The sounds are coming from an unused bedroom at the end of the Professor's wing. I know it is unoccupied; I make it my business to know everything about the school, the mansion and its residents. Much of what I find out is trivial, some doesn't make sense, a little makes me angry, but all knowledge is useful at some point.
For instance, I know that this room once belonged to Magneto (can't bring myself to call that bastard by any other name). Know that he and the Professor were friends, maybe more, and Magneto used to stay in this room. Hell, some of his personal effects are still there, undisturbed as though it is a shrine or some damned thing like that. I know students didn't come up to this floor without invitation. And I hadn't heard the Professor issue any RSVPs lately.
So I am obliged to check out the noise. So I would know what's going on, you understand. Because you could not have too much information when you're a mutant. Have to know what people are doing, have to know who has made alliances, who has made enemies.
Listen carefully, just in case. But this noise? Not the sound of enemies. Not the sounds of anyone in danger. No pain being inflicted, despite the gasps and low moans and begging words.
I smile. I can guess - and be almost certain - who is in there, who is bold enough to ignore the Professor's rules and able to convince someone else to do the same.
John.
Smartass, mouthy kid. Sullen and angry and probably hurting, but covering it all with a thin veneer of cool indifference. Established himself as the outsider, the rebel; made being bad look good. To those who had themselves experienced the pain of being rejected and hurt and who were angry at the injustice of it all, John is a very appealing boy indeed. Nearly irresistible. Especially to me.
I stretch my senses a little further, trying to figure out who John's companion is tonight. Couldn't do it. John is too overpowering: doing all the talking, making all the moves, his scent strong enough to mask the other. He's a drug to me. I want to inhale that heat, lick that charisma, eat that power. Remind him that though he's good, I'm better. I quickly unscrew the light bulb from the sconce on the wall and crack the door.
Light.
There must be 100 candles around the room, four times the number necessary to bring the Professor right out of his chair to kick some ass. What a show that must have been, watching the little pyromaniac summon up his fire, casually extending his arm and flicking flames off his fingertips with the grace of a dancer. Shooting with fire as I imagine him shooting with pleasure. Same gasp, same sinuous turn of his body, same sleepy look when he's done. Just the thought of that smooth display of power, of control, of pleasure sends a little thrill skittering along my nerves.
Heat.
But not from the candles. John just naturally radiates heat. All the adjectives used for fire could be applied to John: fiery, smoldering, burning, glowing, uncontrollable.
And scent.
The smell of arousal, of warm bodies. John affects me in ways I am not quite ready to admit. I want him badly, willing to face his biting words, withering scorn and sneering disdain for a few moments of his heat. Want his respect, his body, his submission. Have to reach down and adjust myself in these too-tight pants.
I open the door a little wider. Images imprint themselves on my brain, strobe-like:
John's lighter, his power, on the nightstand, meaning he is finding his pleasure with something other than fire. In the middle of the big bed, lying on his side. Tanned skin against ivory sheets. The smooth curve of his back, the play of long muscles as his shoulders flex and his hips rock. Listen to his low unceasing murmur, instructing, ordering, demanding. Watch as his head tips back a bit and his arms stretch to grip the bars of the headboard.
A blond head rises up off the pillow. Bobby's big blue eyes and soft pink lips forming identical surprised O's. A sign of delicious innocence. While I have no real interest in virgins - I much prefer at least some knowledge, some ability to give as well as take, a worthy partner - a boy new to the pleasures of sharing is certainly something to be savored.
In fact, the light, innocent, unworldly Bobby paired with the dark, sulky, more experienced John might well serve my wet dreams for the rest of my life. But why just imagine it when the real thing is right here in front of me.
This, then, is an opportune moment to intervene, to share, to participate. Now or never. Stay or go. Win or lose. Reasons why this is not a good idea flit through my mind and are dismissed immediately. It is a good idea, the best I've had in while, and I am a man of action, so it is now, stay, win.
"Freeze," I shout, banging open the door and causing Bobby to shoot his icy fluid all over John. I smirk. Could have predicted that, counted on it, in fact. Round one to Logan.
Bobby all trembling, grabbing at the sheets to cover up, stuttering in his haste to explain why it is that they are here in an off-limits room lit with forbidden candles, naked, aroused, breathing hard.
"Shut up."
Bobby follows orders well, shut up and lies still, miserable. My eyes flick over him, I like what I see: creamy skin visible above the sheet, chest just beginning to take on definition, rising and falling in time to his panicked breathing, ice-blue eyes pleading. But desire still there. Yes, I think Bobby is amenable. Round two awarded to Logan.
But John? John is another matter. He will resist, refuse any orders, won't lay there as I order. That's what makes me want him: controlling the bad boy, taming the rebel, bending the flame to my will - making a strong, resistant boy submit to me gives me great and intense satisfaction. Trial by fire and I am made all the more powerful for winning every time.
But for now, he lies frozen, giving me a few minutes to set the stage, so to speak, for my own private fantasy come to life.
I rummage through the tall armoire, selecting a few of Magneto's silky ties, faint traces of his cologne still apparent - that bastard. I hold them up for Bobby's perusal. Have the pleasure of seeing his baby blues get even bigger, hearing his voice grow tight and desperate.
"Hey, Logan, what are you going to do? What are those for?"
I watch him impassively, hiding my heightened desire.
"Logan, this is a school, you can't do that here, to me, to us," Bobby's voice trails off.
"Bobby," I parrot his tone, "this is a school. You can't do that here, to him, in this room, naked with this boy, touching him, letting him touch you. Hell, you're not even supposed to be shooting your ice, because this is a school." I smirk again, wait for Bobby to refute some, any, part of my argument. "Didn't stop you; not going to stop me."
Bobby blinks. Round three.
I turn now to survey the frozen perfection that is Pyro. Some poetic justice there, although what, I can't articulate, something about John being frozen in the heat of his passion. Whatever. I have preparations to make.
With John's hands so conveniently clutching the headboard, I can tie his wrists together with one tie, then each hand separately to the headboard; move down to tie his ankles together, then each separately to the footboard. Debate for a moment about using the last tie to gag him, then decide to go with it. The only sounds I want to hear from John are gasps and moans, both of which can work their way very easily around a silk gag.
Pleased with my set-up, I turn back to Bobby, still obedient but scared. "Now let's you and I get comfortable while we wait for John to warm up. Would you like that?"
Don't stop to wait for an answer, just kick off my boots, slide my too-tight-for-comfort jeans off with a sigh of relief, and throw my shirt onto a chair. Roll into bed snug up tight against Bobby, warm despite his reputation.
"Logan?"
"No talking, Bobby, we're just going to enjoy this. No fear, no guilt, no repercussions, just going to do it. You handle that? Otherwise, I'm going to use the ties on you, too. It's going to happen, so make up your mind how you want it."
A nod, a quick intake of breath, no discernible loss of desire. Rounds four, five and six to the man with the claws.
Waiting for John to thaw gives me the opportunity to indulge. Bobby's head was bowed slightly and his neck was too smooth to resist. A sniff, a lick, a gentle bite, and Bobby is back in the game. Unwilling his mind might be because this is a school, his body is quite cooperative.
But there's still something about this boy that makes me want to treat him gently. Rock firmly against him, keeping my mouth on that vulnerable neck. Reach around him and slide the sheets down. Run my rough hand down that incredibly silky skin, feeling ribs, hipbone, hair on thighs. Reach down and pull Bobby's leg back over my thigh, pushing his ass up nice and tight against my erection, exposing his still-hard cock. He's off-balance enough that he grabs my arm and that feels so good.
Growling softly in his ear, licking and sucking whatever skin I can reach. Just enjoying his panting breaths, hips involuntary pushing up, pushing back. I lazily stroke him, alternating between his eager cock and the baby-soft skin of his inner thighs. He spreads his legs a little further apart. Not such a virgin, then. John's trained him well. Slow down a little because I wouldn't want John to miss anything that's going to happen next.
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