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Martín wakes up to an empty bed. Not unusual, Andrés is more of an early bird and will often wait for his husband with a full breakfast-turned-brunch whenever he finally decides to start the day. So he doesn’t think too much about it when he stretches, yawns, then runs his hand over the side of the bed where Andrés slept.
Not warm, so coffee’s probably ready. He should get up.
He’s dreaming of breakfast - of toast, in particular - when he gathers the willpower to get up - and it almost startles him to see that Andrés is also in the room, naked and kneeling by the desk.
Martín knows what it means. It makes sense after the last couple of days they’ve had; they barely made it out alive. Still, they made it out - with the money too, thanks to Andrés. He’s clearly still processing, and if this is what he needs in order to get himself back together— Martin is happy to help.
So he knows what Andrés wants, and it’s what he gives him when he gets up and walks right past him, without a word or even a look his way. He’s still there, palms on his knees and looking down when Martín comes back, toweling dry his hair.
The heist had been intense. They can’t jump into whatever Andrés wants to do without being absolutely sure. He's asking to be hurt, but Martín doesn’t want to damage; this isn’t what it’s all about.
“I need to know that you’re okay enough to do this.”
Andrés’ shoulders fall with his exhale, and he nods. He’s still avoiding eye contact, so Martín gets closer, tipping his chin up. They’re both excellent liars - to themselves, to each other - but Martín can still read it in his eyes.
“I know what happened in the bank fucked with you; I just want to make sure that you’re in the right headspace for play.”
The way Andrés tips his head, asking for what he knows he’ll receive - Martín softens, gives in to it on instinct, cupping his cheek in his palm. He’s always fit there so well, and he’s even told Andrés once, ‘I’ve got you right where I wanted, corazón, right in the palm of my hand,’ and it lit his eyes so much—
There’s only bleakness in those eyes when he looks up now, and it breaks Martín’s heart to see it there. Andrés is a fucking grown-up though; he knows what he wants. Neither of them is great with self-awareness - they were told, repeatedly - but Andres doesn't always want this, so when he does, Martin can be sure that it's well-thought-out.
“I need this. Please?”
Verbal confirmation - sincere, by the sound of it. Martín nods.
“Of course you do,” he withdraws his palm, and Andrés’ eyes go down again. “you’re an insatiable slut, aren’t you? You didn’t even wait for me to have my coffee before you started begging.”
“I’m sorry.”
Andrés doesn’t get coffee. Andrés doesn’t even get acknowledged again, not when Martín fixes breakfast and coffee - only for himself - not after, when he goes to their closet and lazily looks through until he finds just the right things.
Woman's lingerie did nothing for Martín - the color, the cut, the concept itself. But on Andrés, the way it slides over hairy thighs, a stark contrast with the gaudy pink of the shiny satin - it’s the hottest thing ever. Andrés doesn't have the chest to fill the small cups of that lacy bralette, and he has too much that he's trying to hide inside the satin panties.
Andrés loves these things - on women, of course. And he loves how much he hates wearing them. There’s a crease in his brow when he’s finally put them on and his hands are restless, hanging by his side as he’s trying to not cover himself like he clearly wants to.
“Now dance for me,” says Martín, leaning into the arm of the chair.
Andrés stands within arm’s reach, wearing nothing but those pink panties, the pink bra, and a pinched look of shame. He looks up at Martín, clearly not expecting the ask.
It was a cruel request - but then again, this was sort of the point of what they were doing. It was a move taken straight from Andrés’ playbook, and they both knew what it meant, underneath the charm and predatory looks - the women had to perform, to try and prove themselves worthy of him. Such a subtly asshole move; Martín loves it, so he steals it.
Andrés moves well; he can dance. Still doesn’t make him any less awkward as he tries to sway his hips, the movements tentative and unsure. The lack of music doesn’t help, but he tries.
Yeah, so Martín isn’t into guys in lingerie - but he totally is into Andrés in lingerie, looking flustered and vibrating with embarrassment. It does all the right things to him.
He gets up from the chair, looking Andrés up and down. The panties bulge over his cock, a wet patch forming at the tip already - they were clearly not designed for the male anatomy and it only makes the image more striking.
Andrés stops rolling his shoulders in an imagined rhythm when Martín gets even closer, occupying as much of his personal space as he can. His arms go up, as if trying to hide his chest and the pink lace where dark hairs are sparsely peeking through.
He looks shy. Andrés de Fonollosa, shy and hesitant. What a delicious novelty.
Martín grabs the back of his neck in a sure grip, controlling his movements when they kiss. He’s in charge, Andrés can’t forget that. It’s a brief kiss, dirty and wet, and Andrés gets turned around and thrown face-first onto the desk as soon as Martín pulls away.
“Did you open yourself for me?”
“Yes, sir.”
Martín widens his stance, taking hold of Andrés’ asscheeks and spreading them so that more hairy skin peeks out from under the shiny pink.
“Did that make you horny?”
Andrés nods against the desk, curling his fingers over the edge, but his eyes are closed and Martín can’t have that.
“Open your eyes. Did you touch yourself?”
This time Andrés shakes his head - it’s not easy, the way he’s pressed to the desk, but he tries. He opens his eyes, still avoiding Martín’s, as he remembers to use words when asked.
“No, sir.”
The whole ‘sir’ thing didn’t necessarily play into the feminization, it was a whole thing unto itself - while Martín, having actually been in the military, had a different perspective on taking orders, Andrés hated the concept with a passion. He loved giving them and being obeyed, but being told what to do? With the exception of Martín, only Sergio was allowed to do it, and even him, rarely. So yeah, Martín heard the weight behind those “sir”s, and loved gathering every single one.
“Do you think you deserve my cock?” A rhetorical question, more than anything. “Make me want you. Show me how well you’ve prepared yourself.”
With a small delay, Andrés moves his hips up to lower his panties. When they reach halfway down his thighs, Martín stops him.
“Keep them there, don’t let them fall. Spread yourself for me.”
It doesn’t look comfortable, the way Andrés leans into his shoulders to spread his asscheeks, exposing his hole. He’s on his toes, knees slightly bent to keep the panties from sliding lower, a small tremble in his thighs to keep the position. He has worked himself pretty well, it seems; the area is shiny with lube, the hair there matted with it.
It’s a sight that always snuffs out Martín’s cognitive abilities; he’s left there, in a suit and a fucking tie, staring down at his husband’s ass, about to fuck him. Of course he’s smiling, because it is shallow, what he’s getting out of this. A part of what he’s getting, at least. He gets— this. He gets to fuck Andrés, and as shallow as it may sound, as simple; it’s still the truth. Andrés only asks for it when they are doing this, and it is precisely for the reason one would think. Which is awful, but Andrés is pretty awful with some things. This is why this works, though. All of this.
Why he’s dressed, wearing his suit, only opening his fly to take out his cock— and Andrés is bent over with pink lingerie hanging halfway down his thighs and papers stuck to his cheek where it’s pressed against the desk.
“You’re like my slutty secretary, aren’t you? Always here to serve me, invisible except for when I need you, and always gagging to give me whichever hole I see fit. I should have had you preparing my coffee. Working for it.” He pushes in, sliding so easy. Andrés still holds himself open even though his knees buckle for a second. “What else are you good for, anyway? I have to do all the work, while you sit there and get fucked. Does that seem fair to you?”
He can’t get particularly deep like this, but when his thighs hit Andrés’ ass, he grinds deeper, just to hear his deep moan and to feel him buck against him.
“You love this, don’t you? To be taken like this? All powerless and exposed; I bet it feels great to have a real man taking care of you like this.”
Andrés seems to be feeding off his words, keening with arousal, with the force of the thrusts. They may be using props from time to time - all with a purpose - but most of it was happening inside their heads anyway. The filth that Martín spills, half-thought-out, half-instinct, feeds into Andrés, making him squirm and push back onto his cock. Whatever unhealthy associations Andrés had in his head about bottoming, he was getting off on all of them right now, basking in his shame.
“You’re so loose,” Martín says, looking down at where he’s sliding inside Andrés’ ass. He’s not, Andrés’ ass is squeezing his cock greedily, but for the hurt look in his eyes when he heard it, Martín decides to play with it some more. “Imagine if I keep you bent over my desk every day, ready and open; I’d fuck you so often you wouldn’t even need to prepare, I could just slide in whenever I pleased."
He can’t really stop talking, even as he starts fucking Andrés roughly, as rough as he knows he can take it.
“Yeah, you’d love it, wouldn’t you? Waiting for me to use you, all slutted up for me. I should get you pretty lipsticks, bright red so you could leave marks on my dick.”
Shit, he didn’t expect the image to do it for him, but it did. He looked down, the pink panties teasing against the fuzzy darkness of Andrés’ hair.
“One of these days I’ll have you keep these on under your clothes. You’ll go out and only you and I will know what you’re hiding— or would you like them to see? Wear a shirt maybe a little bit sheer so the color of the bra shows, or maybe a strap?”
It’s a good thing that Andrés is moaning like he is, Martín feels a little less guilty for being as into it as he is.
“Imagine if they knew - imagine if they saw you like this; bent over, taking it up the ass and loving it. Or is this show just for me?”
Somehow, Andrés manages to respond. He’s doing it between gritted teeth, but he says ‘yes’, turning his head to look back, looking thoroughly wrecked. As if Martín couldn’t get more into this. It’s a wonder he managed to keep talking through the heavy pounding he was giving Andrés, but seeing him like that always made Martín a little— eager. He has to change gears before this ends too soon.
This isn’t about him, he remembers; this is about Andrés. And it pains him to stop, to plant his hand on the small of Andrés’ back and to press down, holding him in place as he pulls out.
“I’m bored.”
Andrés makes a noise - a surprised, meaningless exclamation, tinged with frustration. He keeps position, balancing on his toes now, trembling with something. Will he beg? Martín likes it when he begs.
He doesn’t, though, so Martín lets go. He moves away, tucks his hard, sticky cock inside his pants - a mighty uncomfortable job, but he does it for the effect - and pulls up the zipper.
“I think I want to read for a while, move over.”
Not being given too many instructions, Andrés is left standing right by the desk, with the panties still hanging around his hairy thighs and his cock hard and flushed. He looks awkward, so Martín prolongs the moment.
The desk is messy, papers having creased and spread all over the workspace, a few pens sliding dangerously close to the edge. Martín ponders for a moment if he should have Andrés clean it up, but this is better. He ignores him and picks up a book, sitting in his chair and leaning back.
He’s not really reading - he tried to, but the book he picked is decidedly unsexy - and this little game he’s playing is starting to detour blood from his cock, which— He’s not a teenager anymore and things need time to rev back up if they die. He finally sets the book down, wishing he’d have glasses to glance over them at Andrés. He doesn’t, but still manages to nail the barely-interested look.
“What, having trouble keeping it up?”
Andrés’ erection isn’t flagging, he’s still hard and waiting, but that doesn’t mean that Martín can’t bluff. Or project, whatever. Andrés knows it’s not true, and doesn’t seem to know how to respond other than by looking offended.
“Touch yourself. Make it good.”
As if Andrés pulling at his cock could be anything but good. He doesn’t ease himself into it, he wraps his fingers around his dick and starts pumping, and for a few seconds there, he seems back in charge.
Well, as in charge as he can be in his state.
Martín pretends to go back to his book, he opens it up again and reads words whose meanings just slide over him like water over parchment paper. It’s words; dark signs and spaces and he can’t take any of it in because at the very edge of his vision he can see the shining pink of the satin and Andrés’ hand jerking himself. He’s vocal too; moans as he cups his balls in his other hand - the book slides just a little lower in Martín’s lap - and he very gently squeezes.
It quickly becomes very uncomfortable to sit, his previous blood relocation problem having been resolved. He’s hard and so unbelievably aroused, and all he wants is to bend Andrés over right there, on the floor, and to ride him until he pumps him full of his come, but he keeps to this play of ignoring his husband. His slutty, slutty husband, who’s hating the perceived indifference and trying to make Martín acknowledge him again.
Martín manages a very convincing, very detached yawn - it almost feels natural; probably his brain just being grateful for the momentary oxygen. Andrés’ moan turns into a frustrated whimper, trying to get his attention, which he still doesn’t get.
Martín only manages to scan a few pages until he absent-mindedly addresses him.
“You don’t get to come until after I do.”
Which seems to take the wind from Andrés’ sails - his hand stutters around his cock, making him find a slower rhythm, a longer stroke.
The tension is palpable, and it radiates from the both of them. Martín tries to contain his as he sighs, closing that book and setting it on the desk without even looking.
“Get on your knees, I want to come on your face. Don’t stop,” he admonishes, when Andrés does, suddenly unable to coordinate masturbation and kneeling. “And don’t come.”
It will never feel like a mundane thing, having Andrés on his knees for him. He loves to give head, is pretty damn good at it too and takes pride in that fact, but it will never not feel as hot as it did the first time he did it. Martín thinks that if he ever gets bored of that image it’s a sure sign that he’s lost his mind - and realizes, as he’s shifting in his seat to actually open his fly this time, finally getting his cock out, that he really wishes that Andrés could blow him. Right there, under that desk, in his bra that’s ridden up a little and those panties— those fucking pink, satin panties.
Still, he’s just been in his ass and this isn’t on any of their ‘yes’ lists, so jerking off on his face would have to do.
"Open that pretty mouth of yours - there. Look at me.”
Andrés does, like he does every time he’s like this. He’s not the bratty sub, testing limits and breaking rules; Andrés does everything he’s told, no matter how much he hates it. Especially if he hates it. As for Martín— he sometimes wishes he was into weirder, more niche things because he just gets off on just how much Andrés is enjoying it. Weird thing to explain, weirder than, say, an affinity for feet. He feeds with Andrés’ shame, with how fully he feels everything and how deeply he loses himself in it.
There’s also the power play, which is inherently pushing all his buttons; to have Andrés on his knees for him. Of all the drugs he’s tried, this one is the most addictive.
“I could finish in your ass, and you know that’s what I prefer, but this—” He bites his lip, spreading his legs, urging Andrés closer between them. He gets to come on that face - just him, he gets to claim Andrés, to mark him as his own. “Yeah. Look at you, so hungry for it.” He begins to stroke himself, the leftover lube sticky-thick under his fingers.
Andrés doesn’t protest when Martín’s other hand brings his head down and right under his balls; he tilts his head and gets his tongue out, licking them wetly, moaning through his nose.
“You’re such a slut for it, aren’t you. Look at me.” His fingers curl in Andrés’ hair and he pulls maybe a little too hard, dragging him out to look at him. “Aren’t you?”
“Yes,” Andrés says, wiping spit off his chin with the hand that’s not currently trying to keep moving on his own cock. He’s catching his breath, eyes on Martín’s cock; he’s entranced with the movement of his hand, not expecting the slap when it comes. His head jerks with the force of the blow, hair pulling where it’s still held in Martín’s fist.
He’s momentarily stunned, eyes open wide, fingers feeling the sticky skin where Martín’s hand just landed.
“Sir,” he adds, so quick to tie the consequence to his action. “Yes, sir.”
Martín smirks.
“Who says that sluts never learn?”
He’s gentler when he pushes Andrés’ head back against his balls - for a second there, he thought he’d gone too far, but then Andrés blushed and his eyes got unfocused again. He is very much into it, into the headspace or into whatever character he is playing. Whoever he is when he’s soaking in humiliation like this, he’s poured himself into it completely.
It takes a bit of coordination to pull this off, a bit like patting your head and rubbing your belly at the same time, but Andrés does his best to keep jerking himself off even with the uncomfortable position he’s in. The tight, sure stroke of his hand contrasts to the wet, messy lap of his tongue but the absolute best part of it is the sounds he’s making, open-mouthed moans and needy hums.
He’s going to come soon, Martín realizes when Andrés tugs at his hand, trying to move his head so he could reach more with his tongue which— ngh.
Andrés is going to hate him if he keeps tugging his hair out so he forces himself to use words.
“Stop. I need your face.”
He understands and stops, moving back to resume his place right between Martín’s thighs, mouth open, eyes closed, just waiting—
“Take it,” he says when he feels his balls drawing up, only manages to see the first spurt land right across Andrés’ cheek before his eyes squeeze shut and he lets the orgasm run through him. It’s an electric feeling, short-circuiting whatever was left of his brain. His fist never stops working his cock, squeezing everything he has with a long groan as a few drops of come slide, slowly, down Andrés' cheeks.
How do you say ‘I love you’ to the man you just fucked, slapped, then came on the face of? Because that’s very much what Martín wants to do, brain-high and come-drunk. He can’t think of anything - generally - so he leans forward in his chair, draws Andrés’ face closer, making him stumble to gain his footing.
He’s been exceptionally good, keeping the lingerie up, still jerking himself off - must be taking all his self-control not to come, and it shows. His face looks pained, hurt when he looks up at Martín, a debauched image with come shining all across his face. That’s what Martín goes for when he leans in; he licks one of the salty streaks, gathering it on his tongue. He comes up to look at Andrés - the fucking love of his life, his husband - and to smile a closed-mouthed smile as he brushes his finger over his lips, urging them to open. Andrés slowly parts them, a little hesitant, curious as he does, and doesn’t even flinch when Martín spits his own come into his mouth, placing a too-soft kiss on his lips afterwards.
“Fucking grade-A slut,” Martín tells him, slapping his cheek gently a couple of times. “Come.”
It doesn’t take a minute - half a minute - Andrés’ eyes begin to fall shut in concentration but Martín is right there, grabbing his chin.
“Look at me.”
Andrés opens his eyes, glossed over and seeing nothing, and his breath catches.
“Don’t ruin your lingerie,” warns Martín, intentionally a second too late, “or I’ll have you lick it clean.”
It’s too late; Andrés shoots clear against his chest, beads of come landing onto the crumpled lace and the dark hair there. He shudders with it, eyes falling shut again, too gone to notice or care.
They both make a picture, but Andrés looks the most wrecked of the two. He’s sucking in air, looking a little hazy, but when he finally looks back at Martín, he’s smiling.
Lucky for them, the bed is precisely as many steps away as they can manage, and they both slump in, willingly ignorant of all the fluids they’re bringing onto the sheets. It takes them a few minutes to gather enough energy to properly arrange themselves in a cuddle on the pillows, and Martín dutifully wipes Andrés’ face with a corner of the sheet.
Andrés is worn-out, but smiling when he reaches for him, stealing a quick kiss.
“Tell me you love me.”
Their little thing - they had many things, gathered over the years, gestures or verbal cliches that were shortcuts for much deeper things. The way that he always fixed Andrés’ ties, almost subconsciously, or the quick squeeze Andrés gives him when they hold hands. They touch a lot, ever the tactile creatures, and it doesn’t always mean something deep, like the kiss that Andrés places on the nape of his neck whenever Martín is bent over some of his books - that means, ‘I love you, and I love seeing you so pulled into something you love.’ They’ve had a lot of time to abbreviate those words in touches, and they use them often. This time, the setting calls for words. These words, their little echoed mantra, are what brings them back and assures them that the curtain’s fallen and that behind it, they still love each other. It was just a play.
“So much,” answers Martín, placing a kiss on his forehead. “You were perfect. And so hot, oh my god. What would you think if I got you frilly underwear? And thigh-high stockings, with those strappy things that hold them up?”
“Garter belts?”
“Mhm.”
Andrés doesn’t try to hide his smile. Garter belts would certainly complete the look and add a little more flavor into this little game of theirs that keeps evolving.
“I’d hate that.”
“Good. Tell me you love me?”
“So much.”
Martín smiles, takes the kiss that’s offered and feels in it, in the laxness of Andrés’ touch, that the worst of it has passed, and that Andrés is finding his way back to himself - and to his husband.