives," Andrés said shakily. "Five of them. A son in America. I'm not a fucking queer."
"Cariño, nobody has five wives who isn't lying to himself about what he really is," said Martín, reaching down to pat Andrés' face affectionately. "So there's no one out there who cares about you, huh? Nobody who's gonna notice if you don't make it home tonight? How about a brother, sister?"
There. That bit had landed. "A brother," Martín guessed, and Andrés clenched up so tight around him it felt like his dick was going to snap off. "Oh, I'm right, aren't I? Younger or older? Answer me."
"Younger. Please don't hurt him."
"Who said anything about hurting him? Unlike you, I don't go around committing crimes just for kicks." Martín shoved into him hard a few times, enough that Andrés loosened up again for him to properly thrust. "No, what I want you to do is imagine him getting to see this. Imagine your baby brother finding out the person he's idolized all his life is nothing but a greedy cockslut. No thoughts in his head besides getting a dick in him. You think he'd still look up to you after that?"
"Leave him out of this," Andrés whispered. "Please."
"You love him?" Martín asked, and Andrés nodded desperately. "Then you'll stop whining and take it like a good hole, or the next time he sees you it's your body in the morgue."
He wasn't expecting it to work, but it did ‑‑ instantly, Andrés went quiet. He couldn't help making a little noise, but it was stifled, kept in as much as he could manage. And that ‑‑ that was hot too, hearing Andrés hold all his pain inside just because Martín had told him to. What else would he be willing to do just because it was what Martín wanted? He realized he wanted to find out.
"I've fucked plenty of men all over the world," he said conversationally. "You're tight, sure, but other than that you're nothing special. I can find twenty holes just like this in line outside any bar in Chueca. I think I could make you special, though. I think I could get you taking cock like a champ, just a little spit and you're golden."
He slapped Andrés' ass as punctuation, and Andrés gasped in pain. It made Martín want to do it again, so he did, over and over, alternating sides, until both of Andrés' asscheeks were bright red. He wouldn't be able to sit properly for the next few days, Martín knew. Even if he walked out of here in one piece, he'd be feeling Martín's handiwork for a long time.
With all the spanking, he'd slowed down his pace. Now he grabbed Andrés by the hips and pulled him up onto his hands and knees, giving Martín the leverage to yank Andrés back mercilessly onto his dick. Andrés made an agonized cry, but his body clearly enjoyed it, hole swallowing Martín's cock nearly all the way to the base. Impressive for a first-timer, especially considering Martín's size. If he did this right, he'd have Andrés loose enough by the end to take the whole thing.
"You ever have a woman ride you before?" Martín didn't usually talk this much during sex, but something about Andrés made it so easy for the words to spill out, dark and possessive and hateful. "Of course you have, pretty face like that. I bet with a little time, I'll have you bouncing on a cock like it's all you ever wanted out of life. Begging for it. Needing it all the way up in your guts, fucking the come out of your useless dick just so it can fill you up with more. What do you think, cariño? No more stealing, no more guns, just my cock. That sound as good to you as it does to me?"
Andrés' response was a choked sob. He had gotten louder as Martín kept talking, the humiliation he felt clearly too much to hold back. That was fine ‑‑ Martín didn't mind hearing him now, knowing the effect his filthy words had on Andrés. They were working on himself, too ‑‑ he could imagine everything he was saying with an engineer's precision, down to the very last detail.
"I think it does," said Martín, thrusting in viciously. "I think you know it feels right, what I'm saying."
"No," said Andrés, voice quavering. "No, it doesn't."
Martín ignored his little outburst. "I feel sorry for you, honestly. You've tried your whole life to be someone special when all you ever needed to be was a hole," he said, and pushed two of his fingers in alongside his cock.
Andrés' strangled moan was so loud that Martín moved on instinct to push him facedown into the rug, pinning him down by the neck while his other hand continued to stretch his rim even wider, so wide it looked painful. "Quiet," Martín ordered. "Or maybe you want the entire world to hear how much you love getting fucked up the ass, huh? You proud of yourself, you want everybody to know how good you're taking it? What a natural cockslut you are?"
"I don't," Andrés said, utterly pitiful. "I'm not ‑‑ "
"You feel how tight you're squeezing? Like you're hungry for it, like you can't get enough. Whore," said Martín, because he couldn't say I don't mean it, I promise, I love you. "You won't be tight any more when I'm done with you. It's a shame to ruin a hole like this, but that doesn't mean I can't still find a use for you. I'm an engineer, cariño. I'll get the boys together and we'll fill you up till you feel tight again. Might take a few of us, but we'll get it done. Or maybe I'll just shove my whole hand up inside you as deep as it'll go. You'd like that, wouldn't you? My fist so deep in your slutty hole you'll be feeling it the rest of your life?"
He thrust into Andrés hard, forced a third finger inside his battered hole, and Andrés came like he hadn't been expecting it, crying out suddenly and curling in on himself. "Look at you," Martín said as Andrés spilled messily across the rug beneath him, making broken whimpers the entire time. Martín didn't slow down at all, just continued to pound into him, fucking everything out of him his body had to give. "Look what a slut you are. Don't even need to be touched to get off ‑‑ just need to get roughed up and treated like the hole you are. Must be a real humiliating thing to learn about yourself, huh?"
That part was true ‑‑ even Martín couldn't come untouched on the rare occasion he felt like getting fucked, but Andrés almost always did, like he was making up for forty years of pretending to be strictly heterosexual by having shamefully noisy orgasms each time Martín split him open. Even when it wasn't part of a scene, Andrés always ended up halfway in subspace just from having something inside of him, whether it was Martín's fingers or tongue or cock or ‑‑ when he needed to feel a different kind of pain than the one that had begun to take up residence in his body ‑‑ Martín's fist. They stuck mostly to hands and mouths as a result, since Andrés' pride couldn't always handle it, but when he could? It was fucking incredible, every single time.
"Please," Andrés whispered, barely loud enough for Martín to hear. He'd gone limp, a puppet with its strings cut ‑‑ Martín was the only thing holding him up. "Please. I'm ‑‑ "
"What was that?" Martín bent down close. "Did you say something?"
"I'm sorry." The sound, small as it was, nearly broke Martín's heart ‑‑ the real Martín, not the cruel sadist he was playing. "It hurts, please, please, I can't."
Martín indulged himself with a few more thrusts into Andrés' clenching ass, then pulled out quickly with no regard for his comfort. "On your knees," he said, standing up.
Andrés slowly turned and got to his knees. It was the first time Martín had seen his face since he'd ordered him onto the floor, and ‑‑ fuck. Andrés was gone. His eyes were wet and unfocused, his cheeks were burning bright red, and he looked so utterly wretched Martín almost safeworded right there and then to spare him any further pain. There was only one item left on Andrés' list, though, and Martín wouldn't be able to live with himself if he let Andrés down at the last minute.
"Open that pretty mouth of yours and finish me off," he ordered. Andrés shuddered in revulsion ‑‑ anyone would have been expecting Martín to come on their face, not this. "Or I shoot a new hole in you and fuck it till I come. Your choice."
Andrés looked like he was going to refuse. Martín half expected him to safeword out ‑‑ everything was different in practice than in theory, he knew ‑‑ but a second later Andrés parted his lips and took Martín's dick between them.
"You disgusting slut," Martín said, honestly a little horrified himself despite how overly fastidious he knew Andrés was. It didn't matter how he felt, though, so he grabbed Andrés by the hair and started to fuck his mouth in earnest. "Filthy little cocksucker. You like it, don't you? Cleaning your ass off my cock? Even most queers won't do it. I know I won't. I don't know how you'll be able to look at yourself in the mirror after this, knowing what you really are."
Tears were streaming down Andrés' face. He wouldn't look at Martín, but it didn't matter ‑‑ all he needed to do was be still and take it. Martín felt the telltale signs of orgasm creeping up on him, and he pulled Andrés' hair tighter and hauled him in deep, so deep he felt the tip of Andrés' nose against his skin.
"That's right, you're gonna swallow it. You still think you're not a faggot after this? Let me tell you, cariño, you'll be dreaming about the taste of come for years. And I think you'll end up craving it, because just look at you." Martín couldn't stop the filth coming out of his mouth ‑‑ it wasn't anything he hadn't said before, but somehow it felt so much worse like this. Like it was true, like it meant something. "On your knees worshipping another man's cock, needing it more than air, wanting it so fucking bad you'll choke yourself on it for just a taste ‑‑ that's where you belong. That's what God made you for. You wasted so much time chasing cunt when you should have been here on your knees for me."
And that ‑‑ that Martín did mean. He didn't think he'd ever be able to fully forgive Andrés for putting him through one marriage after another, forever searching for that perfect wife to grow old with while Martín suffered miserably on the sidelines, his true soulmate. But he'd let go of his anger a long time ago; now that he finally had Andrés, he wanted to cherish him, not punish him.
Even though sometimes, like now, those two were one and the same.
"From now on, the only cunt you'll be seeing is the one between your legs," breathed Martín, feeling on the verge of insane. He lifted a hand to stroke Andrés' cheek, a parody of tenderness that made Andrés pull as far away as he could. "Middle of the night, first thing in the morning, hell, over my lunch break ‑‑ I'll bend you over and slide right in, whenever I feel like it. Won't even need to warm you up ‑‑ you'll take the whole thing right away like the cheap whore you are, and you won't fight it, no, you'll be begging me to fuck you till you're coming from that selfish little cunt of yours and nothing else ‑‑ "
Andrés made a sound like he was dying, and that was what pushed Martín fully over the edge. He held Andrés down on his cock, not letting him up until he started tapping on Martín's thigh, desperately repeating the signal for stop as if he wasn't sure Martín would listen.
"Okay," said Martín, letting him go immediately. "Okay, we're done. Andrés. We're done. It's all right."
He knelt down in front of Andrés, careful not to touch him. "Breathe for me. In and out. Good." He wanted so badly to touch Andrés, to pull him in tight and kiss his tears away, but that wasn't how it worked. All he could do was encourage Andrés to breathe and reassure him that Martín wasn't leaving, he was staying right there with Andrés no matter what.
"Ready to get in the bath?" Martín asked, once Andrés had calmed down a little.
Andrés stared at him like he'd just asked him a question in Cantonese. If Martín had asked Andrés his name, he might have given him the exact same look.
"Never mind," Martín decided, "I'm taking you straight to bed." If Andrés dissociated or freaked out ‑‑ which he'd never done before, but there was a first time for everything ‑‑ Martín didn't want it to happen anywhere there was a chance of drowning. They could always change the sheets later. "I'm going to pick you up. Can you hold on to me?"
Andrés nodded and let himself be picked up. He tended to go blank and nonverbal after scenes ‑‑ the opposite of Martín's past partners, who usually sought out reassurance as soon as a scene was over, needing to know Martín had tied them up or beaten them with a crop out of love. Andrés was deconstructing everything inside his head, Martín knew, and the right move was to give him space until he had put all the pieces back together in a way that made sense.
"You have to let go, Andrés," said Martín, once he'd set Andrés down on the bed. "Everything is by the bath ‑‑ I have to get it. I'll be right back, I promise."
Slowly, Andrés released him. Martín kissed him on the forehead before sprinting to the bathroom where the aftercare kit was waiting ‑‑ water, juice, snacks, first aid, everything either of them might need after a scene. He didn't have to worry about the gun; he could go back for it later. Right now Andrés was his only priority.
When he got back to the room, Andrés was right where he'd left him. Martín set the kit down and said, "I have to check you over first, okay? Make sure nothing's broken."
Andrés let Martín move him like a doll as he looked him over, checking how badly the spanking was going to bruise ‑‑ Martín hadn't been wrong that Andrés would be feeling it for days ‑‑ and inspecting his hole, which was puffy and raw but didn't seem to be torn. It took every ounce of Martín's self-control not to push his fingers back in to feel the swollen squeeze of Andrés' insides and the wetness of his own precome; it was about taking care of Andrés now, not indulging himself.
"All done," said Martín, after he'd spread some arnica over the bruises that were beginning to form and tugged off Andrés' gloves and shoes. "Do you want me to get you a change of clothes?"
When Andrés shook his head, Martín helped ease him down so he was lying on his side in bed, facing the room. He covered Andrés up with the blanket and sat down beside him.
"Do you mind if I eat?" asked Martín. Andrés shook his head, then again when Martín offered him a piece of dried fruit. They sat in silence for about ten minutes before Andrés sighed, a clear precursor to conversation, and then a minute or two later said Martín's name.
"I'm here," Martín said. "You want to talk? Or would you rather just sleep?"
"I almost safeworded."
Andrés sounded normal, but even without seeing his face Martín could tell he was two steps away from abject misery. Andrés prided himself on never safewording, as if it was some quantifiable measure of courage instead of a panic button for when things got to be too much. The two times Martín had tried subbing he'd wanted out almost immediately, and Andrés had been right there with soft words and comfort ‑‑ why he wouldn't extend himself the same compassion was a mystery.
"What I said about Sergio?" Martín asked, and Andrés' silence confirmed it. "Shit. I knew that was a little too close to home. I'll keep him out of it from now on, I'm sorry."
He put the package of dried fruit on the nightstand and lay down beside Andrés. "But everything else, all the talk, the gun ‑‑ that was okay?"
"Yes," said Andrés. The degradation, the cruel treatment ‑‑ that was nothing new, albeit not all at once like this. They'd had to work up to it, but Andrés wore humiliation like no one else; it hadn't been hard to reach the level they were at now. He turned to face Martín, who did the same. "It was good."
"Even the" ‑‑ Martín could barely bring himself to say it ‑‑ "the last part?" Andrés had already come by then; there had been no other point to it besides the idea itself.
Andrés wouldn't look at him, but his face turned red. "I would have stopped you if it wasn't," he said. "And I didn't spend all that time on prep for you not to do it."
"I just want you to have what you want," said Martín. He still didn't understand what Andrés got out of the humiliation or what made him need to be treated like this, but he didn't need to. The words were just words to Martín ‑‑ they didn't mean anything to him, as long as it was what Andrés needed.
He didn't know, either, how many years they had left, and for how many of those they could keep playing this hard. There would come a time when Andrés could only be treated gently ‑‑ until then, Martín would give it everything he had.
"I know. I'm grateful."
He sounded guilty, like he didn't deserve Martín's love or effort, and Martín couldn't have that. "Andrés, can I kiss you?" he asked, knowing the answer might be no.
Andrés hesitated, then nodded; Martín took the chance to cup his face tenderly and kiss him, long and deep. When they parted, Martín said, "Can I hold you?"
"I'd like that," said Andrés, and Martín wrapped his arms around him, held him tight. Eventually they would have to get up and shower, clean up the living room, get back to their lives, but it didn't have to be now. It could wait.