Part 1 of Sugar and Rice

Warning: S/M and D/S relationship, crossdressing, overly detailed blowjobs, angst, and it hasn't been beta'd

Oo0Sugar0oO

You don’t think much of how weird this is, this arrangement, when it happens. When Rice comes in, trembling like this is the first time, knowing that you know he’s completely naked underneath his dark, ankle-skimming leather coat (because he learnt long ago that wearing clothes was just a pain, getting in the way of the inevitable) you don’t think much of how unusual this is.

He hates you. He really does hate you, but… what? He needs you? Trusts you? Has learnt to put up with you as a normal part of his life? You’ve bullied him for three years (because he accidentally tripped you up outside History class in Year Eight) and now, now, it’s comes to this. For seven months, you’ve been meeting him without fail for this. You alone decide when this is going to happen. What you do, when you do it, and for how long. Sometimes you call on him once a week, sometimes five times. Sometimes not at all. That always scares him, the being left alone. And you like it when he’s scared. He’s so much more… receptive. Sensitive to the touch.

You don’t greet him. You’ve found he gets more nervous if there is nothing but your silence and his heavy, panicking breathing. He’s trembling wonderfully, which just makes your own desire sharper. He’s so beautiful when he’s scared, the sweat trickling down his face, wide blue eyes darting around the room, small slim hands clutching at his coat as if to protect himself from what you both know is coming.

You approach him quietly. You sometimes wonder why he comes to you, without fail, when you send him notes or get someone to give him the word. Maybe because of fear. But you haven’t touched him outside of these conditions since it started. You don’t need to take out your aggression on him in any other way than this, so you don’t corner him in the corridors or round on him outside school like you used to. You think he thinks you’ll only leave him alone for how long he continues to meet you, but you have the creeping feeling that actually you wouldn’t touch him outside of this, even if he stopped coming. He’s so gorgeous, and you have come to appreciate it in a way that only one who’s been intimately familiar with his body could manage.

You gesture at a bag you’ve brought with you, and he practically scrambles for it he’s so nervous. He touches the garments inside in shock, fingers trembling harder than you’ve ever seen them, even more than from the first time. A blur of movement.

“You… you want me to…?” he gasps out, his eyes widening further in a mix of horror and… my, my. Is that a little bit of interest you see?

You want to tell him to keep his mouth shut, because he usually does, having learnt that talking will not be tolerated (except when in the throes of passion, or when apologising) but you have the silent thing going for you now, and inconsistency is no way to train a ‘pet’, so you say nothing. You would hit him for the mistake, like you had at first, but now (being so well acquainted with his body to aesthetically appreciate the flare of his slim, boyish hips, and the smooth, creamy paleness of his shoulders) you think you might die if you ever truly hurt him. To mar that perfect pale flesh with a bruise unless he wants it… it doesn’t bear thinking about.

So you simply nod, which is really all the answer you need to give him.

He whimpers softly under his breath, a blush riding the jut of his cheekbones, as he gingerly picks out the garments. He’s quick to pull up the black, lacy thong you brought for him underneath his coat, but it takes him a while to do anything more, simply staring at and touching the other clothes.

You can understand this; this need to touch in order to gain full recognition of what is going on, but his awkwardness irritates you, and only serves to water down your own anticipation. This is not what you wanted.

Hurry up, you think impatiently, and Rice seems to read your mind, because he glances out you with those pretty eyes of his and self-consciously shucks off the coat. He begins to pull the long, tight, green silk stockings up his legs, probably not even realises how sultry he looks as he does it. He has wonderful, slim legs. It pleased you incredibly the first time when you realised that he had no leg hair. He shaves his underarms as well. No dark hair to ruin the effect of his unblemished skin.

He needs help with the suspender belt, and you’re more than happy to help, sneaking touches whenever you can; along the smooth curve of hipbones under flesh, over the silken curve of his lower back. Your fingertips move sluggishly over his skin. He panics, because he probably thinks you want to draw his embarrassment out, but really it’s because you want to hide your own joy at being able to touch him, whilst being able to drag it out.

You pull back when you’ve fixed the suspender belt into place, so you can appreciate the way the dark, rich green accents the sun-deprived cream of his skin. The thong is beautiful on him, and seems to make his hips almost girlish. You circle him predatorily, eyeing him carefully, and you see that whilst most people would make a thong seem to emphasis on the sagging of flesh, Rice’s thong makes his ass seem infinitely tight, dimpling as it clenches and unclenches in anticipation.

You can’t help reaching out to lay a hand on one trembling globe, to stroke it lovingly. You can feel every tremor running through his body, and it is intoxicating.

Rice is your pet. A gorgeous blue-eyed angel that you tore down from heaven. Sometimes you get the absurd thought in your head of worrying whether it hurt him when you tore his magnificent wings off, so you could drag him down to where you are. You own him, at least here, and it makes your blood pound.

“I…” he murmurs, before he can stop himself. He looks back at you shakily, repentance written all over him, which makes you smile. You show him with your eyes that you’re pleased he knows when he’s doing something wrong. He seems to relax a little when he realises this is what you feel.

He gestures obscurely at the garments still in the bag, because he knows you always see everything through, and you can practically feel his blush. You walk around him, face schooled into blankness, and pull out a velvet green corset with black lace. He whimpers gently again, which only makes the urge to tease him throb inside you, so you calmly reach out for him and pull him close. He blushes again when you pull the corset around his body.

You’ve treated him like this; like a doll, before. He likes it; you can see it in his eyes and in the way he tries to subtly shift further into your body heat. You want him to be utterly willing tonight, to really, completely enjoy himself, because he is so much more vocal that way, so you begin to dress him. He immediately tenses up, as you expect, but he is completely receptive to you as you graze your nails over the juncture between neck and shoulder, an erogenous zone for him. He even manages a helpless, mewing moan. God, you love that sound.

As you adoringly lace up the corset (not too tight; you want him to be able to breathe deeply when he’s losing his mind under you) he seems to realise what he’s wearing, because he begins to touch it in wonder. He isn’t hard, which makes you worry a little. He always enjoys what you give him, but it’s taking him a while longer than usual to react to you. But he’s blushing, which is good, and he’s moving his hands dangerously closely to his cock and over his neck.

Your fears dissipate when Rice runs a cautious finger over the back of his thong and slides it between his legs to touch the place that belongs solely to you.

You grasp the offending hand with a surety that makes Rice’s ability to move impossible, yet ensure he feels no pain from the grip. You know that’s not allowed.

“…S…sorry…” he whispers, blushing. He fiddles with the lace of his corset, which is just too adorable for words. He hasn’t seemed to realise he’s made yet another mistake; talking, but you think it’s okay to overlook it. After all, you’ve made it clear to him from the start that any form of apology is acceptable.

He knows that he is allowed to touch himself however he wants at any time, apart from his cock or ass, so he goes back to getting to know his new clothes through touch. You wanted to bring him high-heels – maybe stilettos – but you had fears he might fall over, which would only make things awkward. You now wish you’d brought him fishnets. The stockings seem to cover up too much, even though they’re sinfully tight.

You watch him quietly, sometimes just touching his fingers as they graze over an erogenous spot, sometimes carding through his hair (you love it when he tips his head back and sighs as you do it). You won’t really start until he gets hard. It’s making you burn inside waiting so long for him to react.

So much so, in fact, that you break your own, unspoken rules.

“Jesse.”

You immediately freeze, realising your mistake, but it seems it was a lucky flaw, because Rice’s eyes widen before they close tight and he keens – this long, beautiful, helpless sound, arching his hips into your warmth. The blood floods to his cock, so it stretches the thin material of the thong perfectly.

He blushes and quivers at the questioning look you give him to his sudden reaction. “I thought… you just wanted a girl,” he murmurs in explanation, fiddling with the edge of the corset again. “I thought you didn’t want me any more, so I…” He blushes and looks away, scuffing his silk-clad feet together.

That would explain the lack of hardness. You know it’s a treat for him whenever you say his first name, and it never fails to make him come explosively when he’s on the edge. You guess he thought you weren’t seeing him any more. You were seeing a flat-chested girl.

“Sorry for… uh… talking again,” he mumbles, looking up at you for forgiveness.

You don’t vocalise that you’ve accepted his apology, but again you show him with your eyes. He relaxes visibly as your gaze sweeps over him.

You silently order him to stay still as you move around him again, drinking in the sight of him from every angle as you circle him, wondering at your own good fortune. He is so gorgeous, so absolutely perfect, and as you stand behind him you can’t resist slapping a cheek with such force that he is pushed forward, having to take a step to regain his balance. He gasps loudly in shock, the blood rising up under the pale skin like a blossoming flower, and it’s just too beautiful and irresistible for words, so you slap the other cheek, making them both match in their rosy redness.

“Oh…” he breathes gently, sucking in a deep, shuddering breath to control himself. He loves it so much. You slap him three more times, and vaguely wonder if he’ll speak again if you slap too hard. He doesn’t have much self-control even now, but simply moans over and over as you start to brutalise his ass. He leans over a little, thrusting his hips back to meet each blow. He’s the vision of submission. You don’t understand why he loves this kind of abuse, but you’re not complaining. His face is the same shade of red as his ass. You give him the sharpest, strongest slap yet, which sends him falling to the floor.

He collapses onto his knees, where you selfishly believe is where he belongs. (Because if he was above you, you would fall to your own knees before him and give yourself in to his stare. This thought you keep locked up in the back of your mind.) Under you, always. Heaven.

He pants loudly as he senses you lowering yourself to his level, though slightly above, on your knees beside him. He looks at you submissively, blushing sheepishly, as if he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t have. He’s always like this after having been spanked, even though you barely spanked him at all this time. So you backhand him sharply, which makes him moan deliciously, eyes closed against the feeling as he cradles his reddening cheek, his cock twitching inside the lacy thong.

His look just begs ‘Again’, which you obey, slapping him hard across the same cheek, doubling the pain in the throbbing flesh. He whines like a kicked puppy, the tip of his cock now poking out from over the waistband of his thong. The head is beautiful, angry and purple and dribbling out an over-abundance of white pre-come.

You grasp his shoulders brutally and whirl him around towards you to slap him again, and again, and again. This way, you can put more force into each blow. His lips started bleeding somewhere along the line, but you don’t care, losing yourself in the gorgeous feeling of the give in Rice’s impossibly soft flesh with each strike. You want to snap his jaw, break his teeth, but this feeling only arises when you are striking him. Never before.

He takes it with relish, each time his head is forced sideways with the force of a blow turning back to you, eyes closed in ecstasy, waiting in rapture for the next strike.

You deal him one, final blow; the sharpest and hardest, like you did when you spanked him, and as his head is thrown backwards with enough force to once again send him falling with a thump onto his back, legs splaying outwards as they unfold from underneath him, come shoots out of his revealed cock. The thick, creamy fluid splashes across his corset and thong, beautifully accenting the black of the material. The excess oozing from his swollen slit slides down his widespread thighs.

Splayed out wide… a sacrifice. An offering. All yours. You have to lean in to lick the long, angry-looking spattering of blood on his split lip, the iron tang bursting out on your taste buds.

You swallow down a moan at the sight of him. The flushed skin, the clothes. You must persist.

Don’t give in to him.

“We have ten minutes,” you murmur.

He freezes beneath you, just like you did, stock still in his debauched beauty. Not a tremor in sight. He almost isn’t breathing.

Why didn’t you tell me? his eyes implore, skin paling in panic. At least now you can see that he wants enough time, wants to have the time to really appreciate what you’re doing to him. Which is a nice feeling.

You take on a haughty stance as you stand up before him, so this time he can tell that you mean I didn’t want to through your body language. He frowns. You don’t usually relent from telling him how much time you will have with him.

“So hurry up,” you growl, and that’s all he needs to rise up shakily onto his stocking-clad knees before you, snapping into the motions, determined to get you off. He’s been trained to do this, but it’s nice to think that he always cares for your pleasure before his own because he genuinely wants to. Though you feel this belief is a complete lie, at heart.

He pulls at your belt, hands trembling again, so you have to assist him. You quite like that; you get a chance to show off, dextrously pulling the belt loose with one hand. He rocks back on his heels nervously, until he can get at your fly and pushes a hand into your boxers so he can pull out your cock over the waistband. His face is lit up in a self-conscious, restrained hunger as he gazes at your cock almost lovingly.

He’s erect again.

You place a hand over his to halt him (it’s so tiny compared to yours) which makes him pause in confusion. You don’t have the time for pauses, so you make it clear that you want him to pull down your jeans and boxers this time. This is unusual, since usually when you do this together with him, he is the one who is naked and you are mostly clothed, just your cock free. Though he seems to enjoy being able to feel the lighter, softer hair on your thighs, and the coarser, darker hair on your shins. You don’t bother stepping out of the clothes, which have bunched up around your feet. You want them close, so you can get out quickly. You don’t actually have to leave in ten minutes; you just came up with it on the spot, in the mood to tease him. You like seeing the way his face falls when you leave, even if you’ve indulged in an hour or so of perverted play.

You think this time, just this once, you might walk out, give it ten seconds, then walk back in and ravish him ‘til he can’t remember his own name.

You touch his hair gently, encouraging him to move forward, which he does like the good little boy he is. He nuzzles into you, inhaling deeply, greedily. He loves it; loves sucking cock, and you sometimes wonder if he actually enjoys it more than the sex. Maybe he feels like he’s in control, even just a little. Maybe he likes that…

Though it’s hard to focus on your theories as he licks a slow line from base to tip, a hand moving up to touch your balls, your perineum, your asshole. You’re surprised at his daring, but God, he’s going so slow. You won’t leave without getting off, which would ruin the ten-minute trick.

“Hurry up,” you hiss again, sure to push every dominant fibre in your body into the tone, which makes him shudder perversely and grip the base of your cock, swallowing you in one go. He doesn’t gag any more (he’s too well trained) but you’re big, and you can feel the head brushing against the very back of his throat, so you wonder why he doesn’t. He uses every last piece of his skill to bring you to orgasm, eyes closed and brow furrowed in concentration.

His mouth is a hot, silk-smooth vice around you, lips clamping down each time and increasing the suction as he pulls back as if he never wants to let you go. His wicked, well-trained tongue surges against the vein on the underside of your cock, the ridge underneath the domed head, and especially the slit. He seems to adore that single part of you, driving the very tip of his wet, soft tongue inside it, licking up the pre-come before it can even escape your body. He makes love to it, that small, swollen slit, and moans as it rewards him with drops of salty fluid.

You vaguely wonder through the pleasurable haze if you should have brought him lipstick. But his bee-stung, pillowy lips are turning a vibrant enough red as he brutally fucks you with his mouth, and anyway; lipstick marks on your cock would be unbecoming.

You push a hand through his curly blond hair, wishing it were longer so you could tie it up in pigtails. He moans softly as you tug on it; he likes having his hair pulled; his eyes squeeze tighter shut to keep his concentration. He likes it when you stroke it between your fingers, tugging so gently it’s almost a massage. He likes it when you drive your nails into his scalp and yank so hard you sometimes fear the hairs are just going to up and give out, tearing from his flesh.

His nails start to dig into your hips, his blond head becoming just a mess of motion he’s going so fast (or maybe you’re too out of your mind to be able to judge speed for yourself any more) and swallows.

Six minutes.

“Come, damn you,” he whispers, almost inaudibly, which surprises you. He’s never ever sworn in front of you, except when begging you to Oh God fuck me now. But then he swallows you again, throat working you as if you’re some sort of exotic lollipop just for him (though, really, it is only for him) and you lose all coherency.

The back of his throat undulates beautifully around your shaft, sliding slickly in those wavelike motions on the sensitive ridge of the domed head, while the flushed slit rubs pre-come into his blessedly soft, wet uvula.

Four minutes, now.

You have to catch yourself from vocalising at least seven times. You’re dying to speak, to tell him how good it – he – feels, but you abhor inconsistence, so you don’t, even though your brain is turning to a soft mush inside your head. His tongue works over the vein on the heavy underside of your cock again, teeth catching on the head just so. You sometimes think that you, actually, have a tiny masochistic streak. You love the feeling of Rice’s nails digging into you when he’s about to come, the pain shooting through your senses like shards of ice, even though his hands are so warm. You love it when he bites your shoulder to stop himself from screaming.

Or maybe you just love the way he reacts to you.

He licks over your head, where you are most sensitive, with almost loving thoroughness. You wish you didn’t have such high stamina, as you glance at your watch and realise the time is quickly disappearing. You almost want to beg yourself to come, but that’s just too strange for words.

But Rice’s utterly wanton moans as he swallows you inch by inch all over again is like begging all of its own. He looks up at you, making it clear what he wants, which you give him. How could you not? You grasp his head with both of your hands, winding your fingers through his hair so every pull will hurt him, and start fucking his mouth with earnest. He’d been in charge before, and you almost can’t believe that the beautiful fiend who’d been sucking you off with brutal, animalistic ferocity could possibly be the same person who is now giving in to your vice-like grip, moaning loudly around your cock when he tilts his head back to get you further down his throat and takes it; all of it. His hands flop down from your thighs to land in his own lap, but he doesn’t touch himself. His eyes are now closed easily, instead of tight shut, so you can tell that he has completely given himself up to sensation. You doubt he would even bother to breathe if you didn’t pull back enough so air could be pulled in.

To your surprise, he bravely lifts a hand to your ass, squeezing it greedily. You catch a shocked moan from escaping, swallowing it down. He brings his hand back, sliding one finger into his mouth, rubbing it against your engorged, angry head, making the pleasure rise up further inside you, before he slides it back out. It’s covered in saliva, and you can guess what he’s going to do with it, if he’s going to take this newfound bravery any further.

Your guess is right, as you feel it rise to circle your hole, rubbing the slick wetness into the usually neglected flesh.

And then it sinks in.

The alien sensation of his finger pumping in and out inside you from behind, copied with the frenzied sucking on the front, makes the heavy feeling in the back of your chest swell to almost suffocate you. You have to up the tempo. The fear of the time is zapping your arousal, no matter how utterly gorgeous and skilled the angel is between your legs. You want to come, and oh, he adds another finger, which is just too strange for words, the slim digits filling you wonderfully, and why oh why is it not enough? It’s just not working, just not –

Time’s up.

Your shoulders sag a little and you let out a sigh softly through your nose. You pull away from him; regret swimming in your guts, without saying a word. You nearly have to strain yourself to get away from that addictive cavern – half because you genuinely don’t want to leave him, half because he groans sorrowfully and clamps down harder around you to keep you there. You push him away gracelessly, lest you give in to that sweet cavern.

“…D-Dominic…?” he whispers, kneeling before you in his pretty black and emerald lingerie. There’s a string of pre-come hanging stubbornly to the corner of his heavily swollen, flushed bottom lip. He reminds you of a model in a porn magazine your brother gave to you before he knew you were gay. She was a brunette, not blonde, and her lingerie was smaller and scarlet, and obviously she had a lack of male parts, but you’re reminded of her anyway.

“The game’s over,” you say, as you always do. He flushes in surprise, and shows you that adorable devastated face you like so much. His cock is still hard, and you’ve never left without touching him at least once. He’s probably confused.

You start to pull up your boxers and trousers. You don’t look at him – you know you’ll give in to that expression – those eyes. It hurts to confine your raging, saliva-slick erection under the soft, downy material of your underwear, and it’s almost a struggle to do up the fly. Your fingers tremble with sexual need as you try to do up your belt. You have to go now.

He makes no noise as you approach the exit, but in the corner of your eye you see him struggle to stand. You wonder if his knees are bruised under those thin silk stockings you gave him, and why he’s reigned himself in from speaking.

– Oh. As you touch the handle, he whimpers aloud.

“Dominic…” he whispers in desperation. You look back at him questioningly.

“I said ten minutes, and I meant it,” you tell him firmly, taking refuge from your own sexual urges beneath a mask of sarcasm and lies. Every movement you make that isn’t in Rice’s direction makes your whole body cry out in longing, but you purposefully pull down the handle and opening the door an inch

“Ah -!” he cries, almost involuntarily, lunging forward just a little. He stops himself and fumbles with the lace of his corset sheepishly. “I… that is… What am I supposed to do with…?” He gestures down at himself obscurely, turning red underneath the already flushed skin.

“Your erection?”

“My clothes!” he storms back in embarrassment.

“Keep them,” you murmur, afraid to look into his gorgeous face, and exit. The door clicks shut behind you, the loudest thing next to Rice’s whimper at being abandoned. He doesn’t follow you. He never does. This is good, for the game, but it makes you hurt inside. Uncertainty rears its ugly head, as you wonder if he doesn’t follow you because you’ve trained him not to, or if he wants you, but not enough to bother chasing you. You know he could find someone else in a heartbeat – he’s so beautiful it’s breathtaking. Worry and jealousy towards Rice’s could-be lovers burn in your mind.

You lean against the wall opposite the door with your hands trapped between the cold concrete and the small of your back with a long, almost inaudible sigh. Your erection feels like it’s burning a hole through your boxers. You savour the distant yet nearby pulse drumming in your cock for a moment, counting off the seconds in your head. How long will you make him suffer?

Oo0Sugar0oO

Thanks for reading. I'll update soon, but the whole thing's not finished yet. I'm getting the whole make-up sex thing down still XD

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Xx the Berserker xX