Stockholm Syndrome [01] - Stockholm Syndrome (21 page)

"Didn't I just tell you to shut up?"

He puts his hand between Valentine's legs, and he kid squeezes his eyes shut and catches his breath. "Yeah, but... come upstairs, alright? Cos... it's relevant, I swear, come on."

Lindsay's not really sure what's going on. He stands there in the bedroom, leaning back against the dresser with his arms folded and eyebrow raised, watching Valentine reach under the bed and pull some things out of his hideous NME-découpaged toybox. He puts them in a neat line on top of the blanket, then pushes the box away and looks up at Lindsay's face to get his reaction. There isn't one for a little while.

"...
oh
," he says eventually, and then there's silence again. Valentine looks at Lindsay. Lindsay looks at the pale pink leather cuffs, the soft black silky ropes, the pink and black ball gag, the rectangular black paddle with pink piping around the handle and the word 'SLUT' written in bright pink capital letters, backwards. His first thought is
why the HELL does everything have to be PINK

all the time?
then he hastily backtracks, even in his own head, and just thinks
WHY?

"Cos you're always telling me to shut up and stop squirming," Valentine

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says, as if he's heard. He reaches up onto the bed, fingering the end of one of the black ropes, and then pulling it towards him so it slithers off the mattress and through his hands like an eel, twining around his knuckles, and he keeps it woven there as he starts crawling towards Lindsay –
prowling
, even, like a cat, looking up through his dark eyelashes and just barely smirking with one side of his mouth. He kisses the top of Lindsay's socked foot when he reaches him, then his shin, his kneecap, his thigh, and
almost
the bulge his cock makes pressing harder and harder against the fastening of his jeans, but he swerves off at the last second and rests his cheek against Lindsay's leg instead, just breathing, just trailing the fingertips of his rope-wrapped hand across Lindsay's belt buckle.

"Thought maybe you'd like to
make
me, yeah?"

NO NO NO
, Lindsay's brain screams, but his body overrides it and he finds himself pushing the kid away and striding over to the bed, to the line of perverted toys waiting for his approval. "You can get rid of
this
," he says, picking up the gag between his thumb and fingertip and pulling a disgusted face at it. "Do you think I do all these things to you and
don't
want to hear what noises you make?" He throws it onto the carpet, and the remaining silk rope on top of it. The pink cuffs make him want to laugh – they're just so, so, so, SO

girly – but they look like they're going to do the job better, hold him in place without cutting off his circulation and turning his hands blue like all the times he's been forced to compromise with a tie or a scarf and made the knots too tight in his haste. Bit stupid to be thinking about safety and comfort when there's still one thing he's not made himself look at properly yet-

"Slut?" he reads, and raises his eyebrow again. Valentine's still on his knees across the room, touching the end of his rope against his lips, although he quickly unwinds it from his fingers and throws it onto the discard pile when Lindsay tilts his head towards it like a command or a prompt.

"See the letters? If you smack me hard enough you'll write slut on my arse."

"Really."

"Like, a mark. No, what's the word, like a
brand
. Cos I'm yours."

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"I don't
want
a slut."

"Yeah, but they don't
make
paddles with 'good little boy' written on, cos nobody's got an arse that big." He slinks over again on his hands and knees, and this time he doesn't just tease, he starts sliding Lindsay's belt through its buckle and then all the way out of his belt loops. "I can make you like it, you know I can. You won't mind me being a slut when I'm finished, promise. Let me suck your cock. I'll swallow. I won't spill nothing." His tongue's there before Lindsay can even put up the pretence that he doesn't want it, swirling in circles around the head and all up and down his length – so he gives in, he clenches his hand tight in the back of Valentine's hair and directs him to take it all in, he sets the speed and depth and every now and then he gives the kid a vicious hairpull just to hear him whimper, and when he comes it's almost silent, just a single wordless groan and the wet sucking sounds of Valentine doing what he promised.

He sits back on his heels after and wipes the corners of his mouth delicately with the pad of his thumb. "Told you," he says, smiling sweetly. That's what does it, the loaded faux-innocence in his smile like bullets in a gun.

Lindsay wrenches his jeans down – there's a knack to skinny jeans, he's getting better at it every time – and bends him over the edge of the bed, hooks his fingers in the waistband of the kid's pants and slips them down to just underneath the curve of his arse, then picks up the paddle and whacks him one. He's never used one of these stupid things before, he's not sure how hard he's supposed to go, but he's got to be doing it more or less right because Valentine makes a happy sound and sags against the bed, breathing hard. "Did it work?" he asks, muffled against the covers.

It's there, stark against his skin. "What, the word? No."

"Do it again.
OW
, ahhjesusfuck... did it work?"

"No. Not really."

"You're rubbish. Do it again." He swears again when Lindsay hits him and makes a whingey little sobbing noise, although he's not crying. "I wanna see in the mirror. Now?"

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"No." He brings the paddle cracking down again and again and again, harder every time and trying to aim in the same place, although that's difficult because now Valentine's squirming around, screeching
ow!
and trying to grab onto his reddening arse to hold down the sting. "Don't be stupid. Move your hands or I'll break your fingers." He remembers the cuffs, suddenly – there's nothing to cuff him
to
, positioned like this, but he buckles the kid's wrists together and that's good enough, he can't bring them back round his body when they're bound together.

There's no point carrying on, not
really
. The kid's arse is too pink for the letters to show up any more. Lindsay still does it, because he likes the sound it makes, the sturdy leather slapping against bare skin, and the sound Valentine makes, all wet heavy gasps and whimpers. He lasts almost a minute before he starts
really
wriggling around. "Ain't it working yet?"

"Not any more, you're too red. It worked the first time. I just like the sounds you make when you can't get away."

"You...
fuck
! You
bastard
, you're a fucking sadist!"

"And you fucking love it, so shut your mouth and put up with it." He's bored of it now, the stupid paddle thing, and he chucks it away across the room.

Valentine's flesh is burning hot against his hand when he spits on his fingers and presses one inside him, leaning over to grab the bottle of lube off the bedside table – "Oh fuck, oh JESUS fuck it fucking stings," Valentine keeps muttering, but he's not saying stop and he's pressing back desperately against the wet fingers, three of them by the end, which only makes him swear and writhe more than ever, and then he's coming with barely even a touch on his cock; just a loose wet grip and a couple of strokes has him shuddering and spilling all over himself, all over the covers.

"Happy now?" Lindsay says two minutes later, when he's freed Valentine's wrists and they're naked in bed. He's sitting up against the pillows and Valentine's laying face-down over his lap, cushioning his cheek on his own folded arms and smiling lazily at the touch of Lindsay's fingers gently massaging his stinging red skin.

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"Yeah, not bad. You?"

"I'd be much happier if you stopped nicking my credit cards to buy your... disgusting sex toys."

"Yeah, this ain't even what I bought, though. I got all this stuff last time, only I never said cos I knew you'd have a fit. I ain't telling you what I bought, it's a surprise. I just needed to get you naked." He's suddenly got a
tape measure
, of all things, out of the drawer next to his side of the bed. Lindsay's too surprised to do anything except lie there still and be measured all over, down his arms and across his chest, the length of his leg, and... "Ohh. Four inches and a quarter, is that all? Course, it feels bigger when it's inside, don't it?"

"I
knew
you couldn't read," Lindsay snaps, and shows the little bastard that all this equipment for holding him down and hurting him is a complete waste of money because he can do the same job much better with his hands.

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There's a slightly awkward silence when Lindsay's mum shows Valentine to her guestroom, but she's too preoccupied with trying to make sure he's got everything he needs to notice.

"Bathroom's next door, there's towels in there. Extra blanket and pillows in the wardrobe if you need. And you'll get the sun first thing in the morning, so there's a blind behind the curtains if that'll bother you, alright love? Draw both, you'll never notice."

"He's a grown-up, Mum, I'm sure he knows what to do with
curtains
,"

Lindsay says, feeling awkward and impatient. He realises too late how much he sounds like a sulky bratty fourteen-year-old. He's not usually like this, he's good mates with his mum most of the time, but there's something about being in the house with her and Valentine at the same time that's absolutely freaking him out.

It's even worse when she gives him That Look, that special mum-look warning him not to act up and show off just because they've got company. Of course Valentine sees it, he's got eyes like a hawk for anything embarrassing like that, and he smirks behind his hand trying to pretend it's a cough.

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C H A P T E R 1 4

"Cheers, Mrs. Brown. Frances. Can I call you Frances, is that alright?

You didn't have to go to all this trouble, I'd be happy with a sleeping bag on the floor." From the way she's beaming at him now you'd think he just offered her a skyful of hand-plucked stars on a diamond platter. It's a
good
thing he's charming her so completely, it's going to make this hellish ordeal slightly easier to deal with if they're getting along, but now she's lingering when Lindsay thought she was about to go and he can't bear it.

"That's her name, isn't it? Come on, you'll be late, it's half three already." He manages to herd her downstairs and out the door, and stands there waving the car off until it's turned out of the drive and onto the road, just to make sure she's gone. Then he breathes. Then he grabs Valentine's wrist, because the little bastard just pinched his arse. "Do you mind?"

"Do

you?"

He fights a sudden smile. "Not really."

"Well,

then."

Lindsay closes the back door and turns round; he's
going
to speak, although he's not sure what to say, but Valentine kisses him and he's saved. It's a proper intense full-body kiss as well, slipping his hand up into Lindsay's hair and a leg between his thighs, running his other fingers around the line of Lindsay's waistband, just under his jumper, and sighing happily into his mouth. "Don't think I ain't doing this every opportunity just cos you're a fucking coward and you ain't told her yet," Valentine murmurs, and kisses him again. Lindsay lets him; any activity that helps him avoid the conversation is a good thing.

It's

not
that he's ashamed, not really. His friends don't give a damn –

most of them claimed they'd known for years anyway. It's much less about having to tell his mum that he's sleeping with a man and more about having to bring up the subject of his sex life
at all
. Even thinking about it makes his brain break out in goosepimples – but he
knows
the revelation is long overdue, and she'll probably be upset that she's the last to be told. She spends winters at the house he bought her in Barcelona and she's only back in Wales for Christmas; he

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will
tell her, that's the plan, but he's only got this little window to do it in. He's planning to get around it if she's upset by making a big thing about wanting to do it in person and not over the phone or by email, but if he chickens out and she goes back off to Spain innocently thinking she's just spent the holiday with her son and his "lodger" who has nowhere else to go...

"Shut up," Valentine says. He tugs gently at Lindsay's lip with his teeth.

"Seriously. Shut up."

"I didn't say anything."

"You're thinking too loud. Shut up."

"Sorry." He's ruined the moment, though. He slips his arms around Valentine's waist and just cuddles him close for a minute, breathing in the girly coconut scent of his shampoo. It's almost maternal the way Valentine's stroking his hair now, the little kiss he presses against Lindsay's forehead – trying to be comforting, even if he's annoyed. Lindsay kind of wants to cry, suddenly. To break himself out of it, he pushes Valentine away and forces a smile. "Get off, you're always pestering me. What do you want to do?"

"How long's she gone?"

"What, shaking a charity bucket outside the supermarket with the rest of the WI harpies? God knows, could be all day and night. Couple of hours, maybe."

Valentine leans in again, brushing a gentle trail of kisses over Lindsay's cheek to his ear. "I wanna see your old bedroom," he says, all tickling breath and unsaid intentions. Lindsay shivers, gives in, grabs his hand, and almost
runs
.

"I didn't think you were
actually
interested in my bedroom," he says a little while later. Valentine barely even reacts, he's too busy pulling some of the boxes out from under the creaky old double bed and nosying through like he's searching for treasure. "They're my schoolbooks, they're not exactly gripping thrillers."