I love this, Charles thinks, his eyes watering as Shaw comes down his throat, swallowing the bitter stickiness like the finest red wine. I’m a whore, and I was made for this.
Kurt’s words, drilled into his head for too many years until Charles can’t remember if he ever thought differently, or had desires or wishes of his own. Not that it matters what he might feel about his stepfather’s training, or what will become of him if he’s sold to a man like Sebastian Shaw.
His days and nights would hardly be any different, servicing others with his mouth, his hands, his ass, all of him covered in come, his body bruised and aching when he’s finally permitted to sleep. Waking up to hands on him, or a cock fucking him into the mattress, being used for the pleasure of others without any regard for his own.
Of course Kurt had dealt with that aspect too as part of his training, and now Charles gets aroused easily by the lust of others, his body responding to the pleasure he can feel even through the dampening effects of his anti-mutation collar. It’s what makes him such a perfect whore, Kurt says, the first time Charles comes as he’s being flogged, drowning in the waves of lust radiating from the ones watching his ‘lesson’. He’s nothing but an outlet for the needs of others; taught to revel in depravity inflicted on him and then ask for more.
And he does ask for it – begs for it even – preferring obedience and pleasure to the horrors of sensory deprivation, and being totally cut off from his telepathy. He wants this; to be used, to be told that he’s beautiful, and perfect, and so very, very good…
There’s a spot of come on the edge of Charles’ lips, and Shaw smiles, oozing satisfaction as he smears it over the apple of his cheek.
“You were right. He is very good at sucking cock,” Shaw says to a beaming Kurt. “Now show me how he takes pain. I need someone that can handle it when clients want to get a little rough.”
“Oh, I think you’ll be very pleased,” Kurt answers, veritably bursting with pride as he hauls a naked Charles to his feet. Taking his time, he searches for the best place to set up the scene, gazing at the various furnishings inside Hellfire’s elite VIP room. Dismissing the bar and the couch outright, he finally notices the hook coming out of the ceiling, and grabs a length of rope from his kit to bind around Charles’ wrists.
He waves for help from one of Shaw’s men – there are three of them in the room, bodyguards or lieutenants or whatever they call them in the business – and together they string Charles up by his wrists, arms stretched above him and dangling precariously on his toes. It’s impossible to get comfortable in this position, or to rest his weight properly on his feet, which will make it that much more difficult to absorb the blows as they come.
The whistle of the crop comes only an instant before the sting, pain blooming across his right buttock as Kurt lands the first blow. He cries out, his body swinging out of balance, head arching back to reveal the column of his throat. The lust ramps up immediately, coming at him from all directions, stirring his blood as the sting slowly morphs into a warm, tingly glow.
Then Kurt hits him again, and again, on his ass and the back of his thighs, the blows coming steadily now with few and random breaks. It hurts, though not as much as it could, or anywhere near what he’s endured before; just the rhythmic whistle and smack of leather against bruising flesh. He can feel their eyes on him, the excitement in the room, want and need pulsing with every desperate, keening sound that falls from his lips.
“Fuck,” one of the men says, breathless and heady, and it’s enough to push him over, riding the high of it to his own abrupt finish. He comes, hips rocking forward as he spurts, clenching around the butt plug as his entire body stiffens. But it still hurts, since Kurt doesn’t stop, until the tears come and he’s writhing and gasping and half hard again from the pain.
“That’s enough,” Shaw says finally, though by then Charles is sagging pitifully on the hook, arms burning from the strain. “Victor, get him down. Erik, get him a drink, and come and refill my glass.”
Victor is the massive brute that worked with Kurt to string him up, and he’s just as eager now to offer his ‘help’. His hands are rough as he gropes Charles’ limp body, rubbing his obvious erection against the cleft of his ass. Kurt unties him once he’s been dumped onto the leather couch, and even massages some of the circulation back into his wrists. He must look a pitiful mess, half slumped over from exhaustion, though the cool leather against his ass and thighs does help a little to sooth the burn.
“Here, drink this.” One of Shaw’s men – lean and handsome, though with cold eyes and a lethal grace – hands him a glass of water, and he downs the entire thing with a grateful hum. Then the man takes the glass from him and replaces it with a shot, which Charles takes after only a moment’s hesitation, letting the burn of the whiskey warm his throat and settle his nerves.
“Erik,” Shaw snaps, which draws the man’s attention immediately from Charles, and back to the Club’s owner seated on the other leather couch. There’s a flare of emotion from Erik – a spike of hatred, as potent as the lust from before – as he refills Shaw’s glass from the bottle on the coffee table, making Charles wonder at their relationship and why he's even allowed in the Hellfire’s inner circle.
Kurt reaches over and pats Charles' knee, the gesture almost affectionate, before tipping a thanks for the glass he’s handed. “Well? What do you think? Have we got a deal?”
There have been many in the past few years who have studied Charles this way, gaze dark and accessing as it rakes over his body from head to toe. But there is something in Shaw’s eyes that makes his stomach clench with dread, a sort of callous disregard for life that makes a person both cruel and dangerous.
“Patience, Mr. Marko,” Shaw says, leaning back against the couch cushion with a lazy smirk. “I’m paying a lot of money for the Club’s new star attraction. It’s been a good show so far, but he’s going to have to pass one more test.”
“Whatever it is, he’ll do it,” Kurt is quick to agree, eager for the huge payout that’s been promised for the perfect whore. “He might look breakable, but I assure you he can take it.”
“Well, I certainly hope that’s true.” Shaw waves over the man standing by the bar; the only one of them with an obvious physical mutation, sporting red skin and a long forked tail. “As you know I like to have a special night once in a while for my VIPs…an interactive live show if you will, on stage, with a handful of participants. I’m going to have my men fuck him now while we watch, and if I like what I see…well then we have ourselves a deal.”
Kurt laughs, no doubt thinking of all the ‘shows’ he’s put on for his own friends, with Charles as the centerpiece. “Don’t worry, Mr. Shaw, your boys are going to have a great time with him. I guarantee it.”
Shaw smiles, then turns to the red mutant and says, “Put him through the wringer, Azazel. And use lube; I don’t want him out of commission for long if we decide to keep him.”
He watches as Azazel shrugs out of his suit jacket and rolls up his sleeves, before coming to kneel at Charles’ feet. Unlike Victor’s impatient hunger, or Erik’s stone faced glare, Azazel merely smiles pleasantly at Charles, all business as he brandishes the bottle of lube Victor tosses his way. “Do you want to do the honors, Pretty One? Or should I?”
“I’ll do it,” he says, taking the bottle from Azazel and flipping the lid, squirting a good amount of it onto his fingers. Conscious of the eyes on him, he spreads his legs wide, and slowly slips the plug out of his hole with a sigh. He takes his time, working the lube thoroughly in and around his pucker, and then squirts some more lube onto three fingers and sliding them in, knuckle deep.
By the time he finishes with the prep, Azazel is seated next to him on the couch, pants shoved down to his ankles and his erection hard and leaking. He reaches for Charles and pulls him into his lap, hands gentle on his buttocks as he guides him into position.
Charles reaches back and spreads his cheeks wide, and sinks down until the entirety of Azazel’s cock is swallowed inside his body.
“Fuck, that’s good,” Azazel says, as Charles starts riding him on the couch, moaning when Azazel meets his every move with a sharp thrust of his hips. They find a good rhythm together, after the first few awkward tries, and soon enough they’re both panting, and Azazel is muttering something in another language, hands half lifting Charles up and down his shaft. This close the pleasure radiating from Azazel is intoxicating, and Charles sinks into it like a warm bath, the sensations – that thick cock driving in, filling him up and splitting him open – enough to make him forget temporarily that he has an avid audience of four.
That is until Erik and Victor join in, bracketing him on either side.
“That’s it,” Azazel croons, as Erik presses close, pants open and his cock stiff, long and thick and utterly gorgeous. “Open wide for Lehnsherr, Baby. Let him fuck that pretty face of yours.”
“Yes,” he says, because he wants nothing more than to take the length of it in his mouth, tasting the saltiness of sweat and pre-come on his tongue. And when he does, Erik groans loudly, tugging him roughly by the hair, and Charles can’t do much more than swallow it whole, letting the man fuck his throat as he tries not to gag.
Not to be left out, Victor grabs his hand and wraps it around his massive prick, making Charles jerk him off while he’s getting his face and ass thoroughly pummeled.
It doesn’t take very long – because Charles knows how to make a man come, how to clench and buck and moan with each thrust – before Azazel is coming with a shout, spurting his load in Charles’ ass, fingers digging bruises into his still tender flesh. He thinks too, that Erik might be close, his pace increasingly wild and erratic, but then he finds himself being lifted clean off of Azazel’s prick and shoved chest first over the back of the couch.
“Fuck, Creed! What the fuck!”
“What? It’s my turn with his ass,” Victor says, as a fuming Erik circles around so he can cram his dick back into Charles’ mouth. He’s even rougher now, with his orgasm so abruptly stalled, grabbing his head with both hands and driving his cock straight down his throat.
But Victor's the one that makes him scream, arms flailing in shock, body seizing up like he’s being split in half by the man's utterly monstrous cock. He’s huge – the biggest Charles’ has ever taken, and he’s taken a lot – and the pain is sharp even after being worked open by Azazel. And Victor doesn’t care to go slow or be gentle; he pounds into Charles with the force of a freight train, bouncing Charles and the couch back and forth until they’re both perilously close to breaking.
He barely notices, when Erik grunts and comes down his throat, swallowing it reflexively and licking him clean.
By the time Erik pulls away and tucks himself back into his pants, Victor’s thrusts are becoming more tolerable, with Charles’ insides no longer feeling like mush. In fact it’s starting to feel good – really, addictively good; the way Victor’s cock fills every inch of him, rubbing up against the tight walls of his rectum. And it helps how much Victor is obviously enjoying himself, his fervor buffeting and ramping up Charles’ own libido, until he’s climaxing again, muscles clenching as he spurts all over the leather cushion. Victor comes too, while he’s still panting from the orgasm high, collapsing on top of Charles and almost burying him under a mass of hair and muscle. Then Victor pulls out and slaps him hard on the ass, leaving him exhausted and wrung out, legs shaking and knees weak, his asshole gaping wide and fucked open for the whole world to see.
He collapses onto the soft leather and closes his eyes, and doesn't flinch when he feels the hot sticky come - Shaw, or Kurt, or both he can't tell - splattering all over his face and in his hair.
When Charles opens his eyes long moments later, Shaw is standing over him, watching him with a sunny, indulgent smile.
It sends a shiver of fear and anticipation racing down his spine.
“That was a very good show,” he says, his eyes never leaving Charles’ face, “I expect you'll be very popular indeed.” Turning to Azazel he adds, “Take him to get cleaned up. Then take him to my room, so I can give him a proper Hellfire welcome.”
And then he waves for Kurt to follow him out, leaving Charles to contemplate his future, and what else Shaw has in store for his newest addition.